Renew and Refresh

A new post in the series - When a Picture Leads

This picture speaks to me of Renewal. Refreshing. Rekindling of hope.

This picture was taken by me in Auroville a few months after the mighty destructive cyclone Thane hit Pondicherry and Auroville area on December 30, 2011. According to some estimates, about 40% of the trees in Auroville were uprooted or destroyed because of the devastation. (And if you know anything about Auroville, you must know something about its thick green cover, its massive trees and vegetation and its red earth. And you perhaps also know about the 40 years of hard work and great effort put in by the dedicated Aurovillians and local villagers to convert what was once a barren land into a green paradise.) After the cyclone, it took several days to clear up the roads and streets of this international township, and power was restored only after two weeks to the whole area in and around Auroville. My own little garden at home (near Auroville) suffered some loss because of the cyclone.

But I am not interested today in that memory of loss and destruction, or that memory of nature's fury and chaos.

I want to think of the new beginnings instead. I want to think of new life that comes after death, new growth after destruction. That is the story this picture tells.

I clearly remember the day when I took this picture. I had gone to Auroville Visitor Center with my husband, and my niece who was visiting us from Delhi. We were planning to do some shopping and have lunch at the cafe there. I saw this tree stump in the parking lot itself, and was pleasantly surprised to see the new tender green leaves sprouting at the base and the top. What a sight of hope, new life!

While a reminder of what this tree once was was still there nearby in the form of an uprooted trunk of another big tree, the new growth was a proof positive that life doesn't stop. It only takes a little pause now and then, to recuperate its strength, to rejuvenate itself with fresh energy and soon it bounces back. Full of vigour, full of new energy, full of hope and new beginnings. That's what I remember feeling when I witnessed this sight.

The timing was also important because my niece was visiting with an objective to study Economics with me for a few weeks as part of her preparation for her senior secondary examinations (12th grade). She was feeling a bit doubtful about this subject and needed a little boost, a sort of a push to regain her confidence and will to study well for her forthcoming examinations.

She is an intelligent young woman, but it is just that her kind of intelligence is not always recognized or valued by the kind of examination and grading pattern we have in the mainstream Indian schooling system, especially at the level of "board" examinations. And the system is such that if a student doesn't score well in these public examinations, her further education including admission to a good college may become very difficult.

She knew she needed to do well, at least reasonably well, in the examinations, but just needed some gentle push and some one-on-one guidance for at least a little period of time. And of course I was extremely happy when she chose to come and stay with me and thought that I could be the person to give her what she needed.

I can't say what, if any, help I was for her at that time. But all I can say is that the visit provided me an opportunity to bond with my lovely young niece and renew myself with that youthful energy. I also got an opportunity to recognize and realize what an important asset a healthy sense of self-confidence is, especially for the youth preparing themselves for the big world out there.

A renewal of this confidence in oneself, in one's capabilities and unique intelligence is necessary from time to time. For all of us. We all go through times when a refresher dose of hope and optimism is required. This rekindling of hope, this constant renewal is what gives us the persistent strength to go on pursuing our dreams, walking toward the unknown-to-us future.

That, I believe, is life. A journey, a seeking, a promise of renewal. Sort of like a promise of re-doing, a rebirth almost. In renewing and refreshing ourselves we rediscover ourselves. And perhaps that's how we also re-dedicate ourselves to our goals, dreams and aspirations.

The more we can open ourselves to the Light and Force, the eternal source of all that hope and energy and optimism, the more alive and living we begin to feel. Ready to begin anew.


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For the previous post in the series, click here.
For all the posts in this series, click here.

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Linking this post with Write Tribe Wednesday Prompt - Memory triggered by a photograph.

Do I Feel Rich Today?

Today on this World Environment Day, I certainly feel rich! 

I feel rich when I see the beauty and blessings of Mother Nature in my little garden. 

Today I remember the little sapling of Rangoon Creeper that we had planted in a little corner of the garden a couple of years ago. I also remember how just a few weeks later, it accidentally got pruned while digging out some of the intruding weeds that had shown up nearby. I remember how sad I felt when I noticed that only a little bit of the root and a couple of leaves of the sapling survived the 'accident'. 

I remember how we nursed it and took care of it for the first few days after it was replanted. I also remember that once the plant was firmly rooted, we basically left it alone to do its own thing. Just gave sufficient nutrition but not too much. Gave enough love, enough space, enough support for the vine to climb up, and then let it grow at its own pace, to blossom in its own time.

Today I feel rich when when I see how profusely it is blooming. Those bunches of mildly fragrant blossoms drooping over the garden wall, those little red-pink-reddish-pinkish blossoms which have been a special favourite since childhood. 

Today I feel rich when I remember how fun it was to make beautiful flower garlands with these blossoms sticking one tender-light-green stem of a blossom into another.  

Today, I feel rich when I see Pasiflora (Passion Flower) blossoming next to the Rangoon Creeper. I have written here and here about the work we have had to do to allow these two vines to find a comfortable harmony with each other. 

Today I feel rich when I realize that some of those "lessons" in harmony are bearing fruit. Or flowers, I should say. 

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Today I feel rich when I see the tender leaf-like pink blossoms of Mussaenda (Bangkok Rose) swaying gently on the shrub which had almost half-died under its own weight one evening which brought heavy rainstorm and furious winds, almost a year ago. 

I remember how we tied together some of the drooping limbs of the bush, giving it enough support with bamboo sticks till it was strong enough to stand on its own. I also remember how just a few months ago part of the bush was beginning to show serious insect-damage. I remember how sad I felt realizing that I had ignored the plant and not given its necessary fix of the neem-oil-water-mix spray to get rid of those pesky little insects. 

Today I feel rich when I see the bunches of these leaf-like flowers in soft pink shades, with little centers of deep yellow shining through them. 

Today I feel rich when I realize that a regimen of proper care and timely attention does bear its fruit. Or flowers, I should say. 

           

Today I feel rich seeing the bluish-purplish blossoms on the just-over-two-year-old bush of Ironwood/Delek Air tree/Anjan (Memecylon umbellatum). 

I remember the day we had planted just a tiny little sapling of this bush. I remember how I had even forgotten that we had planted this, until my husband showed me the spot where it was. I remember how happy I felt seeing that it was doing well, slowly growing and becoming stronger. 

I remember how relieved I was to know that perhaps the best way for this plant to grow was to be left alone without much interference from the human hands. I remember how many times I have had to remind the gardener, who is less of a gardener and more of a water-giver, to not water that corner where this woody shrub was beginning to take its hold and show some progress. 

Today I feel rich when I see the leathery green leaves and the mildly fragrant beautiful blue blossoms. 

Today I feel rich when I realize that sometimes all that is needed is to carefully drain out and remove the excess life-energy so that a harmonious blossoming can occur. 

Today I feel rich when I realize that a garden can be one of the best teachers one can have.

Today I feel rich when I realize that a little bit of effort in our own backyard can go a long way.

Do something for our Mother Earth today. Celebrate World Environment Day!

*****

Spiritual significance given to these flowers by the Mother:

1. Rangoon Creeper - Faithfulness: We can count on You; You never fail us when we need You.

2. Passion Flower - Silence: The ideal condition for progress.

3. Mussaenda - Mental Goodwill: Likes to show off a little, but is very useful.)

4. Iron-wood - Miracle (Air of Auroville): Marvellous, strange, unexpected

~ All photos from my garden, courtesy, Suhas Mehra

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Written in response to the Indiblogger InSpire prompt - Rich: Write a post on your interpretation of this word.

Was inspired to write this after a dear friend reminded this morning that today is World Environment Day. 

                 '

Priceless are the Moments....Part II

A new post in the series - When a Picture Leads

To read the first part of the story, click here.

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He had offered her a life of beauty, a life with nature, trees, flowers and butterflies. She had said yes, a big happy yes. That's exactly what she had wanted too.

But something changed. What? Why?  

Maybe she was wrong. Nothing had changed. They did have a beautiful life, at least that's what everyone she knew said, about their life. They had a good life, a luxuriously comfortable home, big backyard with lots of trees and exotic plants, a little pond with waterlilies, flowers of almost every imaginable colour, and yes, butterflies too. 

This last part she assumed. Because she hadn't really seen any butterflies. At least not in the last few years. She just didn't have the time. Wall Street kept her busy and busier. 

She looked again at the picture on her ipad and remembered those moments. Those moments when all she needed was to lay down with him under a shady tree and close her eyes. And she would dream of butterflies and flowers, flowers and butterflies.

She knew what she had to do. She looked again, this time at the ring she was holding, her actual engagement ring. And walked to the little shed in her backyard. 

This was his place. A photography studio he had built for himself, with all his cameras - old and new, lenses, tripods, a computer, printer and all other paraphernalia an amateur needs. He had kept up his love for nature photography, even if it meant working part-time. She envied him now, for this.

He was cleaning some old lens. She walked up to him and gently placed her hand on his shoulder. He looked up inquiringly. She just kept quiet and smiled. Something in her eyes told him. He knew that she had seen the email. He knew that she remembered. They just kept looking in each other's eyes. Silently.

And then he saw it. Dangling on the chain around her neck was the ring. 

The ring he had made for her. With those tiny little seeds that he had found on one of their walks together in the woods. She had no idea what he was going to do with those, and she didn't ask. After all it wasn't anything out of the ordinary. They always gathered dried leaves and little pebbles and seedpods and what not...and most of the times those priceless riches went to either his place or hers. She used to love these little treasures from Nature and decorate her room, bookshelves with those. She had filled up many old jars with such treasures.

But that was back then.

He now saw the seed-ring dangling on the chain on her neck. After all these years, she was actually wearing it. It wasn't really a ring that she could wear. Or anyone could wear. And they had laughed about it when he gave her that as their engagement ring. But she had loved it. Loved it absolutely. And he had loved her laughter, and joined in as he tried to place the ring awkwardly on her finger. It was a ring that spoke of their shared love, their love for each other and their love for the woods, the nature, the trees, the flowers. And the butterflies.

But that was back then.

And now here it was, dangling on the chain around her neck. Her finger casually circling it as she stood there smiling with her eyes. In silence. And he knew. He knew that their love was back. 

He stood up and held her hand. They walked out of the shed, into the backyard. Holding hands in silence they kept walking back and forth, around the trees, around the lily pond and just back and forth. 

And then she saw. After several years, she saw a butterfly. Really saw it.

Yes, they were there. They had always been there. It was she who had gone missing. 

He looked at her. She was smiling. And remembering. Those priceless moments. And he knew. He knew she was back. Their love was back.

They continued walking, in silence, making their moments priceless. Once again they were in love.

~ Photos by Suhas Mehra

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To read the first part of this story, click here.

To read all the posts in the series, click here.

Priceless are the Moments...Part I

A new post in the series - When a Picture Leads

He knew he had to capture it. That sight. That moment. For his love.  

Dangling on the chain was that beauty he knew his love would love. A thin little branch, a chain of the big tree of life, and there it was dangling on it, a beautiful brown and blue butterfly. 

 

Beautiful in its simplicity, in what it seemed to be saying.

He captured the beauty on his camera. And emailed it to her the same evening. He wasn't even sure if it will reach her, but it didn't matter. But he specifically chose to send it to her old email address, from several years ago. He thought it was more charming, more romantic. His mind worked that way - then and now.

She had however changed, and not just her email address. 

But she still checked that old email address once or twice a week...just in case... 

And that day she checked. She couldn't believe her eyes. Was it really his name she saw? Why was he emailing her? And at this old address? With a slight irritation she shook her head impatiently and opened the email and saw.

There were only two words in the subject line - For love....

And below, only four.

Remember the moment when....

And then she opened the attachment. 

She sat in silence, looking at the picture, remembering. Not just that one moment, but a lot of those moments. Those walks, those flowers, those butterflies, those moments of beauty, those moments of love they experienced together. 

When did those moments end? Why did they end? 

And she remembered that moment too. That moment when she knew exactly what she wanted. Him. A life with him.

Her left forefinger casually went up to touch something on her neck. Dangling on the chain was an intricately designed diamond pendant. She walked to her bedroom and straight to her closet. She opened the drawer and found it. The ring he had presented to her when he asked her to marry him. 

That was the moment.

The moment when they had spotted a beautiful butterfly dangling on a thin little leaf, and the passion with which they admired the beautiful yellows, reds, whites and blacks of the butterfly contrasting with the green of the leaf. And the way their eyes and hearts could see and feel the love that was all around in nature, all around them, in them.

Several moments passed. The butterfly just sat there, and so did they, in silence. They smiled at such beauty and looked at each other with smiling eyes.

That was the moment she knew what she wanted. And she knew he knew it too. And he too knew that she knew what he wanted most of all. Their love was like that, silent and beautiful.

This was the moment for which he had kept that ring carefully hidden in the side pocket of his camera bag. He gently took it out and presented it to her. And asked her the question. Simply, beautifully. Amidst those trees, flowers and butterflies.

(Pictures by Suhas Mehra)

To read the second and concluding part of the story, click here.

To see the previous posts in the series, When a Picture Leads, click here.

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Linking this post to Write Tribe- Wednesday Prompt - Dangling on the chain was....

Also linking this post with ABC Wednesday: P - P is for Priceless

Mr. Keats and Ms. Brawne

Remember this post I did about a beautiful photograph? And how on some quick search it turned out that the photograph is a still from a film called Bright Star based on the love letters written by John Keats to his beloved Fanny Brawne in the last four years of his life? Well you may read about all of that discovery process here if you have forgotten. I, of course, remember the photograph and where and how it led me, very clearly in my mind.

Yes, I also remember that I also wrote at the end of that post that I may do a follow-up after watching the film. And this is that follow-up post, finally :)

I watched the film soon after that post, in fact watched it twice in the same week itself. Yes, it is that good. Beautiful actually, if you ask me. The beautiful love story between the brooding and aloof English poet of beauty and his lady love, the charming and full-of-life Fanny Brawne. The way their love begins, blossoms and matures, the pain of separation and the depth of longing, the tragic loss of one's beloved to disease and death, the frailty of emotions and the delicacy of the moment, all is captured beautifully by Jane Campion.

And oh, all that beauty of English countryside around them! Campion has masterfully created a visual poetry in this film, with some valuable help from the beauty of Keats' poetry as well. May be it is her feminine sensitivity or her love for Keats' poetry or Romantic poetry in general, whatever it is the result is an absolutely delightful treat. As a reviewer wrote, "if Campion intended to inspire an appreciation and rediscovery of Keats' poetry, she has not only succeeded but herself created an artistic monument to his life, love, poetry and soul". The way the change of seasons is depicted through the changing colours, light and all other moods of nature is absolutely gorgeous and brings such a sense of deep beauty all over you. You just have to watch those scenes in silence and let the beauty take you by hand into itself.

I am not exaggerating. If you have seen the film, you know that already. And if you haven't, you may see for yourself in some of the still shots I share below. (And I hope by now you have already seen the photograph with which this whole journey of discovering this beautiful film started for me. So you already have some idea of what to expect).

 

John Maguire in his review of the film captures beautifully the beauty of the film in these words:

[Fanny’s] emotional journey becomes the engine of the film, as the poet and his poems fill the wondrously detailed background. This delicate treatment extends to the intimate pacing, which is carefully graduated to allow the chaste lovers to come together naturally. We know their love affair will not last, but Campion presents their joy in each other in such a precise and vibrant manner, that knowledge doesn’t intrude on the story.

There are poetic graces too in the telling, with Campion’s static camera searching out stolen frames of everyday life in the household, piling on the detail to create an immersive world. These moments are counterpoised with grand dramatic sweeps that climax in heaving gulps, a sun-dappled kiss, a heavy loss, a long separation. Campion favours a striking image to a page of dialogue, so conversations are short and sparse. Saying that, there is a fascinating scene early in the story where Keats responds to Fanny’s sincere questions about the proper understanding of poetry that seems to capture the meaning of the film itself. “A poem needs understanding through the senses”, the poet tells her. “The point of diving in a lake is not immediately to swim to the shore; it’s to be in the lake. You do not work the lake out. It is an experience beyond thought”. It’s not being overly lyrical to suggest that the same is true of Bright Star. 

Yes, it is true. The film does feel like an experience beyond thought. At least to me in felt that way. As I am about to end this post, I am thinking that it might be time to repeat that experience...soon. And maybe another post will follow!

In the meantime, let me re-read Keats' poem, Bright Star.

Bright Star

Bright star, would I were stedfast as thou art-- 

Not in lone splendour hung aloft the night

And watching, with eternal lids apart,

Like nature's patient, sleepless Eremite,

The moving waters at their priestlike task

Of pure ablution round earth's human shores,

Or gazing on the new soft-fallen mask

Of snow upon the mountains and the moors--

No--yet still stedfast, still unchangeable,

Pillow'd upon my fair love's ripening breast,

To feel for ever its soft fall and swell,

Awake for ever in a sweet unrest,

Still, still to hear her tender-taken breath,

And so live ever--or else swoon to death. 

~ John Keats

(All pictures courtesy of Google)

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Linking this poem with ABC Wednesday, K is for Keats.

A Green Song

A new post in the series - When a Picture Leads

Sometimes you really don't need any other colour. Green is All. Perhaps because through it all colours of Life are possible. 

It felt like that yesterday. It was a beautiful day. Refreshingly sunny but not hot. Sitting quietly on the backseat of our trusty two-wheeler as my husband was driving through the red-clay earthy lanes of Auroville, simply enjoying the presence of all those big, medium and small green trees on both sides of the road, their branches and leaves swaying in the breeze, fresh new growth making some of them look fresher than usual, the beautiful fragrance of new flowers coming up here and there, gloriously green it all was. There were flowers too, but the pinks and purples and yellows and violets were happily immersed and surrendered to that vast and glorious green cover around. 

Somehow in the last few visits to Auroville I had missed out on experiencing this simple joy. Perhaps my mind was too busy then. Or perhaps yesterday I was somewhat more ready to receive this beauty of Nature. Whatever be the reason, the experience was a joyride indeed. Felt energized and renewed. Green is after all, the colour of New Life. 

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Shuffling through my picture folder again; and I find these two pictures I had taken a few years ago at Van Niwas, Nainital. 

With the memory of yesterday's experience still fresh, as I look at these pictures today they seem to be saying something. 

Wait, let me hear. 

Come, you too sit near me and listen what these beautiful green flowers are saying. Listen carefully for they speak very softly. Soft is the language of love, the language of earth. 

Come, hear....

Hey, you there? 

Yes, you, my child. And you. 

Can you hear us? 

Hear closely, you too.  

Come, sing with us. 

The Song of a Love 

For the colour Green 

The song of joy the Earth needs, 

This song of joy you all need. 

Come, sing with us. 

'Sing with us', from Rahul Sharma's album, Celebration - A Circle of Energy

Photos: Mine

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For the previous post in this series, click here.

Linking this post with ABC Wednesday 14G: G is for Green 

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Love, the Beautiful

 A new post in the series: 

A Poem and A Song - XII:  A Series to Celebrate Art in All Forms 

It is actually quite amazing when you find the same thought being expressed through a picture, a poem, a song, or even a gesture.

Perhaps it happens because the thought has sunk deep into you, at least for the time being, and you just view a certain picture, read a certain poem and hear a certain song as expressions of that singular thought.

Or perhaps they really are conveying the same thought, but in different shades and hues. 

And it just so happens that when that very thought captured your attention, certain pictures, poems and songs also appeared before you allowing you to delve deeper into the thought and let it reveal its deeper essence to you.

Regardless of how it happens, it is always a moment to relish and cherish the beauty. The beauty of the picture, the song, the poem. The beauty of the experience. The beauty of the moment.

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Earthly Love and Love for the Mother Earth. 

Love for the Nature, Love for the Beloved, the Marriage between the Two  - these are expressed here beautifully and with sensitivity, through the mode of new arts, and the old.  

A work by an Austrian digital artist, verses by a Chilean poet and a melodious composition by an Indian musician....all combine here to speak of a simple and profound truth - Love makes all things beautiful. Beautiful is the beloved, Beautiful is the Earth, when seen in Love and with Love. 

Digital Artwork by Christian Schloe, via

In You The Earth

Little

rose,

roselet,

at times,

tiny and naked,

it seems

as though you would fit

in one of my hands,

as though I’ll clasp you like this

and carry you to my mouth,

but

suddenly

my feet touch your feet and my mouth your lips:

you have grown,

your shoulders rise like two hills,

your breasts wander over my breast,

my arm scarcely manages to encircle the thin

new-moon line of your waist:

in love you loosened yourself like sea water:

I can scarcely measure the sky’s most spacious eyes

and I lean down to your mouth to kiss the earth. 

~ Pablo Neruda

Composer: R.D. Burman

Can love stay beautiful, always? How? Perhaps love alone can answer. 

Previous posts in this series:

What Might Have Been?        Fly Away              Which is Sweeter?       Life, a Song of Love and Memories
Diwali with a Modern Indian Poet and a Legendary Indian Musician            Of Temples, Poetry and Life
Remembering the Mother               On the Road               Who is that Presence?             Only You
Reckless Lovers

I Want to Escape...

May be curl myself up in the lap of this Big Tree...

Photo by Kevin Schafer, From the book Life and Love of Trees by Lewis Blackwell

Sourced from here

Or may be get lost for a while in this forest...

Source

Do you want to escape sometime? Escape from all that keeps you or brings you back into the mundane every-day-ness of life? 

The wise tell me that I should learn to see the Miraculous in Ordinary, to experience the Magical in Mundane, to feel the Divine in Routine. But until I am able to do so,  at times I do feel the terrible weight and pressure of all that is ordinary, mundane and routine. What should I do then? How do I get away? Where do I turn to? Books. Music. Films. Nature. My Garden. What?

Or maybe Silence. Yes, that's what I need. Not just the outer silence, but silence within. The Real Thing. The Healing Silence. The Silence that descends from above and sinks deep inside. That possibly resides in the deep inside but most of the time is covered up with the noise and chatter from different directions. But whenever it is revealed, it reminds us of its Quiet and Healing Force. The Silence in which all the noises of the mind are quietened. The Silence which can renew and rejuvenate what is old and tired, which can make one more open and receptive to the Light and Force.

Yes, that's what I REALLY need. 

But such a Silence would not be an escape. It would be a feeling of Liberation, and even if it lasts for a few seconds it could transform something within and leave its lasting impact.   

This is my prayer for the day, my aspiration. 

But am I willing to make an effort for experiencing such Quietude? Do I have the will to work toward it? The wise again tell me - Only when we sincerely seek, we find. Only when we ardently work, we receive. 

O god! Maybe I should just go back to my curling up....Doesn't this look inviting? 

Photo by Martin

Which is Sweeter?

A new post in the series - A Poem and A Song - IX:  A Series to Celebrate Art in All Forms 

It is actually quite amazing when you find the same thought being expressed through a picture, a poem, a song, or even a gesture.

Perhaps it happens because the thought has sunk deep into you, at least for the time being, and you just view a certain picture, read a certain poem and hear a certain song as expressions of that singular thought.

Or perhaps they really are conveying the same thought, but in different shades and hues. 

And it just so happens that when that very thought captured your attention, certain pictures, poems and songs also appeared before you allowing you to delve deeper into the thought and let it reveal its deeper essence to you.

Regardless of how it happens, it is always a moment to relish and cherish the beauty. The beauty of the picture, the song, the poem. The beauty of the experience. The beauty of the moment.

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Source: Google

Sweet is the night, sweet and cool
As to parched lips a running pool;
Sweet when the flowers have fallen asleep
And only moonlit rivulets creep
Like glow-worms in the dim and whispering wood,
To commune with the quiet heart and solitude.
When earth is full of whispers, when
No daily voice is heard of men,
But higher audience brings
The footsteps of invisible things,
When o’er the glimmering tree-tops bowed
The night is leaning on a luminous cloud,
And always a melodious breeze
Sings secret in the weird and charm`ed trees,
Pleasant ’tis then heart-overawed to lie
Alone with that clear moonlight and that listening sky.

***

But day is sweeter; morning bright
Has put the stars out ere the light,
And from their dewy cushions rise
Sweet flowers half-opening their eyes.
O pleasant then to feel as if new-born
The sweet, unripe and virgin air, the air of morn.
And pleasant are her melodies,
Rustle of winds, rustle of trees,
Birds’ voices in the eaves,
Birds’ voices in the green melodious leaves;
The herdsman’s flute among his flocks,
Sweet water hurrying from reluctant rocks,
And all sweet hours and all sweet showers
And all sweet sounds that please the noonday flowers.
Morning has pleasure, noon has golden peace
And afternoon repose and eve the heart’s increase.

- Sri Aurobindo, Songs to Myrtilla 

So what is sweeter - night or day? Dawn or dusk? Reality or Reflection?

Perhaps a tarana in a pre-dawn raag in the amazing voice of Ustad Rashid Khan can help decide....

Perhaps we need both...night to remind us that a new day with a new hope is coming soon, and day to remind us that the time for rest, rejuvenation and renewal is coming soon, 

reality to convince us that the reflection too can be just as real, and reflection to assure us that the real is after all, real! 

P.S. - This post had been somewhat prepared a couple of days back, only some final touches were remaining. But then something happened in the intervening couple of days and my mind and heart got a bitter taste of some emotions and feelings quite unlike 'sweetness'. I, however, chose to go ahead with this post about sweetness, more so because it will remind me of not to dwell on that which is bitter and ugly. Thus, in a way this post has also become a new addition to the series - Reminders to self

Perhaps in a few days time I will have a greater equanimity within to write about some not-so-sweet aspects of life, and hopefully with a deeper understanding of why such stuff happens! 

Previous posts in the series Reminders to self:

The Stuff of Our Lives          Light an Incense      God is At Home....

Previous posts in the series A Poem and A Song:

Life, a Song of Love and Memories       Diwali with a Modern Indian Poet and a Legendary Indian Musician Of Temples, Poetry and Life       Remembering the Mother        On the Road      Who is that Presence?     Only You       Reckless Lovers

The Joy of Reading the First Indian Novel in English

I recently read an interesting novel, titled Rajmohan’s Wife by Bankim Chandra Chatterji. While the plot and the main characters of the novel are quite appealing in their own way, what is most fascinating about this novel is its history. This is the first Indian novel written in English in 1864, and the first and the only novel ever written by Bankim in English. This piece of work was considered a ‘false start’ by some commentators and critics of Bankim’s work and has often been ignored by those interested in Indian writing in English. After Rajmohan’s Wife, Bankim never wrote any fiction in English and wrote only in his native language, Bangla. The rest, as they say, is history...of the gigantic literary contribution made by this great son of Mother India!

Source

In the Penguin Classics edition of this novel that I read there is an informative Introduction and an analytical Afterword by Meenakshi Mukherjee. She provides the reader with some highly interesting facts about how some chapters of this novel were lost and then found by a mere stroke of luck (luck as in seemingly ordinary occurrences such as wrong sets of pages getting stapled together....yes, that is the kind of exciting story that led to the final surfacing of the chapters that were once considered lost by the lovers and scholars of literature and Bankim’s writings). She also examines the place of this very special work in the whole corpus of the fictional writings of Bankim, as situated in the time and the literary and social-cultural context in which he lived and wrote, as well as the significance and impact this novel continues to have on the genre of Indian novel in English language that came afterwards, “a genre shaped...by the contending pulls of colonial education and indigenous traditions of storytelling” (Mukherjee).

As much as I appreciated reading the scholarly analysis and its contextual background, what I found most captivating in the novel was a “deep feeling for the poetry of life and an unfailing sense of beauty” — what Sri Aurobindo remarks as the distinguishing marks of Bankim’s style (Collected Works, Volume 1, p.109). Read this passage below and you will know instantly how accurate this insight is. Read it once again to fully visualize the painting the novelist is painting.

"The recent shower had lent to the morning a delightful and invigorating freshness.  Leaving the mass of floating clouds behind, the sun advanced and careered on the vast blue plain that shone above; and every housetop and every treetop, the cocoa palm and the date palm, the mango and acacia received the flood of splendid light and rejoiced. The still-lingering water drops on the leaves of trees and creepers glittered and shone like a thousand radiant gems as they received the slanting rays of the luminary. Through the openings in the chick-knit brought of the grooves glanced the mild ray on the moistened grass beneath. The newly awakened and joyous birds raised their thousand dissonant voices, while at intervals the papia sent forth its rich thrilling notes into the trembling air. Light fleecy clouds of white wandered in the solitude of the now purified blue of the heavens, which were fanned by a light breeze that had sprung up to shake the pattering drops from the pendant and wooing boughs."

What a delightful picture of a fresh morning after a rainy night! The clear blue sky, the pleasing sounds of the birds, the moistened grass, and still-lingering water drops on leaves....beauty all around, loveliness that pleases and delights. And all this comes right after the description of a rather ‘heavy’ sequence in which a gang of dacoits is running around in the rain and feverishly hunting down the wife of one of the gang members who might have been a spy and an informer! All traces of any inkling of suspense, horror or anxiety that the reader might have felt when reading the preceding passage were completely washed clean by this delightful portrayal of after-the-rain-morning that brings with it a new hope and a new adventure in life. This is perhaps an appropriate example of what Sri Aurobindo describes as the novelist’s “keen sense for life, and the artist’s repugnance to gloom and dreariness” (ibid., p. 96).

Image credit: Penguin Books

Another prominent aspect of the novel is Bankim’s portrayal of the characters, particularly of the women in the story. This aspect is sufficiently analyzed by Mukherjee in her Afterword, but primarily using the familiar and ‘scholarly acceptable’ perspectives such as social conformity, morality, virtue and honour in man-woman relationship, narrow confines of domesticity and silencing of women. Informative as these viewpoints may be, perhaps they still fail to do full justice to the beauty of Bankim’s insights into the feminine character. The following passage serves as an example.

        “‘You weep!’ said Madhav. ‘You are unhappy.’
        Matangini replied not, but sobbed. Then, as if under the influence of a maddening agony of soul, she grasped his hands in her own and bending over them her lily face so that Madhav trembled under the thrilling touch of the delicate curls that fringed her spotless brow, she bathed them in a flood of warm and gushing tears.
        ‘Ah, hate me not, despise me not,’ cried she with an intensity of feeling which shook her delicate frame. ‘Spurn me not for this last weakness; this, Madhav, this, may be our last meeting; it must be so, and too, too deeply have I loved you—too deeply do I love you still, to part with you forever without a struggle.’
        Did Madhav chide her? Ah, no! He covered his eyes with his palm and his palm became wet with tears. There was a deep silence for some moments, but their hearts beat loud. Matangini, recovering her presence of mind as speedily as she had lost it, first broke the heart-rending silence.
        The distant and reserved demeanour, the air of dejection and broken-heartedness which had marked her from the first, had disappeared; the impetuosity and fervour of the first burst of a deep and burning love had subsided; and Matangini now stood calm and serene, her usually melancholy features beaming with the light of an unutterable feeling. A sweet and sober pensiveness still mantled her tender features, but it was not the pensiveness of deep-felt enjoyment, for the wild current of passion had hurried her to that region where naught but the present was visible, and in which all knowledge of right and wrong is whirled and merged in the vortex of intense present felicity. Was not Matangini now in Madhav’s presence? And had not her long-pent-up tears fallen on his hands? Had he not wept with her? That was all Matangini remembered, and for a moment the memory of duty, virtue, principle ceased to fling its sombre shadow on the brightness of the impure felicity in which her heart [revelled]. There was a fire in that voluptuous eye, —there was a glow on that moonbeam brow, and as she stood leaning with her well-rounded arm on the damask-covered back of the sofa, her beautiful head resting on the palm of her hand over which, as over the heaving bosom, stayed the luxuriant tresses of raven hue; —as thus she stood, Madhav might well have felt sure earth had not to show a more dazzling vision of female loveliness.”

What a beautiful description – of Matangini’s beauty, yes of course! But what is even more beautiful is the portrayal of her state of mind, her deep inner conflict —between passion and virtue, between love and family duty, between strength and weakness. It was probably such descriptions—in this novel and in Bankim’s later Bangla novels—that perhaps made Sri Aurobindo write a wonderfully phrased comment on the portrayal of women in Bankim’s novels. Taking a humorous jab at the Anglicized social reformers of his time —sadly enough, many such so-called reformers exist till today among the circles of westernized, urban, Indian intelligentsia who can’t find anything beautiful in Hindu ways of life and social organization —Sri Aurobindo wrote in his unique style:

“Insight into the secrets of feminine character, that is another notable concomitant of the best dramatic power, and that too Bankim possesses....The social reformer, gazing, of course, through that admirable pair of spectacles given to him by the Calcutta University, can find nothing excellent in Hindu life, except its cheapness, or in Hindu woman, except her subserviency. Beyond this he sees only its narrowness and her ignorance. But Bankim had the eye of a poet and saw much deeper than this. He saw what was beautiful and sweet and gracious in Hindu life, and what was lovely and noble in Hindu woman, her deep heart of emotion, her steadfastness, tenderness and lovableness, in fact, her woman’s soul; and all this we find burning in his pages and made diviner by the touch of a poet and an artist” (ibid., p.110).

To appreciate the vast contribution made by this noble soul, Bankim Chandra, to the awakening of his motherland and to the renaissance of Indian literature and thought, and to do it through the lens of a literary criticism that is grounded in the eternal essence of all things Indian and is not merely an imitation or regurgitation of whatever theoretical frameworks that may be the "fad of the day" among the Westernized Academic Circles of the Indian literati —this is what makes reading Bankim extra, extra special for me.

Inner Truth of a Flower

A new post in the series - Satyam Shivam Sundaram

A series featuring inspiring words from various sources, words that speak of  timeless truths, words that remind me of the deeper and hidden truth behind surface events and phenomena, words that shine light when all seems dark, words that are just what I need - 

for this moment and for all times to come.

This is one of those passages which compel me to simply listen to the truth of these words and not add anything from my own limited mind. This is one of those passages which compel me to listen to the truth of these words again and again. 

And again if I still don't get it. 

"In the outer world of activity nature has one aspect, but in our hearts, in the inner world, it presents an altogether different picture.

Take an instance--the flower of a plant. However fine and dainty it may look, it is pressed to do a great service, and its colours and forms are all suited to its work. It must bring forth the fruit, or the continuity of plant life will be broken and the earth will be turned into a desert ere long. The colour and the smell of the flower are all for some purpose therefore; no sooner is it fertilised by the bee, and the time of its fruition arrives, than it sheds its exquisite petals and a cruel economy compels it to give up its sweet perfume. It has no time to flaunt its finery, for it is busy beyond measure. Viewed from without, necessity seems to be the only factor in nature for which everything works and moves. There the bud develops into the flower, the flower into the fruit, the fruit into the seed, the seed into a new plant again, and so forth, the chain of activity running on unbroken. Should there crop up any disturbance or impediment, no excuse would be accepted, and the unfortunate thing thus choked in its movement would at once be labelled as rejected, and be bound to die and disappear post- haste. In the great office of nature there are innumerable departments with endless work going on, and the fine flower that you behold there, gaudily attired and scented like a dandy, is by no means what it appears to be, but rather, is like a labourer toiling in sun and shower, who has to submit a clear account of his work and has no breathing space to enjoy himself in playful frolic.

But when this same flower enters the heart of men its aspect of busy practicality is gone, and it becomes the very emblem of leisure and repose. The same object that is the embodiment of endless activity without is the perfect expression of beauty and peace within.

Science here warns us that we are mistaken, that the purpose of a flower is nothing but what is outwardly manifested, and that the relation of beauty and sweetness which we think it bears to us is all our own making, gratuitous and imaginary.

But our heart replies that we are not in the least mistaken. In the sphere of nature the flower carries with it a certificate which recommends it as having immense capacity for doing useful work, but it brings an altogether different letter of introduction when it knocks at the door of our hearts. Beauty becomes its only qualification. At one place it comes as a slave, and at another as a free thing. How, then, should we give credit to its first recommendation and disbelieve the second one? That the flower has got its being in the unbroken chain of causation is true beyond doubt; but that is an outer truth. The inner truth is: Verily from the everlasting joy do all objects have their birth." 

~ Rabindranath Tagore

selection from Sadhana: Realisation of Love

(Photos by Suhas Mehra)
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Previous posts in this series:

On Sensitivity and Appreciation of Beauty         "No Construction Without Destruction"