On Board...

Above the skies
belly burns...
The world of humans
cushioned by blazing cotton
...
The mind plunges
a free fall
to the world
on the other side...

AF 148-673 miles from Delhi, 39,000 feet above Earth...

Thanks GOD..and some MORTALS!

Thanks.
For all the moments that are etched in my mind, from that one day, 17th Aug,2005 which each one of you made so special in your own way.

Thanks.
For all the help,for all your patience, for all your love, for all your blessings, for all the happiness that became mine forever.

Thanks.
To Subbudu Mama,his family and friends, all those who allowed me to enter their inner world, without complaining, ever so graciously, be it in sweltering Chennai heat or cold-scalded Delhi winters.

Thanks.
For all moments of inspiration, for your own personal narratives, you shared and enriched me with, be it online , long -distance or in person. For every moment you shared a part of you, I felt re-invigorated.

Thanks.
All my mentors for asking me to carry on and for holding me with care, cajoling me , nudging me to do better and for creating the path for my future journey.

Thanks.
All my inspirations, for all the opportunities you provided me right through my college years, for having faith in my ink.

Thanks.
All my friends and my family members.

Thanks.
For allowing me to hold the sky in my palms...

Aug 17,2006...I look forward to you with all the aspirations and with a word of gratitude for the wonderful year gone by. Thanks.

Yet I am to die...

And yet I am to die
this time not
one but with two of them
living out the prose
of their life

like
the asymmetrical geometry
of their glances
cultivated casually over the years
sharing
their children

sometimes

ensuring their witness
as they died
before each other
in many arguments...

all of them similar and still separated
by the space of
a gene, a generation
that embodies itself within me
tying me
insensitively to their fights.
why am i so important to them?

In helping him tie his turban
as he conceals
a bald head,
in cajoling her
to lose weight so that
she can fit into the a-line skirt
i gifted her
on her last birthday?

They grumble still
like the noisy wilted pages
of the book which has
left its thumb prints
outside every entrance
to the morgue of memories
where I steadily pile my own flesh
borrowed
from those who hail themselves
as the prominent characters
of the epic
where
my grandparents
have played
protagonists.

I do not recall
the names of those
who
they could have
loved
and
lusted for.
The paramours
in their lives
who float
in my blood
like salt cubes,
collecting themselves
around
the retina of my mind.

And
still
I call them my own.


Those silent lovers
who can be seen
walking through
the silt of silence
they share
on the bed
tucked away
from the glare of
their sweat
and its
scented trail.

It disturbs
the imagined portraits
of gods
clamouring for space
with
multiple hands
and
tilted heads.

They have survived
the youth
of this ancestral home
bathed afresh
with a pail of flowers
which confuses
my sense of smell.

It has located
the crumpled forehead
of my grandfather
his scaly eyebrows
providing
shade to his eyes
blood white
and
the oversized belly button
of
my grandmother
twitched and curled
broken and repaired
by the midwives
who brought to life
my uncles and aunts
the hardened jelly pieces
having coffee colour
similar to
my mother's eyes.
*****
The kite
that ruffles
itself to life
every time
the wind performs
a pole dance
around
the antenna
sits pretty
overlooking
the scalded
terrace floor
mingling
the numerous charcoal drawings
which have
percolated down
through
the cracks in the roof
of the bedroom
where I sit today
counting the number
of hair strands
of my grandparents
gossiping between themselves
the truths dyed.

They are the proof
that my DNA
bears the wear and tear
as they have combed those
men and women out.

The first fight
the grand snub
shared
between the siblings
crawls down
and covers
my slow decay
as I
hurriedly erase
myself
following the rhythm
of my grandparents'

walk
towards their death
hastened
by the wet debris
of the home
whose bricks
and iron rods
now support
my rickety bed.

Holding Court: Terra Cotta Confessions...

Minutes before attending Seher's first resurrected Rasik – Meet the Artiste series featuring famous Odissi dancer Sonal Man Singh in conversation with eminent writer and Director General of the ICCR, Pavan K Varma,( at the India International Centre Annexe recently), this columnist had a chance to rush through an impressive photo exhibition, "China Diary" featuring Mala Mukherjee's works. Among the images from the exhibition that stayed and swirled in the mind, long after the conversation between the dancer and the writer ended, was that of a Terracotta warrior (circa 210-209 BC) holding his sword close to his armour, captured by Mala at the museum of Qin Terra Cotta Warriors and Horses, east of Xian, Shanxi in China.

It appeared that the warrior, stern yet vulnerable, cabalistic yet charming , intimidating yet romanticised- had come alive in Sonal as she was nudged and cajoled by Pavan into sharing her impressions on issues ranging from- the current situation of Indian dance ( the gurus, the shisyas ,the young stars, the state and need of cross over productions, the bureaucratic fiascos and interference) to issues of identity, individual talent and tradition (of the dance and the dancer- the male/female)


The conversation, which offered much to read between the lines, was marked by Pavan's witticisms and Sonal's sting for the government policies and its freebie culture. Similarly there were words of wisdom reserved for the Shishyas. Probably the world of opportunities as revealed by Sonal for the youngsters, was too romanticised, more so because with growing corporate patronage, the demand for group choreography has increased multi fold. This has reduced individual platforms for the young dancers, whose sheer number suffocates the collective opportunities available.

Even as the prima donna wondered about the problem of audiences and disagreed with Pavan that arts were a preserve of the elite, there was a sense of disbelief, since the ground situation for majority of dancers is quiet different. Going by the interactions with a number of dancers down south, the sabhas, including some leading ones, give programs only when a dancer can ensure at least 50 members in the audience.

As for Gurus and Shishyas, many students learning under leading Gurus of Delhi say that the entire "training" process becomes a nightmare for them, if their parents are not well connected or they don't have deep pockets. One would not wish to get into the strong rumours of sexual harassment against some prominent names, which have been doing the rounds for some time now.

One still yearns for honest admissions from the dancers, who too have to blame themselves for the alleged corruption of the system. The deeply fissured community and its own entangled egos form a part of public discourse as also the nexus between the babus and the dancers that has become middle aged!

Perhaps, in such a scenario, it was too much to ask for even from Sonal, who is generally known for her frankness and boldness, in dealing with matters and in fighting for causes.


But beyond personal perspectives on broad issues, Sonal's personal narratives and understanding of dance made the conversation memorable. For once, it was interesting to hear from a dancer that it is through body that one reaches the divine. "The body is primal", Sonal informed, adding that much of the bhava emoted by the dancers today was "over chewed". Briefly talking about her early years in dance, Sonal reminisced how during a practice session for her arangetrum her Guru pointed out to a monkey and told her to spot the difference between it and her! Juxtaposing that incident with the moment of her life- when she performed at 16,500 feet above sea level before, Mt. Kailash, it was certain that young Sonia (as she was called during her early years) had imbibed the art in a way, which would make all her Gurus proud.

However, despite the journey, the immense highs and lows in personal and professional life, Sonal still shied away from baring her soul. May be it was a comment on the audience who came to hear her, or it is just not that easy to perform sans make up.
One looks forward to more such interactions with the artistes but with a strong rider that conversations must be driven by the likes of Pavan K Varma who managed the conversation with charm and grace despite some cheesy old timer saying, " No classical questions, only personal questions please!"

© The Statesman

© The Pic above: Terra Cotta Warriors: www.coppercanyonadventures.com

Bach in Beirut

While surfing the internet a couple of weeks back, a letter from Lebanese born British National, Zena el-Khalil, riddled this columnist with questions to which no war monger would have an answer- the questions that intricately entwine our motherlands with war, culture , religion and humanity. Following is a small excerpt: " The question is what am I to do if I had the opportunity to leave? Would I leave? What do I do with my friends? My family? My art studio? I have a British passport;I could be evacuated with my husband. But what would happen to my best friend Maya? She has a very rare and bad case of Cancer! I have been taking care of her since she was diagnosed a few months ago and I know that my care for her is what has helped her do so well. Her type of cancer is "untreatable", but ironically, the day the shelling started, her doctor told us her tumors had shrunk! Unbelievable- a true miracle. I can't leave Maya!What about art work in my studio? What about all my brushes and paints and glitter and books! All my books! Again- the crazy things that cross your mind.What about our photo albums? All our family pictures? The memories…What about the doodles I drew on my balcony a few summers ago when I was suffering from a bad break up?What about all the love letters I have saved? Letters that document my youth that I wanted to some day give to my daughter."
A few days after reading this letter, as one watched the signing cermony between World Culture Forum Alliance and the ICCR to host 3rd World Culture Forum in New Delhi, in January 2008, there were mixed feelings of hope and despair that made one question the need for such an event at first place. How would such a meet really matter to someone like Zena, who could be killed any minute while refusing to be evacuated from the very bloddy Lebanese earth? What use will this global platform (of hundreds of culture czars, thinkers, artistes, civil society, NGOs, government bodies ) be to the innocent men and women- who like the victims of Mumbai train blasts, will make their last journey with half finished promises? The world is ending, the hell is here and the Biblical Book of Revelations stares at the vermilion stream…These questions, walking like spiders on the walls of reason will knit their web forever. The clutter they produce cannot be wished away but where must we go, what must we do?
Dialogue. That is and will be the only solution to all we suffer. The death and misery, the violence and hatred will stay as a parallel to humanity but it is dialogue that will help understand the consequences, the issues at stake, the dangers that lie ahead of us and the precarious future we are ferociously building for the furture generations. Zena's story is an act of such a dialogue just like conferences and events like WCF have been and will be. Religion does not have answer to as many questions, as our culture has. The two must be separated while understanding the need for universal brotherhood, of equality and compassion. Holding out a promise that the event, will be used to promote and showcase to the world the cultural diversity that marks our social fabric and makes us tick- despite all the problems of a third world country, WCF India 2008, has the potential to blur the boundaries that differentiate rest of us from the first world. The dissemination of malicious media, the aggression of the bully powers, the muffled destruction of tradition at the cost of modernity and globalism and the de-famliralisation with the concepts of peace and tolerance are the immediate concerns that require practical long term solutions.

Treating Culture, as a misfit, as an anti-thesis to cosmopolitan world is the most foolish thing to do. And we are doing just that abundantly. Events like WCF India 2008, which will be a build up to a number of regional level conferences in various parts of the world, is a reminder that we need to continue the interaction. WCF India 2008, is now more significant that it ever was- not only because we need to understand and sustain the growth of cultural industries or we need to make the markets culture friendly, but because the very philosophy of Ananda that is at the very centre of Indian soul (and which has enlightened many a civilisations world over) is at stake. Our myths and folklore, had immense wisdom to share. They linked our countries and continents through images and stories, long forgotten, erased and muted. Every year we lose nearly a hundred dialects, and with them countless lullabies are also lost. And still in Lebanon, Bach holds an olive branch…
A moment of harmony in Beyrut
We suddenly heard from one of the houses
Bach music beautifully played -
The whole company stopped
To hear the music.
The pianist played beautifully
And the whole company stopped and
listened to the exquisite harmony.
The bombs did not succeed to stop us -
but a sixteen year old girl
Playing Bach music -
Stopped us!
( Bach In Beyrut © Ada Aharoni - Haifa, 2001)

( In the Pic above: Calling Cultures: The Director General, Shri Pavan K. Varma and the Chairperson of the World Culture Forum Alliance (WCFA) Mr. Franz Patay signing an agreement on hosting World Culture Forum's Global Meet in India in 2008. )


© The Statesman 4th August,2006