To Ocean

Many a night, I fall asleep by the shore.
Nightly ocean always so comforting.
Immensity of ocean cut down by darkness into a womb,
Pounding of waves evoking my first memory-
of a place of which I remember nothing but a rhythm-
a home throbbing with a heartbeat;
That heartbeat of my mother, that first cognition by my consciousness,
Is mimicked by nightly pulse of ocean,
Always bringing bliss, and sleep.

-Pulastya

Loss, Indian View

India loses again, badly. 4-1, and margins of losses are big too. Now the time to resort to nuances. To exploit the recesses in human brain which confuse 'complicated’ with ‘reason’. The tedium of analysis must be used and the claim of being “best”, still, must be defended. After all that’s what cricket loving people of India crave for. With sly the benchmarks of measurement should be switched lower, and such sub segmentations should be created where we still come out as best.

Although we claimed potential to be the best team in the world before the tour began, at the end of it people should be happy that at least we are the best version of ourselves. “This is best visiting Indian cricket team of past 15-20 years”, says Mr. Ravi Shastri. Suddenly, we are told to believe, it’s not about winning, ‘we fought better than our predecessors’ should be taken as winning argument and applauded. In typical Indian way he is claiming success by siting lower degree of failure: a success which doesn’t need achievement. “The best Indian pace attack ever”, says the cricketing oligarch. Cleverly hiding the fact that it is still not good enough to win a series abroad. Again, claiming success without achievement.

Mr Kohli scoring nearly 600 runs in the series is being made out as if the whole purpose of the tour was to redeem him from his past failure to an unblemished deity status. If commitment is the precursor to preparation, then it is clear where Mr. Kohli’s commitment lies. Kohli the player is more important than Kohli the captain, for Kohli the man. Challenges that Kohli the player faces are relatively easily manageable than the challenges that Kohli the captain faces, hence 600 runs in a series and yet team India loses the series 4-1. And that works fine for everyone. It is only when system fails that Gods can take place of prominence. Collective failure brings focus on individual achievements. Perhaps there is a meaning in the number of gods that we have, and why we create more every day. I’m sure Mr Kohli is happy being another one of them- a superstar of a defeated team. In some sense, our heroes are always a bit of tragic, for they display big capabilities but do not win.

Neither Mr Shastri nor Mr Kohli is a villain here. They are merely being one of us. We are complicit in the facade they are creating, the masterminds of our own delusion. This delusion is a system, where we do not define failure in terms of inadequacies, but in terms of misfortunes. We always end up glorifying the lost possibility by embellishing it by ever so big a misfortune. Our glory is always the lost one, never real, always so close yet missed by a whisker of misfortune. They are giving us a reason which they know we would give to ourselves. Something which expedites moving on.

See how Mr Shastri complains that good luck favoured English, not us:

“I wouldn’t say (we) failed badly. But we tried. We must give credit where it’s due. Virat and me were asked to pick the man of the series (for England) and we both picked Sam Curran. Look where Sam Curran has scored, and, that is where he hurt us. …at crucial stages in this series, he chipped in with runs and wickets. That was the difference between the two sides.”

(Ravi Shastri, Indian cricket team coach, on Sam Curran’s impact on the series, ET, Sept 15, 2018)  

This is a statement of cunning. Coming from “Champion of Champions”, who has a past to claim the right of wisdom in the field of cricket, and have no doubt about it, is fully conscious of it, sounds desperate too. He knows anything else will be detrimental. Its vile lies in that it reduces the difference between victory and defeat to only a single factor. And this factor, as one can see, is more or less random, fortuitous; something that can not be anticipated and planned for. A divine intervention of sorts. I mean no one could have predicted- and therefore prepared for- that God would decide to benefit England with the miracle of Sam Curran! Everything else, of course, was taken care of in the preparation! Minus Sam Curran results would have been in our favour!

However, being aware that the gentleman speaking is the coach of the team and is trying to cover up particularly his own failure in order to save his job may help one see through the beautiful argument put forward by him. But, still, it’s a smart statement. In India you can justify any  failure in the name of bad luck and bad karma. That’s how the whole business of sustained hope for victory, despite losing consistently, is maintained. When you justify every defeat as bad luck then the hope of luck turning in favour can  continuously be maintained; after all it is controlled by fate, something assumed fair and unbiased. And, as more, so called, misfortune strikes you, higher the probability that soon luck would turn favourable, that, in fact, increases the eagerness to keep playing; typical gambler’s psychology.

Mr Shastri is a street smart cricketer and the kind of justification he is using is from these streets only. Here, on these streets, success always arrives as a stroke of luck. It is to no one’s credit in terms of planning, effort, and focus. His justification is derived from an argument originally concocted to defend failure, for it makes it easy to justify failure without accountability or guilt to the individual. And on these streets justification of failure is much more in demand than the recipe for success. Here success, as it is known, is not based on a method but is simply a rare absence of failure, a good luck.

We, Indian cricket team, were just unlucky that is all. Mr. Shastri is simply selling what is consumed here. Acceptance of failure without letting go of hope. Also, without any onus for future improvements; after all Sam Curran was a miracle, not a mere another cricketer- and dealing with miracles is not part of his job contract.  

-Pulastya

Individualisation of Sports

No one panders to the baser instincts of masses more than the media. Pimping at that level is necessary for the commercial success it seeks.

In the wake of on going Asian Games where few of our athletes are winning medals, media is in full swing in publicising their success. In a country starved for sporting success commensurate to its size this obviously makes great sales pitch for selling newspapers and prime-time news. However, what is surprising is the emphasis being given to socio-economic background of these athletes in the coverage, which is invariably of poverty and struggle. Poverty is particularly presented in gory details. “Daughter of a rickshaw puller”, “son of a daily wage labourer”, “father selling land to support training”, and other such headlines full of qualifying phrases of poverty and struggle are dominant in the mass media. On one hand it would seem fair that media is highlighting the plight of sportsmen in order to bring attention to the apathy of a society which has consistently failed in coming to aid of its sportsmen; but the gory details of poverty put on display smack of something else as well: an attempt to completely individualise the achievement. 

Sports are a form of controlled warfare, without death and blood. Most embodiments of virtues of a warrior such as health, discipline, spirit to rise against odd, cohesiveness, heroism, conscience , inventiveness and vigor are also displayed in the sporting arena or field. So like war, sports also have been very close to society’s heart as a stage of displaying its superiority. Sports, like war, become a test and testimony of limits of hardihood of virtuous men and, by implication, the society. Success in the sporting arena is taken as the surrogate of a society’s ability to produce and rear men of these virtues. Hence sporting success appeals to innate sense of superiority and general competitive passion of a society (country!) as a whole, and is manifested in patriotic pride and collective ambition. 

And, there also appears to be a clearly visible connection between the strength (economic or otherwise) of a society and its sporting success. Cohesive and well developed societies have a system (of early selection, grooming, easy access to scientific coaching and equipments, financial support to athletes in their budding years etc.) in place which makes sporting success regular and wide spread. Man are proud to belong to such a uplifting society and credit it for their success. 

However, laggard societies tend to portray success as an individual effort. It is their way of covering up their incapacity to build collective means of achieving and leaving it to individuals to find their own ways and means to it. However, when those scraps of achievement through individual effort do come, society is happy to appropriate them in its name (no wonder we celebrate even the success of foreign citizens of Indian origin!), as if just by belonging, even in most tenuous way, one has drawn from it. In such societies there is always a sense of disgruntlement in members, and individuals express it by their subtle attempt to delink their achievements from collective; it is also a good means of saving the achiever from the shame of belonging to a moribund collective. In a way, it is saying that men are good, system is bad, and their achievement is despite the system. 

We are perhaps one such society. Sporting success here is still rare and highly individual effort based. There are many sportsmen in our country who have more value individually than the term ‘Indian sportsman” denotes. 

Sitting in our homes and acutely aware of shortage of success, we support our moral as a member of the collective by clinging to few success stories of individuals and identifying with them. The highlighting of stories of struggle and poverty of these athletes is a way of individualising their success. Bringing forth the point that they alone have paid the price for their success through their inordinate struggle to succeed; society has played no role in it. 

It is substitution of lost hope of achievement as a collective with the hope arising from individualised effort based success. 

Need for sustained source of hope is one of the baser human instincts. And, this is what media is trying to pander to by those headlines above: we may be nothing as a society but as individuals we still have hope. A kind of reverting back to the primitive, where nothing is required to be shown in the name of collective institutionalised support: every man for himself.!

It is not difficult to see that in laggard societies the attrition of individuals from society, specially of the able individuals, picks up speed; in view of that, this act of mass media to go whole-hog for absolute individualisation of the sporting achievements of our athlete is insidious in some sense. 

-Pulastya

The Mythology of Complimenting

“You look like Leena Chandavarkar”, she said to her. It was one woman complimenting the other on her looks. And, as I had noticed, she put quite an effort on her smart phone internet browser to track down the actress she was referring to, for she was not able to recall her name initially. There was an earnestness in her effort; the discovery was somehow important to her. If it was due to the delight of discovery itself, or to seriously compliment the other lady (her friend!), I couldn’t say with certainty, though suspected that it was the first. I too had a look at the picture of the actress and strained my eyes to discover the resemblance, which, if at all there, mostly eluded me; it was, at best, even with liberal use of my imagination, extremely marginal, and generic in nature. Irrespective of that the recipient of the compliment seemed pleased. So, the purpose was served. Something in the compliment seemed odd to me, though. Neither the compliment was out of place for the person being praised, she indeed is a beauty of some merit with very amicable facial features and worthy, nor the exaggeration of comparison, for that is the nature of a compliment, aberration, as I discovered in that moment, was in use of the reference point- a film star!. 

It was a cliched compliment; coming from imagination which was not sufficiently aroused. Awoken only by a weak stimulus (woman to woman!), which did not really set imagination of giver on fire to find the highest of similes, instead it went for most easily available one. And safest too, as comparison with a Bollywood heroine comes with lightest of burdens on the recipient - for, it is merely a description of a state of being without onus of an action, just to keep looking like as one already does. Also, it was delivered more like a pleasantry; where the overtness of expression was more important than the content of it. I would tend to believe that genuineness of compliment leads to the choice of subtler form of expression. A well heard compliment is exactly for that- ears.

If we leave aside its usage in deliberate politeness of acceptable social behaviour which treads on the grey area between truth and lies, a true complement stems from admiration which is very personal in nature. It operates purely on emotional level. Any chosen form of expression adulterates it with own deformity- in form of limitations of medium to transmit it with its full emotional content. Hence the propensity to go for subtlest of expression. Eyes top the list. Eyes are glass windows to the sealed chamber of purest emotions, where the outside air has not touched and discoloured them. Anything visible in that glass is pristine. No other form of expression compares, including poetry, in its expressive intensity, with smitten look in the eyes of lover for beloved. And, even layman can read it in those eyes. All stronger forms of expression of a complement are meta verbal; relegating the verbal expression to the bottom of the list. To preserve the emotional impact of a complement against these deformities its content has to be bolstered, like hyperboles in poetry- i.e. lies, hampering its genuineness. And, in that sense even the most smitten poetry is peppered with lies.

On the other hand, social complimenting is tricky business as it operates on a spectrum carrying infinite variations of form linked to endless degrees of subtle to overt. The choice of form is dependent on the purpose of compliment and the genuineness backing it. In majority of situations though purpose it self dictates the genuineness of the compliment, it also depends on the perceived intelligence level of recipient to see through the fallaciousness. This trickiness makes complimenting more of an art than science, and a breeding ground of artful, who have gladly turned it into a weapon, for which few have developed a defence and are waylaid by it on day-today basis. 

In social utility of a compliment, a closely weighed complement by giver leaves recipient wanting for more and loses its value significantly. For its proper effect to take place it must build an allowance on the overstating side. Under the influence of inflated self perception, every man’s disease, a closely weighed complement will fall short of expectation of the recipient. Here truth and credibility are linked with a factor which is equal to the factor of inflated self perception, and recipient is happy to offer higher than appropriate credibility to the giver in order to believe in exaggerated complement to that extent. The only situation in which recipient will critically analyse the complement and will tend to discount it is when an agenda is perceived behind it. Powerful people receive complements with much higher frequency and discount them for the same reason. But, surprisingly, they do miss them if frequency reduces; complements are a measurement of power, and a reduction signifies loss of power to them.

-Pulastya

Muse and Poetry

I feel relegated to the league of petty admirers- every girl wants to keep a line of them as trophies in cupboard. 

I wanted to be touched by your young desire to infuse verve into my poetry; nothing more (as you see it!), nothing less(as I see it.).

But, it seems, that percolation is not possible across male-female barrier. The reality of prey, predator and hunger is too powerful to be eased by poetry. 

Perhaps what I want is too little, and seeking less from you insults you.

Everything that I said in your praise in my poetry was for poetry's sake, not you. Muse is never bigger than poetry. Poetry is not merely a moan of desirous, it is a prayer that gives birth to a Goddess. 

Birth of a poem is a long labour, birth of a goddess merely a whim to ease the labour pain. 

Time to create a new Goddess.

-Pulastya

Noise

Noise
Is a replacement of thoughts
In a mind incapable of thinking,
No wonder
Chatterbox says little of worth,
And philosopher is mute...

-Pulastya

On V. S. Naipaul

V. S. Naipaul is dead. Gone with him is his mastery of colonial mind set. His highest contribution to literature was to uncover, in that mindset, the framework used for glorifying the defeat- how the vanquished people psychologically evolved themselves to learn to live with the loss. How they fundamentally changed the status of conquerors from opponents to masters and lords and expelled them from their daily lives. How they instinctively figured that complete surrender was effective way of forcing their masters to leave them alone- an amazing trick where political freedom was surrendered to protect ways of life. And those ways of life were also gradually adjusted to mimic their master’s, without internalising the thought process (a high caste Hindu in western style suit and with western education and yet fully believing in caste based untouchability), to make the surrender look even more complete. A grand effort by vanquished race to cover up the ignominy of loss and surrender through selective mass amnesia, which over generations of subjugation became less and less selective- so much so that they had to discover their right of political freedom from the eyes of their conquerors. Such a race, even having won its political freedom was not able to shake off the mindset of colonial day’s and still struggled with confused identity mainly characterised by an inferiority complex and inability to give up what was not relevant any more.

Naipaul was a product of subjugated race, subjugated to the extent that its ways were ritualised in daily living. And, somehow, he became aware of it. This awareness did not lead him to empathy, but to contempt. A camera like contempt, which does nothing to cover the nakedness it captures, instead uses an angle to magnify it to its fuller extent. In ‘A House for Mr. Biswas’ Biswas is a portrayal of his own father, and though in real life Naipaul had great relationship with his father Biswas receives no sympathy from him. He, in the eyes of Naipaul- the writer, is fully responsible for his own predicament and deserves the life that he lived. Naipaul is of the firm view that weakness is not deserving of empathy but of only contempt. What irks him most about weakness is not the infirmity itself, but it’s tendency to descend into hypocrisy, denial, and false bravado to cover itself, specially that it happens at society level. That’s a constant theme in all his writings. His portrayal of Caribbean, of India, and of converted Islamist countries uses the same lens to see these people. He had a cold and clear eye to hunt down the symbolism used (in form of ironies, and tragedies) by these societies to avoid a real sustained fight and to only create a semblance of it to maintain the esteem without any real gains. What magnifies the blow ten fold is his description of these events/people in a comic sense highlighting the frivolity with which these participants conduct life. This frivolity emerges from their misplaced priorities dictated by their selfishness and lack of vision. A vicious cycle which Naipaul bitterly exposes.

No wonder he is accused of biases, against Muslims, women, Africans. An individual without biases is inconceivable, and being a man of intellect more so with Naipaul; but his biases were not superficial, they were based on deep and prolonged observation processed through a sharp, and mercilessly critical mind and one can not ignore him without being accused of same malice- the biases for less scathing. Balanced view is also an euphemism for avoiding controversy (thus veiled lying), Naipaul never gave two hoots about that. 

He wrote beautiful prose. Short sentences of such precision that they did not need the force of context to pierce through any intellect. His description of a Hindu joint family in ‘A House for Mr Biswas’, its people, hierarchies, mechanisms of power, politics, nature of intrigues, is amazingly accurate and possible only through close personal observation. Who can forget the scene in ‘ A house for Mr. Biswas’ where one of the ladies in the house dominates in an argument by violently beating up her own children in a display of anger; or, his explanation of why in India so many people name their homes and business establishment after their deceased parents in “ A Million Mutinies”; or, his description of how the remanent of an old demolished Shiva temple with now a mosque standing on it were enfabled in a Muslim legend to usurp it as Muslim in “ Among the Believers”. His ability to keenly and clearly observe, analyse, convert in to precise thought, and replicate those thought in words on paper was unmatched. No wonder “A House for Mr Biswas” is considered best piece of English prose written in twentieth century. 

Great writer are superior intellectual beings. They have their value as a mirror to the society. This puts them under the label of dangerous; dangerous to the establishment, and dangerous to society as well, for they may cause embarrassment. And, thus both try to control them, establishment through force and censor, and society by castigation and labelling (such as biased against, Marxist etc). All the allegation and controversies that Naipaul lived through are hallmark of his independence of thoughts and expression of it. 

-Pulastya

Three stages of happiness:

1. Living moments of joy
2. Memories of lived moments of joy
3. Display of having confirmed (more like not left behind) to the stereotype of being happy 

(Wonder why doesn’t anyone put picture of reading a book, with tag: having a great time reading.........? Answer: because no one does, hence not a stereotype of being happy.)

-Pulastya

In defence of post-processing of a photograph:

In art form a photograph is an independent reality, not a slave of the reality whose image it captures. Its independence is seeded in the fact that it is not a true image, only a perspective in a particular moment. A ‘true image' photograph is an impossibility, because true image can not be separated from its reality either by space or time. In both separations image ceases to be true at the very moment of separation, for their flow into the future takes different paths-their similarity starts diverging. 

In fact, the moment idea of a picture is conceived the path and destinies of the picture and subject begin to diverge. In conceiving itself factors like camera angle, lens, aperture diameter, exposure time, time of the day (the day itself! Rainy day, sunny day etc!), extra lighting, and focal point all play a transformational role: they change the reality of subject in favour of the reality of picture; and, also, capture only a part of the true (whole) image. 

Also, ’True to reality’ itself as an idea is an oxymoron. Something that doesn’t exist. Can’t exist. For, there is no reality without a perspective. If it was otherwise then there would be no distinction of “good photograph” and “bad photograph” of the same subject (reality). How you capture it makes that distinction. ‘How’ is the perspective- a distortion that work as a knife to scrap away the image from reality.

So, then, what is reality? Reality is a hint, a clue, a stimulus, a signal to be sensed with our five senses for arranging our thought. This arranging is important for that creates a semblance of living. Anger, fear, love, hate all are arrangement of thoughts in our head stimulated by hints that we call reality, and our perception of it.

A beautiful photograph is an amalgamation of the view, aesthetics, and emotions. “What” to capture dissolved in to “how” to capture and “why”, these coupled with “how much” to capture and “when” are the decisions to be made, which keeps the mind of photographer in a state of constant reviewing of thoughts evoked by the view in sight. It (this constant reviewing) is like first growing an ‘eye of mind’ to find beauty, and then leading biological eyes through a training where they learn from the ‘eye of mind’; and deepen, broaden, soften their understanding of beauty. The “eye of mind” is the emotional capability of brain which does the emotional referencing of things in sight, giving them a meaning, which biological eyes can not do. An ant carrying a load ten times it body weight and struggling up a wall is not a sight of visual beauty, but makes up for immense emotional beauty-for ant’s will-to-live despite life being so hard on it(from the human perspective of physical labour). So, despite the individual ugliness of the subject (ant, and the carcass of a dead moth perhaps!) it would make for a good picture for its emotional content; if the struggle part is suitably highlighted by capturing the relative size of ant and its load and the height it has covered, along with capturing, possibly, the distance it has yet to go. And, that will decide the “how much” (of what is in sight)to capture part.

-Pulastya

Dance

Reverberation, thunderclap, and then strike of a thunder bolt...

This’s you dancing:

blooming, basking in attention,

glowing in reflection of wide open eyes on you,

killing with every move....

ah!....

the gentle swaying of waist like a silk thread,

those body twirls powering whirlpools,

that walk of a gazelle showing off,

arms sculpted from ruby and flowing like waves,

twist and turns of a cotton bulb surfing the storm.....

You sway with joy of a flame dancing with the wind...

-Pulastya

A Date

The moment:

After dinner, ready to part, we said goodbyes. Then, while proceeding towards waiting car she turned around and stepped closer to me, and before I could anticipate and be ready, she hugged me.

Leaving me startled and dazed she moved away, and turned to keep her vanity bag in the waiting car. Heavy pleats of her skirt floated in the air shaping it like a blue mountain, the sharp cut of her plain white top made her back look like a milky river arriving in a plane and flowing between the lines narrow at the brim of her skirt and broad at her shoulder. She seemed to me to be a glorious fragment of earth, alive, beautiful, generous, and benign. 

The hug:

I was still soaked in the sensation of the hug. Floating with its memory in lightness. As though I had held a flower in my palm and pressed it to my cheek; filled with tenderness I felt immensely powerful (for, what is tenderness if not how powerful looks at the fragile with affection).

In my arms when she was, I did not feel her weight; I was in embrace of air, scented pulsating air. And I, fearing that air’s exquisite sculpting in her body shape might get disturbed by my pressing on to her, held her ever so slightly. She felt to me so small, so light, so fragile, something precious pressed against my chest, despite being a full woman that she was. Feminine in bloom is all tenderness, free of barbs and rough edges. Her arms around my neck, elbows resting on my shoulders, she slightly reclining towards me, her feather like touch- all sensation no weight. 

With my face over her shoulder and eyes behind her back I could see that exquisite heel of her right shoe raised, sharp and shiny like a rifle bullet, and taut calf muscles of her curvaceous lower leg emerging from the shoe like an art work, wrapped in the skin that was perfect piece of silk held stretched by two perfect lines of tendons, ready. Many a poems were buried there on that skin to be uncovered by sensual touch of the tip of a dreamer’s finger, or lips; depending on the depth of his devotion, for if he chooses to touch or kiss the feet of his goddess. 

Her cheek so close to mine, I could feel the warmth in her blood through her skin. Mild and sweet though it was, it made my face shimmer. 

Her scent, which now will be my definition of a woman for ever, in those few moments transformed itself into my deepest memory. 

I remember soft exhale of her breath on my neck. I can not recall if I was breathing or stopped; perhaps it was she who having taken my breath away, was breathing for both of us. Or, in that embrace I was nourished by her life force and did not need breathing of my own!

The spell:

These thoughts mesmerised me. They were as pleasurable as the moments of their origin. 

Then she looked back and saw me. Her effect was written all over me. And, either as an act of kindness-to cure me, or like an enchantress giving final touches to her spell, she hugged me one more time. 

- Pulastya

Photograph

Photographs: moments rebelling against time.
They disobey laws of time
And slow down its passage,
By freezing themselves in a replica on paper;
Sometimes a single moment living 
over centuries,
Till the picture lasts. 

-Pulastya

Work

I see:

Everyday on my office desk,
a someone, diligently
slow poisoning his soul.

Half dead eyes,
still drawing comfort,
by feeding out-grown infant dreams/full bodied unborn fears.

Every June, young recruits,
on welcome tour of invisible gallows,
infant dreams clinging to their breasts.

Dead man in sterile corner office,
sometime looking at paper flowers,
placed on his desk, with longing.

Well fed death rejoicing,
flaunting stealth weapon of  silent violence-
monotony of office work.

-Pulastya

Morning

The sun is out,
And busy,
Painting the world
On canvas of night,
With its rays-the golden brush.

-Pulastya

Morning Rain

Crooning rain
Caressing glass panes with gentle patter,
Little flowers of raindrops waltzing till day-break
Gliding rising-falling on liquid silver;

Rising smell of aroused earth,
Moaning wind eavesdropping through half open window,
Dusky silvery cloudy sky
Basking in the doused sun’s after glow;

My love!
It’s a magical morning,
When you come like that-in your elements,
To wake me up...

-Pulastya

To a photograph with red-eye effect

All I remember of you is “ a dark eyed, always hassled girl”. Never even suspected that when indulgent your irises could be overflowing wine from two goblets of eyes. Or, is it that mythical deadly evil of feminine beauty revealing itself full blooded in those crimson eyes, in a rarest of the rare moment of lapse of vigil; and is captured by the photographer in the very instant!
And, blessed is the photographer-for it’s almost never that naivety in craft actually helps you augment the beauty of something already beautiful: when innocence of the act fully fills in for creativity, when doing nothing is doing the best.

-Pulastya

Time and language

And then isn't language repository of time? And isn't this why time worships it? And isn't a song, or a poem, or indeed a speech itself, with its caesuras, pauses, spondees, and so forth, a game language plays to restructure time? And aren't those by whom language " live" those by whom time does too? And if time "forgives" them, does it do so out of generosity or out of necessity? And isn't generosity a necessity anyhow?

-  Joseph Brodsky

(Elaborating Auden's famous line " Time...worships language." Essentially meaning that it's the language which makes time - past and future, present is only shortest possible fragment of time- tangible. Time past is preserved as memories- collective or individual- and future is conceived as fantasy, but both of these need the body flesh of language to express themselves in the physical world. And it's only humans who have concept of time among species for only they have a language evolved enough to capture the dimensions of time. only humans have a conception of past and future, all others live only in present and thus have no perception- or need- of time.)

Rain

Rain touches it divine….

And, when rain touches the woman by my side!
Well, what do you call moonlight sitting next to you in human form on a cloudy night ....

(Blessing, I guess!)

Cold breeze,
Washed verdant hills,
Rising petrichor,
Wine….

Skin burning with sensations,
Eyes see nothing but beauty,
Lungs filled with perfume,
And taste buds brimming, for a kiss....

(Rain is happy hour of senses, I guess!)

-Pulastya

Face

No one is a Christian
because Jesus had a beautiful face;
and yet his face is most adored.

That is the thing about faces:
a face is like water,
it always takes the form of observer’s getting use to it;
to find beauty in it
one just have to look long enough with love.

A beautiful face is proportional arrangement of six elements-
sixth being the imagination;
and what is love if not a kindled imagination.

-Pulastya

Vidyapati

I recently discovered Vidyapati, 14th century legendary Maithali and Sanskrit poet. While reading a poetry anthology I was captivated by the imagery of a poem describing the inner feelings of an ageing woman lamenting the receding of her physical beauty, and the incidental feelings caused by realisation of transience of physical charm. The source of inspiration for the poem was a poem of Vidyapati. A little research on the Net led me to this colossal, hiding in the plain sight, poet abandoned to be discovered through the eye of foreigner in English translation.  When I read a few of his love poems, they oozed with so much passion and sensuality, I knew that likes of Neruda were merely his minions.

(it may sound bit brash to some. please remember that some of the brashness, I suspect, in expressing sensuality has been ‘added in translation’ due to directness of English words in expressing such feeling, in Hindi, Maithali, or perhaps even in Sanskrit, language itself helps you express such feeling more obliquely; then there are lot of colloquial expressions which are untranslatable without magnifying their coarseness manifold to our ears. )

Few example:

Poem 1.

Cosmetics do no good:
no shadow, rouge, mascara, lipstick-
nothing helps.
however artfully I comb my hair,
embellishing my throat and wrist with jewels,
It is no use- there is no
semblance of the beautiful young girl
I was
And long for still.
My loveliness is past.
And no one could be more aware than I am
that coquettishness at this age
only renders me ridiculous.
I know it. Nonetheless,
I primp myself before the mirror
like an infatuated school girl
fussing over every detail,
practicing whatever subtlety
may please him.
I cannot help myself.
The God of passion has his will of me
and I am tossed about
between humiliation & desire,
rectitude  & lust,
disintegration & renewal,
ruin & salvation.

( translation by : Steve Kowit)

Poem 2.

For heaven's sake, listen, listen, O my darling:
Do not dart your cruel, angry glances at me,
For I swear by the lovely pitchers of your breasts,
And by your golden, glittering, snake-like necklace:
If ever on earth I dare touch anyone except you,
Let your necklace turn into a real snake, and bite me;
And if ever my promise and words prove false,
Chastise me, O darling, in the way you want to.
But, now, don't hesitate to take me in your arms,
Bind, bind my thirsty body with yours; bruise me
With your thighs, and bite, bite me with your teeth.
Let your fingernails dig deep, deep into my skin!
Strangle me, for heaven's sake, with your breasts,
And lock me in the prison of your body forever!

Poem 3.

All my inhibition left me in a flash,
When he robbed me of my clothes,
But his body became my new dress.
Like a bee hovering on a lotus leaf
He was there in my night, on me!

True, the god of love never hesitates!
He is free and determined like a bird
Winging toward the clouds it loves.
Yet I remember the mad tricks he played,
My heart restlessly burning with desire
Was yet filled with fear!

poem 4.

Oh friend, I cannot tell you
Whether he was near or far, real or a dream.
Like a vine of lightning,
As I chained the dark one,
I felt a river flooding in my heart.
Like a shining moon,
I devoured that liquid face.
I felt stars shooting around me.
The sky fell with my dress,
leaving my ravished breasts.
I was rocking like the earth.
In my storming breath
I could hear my ankle-bells,
sounding like bees.
Drowned in the last waters of dissolution,
I knew that this was not the end.

Says Vidyapati:
How can I possibly believe such nonsense?

कवि की निजी पीड़ा और पाठक:

रुदन और क्रंदन दोनो पीड़ा व विवशता के समागम की ही उत्पत्ति हैं, बस शब्द का अंतर  क्रंदन का दर्जा ऊँचा कर देता है, क्यूँकि रुदन में शब्द नहीं होता।

और कवि अभ्यासी क्रंदन करने वाला नहीं तो और क्या है! पाठक यह जानते हैं। कविता में यूँ भी अक्सर यह पता करना मुश्किल है की इसमें वर्णित दर्द  निजी है या बस देखा हुआ।ऐक सुघड़ कवि की निशानी है इस फ़र्क़ को छिपा लेना, और पर-पीड़ा को भी निजी सा अभिव्यक्त करना।

वैसे पीड़ा अनुभव की तीव्रता का प्रत्यक्षता से गहरा सम्बन्ध है। परोक्षता से पीड़ा का अनुभव क्षींण होता है।फिर कविता में तो शब्द प्रयोग से जन्मी दूरी की परोक्षता के साथ साथ किसी और का अनुभव प्रयोग की परोक्षता भी सम्भव होती है। अतः कथा मे व्यथा सुन कर रचनाकार की पीडा बांटने कोई नहीं निकल पड़ता।

यूँ भी कवि, अपनी या परायी, किसी की भी हो पीड़ा को कविता रूप में बाज़ार में बेचने तो आता ही है, धन ना सही प्रसिद्धि और मान के लिए। और बाज़ार में  जूता देखा जाता है किस की खाल खिंची जूता बनाने में कौन पूछता है। भाव जूते से जूता मिला कर तय होता है, रंग, संरचना, कारीगरी के पैमाने पर, जिसकी खाल खिंची वो कितना तड़पा मानकों में से ऐक नहीं है। वैसे भी खाल खिंचने की तड़प का जूते की उत्कृष्टता से कोई सम्बन्ध नहीं है चाहे वो कारीगर की अपनी खाल से ही क्यूँ ना बना हो, उसे तो बस कारीगरी का ही मोल मिलेगा।

कवि का दर्द इस लिये है की कभी कभी भावावेश में अपनी ही खाल का जूता लेकर बाज़ार में आ बैठता है और अतिरिक्त मूल्य की उम्मीद करता है। वस्तु सत्य यह है की कवि की पीड़ा का कारण कविता की उत्पत्ति की सम्भावना को बढ़ाना नहीं था, बल्कि कविता तो मरहम बन कर आयी, और मरहम को बाज़ार में बेचने कौन जाता है और वो भी इस भावना के साथ की इस मरहम को पाने में मैंने बहुत दर्द झेला?

किसी की निजी डायरी या आत्महत्या पत्र की दो दुख भरी पंक्तियाँ व्यक्ति विशेष के मर्म से ऐकाकार कर देती हैं, चाहे वे अति साधारण संरचना में ही क्यूँ ना हों, क्योंकि वे निजी हैं। कविता निजी नहीं होती। ऐक वशिष्ठ रूप में संरचना का प्रयास व किसी भी रूप में प्रकाशन की अभिलाषा निजीपन को ख़त्म कर देते है, ऐक प्रकार से बाज़ार में ले आतें हैं, अन्य कवियों से मुक़ाबिल करते हैं, प्रतिस्पर्धा में उतारते हैं। और प्रतिस्पर्धा में प्रदर्शन का महत्व है, दर्शक उसी का आनन्द उठाने आते हैं, त्यारी का कष्ट और तरीक़ा कोई नहीं पूछता, प्रतिस्पर्धी अर्थात अन्य कवि पूछें तो पूछें।

फिर, पीड़ा की कविता लोग परमार्थ के लिये नहीं पढ़ते। परोक्ष रूप मे दर्द भाव का आनंद लेने के लिए पढ़ते हैं। इससे उन्हें या तो स्वयं की  उत्तम स्तिथि पर अतिरिक्त संतोष प्राप्त होता है या फिर अपनी बद अवस्था में भी ऐक प्रकार का मनोवेज्ञानिक सहयोगी मिलने का अनुभव होता है। पाठक को कवि की पीडा समझने हेतु समाज सेवी का बोझ देना उचित नहीं है।

कवि की पीड़ा उसकी उर्वरा भूमि है पाठक को तो बस उसकी उपज का मूल्य तय करना है। पीड़ा की उर्वरा भूमि का वैसे भी कोई ख़रीदार नहीं होता, यह तो गले पड़ती है। इस पर जो उगता है उसे परोसने लायक़ जो बनाए उसे कवि कहते हैं।

फिर कोई कवि अपनी अति संवेदनशीलता से दूसरे की पीड़ा को भी बँटाई पर ले सकता है।

-पुलस्त्य

Dance

Tiny sailboat sways
On the ocean waves
with a joyful stance,

Reminds me of you, and 
Your carefree abandon,
When you dance.

-Pulastya

Prem ka saar

सफ़ेद का सार स्याह में है,
जैसे फ़ूल का पतझड़ में,
या सत्य का असत्य में।

रोटी का सार भूख है, 
और जल का प्यास
या फिर मरुभूमि।

प्रकाश रूप में श्वेत का,
रंग रूप में पुष्प का,
शब्द रूप में सत्य का,
पदार्थ रूप में रोटी का,
और द्रव रूप में जल का,
वर्णन उन्हें गौण बना देता है।

तो फिर प्रेम गीतों में
प्रेयसी के नयन क्यूँ?
विछोह ही प्रेम गीतों में
प्रेम का सच्चा आभास है ।

- पुलस्त्य

Prelude to a date:

I am early as usual. And trying to familiarise myself with the view.

The summer sun is wearily fading away. From this height one can almost see dark fatigue lines on its face; days are getting longer and warmer. Despite the hard work of the day sun is unusually calm today; tired, but content. 

From a short distance away in the west, from behind the hills, maiden of evening is looking at sun invitingly, signalling to come home to her. But, duty bound to the length of the day sun is taking its time in its final retreat. 

Wrapped in its dark grey satin, and laden with celestial jewels which are becoming lustrous by ever passing minute, nubile evening is displaying all the lures that only a new bride would have at her disposal. No wonder sun is blushing with reddish glow.  

Chirping of birds in the vicinity and diffused hustle of city in the distance are creating a sweet mix of sounds, akin to  rustling of satin and clinking of jewels as heard in a new bride’s room.  

And, now, I begin to wonder about the one dimensionality of my romantic thoughts where purity dictates that there should be no paramours, but only bride.  Conscience is the antidote to fun.

Nevertheless, all this is having a positive impact on my mood; or vice versa. Whichever way it may be, to sun and to me, the prospects of what lies ahead look promising. Like sun, I too have begun to feel calm and content, this evening. 

My table is on the edge, just before the railing. Beyond, there is a straight fall of ten stories. Looking down I feel a cold tickle in my spine and lower legs.

They say fear in mild dosages works as a aphrodisiac. Must be true-for having looked down a few times the air already  feels cooler to me; and my eyes have become sharper to the presence of female gentry on the restaurant floor. 

The view below, amidst the surrounding skyscrapers where light is waning, is of a world situated in a bottomless well, which is slowly sinking with the setting sun. 

And, as the sunlight is slowly retreating from those depths, the walls of sinking abyss are becoming porous with light oozing from the house windows.  

These  windows with leaking light, oddly, bring to my mind the image of discovery of a civilisation 

in a valley surrounded by a deep jungle by a pilot flying at night as thousands of dots of fire on valley plain (nightly household cooking,  perhaps!), only that in my case these dots are spread vertically.  

This is my world! But, from this height, and at this hour, my own world is appearing alien to me.  This sensation of being in a strange land is also adding to the sensation of fear a new ingredient 

and making the concoction of fear more potent. More aphrodisiac! Air seems even cooler and women even more beautiful. 

I feel disconnected with my routine, and bland reality. 

My spirit has begun to levitate already, even without the wings of alcohol.  

The setting is perfect for the date ahead. 

And, I imagine that she arrives like evening walking in to a rose garden dressed in aquamarine, and bejewelled in her smile, and bathed in a fragrance that defines paradise.

I hold that thought, re-run the image in my mind a few times and smile- realising that, drunk on setting, my imagination is on a high.  Wondering why, sitting in an urban jungle, I am thinking of water, sky full with constellations, verdant land, and roses, I ease further into the caress of sensual breeze. Its touch on my adrenaline doped body is what magic is made of. I am, for few moments, transported to an island landscaped with lush green hills under a clear summer sky, and valleys below have nothing but roses. I tenderly nurture the thought for a few more moments to prevent receded reality from creeping back. But not for long, for reality mutates faster than imagination (because it is free of medium, unattached, and relentless), and this time it breaches my thought defences in guise of a beep- my phone has incoming message. 

She is running late. Another ten minutes before she arrives. 

I am eager to see her but don’t mind waiting. Waiting is a form of controlled self denial, it will only intensify my desire to see her. 

I signal to a waiter, a dark stocky guy in all black, including his silk tuxedo. By now sun is already in the embrace of his bride behind the hills, and darkness has quickly moved in to fill the space vacated by disappeared light; or, may be, looking at the swiftness with which dark has appeared, that’s just the colour of the void. Lighting in the restaurant is nothing more than a hint. In it waiter approaches like a shadow: two dimensional and featureless. There are a number of them, waiters,  moving around in the dark alleys between the rows of table, like spirits in the underworld. His face is revealed to me when he is only couple of steps away from me; first the smile, then the eyes, and then rest of his facial features. I instruct him to usher the person arriving shortly, a lady, to my table; and tell him my name. Nodding he places two hard cover menus on my table and leaves; quickly blending into the darkness, again.  Smile on my face is back thinking  that how my hyper imagination is handing out magical touch to everything, first to the view and now to the people. And, then, suddenly It’s an epiphany moment: magic is never about what you do, but what happens to you; they are not even aware, it’s all happening to me. 

The menus are lying there, on the bar like table. Smaller one over the larger one. If they are black, or dark brown, or dark blue, is difficult to say in the stingy light.  But they smell of food, at least the large one, the food menu, of spicy food gone stale, where fragrance has aged into pungency and flavour in to sourness; a pattern mimicking life and its ageing. I open the large one, it is stained, with light brown or perhaps grey marks, marks which I suspect would look brownish yellow in clear light. I quickly close it and put back on the table, the sensation of touching the curry stained fingers of the last person who used it creeps me out.  Anyway, I will do my best to avoid ordering food myself and honourably delegate it to my partner. In any case, my interest in food can be easily served by some French fries and a bit of green salad. Food for me is just a periodic nuisance that must be dealt with on timely basis, and with minimal effort. Out of all my senses tongue is least demanding; and eyes are the most.  Even with hungry stomach I can go to sleep and not dream of food at all, but when I am surrounded with darkness I start imagining things with open eyes  to satisfy them. 

“You live through your senses,” said one wise man, “you’re summation of your thoughts,” said the other. And, that is exactly what separates my date and me. She lives in this world, I, mostly, in my head. Senses are mere instruments, signals they generate need interpretation. Magic of sensual joy is in the joyful interpretation of signals, and she is very good at it. She is gifted to be able to draw far more from new cloths, variety in food, and meeting new people; any thing new. She has instinctively discovered that if you don’t pollute the interpretation of these signals with too much intellect you can sustain the intensity of joy they bring to you at high level by generating them through new and varied sources. Like a child, she is blessed to enjoy every new toy . Essentially, she prefers to live life than to understand it. Takes it as it comes, including ‘hurting’ that it brings. Cries when hurt, stands and up moves on, forgets the hurt and remembers the joy, and chases it all over again without worrying about the hurting that invariably comes in tow.  Her company is liberating for people like me who, truly of falsely, are prisoners of their brain. Besides, occasionally (perhaps as a favour to your ego), she still allows an intellectually stimulating conversation with her. But, that is only a role that she would play for you. And she plays it well, for she has the brains for it. It’s just that she never empowers brain enough to take control of her and corrupt her ability to happiness. 

But, another ten minutes before my liberator arrives! Till then my thoughts have full control of my senses, and using them to search for meaning in everything around me. 

Darkness has spread and the view which was continuously changing for last few minutes has stabilised now; and it is not so alluring in its static form. I lose interest in it and look around. People, mostly couples, are there; I also see a few families and two groups of men- friends I guess. Music is reasonably loud, and under it I can hear mixed up and suppressed sounds of laughter and chit chat. Place is largely full already, it’s Saturday. Poor lighting has reduced patrons to only shapes and shadows. I try to observe their broad movements to create an individual thought picture of some of them in my head, but all pictures come hazy and more or less same. Without clearer impression of their faces, body shapes, cloths, and delicate gesticulations, it is difficult to differentiate between them, except for the difference of men and women, with some accuracy. They together look like a separate species to me, whose members I can not identify individually. When you look at people from a distance (physical, or created by restricted observation) their individuality is lost on you and they are reduced to a mass. Your understanding of stranger is based on your ability to project your self on them, which you do by matching their expressed behaviour with your own; if for some reason (culture, facial features and body language, or for that matter because of darkness) your ability to do that is hindered than you can not identify them individually, they all look same to you. I quickly give up, for not enough details are available to observe them individually and engage my brain. And, to observe them as a group I am not far enough from them. However, before I could disengage myself and take a diversion into something else, some activity on the far corner of my long bar-like table catches my eye. It’s at the very end, near the wall, at a place some what better lit, I notice a couple. They are kissing. 

Trained on easy access to pornography on internet, most of us do not get uncomfortable in such situations, and are also not averse to some voyeuristic pleasure. In fact, we tend to enjoy such often encountered sightings in bars and pubs with some titillation, and perhaps with a mild pride too - as a sign of open mindedness of our times. But, in such visuals aesthetics is very important; and, its not just the eagerness of desire of participants in the act which gives it a aesthetic look, but participants themselves are part of the aesthetics. When young couple kiss in public they become oblivious to the presence of others around them, a case of emotions over-taking the reality, but when matured people do so they are essentially looking for thrill of a kind which one gets on breaking the law, a case of reality being used for getting a kick-an emotional high, a way of igniting the passion. In first situation display is unintentional and incidental, in the second it is intentional, though in both the case the purpose is to hit a emotional high. Both have their own aesthetics, for in both the passion becomes visible.   

What is on display here, however, is not a pleasant sight. Man is short and heavy, and bald; not less then fifty. Even in semi darkness his paunch is prominently visible, starts almost immediately after his man boobs and is visibly testing the strength of the fabric of his maroon coloured silk shirt (Red perhaps, but poor light dulling it to maroon.), of its stitching, and the buttons; one of them will give in shortly if he doesn’t focus back on sucking in his tummy to relieve the shirt of the burden. He is facing me, and his eyes are open and scanning the seating area with a tired expression; as if he is searching something there which he already sure of not finding. He looks terribly bored, someone who has seen passion die long back and has buried it with his own hands. In the passing his eyes meet mine; somehow, and it may be my incorrect perception but what I see in those eyes is a pleading for a rescue. Lady, with her back to me, is little more involved. Her right hand is gently holding left side of his face. And then suddenly it is over. Man goes back to his drink and picks up his mobile, and lady is arranging her ruffled top over her over extended waist line. No pun intended, but I am left with a bad taste in my mouth, and a dreadful feeling. There was nothing aesthetic about last few seconds, and I feel sorry for the man whose fires have extinguished forever, and what makes it sad, yet he is searching for them knowing fully well that they are dead and buried.  Though the thought begins to creep into my head but I cruelly force it out, I don’t want to even imagine living without being able to feel passion. How would it be to live like ash in a hearth without fire!

I have resolved not to look back in their direction again.

I am feeling a little depressed now. The idea of a man being without passion seems to generate much pathos, and has dampen my mood. Passion is the life force. It is the fuel on which all emotions in a human beings are powered. Without passion, love, envy, jealousy, desire, anger, will not be what they are: sensation of feeling alive. Intensity of passion is what tests the designed capacity of five senses for every individual. Capacity for passion is capacity for life. Its rise and fall in the nerves is another form of breathing, and more important than respiration as a symptoms of being alive. As passion intensifies, it radiates in form of a glow, an incandescence, that attracts other living beings towards you. Life charms life, other living beings sense passionless man as good as dead. And, I am depressed for, perhaps, I have just seen a dead man. 

Fortunately for me phone beeps again, it’s her. “ Where are you sitting?” she asks. I turn around, and there she stands at the entry, talking in to her phone to me. Her left profile is visible to me. It’s a fantastic relief, her arrival, and her profile, both. Away from the bulging and bursting in the visual before my eyes a few seconds ago, her profile is delightfully proportional one. My mood is instantly elevated. She stands there erect, and craning her neck to left and right trying to locate me; her silhouette is an extremely benevolent sight, as if semi darkness has condensed to take shape of head, and bust, and limbs, to form a little gentle being. No details are visible, mere proportions, of upper hand to lower, of tiny nose to the head that it sits on, of upper body to lower. All proportions are so perfect that they are forming the soul of the perspective visible to my mind-eye; and then there are curves, smooth stretched curve of the bare lower leg, and of the upper one which snugly ensconced in the skirt, and others; all curves are petite, yet full; like little flowers in full bloom. And I am thinking, its not the colour, or fragrance, or silk of touch, which makes a flower beautiful, it is the bloom. Beauty is not in details but in desire to peak. Bloom is when you hit your limit for capacity for life. Thinking that biggest of human tragedies is that we do not place enough value on blooming, for we trade it for longevity (men linger around for far too long even after they are past their bloom; flowers don’t!) and soaking in her view for few more moments, I rise from my chair to walk up to her to receive her.

To a Coffe Place

Cheers from KM and me, with espresso macchiato solos in our hands....our attendance was equally good at the place, you would agree. I notice that you have captured one of our favourite seats. Those sofa seats, separating the cafe from the alley, were like border between two worlds-one that of inside the cafe, infected with order, more or less still with people wearing the expression of being in a break (from something terrible- a torture perhaps!)-at weary rest-like a puddle; while the world out side in the alley was of continuous flow, a thick stream of people flowing by without origin or end; for me, soon, and always, this flow turned into a homogenous mass with one face indisntinguishable from other, relieving me of burden of details (wherein lies the death and decay) and allowing me to see the world in big picture-like an art work appeals to a layman, like it has been for millions of years- a flow forwards, from no-where to no-where, without reason or purpose. It was a very soothing experience, and I craved for it everyday and missed only rarely my cup of bitterness. And in the process, most likely, victimised KM by dragging him along; he survived ever lost me and terribly bitter coffee (also, served in very small dosage like potent poison) with the help of his mobile that buzzed with the regularity of a heart beat. Of course there were some known faces too in the crowed- like straws trapped in the whirls on the edge of flow, mobile but going nowhere-locals like us, hinged to same peg as we were- who worked as my portal back to reality.

Memory vs Fantasy

In liberating silence of night,
and comfort of all embracing darkness-
when man becomes free from the bounds of his senses
and truth of his being,
my heartbeat takes the rhythm of sound of your name,
and my thoughts dance with memories of our past.

Memories, which are like a amorphous dream now-
only sunshine, fragrance, and sweet sound of your voice;
all sensations as fresh as feelings evoked only a moment ago,
all facts behind them as blurred as a pebble lost in the sea long ago.

You are my most distilled memory:
All sensations, no facts- like a fantasy.

-Pulastya

Time And Love

We, who are alive, are nothing but consciousness with a life span. And, what is consciousness if not ability for love. So, we all are essentially made of combining of two elements of life, love and time; for as long as we are capable of love, we are alive.

These elements of life, together, have another amazing property, they can keep living beyond their passing- through memories. Memories can grant them longitivtiy beyond their physical life; and sometimes even immortality.

Memories, a fragment of time soaked in love, condensed and preserved, give tangibility to the idea of time for individuals, go in to their hearts, and live there long after their creators have left the physical world. For others, who can not feel the love, they are, at best, heartless histories  to be banished to the books.

-Pulastya

Man vs Woman

I am man
I am chaos
I can’t withstand limits,

You are woman
You are order
You are made of limits,

My power is in erasing limits
Yours is in  setting them up,

I rely on strength of my arms
You, on a glance of your eyes,

But, even I need a “meaning in life”,
And for that must surrender to order,
To you!

You  tame me
By having to reach you through barrier of million limits,
For that one kiss of life, I have to conquer a  whole world
Raging inside me.

-Pulastya

Sportsman: the new age warriors

All England badminton, ladies doubles, final score line is 14-21, 14-21. Japanese girls literally walked over Indian pair of Ponnapa and Sikki, without breaking a sweat.  Same with our girls! They are taking it equally cool too. Despite losing badly they are showing all the attitude, the high fives, clinching of fist, that nonchalant walk even after losing the point. Seems like they are well practiced in the ritual, of losing. They, rather than getting perturbed by their inadequacy in the game, are making maximum of their air time to come out as cool girls with attitude. Sometimes difficult to tell whether they are playing this sport professionally with a desire to win, or just for physical fitness.

Though a power to reckon with in singles, we have never been anything in doubles. Going down to better opponents is not something that I can hold against them, but sheer mental surrender and acknowledgment of defeat in advance is unacceptable. Sport persons are true bearer of warrior spirit (sans literal violence), and desire to win is equivalent to the desire of being the last man standing in a real dual. It is that kind of intensity for winning, as if one's life depends on it, that makes a sport worthwhile and sport person a real hero and deserving of all the adulation. Not to put a fight and walk on to the court without a desire to win makes them pretenders, not warriors.

No pretender would have walked in to a real dual for the fear of death. True warriors always walked in to it believing, and giving their best for, victory. It is for this reason, for this grit to fight till last breath, the glory was theirs. And, so, the glory of vanquished too was no less than that of victorious, for his grit to fight till last breath is no less than that of victorious; in fact a little more validated for he actually fell in the battle. But, in sports because a duel doesn't result in death or injury on losing, pretenders have found their place.  

It is strange to see a so called sport person to have a fan following based on her fashion sense ( or looks!) rather  than sporting achievements and exploits on the court.  Well, in the age of mass media sport also needs glamour, and perhaps there are players who see a carrier for themselves in fulfilling this need than actually adding something more to the art of sports. They are fine with being a commercial break in something more serious, a sheep among lions.

These pretenders have reduced the sports to a glamourised display of limited skills; something between movie and sport, more movie less sport. A kistsch of sport closer to cheaper form of performing art, rather than a dual of two warrior spirits using the medium and skills of a sport to give a new hight to human grit for fighting for glory. Money alone (may be fame, in whatever hue it comes) is worthwhile for them, no glory required.  

This phenomenon is, based on the nature of society and male dominance, currently prevalent in ladies sports; and specially in those which are less developed and not much talent goes in to them pushing the mediocrity out.

-Pulastya

Women’s Day

Children’s day might be a good idea. A day of awareness about the well being of children. To sensitise grownups segment of the society of its duty towards children. Such a day is the acknowledgment of the fact that children are dependent on grownups, an abnormal dependence, and grownups need to take quality care of them. Society is picking a day to highlight this biological responsibility, and to emphasise on the quality of discharging of this responsibility. Here patronising is essential part of the idea and natural to the whole process. Through inculcating a sense of patronising society ties its member to the duty towards children - strengthening a biological obligation with a frame of moral obligation.

But, are we celebrating women’s in day the same vein?  Is there an abnormal dependence of women which needs society (specially male segment of it) to patronise them! Well, looking at the condition of women in society like ours, in general, may be society need to patronise them. But, if that is so, then from the angle of gender equality, by being a part of this celebration women are acknowledging the weakness and being unequal. Because, those who are equal do not need patronising. This patronising tone of celebration of days like women’s day create a firm doubt that such days are nothing more than society’s guilty conscience’s feeble attempt at reducing its guilt by loud display of a notional concession.    

-Pulastya

Symmetry...

Symmetry, is living in limitation of structure. Deviation from symmetry is not distortion, but is higher dimension of beauty-an element of the whole rebels against the existing order because it wants its own identity. That is something beautiful in spirit as well, considering that it has to stand against rest of the whole..!

-Pulastya

Passion- Birth and death, foretold, of ecstasy

He was reading to her out loud. Something about ‘love’, ‘beauty’. Something that meant that “love” and “beauty” are but one.

They set on a couch by a half open window, overlooking freshly washed verdant valley. It was raining outside. Rain splattered the window pane like nature’s orchestra reduced to accompaniment playing only one basic sound, in the most ancient tempo, to augment in this instant the playing again of the first melody ever carried by a human voice, when it resonated the very first time with the sound of words that meant “love” and “beauty”. A repeat of the magical moment when music was born, to human ears. Or so it seemed to her, for that moment is once repeated in every human’s life, the moment when she learnt the difference between rhythmic sound and music.

Music is a sound that doesn’t just die down in the brain, but reaches the human soul and resonates there long after the sound outside has died down, unlocking the higher meaning of consciousness, and also revealing music’s own independence from the fetters of rhythm.

The rain drops falling on the sill of the open part of the window were atomised in to soft spray and rode the air in the room making it cool, and soothing. In that instant she lost all sense of her body; body reduced (or elevated!) to symphony of pleasurable sensations. A moment when physical existence surrenders its limits to divine, a moment when love takes over completely and turns whole body into a single nerve responsive to only joy.  And in that one instant, she was totally unaware of herself. She was in an amorphous world, where all things had lost their distinction and merged in to a continuum with cause and effect not being separate anymore. World made of cool gentle mist which allowed only her own idea of beauty to be visible, as if love had made a choice and everything else simply disappeared as irrelevant in the mist.  

Then, 'herself’ took over her again. She again became aware of herself sitting close to him. So close that she could feel the sweetness of his body heat in the mild chill of the room. She could hear the sound of his heart beat, though in all likelihood it was her own heart beating down her ribs intent on bursting out of her body in shear elation.

He kept reading to her out loud. But, she did not hear anything anymore; lost in the safe world of his tender proximity. She only could see his lips moving which felt like they were quivering. She looked at him intently, with all her senses totally mobilised to observe him- at the peak of sensuality. Then, she suddenly realised that the sweet heat that made her shimmer was not his, but her own, emitting from her eyes, from her cheeks, ear lobs, palms, and thighs. She was burning, approaching melting point. A complete liquidation of her being was in sight. She welcomed it with open arms. And, last thought in her head, that she would remember afterwards, was this intense desire to kiss him; which she did. And, set both of them ablaze.

-Pulastya