Still Breathing...

In a casual conversation with a friend, I broached the topic of creative writing- about how well people can write, how much people can go on writing, why people write when they are most affected, so on and so forth. People write when they need to vent, we said, and then it struck me- I hadn’t written in a bloody long time. This could be because of only two reasons (being busy hardly counts): (a) no time to feel, (b) no time to vent. I can’t decide which of the two is more dangerous, but yeah, they’re here. If you say I should choose the better of the two evils, I need the time to; that’s too precious to afford. 

So what if I don’t say “I miss you” or sigh “Ah, those were the days” anymore? So what if I can’t post on my blog? I’m still alive. Sorry, still breathing.

Taunting Violins

I never expected those violins to ever play, ever. But then they soon came strumming (?), and how! 
*Blinding light* 
It’s the hardest thing to let happen, it’s the hardest thing to rejoice about- you know, the possibility of these violin moments? It’s the hardest thing. Period. Whatever was I thinking? But wait, the tunes are perfect- those synchronised melancholic beats… yes, the same ‘dejection pitch’, that one. 
*Points* 
Familiarity is, at a certain level, an amazing thing. This time, the melancholy was the only thing that was familiar. Exactly that one! Strangely, something else had crept in now- perhaps more violins. 
*Innocent shrug* 
Like those concerts, blaring away in full volume? Insensitive, uncaring, loud. Playing the loveliest music I had heard in a while. I sat there listening, wondering, smiling, wiping off tears. 

*Melody*

What was I thinking, anyway? This time I wasn’t. Who even thinks while being carried away like that? While being sucked into some sort of a musical tornado? Violin moment one, moment two, moment three… Aargh, they still taunt. Then they become familiar again…

The Folklore

It is only when you witness the beauty of the countryside will you know how fortunate you turned out to be- to be a part of it all. The train and its inertia of motion, amazingly picturesque scenes, customary light- blue skies and lush-green landscapes, really tall trees growing amidst vast landmasses. .. one church here on a hilltop, another herd of sheep there- all contrasting with the mild shades through the journey.The soothing green instilling an unknown calm, the frequent tunnels volunteering to assist in breaking the monotony of the landscape, the huts with their sloping rooftops spread out in diligent patterns... A visual treat indeed! And all this bundled into a folklore of the country-side? Perhaps.

Such visual appeal is of course not rare- several such beauties back home have been seen, loved, cherished. But what makes this tour special is the tinge of newness attached to the stories narrated. Each set of homes on the landscapes unfolding strangely familiar memories, each landscape continuing the same stories as did those back home, each pathway seen from the train leading you to perhaps a new home...

Seldom does it happen that scenic beauty draws closer stories of people forgotten and unforgotten and weave along the same storyline. The stories grow longer and better each time. And fonder. Travelling seems to add a new page to these each time, putting an end to the ending of a "and they lived happily ever after".

Calling it a Day

I sat and stared into space, somewhere far away- viewing a site where there was neither monotony nor impossible love, in fact their rivals were all seated in perfection. Happy stories always make it easier to conclude that some scenes are dreams. How quickly it had all happened- the knocking on the door, opening to wilderness, some harsh breeze shutting it abruptly, the sound of the key turning in the key-hole, the discomfort in the confines… 


As absurd as it can get, internal decibels died within the walls but a faint call from the space was beginning to get clearer. Was it a wrapping in a philanthropic quilt? Or the sound of little children guffawing? May be the pride in one’s eyes? I dismissed it to be just a tight calendar. Keeping it all busy was essential indeed- a complete justification for dreams about world awesomeness and never-failing love stories. It’s not been easy, but when has it ever been? A larger purpose is always hidden- a pat on the back, a voice overwhelming with pride for you, perhaps a drive to dream big.

Opening Doors to Exoticism

I 

The air was panic-stricken- people hurrying directionless routes, immense chaos, trees burning down, agonised cries piercing the air, weapon-clicks in the background, fearful shrieks, every face smeared with mud and sweat, devoid of colour. I looked around in terror at the gory sight that surrounded me- shock, anxiety, fear, restlessness, all bottled up deep down, making it hard for me to breathe. I frantically searched for a drink but all the water had evaporated because of the cruel heat... while life was draining out gradually and I fell to the ground, suddenly the sun was eclipsed by a figure pouring soothing water. I grabbed the jar and the hand and dragged myself on a path, far, far away, where lay… a Door. I walked into nothingness. 

II 

The mahal was magnificent, made of glass with each corner lighting up when the sun rays fell obliquely at the surface… there was something unexplainably beautiful about the mirrors and the orifices that rhythmically alternated the pillars. I wandered around, watching the mahal in awe… it was a beauty of a sight! Walking in the light-and-shade effects of the insides was strangely comforting, but so full of glass that each step instilled a gash, and the tour through the mahal went on till the wounds numbed me- the beauty was intoxicating and so was the pain… I basked in both and finally collapsed when my strength slowly depleted. The next thing I felt was my wounds being nursed… just as a Door fell in sight. It led me to clear space. 

III 

In those crowded market-places where people fight for most fond things, in eateries where favourite food is siphoned off, in movies which deal with heartbreak, in maps which do not show paths travelled… when tears fight their way out, through days of feeling selfish or let down, during introspective times, the Door was in sight. A plain, wooden door to sooth every ill-feeling, to iron creases of unease, to nullify negativity. How it had reached there, how it had miraculously erased melancholy, how it had instilled peace since the very first time, I marvelled at. Passing through the Door to its hospitable nothingness, felt increasingly sensational every time. The path to the unfamiliar exterior, felt even more desired.

That Resonating Energy

I had not paid utmost attention to Shah Rukh’s “Kuch khaas aawazon se dil ni dhadkanein tez ho jati hai” till some days ago, when I was given a sound reason. Some sounds do remain special. Each time they repeat themselves, they generate that shiver within, with even more resonating rigour. The only way to understand this, is to feel it. The last time I heard the clank of the Natuvangam was during my dance classes, more than half a decade ago. It had held less (or no) significance then. The only thing I remember of its existence as a kid was its series of high decibel levels- some of us kids found it annoying, the others found it amusing; both these reactions were merged when the class plunged into chaos for the nth time. I was a kid then. 
But a few days ago, when I happened to hear the same clank during some bhajan, it rang in my ear for a long time. And how! It seemed to silence every other noise and silence alike, both within and outside. The resonance with which it struck was magnificent; the effect it had, reverberating. As it rang in my ears, it seemed to nullify scepticism with every step I took. As I walked away from its source, its effect was still in action... till there was a strange peace in mind, while the silence was silenced. 

The Natuvangam is a very powerful instrument- it can compel anybody, can motivate anyone… can resonate energy. There has always been a rationale behind using it in dance- to stimulate thought into expressions and to coerce rhythm into movements. How else would just the clank of the Natuvangam evoke the Nritta in the dancer, giving birth to the energised spirited element in her? I still wonder.

A Passionate Visionary

It was a really, really long time ago when it took a lot for me to emote openly- the emotions were always there, tucked away in some corner of of my mind and too shy to show themselves up, sometimes even to me. But such a transition has come about, or rather emotions nowadays have become so overwhelming, that they have begun to flow- so eloquently that they amaze me. The result is, fortunately or unfortunately, a frequent set of actions which reveal the most inner folds of your earlier profound self to the outside. 

Last night, I happened to read about a success story, of a teenager who had fought against all odds that generally keep people tied up and prevent them from achieving great things, to make himself eligible for a law degree from the prestigious set of law schools in the country. Being from a low-income strata of the society and the only earning member of his family, this boy from a small town in Andhra Pradesh had braved all obstacles to achieve his dream. The fact that he was completely visually challenged did not keep his spirits from soaring- SO high that none of those social evils or cruel handicaps or merciless obstacles could imagine that the boy would come out of all this with flying colours! Such proud parents the boy would have, such admirers all over the country he had created... such a motivating precedent the boy had managed to set. 

Having finished his first trimester in law school, he had written a letter to the team of dedicated volunteers who had assisted him in the process, informing them how well he was managing everything, just on his own. On his own! He must have felt a flutter of a thousand birds fly in his heart... that freedom, that joy. It was a simple note, a tin one... but brimming with so much optimism and passion. Just enough to motivate. It was also humbling that I was involved in one such venture of making dreams come true, and I sighed instinctively. Just as I finished reading, tears were rolling down my cheeks and I was sobbing like a child. Everything that I thought I had achieved seemed like nothingness before such passion to achieve more and more. 

And now, all my dreams about career, academics and future plans had just taken a fresh diversion, seeming to indicate to me as to what exactly I wanted to do. There could be nothing more noble and satisfying than being associated with such visionaries, who would be a constant source of learning.  It was still vague in my head, but I was confident about giving it a form soon, I was sufficiently inspired. And when I shut my eyes after a tiring day, I did so in anticipation of that satisfying idea I had started to build in my head.