Love

Dear Love, I cannot seem to find the words to express my complicated emotions to you. My heart is full with a heady mixture of surprise, joy and sadness…I had given up on Love all together, not out of cynicism, but over-idealism…perhaps they are one and the same. After what had transpired in my life, I decided that Love was best left alone, untainted by the boundaries of human emotions…on many nights I stayed awake, imagining that face in the dark…that face which I thought would look upon me through my days to come, would smile next to me in the mornings, weep in sweet remembrances in the twilight and beam with inexplicable contentment at night…the more I tried to shut the face off, the more it penetrated my consciousness…until I began to shiver and wonder if this ghastly ordeal would last forever… It was not like I was always in the depths of heartbreak…I still relished the occasional tasty meal, I still enjoyed the odd movie or two I watched…but embedded in the depths of my mind, a lingering fear always mingled with a leaden-sadness…the fear of loving again, the fear of letting go again, the fear of feeling again…in the middle of a busy morning, I would suddenly be assaulted by a happy memory from the past…and the silent joy which threatened to creep up on me was always suppressed by the wrench of reality… I decided to harden my heart…to not try too hard to figure things out…to live life in the manner of the mundane, of the routine, to relinquish thoughts of emotional investment…to re-invent myself through a journey inwards…to realise the permanence of impermanence, the absolute truth in the temporality of all things…to view everything as a cold, detached observer would, through the clinical lens of a micro-scope… And then I met you…and the interaction baffled me…and I realised that those desires which I had felt I had burnt long back, had resurrected themselves from the ashes of the past…and I felt them leaping like flames, urging me to rekindle within me the capacity to feel, the capacity to love…when I first grappled with loss, I felt that Love itself had died…but now I realised that Love never dies…it is invincible, and it expands forever, way beyond our restricted understanding of the intensity of its Being…and that it reposes within us, seemingly dormant, waiting to erupt, oh the volcano of love, the eternal magma of emotion, which swirls around the depths of the collective consciousness of life. How did I re-discover Love through you? Was it the gush of warmth which flushed its way through me, every time we held hands? The absolute surrender of an unforgettable kiss? The relief surging through the veins, following the melting tension of a resolved argument? The immersion of our souls into one another, offering windows to explore mutual mind-scapes…feeling a certain way about you, which I can only and always feel about only you? Thank you dearest, because you have reassured me that Love holds the capacity to outlive human relationships, and has great resolve to let people swim in its waters.

Clasped

As I lay clasped in his embrace, the warmth from his body engulfing mine with unparalleled comfort, I looked into the eyes which revealed a tender, sensitive soul…a steely exterior, grown stronger with the onslaught of life’s multi-hued experiences…the stronger the framework of steel, the more soft the protected thoughts within…and emotions suddenly coursed through my veins, as though an unknown dam had broken without any perceptible reason. I loved this boy beyond the bounds of thought, so much so that every word which fell from his lips went straight to various corners of my heart…every emotion was heightened beyond comprehension…immense joy, immense sadness, immense relief, immense satisfaction, immense amusement…and I felt like merging myself with him on levels beyond the mere physical…and I wished to transcend time and space in my modes of union with him…the present moment ensured that we were entwined with one another…with the volatile world spinning on its axis around us…while all we cared about was the mutual affection which bound our breaths together...the future, laden with uncertain possibilities, lay ignored for the time being, as we swirled the taste of living in the moment around the tips of our tongues…but the past…ah, the past was beyond our reach…for every former tear shed, for every illness battled in solitude, for every beat of a saddened heart…which he had experienced on his own…I was unable to reach out to that realm gone by, to put my arms around him and lend him a consoling shoulder, a reassuring hand, to nurse him gently through bouts of sickness, to kiss him to sleep after a night of bewildered self-questioning and to stroke his head for no particular reason… to rejoice in the rain with his little joys and sorrows…which accompany the half-illusory, half-real successes and failures which play hide and seek with our lives…but all I could do was long in wistfulness, from the helplessness of the Present, which fettered me and restricted my access to bygone hours…

The Theatre of the Mundane

Change is engulfing us within its inextricable embrace, weaving together a tapestry of transition, with the threads of time...memories are spinning through the loom and creating new ones with each passing minute...over the past few days the pages of the social networks I subscribe to have been inundated with photographs capturing this change...old friends I used to play with are now new mothers, new lovers, expectant professionals and beautiful other halves of couples...change has caught me in its grip as well, and transformed my life from that of a lonely dreamer to a dreamy partner to a tender soul...and the revelation of partnership, of union has lived up to its rich legacy of Literary musing... I have often heard, read and been reminded that a marriage is but a domestic partnership, a way to adjust with the ways of another within the confined space of home...akin to alliances with room-mates...and some have shared with me that it is anything but romantic...but I do beg to differ as I am of the conviction that romance is not estranged from reality, rather it is sewn into its very fabric with adroit stitches... I fervently feel, (and this is my subjective insight), that the true romantic can squeeze out romance from a near empty toothpaste tube...Romance is not restricted to the pages of fantastically imagined novels or verses of carefully-thought out poetry...I believe that it spreads its wings beyond such realms and soars over it all, by diving headlong into the Theatre of the Everyday...and none of its enigmatic charm is lost even when it is infused within that which we commonly perceive as mundane or boring... With a dash of imagination and an ounce of creativity, the Theatre of Routine can be shipped from the realm of the Monotonous to the realm of the Sublime...stealing a mischief-laden glance while standing in winding grocery queues, a whispered secret while scrubbing dishes clean, the thought of reveling in clean, fragrant clothes while mixing the detergent, musing on the happy possibilities offered by a swept and scrubbed floor (such as sprawling a mat and having an indoor picnic) the inviting allure of a freshly made bed, the infinite potential of a bowl of just-peeled vegetables, the gleaming beckons of newly purchased pots and pans, the wrinkles of memory amidst the folds of crumpled linen, the charm of frugality amidst the uncertainty of humble beginnings, the varying degrees of struggle encountered by young, bewildered couples...how can any of this not be stammeringly romantic? Love blossoms in arenas where the Theatre of the Mundane is premised on a script which is lettered by promises of a shared togetherness, of an assuring sense of routine in a world laden with chaos, of the charm of adventure lurking in each kitchen cupboard (often in the form of insects :), of rest reposing in the thought of a shared, longed for midnight pillow... That is not to say that a holiday from routine is not welcome, that the reel of romance cannot play in distant, mysterious lands, but there is something romantic about the thought of having to return to the clasp of the time-table, if only to break its schedule at times...

Perspectivising

As my eyes were meandering down my posts, words which repeatedly leapt out at me included 'perspective,' 'consciousness,' and this idea of the 'bigger picture.' So looking inwards, I wish to ask the silent corners of this same consciousness why I seem to be preoccupied with such thoughts...

A Season for Slowness

This is a season for slowness...in a world inundated with the rigours of multi-tasking and the incredible expectation of performing exceptionally well in all tasks all at once being heaped upon our shoulders, there is reason for one to consciously decelerate and put pressure on our brakes to stall the hurtling vehicles which we have become.

Let us seek a season to pause, in full consciousness, to breathe in and out, in full awareness of the complex processes of respiration which we take for granted, to observe the vitality of each sensory perception, to let ourselves be still, to stall, to shed off the cloak of accumulated stress, to discard the garb of externalities, and gladly recoil inwards for a while...in the hope that this physical detachment will lead to a mental cleansing and renewal...

Let us allow ideas to flow from one mind to the next, like a gently meandering river, not flooding, but seeping soothingly through the mind-scape, in a manner which is softly pleasing, and not stentorian...

Let us allow this river to ripple over the pebbles of thought which are embedded in our minds, like the rocks which adorn the river bed...and let the river cool and calm our thoughts, dissolve our prejudices and amplify our awareness through a calming ablution...

Let its waters spread like chamomile, lulling th pain, numbing the disappointments, not merely a temporary closure, but a sustained sense of ease, a calm which dawns slowly but gradually spreads its myriad rays across our hearts, stirring our depths about the possibilities of delving into broader perspectives, perhaps enabling us to fit the jigsaw of the bigger picture together

Rambles

The days flee by me without a hint of a pause...well, that is not entirely true...in spite of the myriad events building up like blocks of lego around my life, constructing this walled-phase of my existence, I do find lulls which punctuate the onslaught of storms...and I feel as though I am caught in a strange state...one where the inertia of motion and the inertia associated with the realm of the static, coil around one another, like two particularly compatible snakes...no, not snakes, for the sake of a happier word, of streamers...
For not only are things going on at a break-neck speed around me, so are they occuring within me...thoughts keep competing with one another for shoulder space in my mind...the trials and tribulations of Everyday, the little joys which surpass the little sadnesses, the little wonders, like the lilt of a sudden twilight breeze which eclipse the little disappointments which will soon be renounced to the Kingdom Of All Things Forgotten, just as the reasons why one feels unreasonably upset will soon be banished to the Kingdom Where All Things Pale, in the light of the Bigger Picture, through the Realm of Heightened Perspective...
The other day I called one of my best friends on her day of inception...and the sound of her voice, travelling across telephonic waves (??) from across all those miles and miles, the assurance of her 'hello, DIYA,' the smile I imagined dancing at the corners of her mouth, the quiet belief we have in each other's companionship, all those rich yet silent memories we share carefully in the treasure box of our friendship...all served to unleash some latent emotion which had been hiding its face in my heart for a while...and I foundit hard to continue the conversation with her, through my veil of very badly timed tears...

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The roads rustle by...

At the start of each New Year, I feel like everything is about to start anew...sometimes this feeling amazes me...after all, though Time is a continuous and fluid entity, human perception of it is conveniently compartmentalised, compressed into neat and comprehensible units, to organise the chaos of existence into maneagable bits...and even though the ushering in of the New Year is one which simply involves the Earth completing its daily rotation, another cycle of the sun and moon coordinating with the hemispheres, Life feels like it has been wrung out of the washing machine, dried and starched, the new emerging from the old, and ironed for use...so if I continue using the analogy of the beginning of the year as a neatly washed and ironed garment, each new experience adds its own crease...not to rumple it up into a state of disarray, but to signify the fact that the garment is being used, being worn, that life is being lived, to the brim to fulfil its infinite potential...so at the end of the year, the more crumpled the garment is, the happier one should be, as it indicates a life laden with events, activity and meaning...sometimes there is delight in disorder...as long as the creases on the garment do not necessarily cause creases between our eyebrows ...hopefully.

A tryst with the close of the year

I've been writing posts dedicated to December for a couple of years now...it's a month when I am able to return home, sans marking, exonerated from the whirlwind of an existence I lead in another land, a time when I can give myself up in complete surrender to the days of childhood which have slipped me by, to the years of adolescence which have waltzed by ere I could pick up the rhythm of the dance, and just envelop myself in the warmth of the walls which are silhouetted with memories and fledgling dreams and hopes. The end of the year lends itself to moments of calm reflection and deep introspection over the year that was...the feathers it may have added, on so many levels, on the cap of one's life...it is the time for laughing, for no particular reason, a season of innocent revelry, innocent because it's devoid of tangible expectation, which one might find unavoidable in most professional/ academic scenarios...every year, I come back to the same home, the same city, in the grip of time's relentless brush, I see an added wrinkle on the face of a loved one, a slight crease of smiling eyes, a more pronounced limp in someone's walk, a wall slowly discolouring with the onslaught of days...and I also notice renovations, repair, creation, new constructions...I try to find the familiar amidst the inevitability of change, to draw comfort from the blanket of untarnished emotions which cover the realm where I can never return.
And if I look upon the city through the eyes of a dearly loved one,who is slowly witnessing the nuances of the city I call home, I feel like I'm gazing upon everything for the first time, through a curtain of familiarity, juxtaposed with the wonder of discovery...the feeling of disorientation mingles with exhilaration...to hold someone's hand and take the person back with me, to relive the childhood which we can now both experience, through the narration of simple life events, pointing out never-quite-forgotten by-lanes, manufacturing precious memories in unfamiliar shops which will remain ever etched in the mind's canvas, associated with certain spaces, memories tucked into the corners of particular places...and then one's consciousness, one's remembrances and the other person's sincere eagerness and genuine interest and generosity of spirit, can amalgamate and form a time machine like no other...and Time becomes continuous, running parallel to its many planes, at once in the past, seated in the present and hopeful of a sanguine future, a repository of shared revelations .

A piece of Love

Love seems to me to be the most perplexing of emotions...what does it really seem to signify? We yearn for the wisdom of spiritual leaders who preach this language of love...that it should be unconditional, that we should grow in love and give of ourselves no matter how harsh situations seem, that it is the only vital thing which keeps us rooted, gives meaning to the radnomness of existence...yet, this is an emotion which most of us are cautious and careful with...we reserve the intensity of this feeling for those who we deem worthy of it...or we invest in those from whom we are quite assured of reciprocal returns...when somebody hurts us we find it difficult to tolerate, let alone like, and least ever, to love them...so how do we cope with the harsh realities of the present world? Why is there this feeling of disconnect between the 'real' and the 'spiritual?' Why do we always pay deep respect to virtues such as mercy, charity, sacrifice, forgiveness, but in reality we are willing to renounce all or at least some of the above, at the altars of success and survival, which so often overlap in today's realm of cut-throat competition?
It is necessary to defend oneself and one's interests...that is very true...but how do we reconcile spiritual and moral teachings with this language of self-protection? Should we speak to the people who are being unfair to us in a language which they can comprehend, i.e., by giving them a potent dose of their medicine? But then how true are we being to the spiritual promises which we readily make, to love and forgive no matter what? Being human is hard, and all these lofty and meaningful aspirations which we acquire or start out with in all earnestness, get trampled under the ruthless circumstances of this complex world...and this is but natural, because we are an amalgam of emotions , we are sensitive, we have feelings...But if everyone and no one is right and wrong, simultaneously, can we ever reach the elusive path where all these multiple perspectives can walk hand-in hand and not cause so much pain and grief...
When one is gripped by the feeling of injustice, of being treated unfairly, of being subjected to behavior which one doesn't think one deserves...one might proceed to do many things...to return the treatment he/she receives, in the spirit of tit-for-tat, wallow in self-pity and depression, or perhaps, if one is lucky enough to have a pair of ears to vent to, they might empty their hearts to one who doesn't judge, and then move on with life...but the world values those who are pro-active and assertive...which nowadays implies being tough and defensive...is there value in quiet resilence, in the world today?...the ideas of tolerance, patience and deliberate passivity in the face of provocation, have amalgamated into an indistinguishable heap.

Shades...

I was tempted to change the title of this to 'shades of grey,' but I changed my mind for reasons more evident than evident can be...off late, I do feel that absolute truths are absolute illusions, that perspectives are enriched through diverse multiplicity, that shades of black and white cease to exist in a time of sepia-tinted truth...that truth too is flexible, subjective, subject to constant change, a constant flux of right and wrong...the sheer possibility of varied interpretation of each episode I encounter, stuns and baffles me, and yet I simply cannot help looking at the two, or sometimes three (and usually plenty more) sides to every story, of every argument...I do feel akin to a photographer, who dons a different set of lens and takes several shots of the 'same' scene...the 'same' sight, just that once the angle of the camera has been changed, the perspective changed, the whole picture looks altered, sometimes unrecognisable...and I begin to feel that if we could simply look at life through multiple lenses, it might be somehow a little easier to understand the motivations behind the actions of various people, not in a bid to merely justify their actions, but to comprehend their intentions a little bit more...thereby, hopefully, making us more tolerant, more flexible, more malleable, despite valuing individualism and firm conviction...I think teaching GP might have something to do with it...the arguments and counter-arguments which punctuate the ebb and flow of life...

LUCY...and the connections I made in my mind...

So we went to catch Lucy last weekend...the trailer looked interesting, and we were all anticipation...but what struck us most about it was that it transcended its own premise of being quite the thriller, and opened up infinite possibilities of philosophical thought...how when, indeed if, we put our brains to full use, we become so intricately connected with all the aspects of our surroundings, that we are everywhere and nowhere all at once...our scope becomes so vast and limitless that we cannot be contained within the contraints of one body, within the temporal and spatial restrictions that would impose on us...that we are able to look at things from such an immense height of enlightened understanding, we begin to fully comprehend the bigger picture, and thereby control our emotions, by placing them against the grand tapestry of life...we become infinite and hence eternal...that which knows no bounds can never die, and never exist either...we become one with the world, and this both defines, ehances and yet weakens and undermines our individual identities...our idiosyncracies bow in the presence of the moods of the universe...we are liberated by this intricate and universal connection...how well Tagore had captured it, I couldn't stop myself from thinking as I left Golden Village, (the movie theatre), as the song which kept repeating in my head was "Tomaro ashimey prano mon loye..." My interpretation of this song is that for Tagore, the idea of God is embedded in this realm of the infinite, this heightened perspective which helps us moderate our many emotions and feelings in the light of the bigger picture, which is the vast and infinite universe...so, in the end, my conclusion is that the full use of our brain capacity has been predicted by the brilliant Romantic poet, William Blake, eons ago: “If the doors of perception were cleansed every thing would appear to man as it is, Infinite. For man has closed himself up, till he sees all things thro' narrow chinks of his cavern.” ― William Blake, The Marriage of Heaven and Hell

Somewhere over the rainbow

'Somewhere over the Rainbow/way up high/there's a land that I heard of/once in a lullaby...' Yes, a song of wish fulfilment, a wistful yearning for that one place where the troubles, little or big, of this worldwill no longer plague us, as George Orwell termed it in Animal Farm, the Sugar Candy mountain each of us secretly or perhaps even openly craves...but in Animal Farm, we see that the people who oppress others the most are the ones who promise the assurance of this paradise to those they put through torture...the idea that suffering eventually will liberate us from suffering...a problematic idea, because this can serve as a justification to continue oppressing others...but sometimes, though this statement is fraught with complexities, one can't help but close one's eyes and think upon that land... Alright this will be a rambling post...echoing the long walks my mind revels in taking...I am posting a poem by John Clare here, which I love: >I Am! BY JOHN CLARE I am—yet what I am none cares or knows; My friends forsake me like a memory lost: I am the self-consumer of my woes— They rise and vanish in oblivious host, Like shadows in love’s frenzied stifled throes And yet I am, and live—like vapours tossed Into the nothingness of scorn and noise, Into the living sea of waking dreams, Where there is neither sense of life or joys, But the vast shipwreck of my life’s esteems; Even the dearest that I loved the best Are strange—nay, rather, stranger than the rest. I long for scenes where man hath never trod A place where woman never smiled or wept There to abide with my Creator, God, And sleep as I in childhood sweetly slept, Untroubling and untroubled where I lie The grass below—above the vaulted sky. What strikes me in particular about this poem is that despite being dismissed or critically judged by elements of the world, Clare's own self-belief is largely unshaken as he firmly establishes his identity and asserts "I am!"

Flow

Off-late, I have been investing a lot of my emotions and a great deal of energy into teaching...pedagogy...the art and the science of teaching and learning...how do I transform all those years of education I received into 'good grades' for my students? How will my knowledge and the manner in which I transfer it convert itself into an alphabet of utmost importance on another's certificate...and that of course leads to the bigger, age ol question of whether education is really so quantifiable, methods of assessment and how best to guage learning... Besides which, life hasn't been a bed of rose petals, I've encountered the pricks of thorns, but the wounds didn't bleed as much as they infused me with some sort of unknown strength to persevere, to better myself, to bury any semblance of an individual ego into the soil of unimportance, and replace it with the bigger picture of commitment and service which I have set out to pursue...it is when one learns to focus deeply on the intent of the action, the true motivation for one's work, does some modicum of peace prevail, despite certai humbling moments... A song by Tagore peforms an act of inspiration every time...and propels me forwards, through this tempest called life... "Ami marer shagor paari debo..." Tagore If i may atttempt a rough and rudimentary translation, or rather transcreation of this song perhaps... "I will cross the tempest-tossed and difficult sea, At the pace of an enraged storm, As this is the way in which I can encounter and overcome my fears... I will put my trust in Divine assurance, And ride on a broken sail, My boat will reach your secure port, Under the shade of your sheltering tree I know my way will be paved, By the One whose purpose I'm fulfilling, I only hope that I may untie myself From my native shore And traverse the journey with courage... For when my day comes to an end, I will bear the blood-stained flower Of my hard, hard days And lay it as an offering To convey my acts of service At Your feet."

Comparisons, or such

I have just finished reading The Fountainhead, recommended to me by a significant someone, whose opinions I really greatly value...and I recently re-watched Ray's Aguntuk, (translated as 'the guest,'), a film I remember watching with my parents as a child, when I was too young to appreciate the subtle brilliance of Ray's last work...and I will try to compare Howard Roark, the protagonist of 'The Fountainhead,' with Mitra, the protagonist of the film by Ray. Let me begin with Aguntuk, a film which Ray adapted froma short story he had written, bearing the name 'Atithi,' which also means guest...my father always maintained that out of Ray's brilliant corpus of work, this one resonates the most with him...I am sure scholars of great erudition and excellence have written reams about this particular film, but I would like to do what the literary critic I.A. Richards termed 'practical criticism,' without reading any critical material on it (comprising of a close reading and incisive analysis of the core text)... How to read a film text like 'Aguntuk' closely? It is analogous to a multi-layered desert,whose sands have built up over the journey of time...indeed, it seems to be a textured culmination of the many beliefs Ray might have acquired over his years as a director, writer, artist and indeed thinker. Debate is crucial to this film...and indeed there are a number of binaries which Ray explores, through the eyes of the protagonist played by Utpal Dutt...and these binaries, which are seeming oppositions, are critically challenged, and their lines are blurred through the course of the film... "Civilisation" and "savagery," are pitted against one another, by a seemingly suave but ultimately narrow-minded barrister, where civilisation seems to stand for unprecedented scientific and technological progress, such as the triumph of NASA...and much of this is attributed to the West...whereas "savagery" is condemned as primitive, regressive and indeed lascivious...Dutt's character, howver, challenges these simplistic views and speaks of the presence of many Native tribal groups who live in the "West," and recounts his encounters with the natives of South America...he distils the notion of urban hegemony which is always associated with the West ,in favour of a more inclusive world view,and an objectively critical analysis of "civilisation," which is capable of performing savage and brutal deeds like waging nuclear warfare, annihilating masses of people and obliterating certian histories while favouring others...for him, science and technology are not the sole prerogatives of those residing in the urban space...he speaks of the different invenetions created by tribal groups, and how their contributions to science are of no less importance...the idea of cannibalism,attributed to 'savages,' is also decimated by Mitra (Dutt's character, as sophisticated civilisations are no less hungry for human blood (wars, wars and more wars)...one wonders if Ray had the idea of the "Noble Savage" ('The term noble savage is a literary stock character that expresses the concept of an idealized indigene, outsider, or "other" who has not been "corrupted" by civilization, and therefore symbolizes humanity's innate goodness.' Source: Wikipedia) in mind, and if there is a certain idealisation at play...are chracters like Mitra and Howard Roark analogous to this concept, somehow? At the core of the film is a deep awareness of the problems embedded at the heart of humanity, of how institutionalised religion is employed as a tool to divide members of the human race, and Mitra consciously compares this with the caste system, an artificial, deplorable and hideous method of categorising human beings with hierarchical labels...who decides these systems? People. Why? To oppress and rule, to literally divide and rule. The whole film, then, is an indictment of, a criticism of, the easy stereotyping we have become increasingly prone to, the tendency for us to generalise without a deeper probing of the several issues at hand...and it is also a hymn to open-mindedness, which is why Mitra refuses to be a 'frog in the well,' he would rather be a 'guest' who renounces the idea of a permanent home and makes the entire world his home, and yet not his home, all at once...home suggests permananence, but to Mitra, the idea of a fixed Home implies stagnation, complacence and an attitude of narrow-mindedness...it is when one is willing to explore the unknown facets of the world, and keep rolling like the moss-less stone, does one realise, at some level, the real meaning of being human, being grounded and being universal...he refuses to be labelled, refuses to be constrained, refuses to fall into any one strict category...he chooses to live in a state of tentative learning, to build his firm convictions, he chooses to remain the 'outsider' the 'eternal guest... And this brings me to Rand's 'The Fountainhead,'where one encounters the fiercely individualistic Howard Roark, who refuses to conform to pre-conceived notions of architecture and wishes to break free of the jaded 'canon' of architecture, if one may call it that...in his endeavour to establish a unique and idiosyncratic style, in his attempt to extablish creativity over hackneyed replications of past monuments, he refuses to compromise on his artistic ideals, to a point of economic failure, where he renounces the idea of a stable job, as that would compromise and weaken his professional views...to him, the idea of his designs are sacred to a point where he refuses to bend and adapt them to suit the needs and requirements of clients and colleagues, whose needs and requirements have also been shaped by the dictates of society, and not by individual intellectual thought...so, can a comparison be proposed? Both Mitra (from Aguntuk) and Roark (from The Fountainhead), choose to remain outsiders, strangers to the mainstream, 'normative' notions of society, they choose to remain unsettled, wanderers of the world, (Roark moves around from place to place, with his work too), both remain uncompromising in their individual convictions but have a vision of society, a vision with a lot more clarity and analysis, than those living at the very heart of the system, people whose minds are dictated by artifical conventions, by narrow-minded prejudices, and by a staunch refusal to accept change? In a section of 'The Fountainhead,'Gail Wynand and Dominique have a conversaion about the idea of 'homelessness,'a conversation which brings both Mitra and Roark to mind...while one travels and studies anthropology, the latter moves around because work is home for him, he flows with his work, refusing to 'settle' for anything which will marginalise his creative prowess...even if others consider the work 'demeaning' and 'beneath him,' which he never does... Roark and Mitra both learn through thir travel, their wanderings, Roark exploring unchartered territory through trying out different modes of work...but both retain the essential 'goodness' of human essence...Roark is ever willing to help climbers like Peter Keating, because the idea of contributing to architecture is more important to him than the petty competition of human egos...and Mitra is willing to sacrifice a large sum of money, which he could have put to use, to a niece he hardly knows... Both characters are liable to be misunderstood, as they consciously define themselves against what is deemed as 'acceptable'according to conventional social standards...both are viewed with varying degrees of suspicion and fear, as they have the potential to disrupt the comfortable notion of the status quo, the complacent hidey-hole which we like to keep our heads buried under...like the dynamite which Roark literally uses to demolish a particular construction, both characters may be viewed as metaphorical dynamites, waiting to blow pre-conceived prejudices away. Suspicion seems to be common to both these works, suspicion of the 'unknown' and this suspicion breeds from pure ignorance, from a limited view...in the case of Ray's film, of a limited understanding of the lives of others, for example, the lives of rural tribes, who are easy to label, and in Rand's work, the limited knowledge of architecture beyond the brainwashing and promotion of the tried and tested styles from the past...quite forgetting that Renaissance art which is endorsed by mainstream architecture, was also the result of a creative re-awakening from the stale stupor of the Dark Ages...and not a mere imitation of art from the past...this brings out another common theme...the hesitation to try something new, the reluctance to let go of 'safe' traditions in favour of that which is changing...Roark and Mitra are seen as subversive elements, dangerous to the illusion of stability... The idea of brainwashing is also seen in both texts, film and novel...in the former, the character played by Mamata Shankar, finds it hard to resist the lair and lure of suspicion as she is convinced by her more cynical husband ( and the husband is a symbol of the world in general, cynical to a point where all are guilty until proven innocent), of the potential for peril in Mitra...and in the latter, 'thinkers' like Toohey are shown to wield immense influence over the masses...and people are willing to adopt these views without careful thought or consideration, judging those like Roark without attempting to understand his philosophy, vision or work ethic... Which brings me to a final reflection for now...that on identity...what is identity? How is it defined? Can it be restricted to the pages of a passport? Mitra from Aguntuk says it cannot...identity is revealed through time...and his ultimate act of altruism, where he donates his inherited property to his niece, is testimony to his character...Howard Roark's identity is revealed through his work...the work which will stand the test of time...his personality is engraved in his buildings, and hence his identity transcends the trappings of labelling, and soars, literally in the forms of his buildings, unparalleled and uncommon, over the skyline of the city... ne could go on, but this is hardly an academic paper...it is just an outpouring of thoughts and reflections, which needs much work,much revision and much more careful thought...

What being Bengali means

On days when I sit alone in my room,here in distant Singapore, I feel a sense of wonder at where I am, why I am here and sometimes indeed, who I am...how do I define my identity? To what aspects is it inextricably tied? What does it mean to be a girl? What does it mean to be a twenty something in the realm of education? What does it mean to be a Bengali? I think back to a story I had written as a teenager, something quite preposterous, really, to the effect of aliens from some far off galaxy taking over the world, and how the world was forced to unite as one to ward them off...and display an alarming degree of unity in diversity which is seldom found today, where battles are fought on a daily basis based on human created divisions...why then, am I so passionately attached to the language I inherited from my parents, the "cultural inheritance" I stepped into, by the mere virtue of my birth, my geographic location, the space of the universe which I had been chosen, without consulation to inhabit. Sometimes I ask this question: am I a Bengali solely by chance? A spin off of probability, a result of the many probable permutations and combinations of possibilities? Perhaps...but did Einstein not once say that 'God does not play Dice?' Am I Bengali for a reason? Do I have something to live up to? Do I need to learn something? Do I need to rectify something about this abstract notion of culture? Let me dwell on what I perceive as being Bangali...I don't think concrete answers are feasible...maybe It consists, in part, of long ago mornings when I would cling to my father's fingers, and he would slowly wrap his fingers around that thin little wrist, and take me to the bazaar...the streaks of silver, gleaming in the early morning sun, reflecting off the bodies of the fish being sold, always dazzled my eyes...the streaks of blood as they were pried apart on a 'boti,' the scales flying helter skelter, the sellers wiping their foreheads with the backs of their hands, tired after their several transactions, the stray cats hovering around, in hope of a scrap or morsel or bone...the visits to numerous sari shops with my grandmother, how she was friends with all the salesmen and women, how they would ask me which class I was in, while my grandma admired and admonished the quality and textures of the complicated (they seemed complicated to me at that time, because they reminded me of bed sheets)...how the colours would dizzy me almost, the textures varying in degrees of softness as I tentatively touched a few...the visits to the houses of guests and relatives with my mother, being force fed sweets,in keeping with the stereotypical (perhaps) hospitality, being called too skinny, being asked to recite poetry, being scrutinised, occasionally praised,always entertained... Learning the Bengali alphabet, the beautiful letters, and in my opinion the most beautiful language in the world, though I acknowledge the greatness of every other, writing the letters wrongly at first, being reprimanded... my school, Calcutta International School, Mrs. Chatterjee's pedagogical approach,Mrs. Lal's goodness and nature worshipping, (how we buried a butterfly which no longer had the life to flutter by),the early morning school bus rides, the conductor uncles, the cosmopolitan feel of mutual respect of those from varied communities... Dakshinapan, the quaint shopping complex, the store which sold me a defective toy near Park Circus, the inexplicable and delirious joy derived from Durga Pujo, the smell of the season of Shorot, the blessing of unfurling and unravelling the songs of Tagore,the mesmerising beauty of his emotions and feelings, presiding over this City, almost uniting it, in its grasp of deep thoughts, simple feelings and ultimate connection. The December mornings of awakening to hot tea, the quick evenings, the lngering nights... Jadavpur University, where cigarette smoke (which I hate) mingled with 'adda,' the quintessentially Bengali term for conversation...where we learnt the complex theories of literary analysis, where we made friends, where we forged connections, where we broke our hearts when connections did...where each of us harboured a secret crush,perhaps, where I was too shy outside the classroom,where I never bunked a lesson and thought I should on the last day and just sat outside the class and watched others copying notes...copious cups of iced lemon tea and those evenings on the grass by the Jheel, a little lake,as evening descended in circles of pink, and our day was coming to an end, and the time for spending at home was approaching... The city, my city, which always welcomes me by default, where I have been born, a decision I have not made, I have not consciously taken, but a decision which I will strive to live up to...the enlightenment of Ramkrishna, the way in which he acknoweldged and respected multiple religions, the social awakening of a collective conscience by Vivekananda, the altruism and compassion towrds women shown by those such as Vidyasagar...the beautiful smile of Mother Teresa, who realised that home was where one chose as well...the crisp prose of Leela Majumdar,the movies of Ray, oh, everything, there is so much to live up to... And these make me Bengali...

It's so nice to be able to see words flow out, from their abstract state of formless diffuseness in my mind, to the tangible reality of typed words...how thoughts can become ideas, form themselves into outcomes, whether measurable or not... because one can't live off ideals alone...one needs to give them shape and mould them into aspects of reality... in other news, I just came back from home, and am suffering the pangs of lonesome homesickness, which faithfully fly back here with me each time...when I go home each time, I begin to fear that I'm moving further away from it...the change is not necessarily noticeably discernible...the house looks the same, the TV hasn't moved, a microwave may have been changed, magnets might have been added to the doors of refrigerators...ouch, I miss the feeling of thankful abandon I feel when I go home...it's like I can slip into a state of pre-lapsarian peace the minute I put myself down on the nearest chair... My mind is inclined to recline in happiness...

zzz

While sleep slowly seduces each lash of each eye... No, I don't know what I/m saying. I'm feeling a soporific spell settle around me...I should write more later...

Ray

I'm remembering unforgettable moments of Satyajit Ray's profoundly brilliant work, on the anniversary of his leave from Earth. He is so much a part of my being...and the part of so many, the world over. One of the very first conversations I Remember registering as a child, was one in which my parents were passionately discussing the beautiful Pather Panchali, the first of the Apu Trilogy...the train hurtling through the rural midst, the Kash flowers, the poignant death scenes, one of the quiet l scenes towards the end, which remains with me, where Apu throws an ornament belonging to Durga into the water...as I grew up , I grew into the realm of Ray...the exquisitely subtle romantic exchanges in 'Apur Sansar,' specially when Apu, in all earnestness, asks Aparna, 'tomar chokkhe ki achhe bolo toh?' and she replies 'Kajol...' simply, meaningfully. Growing up with Feluda, Soumitra playing the role to the hilt, getting excited every time one of the movies was screened on the telly. How we thrilled to the wonder of 'Shonar Kella,' without fail, Everytime we watched it...the magic of Ray's Rajasthan casting its faithful spell on us, how we surrendered in eager abandonment to the splendour of Varanasi, captured like no other director could or can, in Joy Baba Felunath.' in grateful understanding of the intelligent symbolism, always so subtle in movies like 'Mahangar,' and 'Jana Aranya...' feeling passionate emotion and with 'Devi...' in which Ray deals with how easily we confuse superstition with spirituality and the gender politics which accompany this...and my eternal favourite, 'Charulata,' which we studied at the excellent Jadavpur University Department of Film, ( Mrinalini Ghosh :)))....where the sheer layers of nuanced analysis stimulated the mind beyond comprehension ...to say nothing of his marvellous short stories which I could read and re read at any given hour and his interviews which are sharp and articulate ...and to think that I have touched upon only a few of his films and indeed only a very few aspects of his multi faceted artistic genius

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The more I swim In the sea of love, I see The complex beauty of Vulnerability. As I drift away From the world’s commotion Into that remote Microcosm of devotion, I marvel at the perplexing depth Of this limitless ocean Of the baffling range of emotion. I learn to give That which I never knew Reposed within… The ebb and flow With which we begin, The searching and finding, The mysterious binding, Of soul to soul, Of heart to heart, Where does it all start? I receive your gifts Of Time and Care, They give me a glimpse Of a sight so rare, So pure is your warmth, So clean is your soul, That it makes my scattered world, Assemble into a whole. So deep are your eyes, When they are locked in mine, So earnest, so searching, I feel like merging Myself with you on so many levels… How does one preserve This pulsating intensity? How does one maintain The passionate density Of feeling packed with feeling, Without reeling Away, into a realm Of indifferent dismay? How does one avoid Slipping into apathy, With the passing of time? Indifference, to me Is an irreversible crime. How best to evade The dilution of feeling, With each changing clime? How can one retain The early notes of Love, So tentative, so tender? How does one learn to treasure And remember, The thrill of each unfurling sensation, The strength of every emerging foundation, On which a relationship learns to stand? Shakily, steadily, like a sailor back on land, Pulling himself through the slippery sand, (After a long and lonely voyage Until Solitude disbands) How do two identities, Each so distinct, Amalgamate in unity, In moments of harmony? In sudden resonance, Despite spells of dissonance? These answers I seek not I had rather let, Love’s river carry me, to a land Where I may never forget That Life is too short To lose love in regret.