A WET MAHALAYA

Today is Mahalaya. The day when the mother goddess Durga descends on earth.

This time I was already left untouched by the aura of the pujas. But the soggy and wet beginning marred the spirit which I thought the early hours chanting of :

"Yaa Devi Sarva Bhooteshu

Nidraa Roopena Samsthita

Namastasai Namastasai Namastasyai Namo Namaha..."

would liven.

Its still raining. It's 8.33am (IST).

May be it was Her plan.

For most of the believers, a stroll in the Mahalaya morning ushers in the wellness of the succeeding pujas. This time the start has been such drippy as if the sunny side will never rise.

May be it signifies the rejuvenation of the inner numbness.

May the rains wash away all the lifeless remains in the air starting from the Mahalaya day itself...

The Storm is Over

Yes.
No one was even able to guess but the storm had come and already gone.
Few days and nights of incessant disturbances have finally made me realize the utter futility of certain overpowering emotions. It has made me see the reality (and it bites).
The mirage always eludes us and we are befooled.

We dream of something else but get back the ashes of something else.
Our desires at the start make us see so much hallucinations as if we’re on a high.
And life makes you fall with a THUD.
You falter, you fall down, you come to terms with the truth of life.
But the biggest discovery is still – “Life doesn’t wait. It moves on (and these days, with the speed of light)."
You don’t even get time to muse over the burnt ashes. It flies off.
Some people stay confused at the crossroads, while some move on.
We have to, otherwise who will live this life- this is the only one we have.

Sometime I go over my own writings and wonder at the stupid philosophy that reigns over it. I wonder who will care to know about the bleak outlook of a certain nobody. Depressing writings will never move anyone to read them over again. But I repeat the mistake. Old habits die hard.

But I’m compelled to write because it helps in giving ventilation to all this rotten spirit. I feel alive releasing the dreary part of me.

You read about blasts in the newspaper. See all the ugliness in the T.V channels,
While there are volcanoes erupting inside your heart whose walls are again full of hieroglyphics that you fail to decipher.
Strange, sublime emotions make you take a serious turn in the emotional spectrum- you are bruised, you abuse, you make do.
And desperately find ways to let go of that imprisoned soul inside you.
That dark shadow that knots your heart and suffocate you and make your heart scream for more oxygen.

But in the world outside:
You see kids smiling at you without any reason,
You find butterfly roaming freely with all independence,
You find strangers being nice to you (they are not required to),
You discover a forgotten raindrop glistening in the morning sun.

Things fall back in place
And all the grey areas get lighted.

You are free again because the storm is over.

A Shoot, the Bower and the Fever

A week back we started shooting our news story. The heat was at its overpowering best. We are a group of three. This being our first tryst with the camera, we were delighted like anything. (Amateurs!!) During our research we had already talked to most of the clay artisans – Satyaban Da, Rakesh Da, they were supposed to give our SOTs. Unfortunately that day both of them were in the town (Silcoorie is a village). So there was no way of getting the sound bites. In the stroke of afternoon, with the blaring sun overhead, it was exasperating. One who has never been exposed to this amount of heat in this part of the country will not be able to realize the brutal truth of the statement. It was hot as hell. To make matters worse, in the rush we forgot to take shelter of our umbrellas. Out of thirst, we took resort to chilled cold drinks. A 7up was like blessing in that scorching heat.
That day’s shooting being over, we were looking for a place to plan and chat. We moved in a clearing nearby- a perfect bower- sheltered by the trees, numerous magpies pecking at the twigs, the coo cooing of the birds and that cool breeze. For sometime we forgot everything and got ourselves immersed in the mood. The afternoon thus passed by. Ultimately reality checked in, we had to go home. The sumo had to be availed. So, we got on with all the good thoughts, thinking about the type of shots we will be taking, the PTC we will be using and what not. I just then realized that my skin was burning. I could feel that something was wrong with me.

Before night descended I was in a terrible state. My nose was dripping, I looked dreadful and my forehead was red hot.

It was so embarrassing to think that I took to my bed after my first shoot ever. I had miles to go. How could I even let myself be down with the first step??

I was confined to the bed the next day. Thus I lost one day of shoot. The camera was lying dormant, so unuseful.
I don’t know if this was a good sign. But I definitely hope that this was the last. But one can never be sure of anything in this unpredictability called life, can we??

A Home Without an Address

I don’t know what to believe in and what not to. I’m very intuitive but at times I do have to let go of my instincts and listen to something/someone else inside me. It does not have a name. Lets name it the black heart, that part of our heart is the home for all the negative thoughts to, the part which blocks all the wonderful, vivid thoughts to get in, the part which thinks more than it is required to. The part that stops us from taking steps that could lead us somewhere bleak, someplace where we might be made to cry out of heart brokenness. I do not know if I’m doing the right thing but I know there is this indecisiveness which is not letting me to take the step I would have taken otherwise. I feel like a traveler without a pass. No one can even help me out. This is the sort of problem I’m into. I cannot even let this feeling get dispersed out in the open. It has a secret hiding place, a burrow where it is dug deep into the earth. No one can bring it up but it is there, it will always be. This divine feeling can never escape its prison. It is well fed by the heart. So it is drying up fast. It is twisting in profound pain. It is hurt. It is suffering but it cannot show. It has to be tough. God only knows when it will be freed. It seems it is waiting for the green signal but it is nowhere. I’m informed there will be one but it never arrives I stand waiting but it never comes. Just lost fragments of something concrete flies with the petrified air making me choke, at the same time I remain mum. Meanwhile, the grasses grow. The flowers and the bees and the birds continue their conversations. The sky remains blue, then turns yellow and ends being red. A new day arrives along with it brings new hopes and dreams. No, not for me anymore. My patience is wearing out. I’m getting tired. Just like the rains here. They keep on assaulting the green sheen and the muddy drains. They rule the days and nights for some time but then they too get tired. They ultimately lose the battle and then give way to the other seasons. With a promise to return next winter, summer with the same old ravages and storms. But I am not in a position to promise a comeback. The heart will ultimately become a grave what with all the hidden remains.
A home without an address – that is all there is.

THE DIVINE CREATION

The clay artisans always occupied a place of pride in my eyes. To me they are the best examples of passion at work. I don’t know about other cultures but we being idol worshippers should never ignore or forget about those countless unknown artists who dedicate almost their entire life in carving and moulding and giving life to clay and hay. We take them for granted though. The pujas or more precisely the Durga pujas and its festivities are just a month away. This is the peak season for all those unrewarded artists, the best days of the year. It’s the time when they immerse themselves in the chase of the light that would help them in giving that magic touch to the lifeless earth. I am not that much of a believer (if ones care to know) but the moment I look at one of the many idols with their piercing eyes that almost your mind, you cannot let go of the feeling that there is a void, a certain mystery that we can never cross, no matter what. These idol makers have thus become the subject of my news story this term. Few days back I got the chance to talk to them about their work and ambition, what drives them, what makes them keep alive this tradition what makes them stick to this profession -their future, their dreams.
And it was sort of a revelation to discover that they were doing a work that almost did not pay them. A work bereft of any profit, a work done with so much of zeal and passion but one that left one penniless at the end of the day. This was the bleak truth; far away from the romanticism that I always associated with them. It opened my eyes to one more harsh reality of life. No one is completely happy. No one is. I am talking here about the clay artisans in the Silcoorie tea estate. Compared to other artisans in the district, the ones in these parts are poorer. So, particularly for them this is a risky business. When we asked them about their choice they said they never thought of an alternative job. Moulding clay and hay to life was all they knew and nothing else. Right in front of our eyes we saw individuals from two generation dirtying their hands and giving shape to the mute, and otherwise unresponsive clay.
Watching them work at such close counters made them even more esteemed. It seems they are transported to a world of their own when they are working – a world inhabited only by their imagination and the clay at hand; a world where we ordinary mortals can never be able to tread. We are not privileged enough.
At the end of the day though reality bites. They too are human after all. The clay artisans had their own pent up anger and frustration. Passion always cannot rule the rooster. They too realize their worthlessness and maltreatment when they see that their work (which might equal to that of a outside artist) but they know fully well that they would be paid less. Then there is the cloud that forever hovers over them; the rains mar everything or at least poses as a grave danger to the drying of the idols. They are enraged of the fact that the government does not recognize their worth. If only they could arrange for some subsidies/loans like they do for the cottage artists et al. They too dream on…
So, next time you bow down before an idol just remember the sweat,hard work, fervour that went into it….
Unfortunately, they cannot even boast of their work ..their works are ultimately swallowed up by the waters...

The clay artisans of Silcoorie at work....
Moulding the Divine Grace...