The muse has
been persistently in my consciousness. Taunting to seek more more more truth.
The larger truth. To seek it from the bird eye view. The outer sea consumed by
the inner ocean of bitter blues – of melancholic sepia- of distant darkness.
What I have been was ready to be a forlorn creature – to contract itself into an
old shivering star at the high sky- as if to stare from a timeless past so cold
and quaint- to this frame born anew- or at least believe to be so. This year is
in confrontation with a blessed brain in readiness to devour more words- books-
movies- knowledge- music. I have become
a creature of sharper conscience and ever sharper perceptions.
All the
blemishes of the world have been revealed and yet in the process of revelation.
It disappoints and dissipates my search of beauty- love- innocence. Yet there
are momentary consolations in the form of an orange sun at the threshold of a droopy
twilight. It’s as if all the ugliness of the world is converged and absorbed
into this big burning scar- to take along with it all the tears and tragedies
for us to slumber peacefully- courageously- guiltlessly.
As I move from
one lonely day to another- eating biscuits and turning pages – hearing Bach and
Beethoven and Satie and others- gazing at the visible borders of the horizon
and dreaming beyond- many a times I have plunged myself into a fantasy of
swimming so artistically in cold blue water with a robust glazing body- cycling
on a straight infinite plane with legs free from pedals and wind across my
hair…and other numberless reveries feathering my fancies.
I have learned
to be more private- to keep myself away from the insanity of the world. To
check the narcissism and yield to the calling of authenticity. To be distant
and observant. To laugh privately at the witlessness of the fellow beings- to
their blind confinements and meaningless adherence to meaningless conventions-
to their thoughtlessness- to their shallowness- to their art of living an
existence in death.
And their comes
the wish to paint- blue paint smeared on the white canvas- shaping slowly into
Buddha under the Bodhi Tree – Buddha who sought enlightenment- Buddha who saw
the present- the inner light- Buddha in the
very act of living. As I drift between the darker alleys of life and the
brighter broad squares with a cooling blissful fountain at its center, the
fountain within me freezes as soon as I taste the wide gap. The gulf between me
and the impalpable others- failing to touch my soul they bewilder at my
unreachability.
I don't know from
where to begin the benignity of truly connecting with another being. Is it when
others begin to suffer my invisibility when they themselves are tired of their
pursuit of surface pleasures? Or is it when I myself am jaded of my seclusion,
cloyed by the broodings and threatened by the steely authenticities, bleak truths,
and the repeated wounds. One who is after truth will be injured persistently.
He will be a seeker at first. Then the recluse. Then the sufferer.
City
of Djinns in my hand. The book is not so heavy –
ready to be tamed by the constant handling and turning- tolerant to be waiting when
I soar in my fancy with images of that city which will tell the stories of its
riots and ruins, losses and refugees. I take my refuge in it.
