I have just been re-reading Vikram Seth's 'An Equal Music' for the third or fourth, or possibly even fifth time. I haven't attempted to read any of his other works, but this novel of his, I truly love. It was a gift from a dear friend of mine, probably chosen because I am a musician and hence less likely to skim over the descriptive passages as people so often do.
I am all for re-reading books. The very first time I take up a book, I'm too greedy to savor it. I just want to gobble up passages whole, devour the chapters that hold me back from getting to the all important closure. I cannot, for the life of me, read simply to relax. My moods are always determined by the novel or novels I'm reading at the time. Woe is suggestible me!
But then again, isn't a work of creation supposed to 'affect' one? Are we not allowed to stop and think and question? To me at least, any work of art that doesn't somehow 'affect', is a failure, because it has failed to move, to elicit an emotional response.
This novel, in particular, might be titled 'An Equal music', but truly, it revolves around an unequal love. One must be an artist to fully appreciate the sentiments involved, because it's true, artists fall in love differently from the rest of the world. I'm not talking about 'entertainers' like Madonna, or the film stars of our generation. I mean, quite specifically, serious musicians, creators of art, people who are immensely moved by beauty.
When I was a moody teenager, I'd been forced to accompany my mother to some store, and I was looking around aimlessly(something I still do), when an elderly gentlemen came up to me and inquired as to whether I was an artist of some sort. Startled, I didn't know what to say to him, because at the tender age of 13, I still hadn't figured out that the arts were in fact my true calling. My mother, as always, butted in to the rescue. She gushed on about how I played the piano and was a very talented singer who did a lot of stage shows and sang with a few choirs, while I stood by, too embarrassed to even look the gentleman in the eye. When I finally worked up the courage to face him, he was smiling, a very knowing smile, and said he thought as much, because I had an artistic temperament.
The rest of the day passed in a sort of glorious haze. I felt so privileged to have been singled out as one who possessed an 'artistic temperament'. I wasn't exactly sure what it meant, but oh, it sounded so exotic! The next day at school, I caught up with my English teacher (I was always a favorite of my English teachers, so I got away with such things) and told her the story of the gentleman who had decreed that I had an artistic temperament. I then asked her to elaborate, fully prepared for a truckload of wonderful adjectives. Instead she smiled at me, the same knowing smile, and explained an artistic temperament as being prone to bouts of moodiness, periods of brooding and depression, in short, just being a temperamental and volatile person.
To say that I was disappointed would be putting it too mildly, and like any other thirteen year old, I brooded over the judgement passed until time took its course, as with all else.
Many years have passed since then, and I can now smile at how stupid and gullible I was at the time. But that old gentleman was amazingly accurate in his prediction. Whether I like it or not, I have been bestowed with an artistic temperament. Yes, it makes life terribly difficult for me and the people I love. But it's also what brings out the sensitivity in a person, the quality most essential to any artist, and it is that quality that aids one in creation.
Anyone who wants to know what goes on in the minds of artists should read 'An Equal Music'. Like any memorable love story, the romance is twisted and contorted and of course, unrequited. But the fact that this love story is set against the rich tapestry of classical music is where its allure lies, at least for me.
I've probably waxed far too eloquent already. No, I don't get a commission for every copy that gets sold. Its just a very fine example of Indian English writing, and I love it and so I'm telling the whole world about it.
End of story.
Wednesday, September 30, 2009
Saturday, September 26, 2009
Of kollu and kids that refuse to grow up
The past week has been one of 'kollus' and not much else. Not that I'm complaining. I, like the rest of the population, enjoy an evening of dressing up, cooing at doll displays and partaking of some yum traditional food.
In fact, it's so much fun, I wonder that we don't do it more often. As little girls, we hosted tea parties, clinking our empty, down-sized cups and saucers, and toasting to the long lives of our lifeless playmates and imaginary friends. And then of course, adulthood comes and bites us in the ass and life just stops being as enjoyable.
I read somewhere that adults should learn to curtail the 'child' within, or the world would be over-populated with obstinate, tantrum-throwing individuals, all wanting their own way, and not being able to hide behind the excuse of being an adorable little thing. And I thought to myself, this article has come a bit late. Most of the 'privileged' adults already behave in exactly that fashion. They have it all- looks, money, and the gift of being able to charm the whole world. It's almost as if they're mocking all the people who try to live good and honest and never seem to reap the benefits of either.
As for me, I don't know if it's possible to strike a balance between being as innocent as a child while having the good judgement and maturity of an adult. I've never come across anyone who's managed to pull it off. And let's face it, more often than not, we think typical adults are BORING. We'd rather hang out with impetuous, impulsive people who're wrong about things more often than they're right.
Looking back, I see that I've made a rather grand deviation from kollu. But it's a sunday morning, and I demand to be excused for any deviations or allegations I may have made in the course of this blog post. Besides, my concentration has all but evaporated and all I can think about is the delectable dosa I had last night at the kollu...ummm, 4 dosas actually. Blame it on the appetite of the child within!
In fact, it's so much fun, I wonder that we don't do it more often. As little girls, we hosted tea parties, clinking our empty, down-sized cups and saucers, and toasting to the long lives of our lifeless playmates and imaginary friends. And then of course, adulthood comes and bites us in the ass and life just stops being as enjoyable.
I read somewhere that adults should learn to curtail the 'child' within, or the world would be over-populated with obstinate, tantrum-throwing individuals, all wanting their own way, and not being able to hide behind the excuse of being an adorable little thing. And I thought to myself, this article has come a bit late. Most of the 'privileged' adults already behave in exactly that fashion. They have it all- looks, money, and the gift of being able to charm the whole world. It's almost as if they're mocking all the people who try to live good and honest and never seem to reap the benefits of either.
As for me, I don't know if it's possible to strike a balance between being as innocent as a child while having the good judgement and maturity of an adult. I've never come across anyone who's managed to pull it off. And let's face it, more often than not, we think typical adults are BORING. We'd rather hang out with impetuous, impulsive people who're wrong about things more often than they're right.
Looking back, I see that I've made a rather grand deviation from kollu. But it's a sunday morning, and I demand to be excused for any deviations or allegations I may have made in the course of this blog post. Besides, my concentration has all but evaporated and all I can think about is the delectable dosa I had last night at the kollu...ummm, 4 dosas actually. Blame it on the appetite of the child within!
Tuesday, September 22, 2009
I look for God in quiet places
I spent the weekend with God.
Alright, I suppose that's a bit presumptuous of me. God is everywhere, right? And then again, what kind of proof do I have that GOD chose to spend the weekend with ME?
The simple fact is that my family decided it was time to go on a little pilgrimage, and I happened to trudge along. Though, to be fair, it was I who planted the idea in their minds. But that's just what I do- throw a wild card in their muddled midst, and then stand back and observe from a safe distance, as if I were watching tear gas envelope a mob.
The church of Velankanni, near Nagapattinam, is considered to be among the holiest shrines of Mary, Mother of God, well, actually, Mother of Jesus. So that's where we went. Velankanni constitutes a huge chunk of my childhood memories and associations, because that trip was the closest thing to a family vacation we had all those years, and even now. I remember every single thing- the beach, the walk to Our Lady's tank, the many colored rosaries I used to fall in love with and beg my mother to buy, the shops selling candles, garlands, little kids not much older than me at the time selling stickers of the divine Lady, and of course, the church.
I have to admit, that church is something special. Entirely white, it rises out of the otherwise drab and dreary landscape, spiraling toward heaven. It demands that anyone in the vicinity must stop and gaze, at least in awe, if not in devotion. I loved to gaze upon it at the unearthly hour that I used to be woken up in order to be in time for the first mass at 5 30 a.m. With eyes full of sleep, I'd walk alongside my father, a leftover chill hanging about the air, and always, my first glimpse of the church against a patch of open sky was the thing that shook me completely out of slumber.
But that was as a child. I grew up, and turned into someone who didn't feel particularly spiritual in the presence of hordes of people, praying rather fanatically. I hate to say it, but the truth was, for a lot of people around me, religion was more of a social obligation than an actual connection with God. And I couldn't do that. So I looked for God elsewhere. I looked for God in quiet places.
Still, I took the plunge this year, because I desperately wanted to feel something, any kind of connection with God at all. The crowds suffocated me, still, I bore it. I watched as my parents knelt down and prayed. It was the most sincere I've ever seen them. I watched my grandmother with tears in her eyes, and I had to look away, to wonder at my own inability to feel.
And just when I began to wonder if this was a wasted effort, it was 5 30 a.m. all over again. And as always, I had to stop and stare. Of course, there were loud speakers blaring prayers and all around me, people were getting off overnight buses, drinking scalding hot cups of coffee on the roadside and hurrying toward the church, the sea sand managed to wriggle its way into the insides of my toes, I had to keep my kurta from flapping around and pulling a Monroe on me.
But just for a moment, all those distractions ceased to exist. The sky, still dark everywhere else, was magically open just above the church spire. There were no bells clanging yet, so they hung still in the distance. And the church itself, the focal point of the masses milling around, its huge compound gates thrown wide open to anyone who cared to enter. Anyone at all, who wanted to say to God, 'hear me out please'.
And so I entered those gates. In that moment of quiet, I decided to go looking for God.
Alright, I suppose that's a bit presumptuous of me. God is everywhere, right? And then again, what kind of proof do I have that GOD chose to spend the weekend with ME?
The simple fact is that my family decided it was time to go on a little pilgrimage, and I happened to trudge along. Though, to be fair, it was I who planted the idea in their minds. But that's just what I do- throw a wild card in their muddled midst, and then stand back and observe from a safe distance, as if I were watching tear gas envelope a mob.
The church of Velankanni, near Nagapattinam, is considered to be among the holiest shrines of Mary, Mother of God, well, actually, Mother of Jesus. So that's where we went. Velankanni constitutes a huge chunk of my childhood memories and associations, because that trip was the closest thing to a family vacation we had all those years, and even now. I remember every single thing- the beach, the walk to Our Lady's tank, the many colored rosaries I used to fall in love with and beg my mother to buy, the shops selling candles, garlands, little kids not much older than me at the time selling stickers of the divine Lady, and of course, the church.
I have to admit, that church is something special. Entirely white, it rises out of the otherwise drab and dreary landscape, spiraling toward heaven. It demands that anyone in the vicinity must stop and gaze, at least in awe, if not in devotion. I loved to gaze upon it at the unearthly hour that I used to be woken up in order to be in time for the first mass at 5 30 a.m. With eyes full of sleep, I'd walk alongside my father, a leftover chill hanging about the air, and always, my first glimpse of the church against a patch of open sky was the thing that shook me completely out of slumber.
But that was as a child. I grew up, and turned into someone who didn't feel particularly spiritual in the presence of hordes of people, praying rather fanatically. I hate to say it, but the truth was, for a lot of people around me, religion was more of a social obligation than an actual connection with God. And I couldn't do that. So I looked for God elsewhere. I looked for God in quiet places.
Still, I took the plunge this year, because I desperately wanted to feel something, any kind of connection with God at all. The crowds suffocated me, still, I bore it. I watched as my parents knelt down and prayed. It was the most sincere I've ever seen them. I watched my grandmother with tears in her eyes, and I had to look away, to wonder at my own inability to feel.
And just when I began to wonder if this was a wasted effort, it was 5 30 a.m. all over again. And as always, I had to stop and stare. Of course, there were loud speakers blaring prayers and all around me, people were getting off overnight buses, drinking scalding hot cups of coffee on the roadside and hurrying toward the church, the sea sand managed to wriggle its way into the insides of my toes, I had to keep my kurta from flapping around and pulling a Monroe on me.
But just for a moment, all those distractions ceased to exist. The sky, still dark everywhere else, was magically open just above the church spire. There were no bells clanging yet, so they hung still in the distance. And the church itself, the focal point of the masses milling around, its huge compound gates thrown wide open to anyone who cared to enter. Anyone at all, who wanted to say to God, 'hear me out please'.
And so I entered those gates. In that moment of quiet, I decided to go looking for God.
Monday, September 14, 2009
YOU
This is what I think of when I miss you
Marbles, with specks of gold, and always
A white flower just off the middle
Milk too sweet, but hot enough
That I have to slurp it up
A place I've never been to
A song I've never heard
But they tug at my heart anyway
This could get sentimental
And you do hate a show
I'm afraid I might not make it
To the next verse, when tricks
And old bones make a garland
Of my memories, mostly of you
And the garden hose comes flying out
On a whim, just to drench me
This is what I'm afraid of when you're invisible
Blankets, and white shirts, too starched
Phoney ghosts and starless nights
The tip of the threshold I trip over
Shapes that you used to be, dancing over me
Water, gurgling, and the hum of refrigerators
Everything still, and everything alive
Wispy curtains and whiter clouds
And the smell of darkness
Marbles, with specks of gold, and always
A white flower just off the middle
Milk too sweet, but hot enough
That I have to slurp it up
A place I've never been to
A song I've never heard
But they tug at my heart anyway
This could get sentimental
And you do hate a show
I'm afraid I might not make it
To the next verse, when tricks
And old bones make a garland
Of my memories, mostly of you
And the garden hose comes flying out
On a whim, just to drench me
This is what I'm afraid of when you're invisible
Blankets, and white shirts, too starched
Phoney ghosts and starless nights
The tip of the threshold I trip over
Shapes that you used to be, dancing over me
Water, gurgling, and the hum of refrigerators
Everything still, and everything alive
Wispy curtains and whiter clouds
And the smell of darkness
Sunday, September 13, 2009
Ode to pilgrim
The floor is crawling with my demons
And the shadows are like chalk-print
On the doors
I know my feet make no sound
Yet I gasp and stumble
At the threshold of fear
There ought to be lamps, lit
And quivering,
With their shaky promise of deliverance
I sleep with a dream-catcher
Over my head, Maman
But it is not you
The air is aching with tenderness, soured
It seems such a waste
To grieve
But who are we then?
Who shrink from ghosts
And people, alike
We do not know the beginning
Of our own names
And it is not fair
To place the burden of blame
On the quiet one who hates
To cry in the dark
And the shadows are like chalk-print
On the doors
I know my feet make no sound
Yet I gasp and stumble
At the threshold of fear
There ought to be lamps, lit
And quivering,
With their shaky promise of deliverance
I sleep with a dream-catcher
Over my head, Maman
But it is not you
The air is aching with tenderness, soured
It seems such a waste
To grieve
But who are we then?
Who shrink from ghosts
And people, alike
We do not know the beginning
Of our own names
And it is not fair
To place the burden of blame
On the quiet one who hates
To cry in the dark
Thursday, September 10, 2009
One flu over this nest as well
I've had a traumatic week of sniffles and non-stop coughathons. It wasn't a pretty sight, good god no.
Of course, I had to explain to all and sundry that it was just the flu and not THE flu. After a point, it got to be quite exasperating. I mean, they should've figured it out themselves- no one, absolutely no one, is going to be taking phone calls while simultaneously entertaining a near-death situation.
But that's just how we are, aren't we? We love to get into a tizzy about some new fiasco or threat of impending doom, while the real demons work their doomsday voodoo on us every single day, and we're either too stupid or slovenly to wake up and smell the goddamn coffee.
As much fun as it's bound to be, making up this 'FOR REAL- DEMONS AT LARGE' list, I shall pass, mostly because I've still got the flu hangover and incessant bouts of coughing and blowing my nose in order to regain my fundamental right to breathe has put me in a rather foul mood.
But oh well, I'm not one to start something and get no where with it. Lets take, for example, the issue of drainage. Unlike the charming ditty in 'My fair Lady', the rain over here falls mainly in the drain. Every year, we pray for the rains to come, and when they do, we pray even harder for them to stop. That's got to be confusing for you-know-who up there. And yet, precious little is done about it. Every year, at least one little boy loses his life to an open man-hole, and countless others get electrocuted while walking to work, or school or just to the grocery store around the corner to pick up whatever water-logged vegetables are available for the evening meal. But hey, as long as it's not contagious, right?
Of course, my sympathies go out to all those who succumbed to the fatal flu. They probably didn't even know they had it until it was too late. And the rest of us can breathe a sigh of relief, at least until the next monster rears its ugly head.
As for me, sometime in the vicinity of 3 a.m. I shall be forced to grope in the dark for my trusty old friend Vicks Vaporub, and upon finding it, I shall sniff and snort its oh-so-heavenly-goodness like a coke addict until the waves of menthol carry me over safely to the dawn.
Of course, I had to explain to all and sundry that it was just the flu and not THE flu. After a point, it got to be quite exasperating. I mean, they should've figured it out themselves- no one, absolutely no one, is going to be taking phone calls while simultaneously entertaining a near-death situation.
But that's just how we are, aren't we? We love to get into a tizzy about some new fiasco or threat of impending doom, while the real demons work their doomsday voodoo on us every single day, and we're either too stupid or slovenly to wake up and smell the goddamn coffee.
As much fun as it's bound to be, making up this 'FOR REAL- DEMONS AT LARGE' list, I shall pass, mostly because I've still got the flu hangover and incessant bouts of coughing and blowing my nose in order to regain my fundamental right to breathe has put me in a rather foul mood.
But oh well, I'm not one to start something and get no where with it. Lets take, for example, the issue of drainage. Unlike the charming ditty in 'My fair Lady', the rain over here falls mainly in the drain. Every year, we pray for the rains to come, and when they do, we pray even harder for them to stop. That's got to be confusing for you-know-who up there. And yet, precious little is done about it. Every year, at least one little boy loses his life to an open man-hole, and countless others get electrocuted while walking to work, or school or just to the grocery store around the corner to pick up whatever water-logged vegetables are available for the evening meal. But hey, as long as it's not contagious, right?
Of course, my sympathies go out to all those who succumbed to the fatal flu. They probably didn't even know they had it until it was too late. And the rest of us can breathe a sigh of relief, at least until the next monster rears its ugly head.
As for me, sometime in the vicinity of 3 a.m. I shall be forced to grope in the dark for my trusty old friend Vicks Vaporub, and upon finding it, I shall sniff and snort its oh-so-heavenly-goodness like a coke addict until the waves of menthol carry me over safely to the dawn.
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