However chaotic
and distorted one’s perception is, the artist has to reassemble by his
contemplation over the wounds. For a momentary salvation. For recuperation. For
Consolation. It takes so much time in one’s life to lift the fog and discern
the falsity of appearances. But it never ceases. The distorted vision never
ceases as long as we are incapable of an unknown sainthood.
As it’s always said an author is an isolated
being. Detached. To comprehend the reality with vividness. The isolation is a
choice. And the choice is for others and for oneself.
Lemon Tree. The
movie is the story of struggle and defeat. The lemon tree grove- thick and
fragrant- with the yellow fruit flourished- big yellow spots all over the
field. The woman nourished and looked after the tree for five decades- the land
and art she inherited from her father. Her emotional attachment and her courage
to not let them go- to not let them be uprooted for the defense. The story is
poignant. The woman is courageous- admirable- melancholic. Have I been in her
place would I have struggled that long- to protect one’s own grove? Do I have
the capacity to love and feel for the lemon trees with the intensity with which
she feels? Sheer empathy will not give us a glimpse of her exact feelings. One
has to experience in real in one’s own life with the given circumstances.
Circumstances.
It would be such a curious an act to imagine people displaced in alien
circumstances and how would they react, contribute, refute or accept. It would
be curious to know how would they hold one human being despised and abandoned
by the other. “What are you thinking? What have we done to each other?” Words
somewhere from a thriller movie echo my thinking. Why should we destroy each
other in possession with each other if possession is all that about it. If love
only means one thing and should mean one for all.
Who can see you
beyond your skin? To define you not by the loss or the preserve of your
virginity, not to measure inch by inch the corporeal taints, not to see you as
filth of another man. But to see beyond your smiles a silent suffering,
shivering murmur and shocking nightmares. Who can judge the sanctity of your
soul against the sanctity of your flesh and bones? There are nails sprouting to
bleed my clenching fists when all the roaring definitions come back to my
memories. Dallying along my solitary path. You could hug a tree and rub your
tears on its rough bark and bruise your face. You could climb over it with your
staggering wavering limbs all the way to the top, and hide somewhere among the
branches, with such a quietness of an angelic grace or a demonic stealth (for
both are undifferentiated in today’s world)
with only the wind among the leaves hissing on your ears, curbing the
heart wrenching human sounds. H U M A N
S O U N D S. As heavy as an unadmitted guilt, all glittery and showy,
with poison tucked in on each man’s sleeve and the polishing façade of truth so
untrue.
My survival is
my own effort. The more I am humiliated the more I find my worth. The more I am
condemned in the name of some man made institution of relationships, the more I
see its dishonesty, its futility, its fear of human weaknesses and how it
struggles to ward off the ever threatening daring souls by malice and
cowardice. For there is strength in sorrow. There is acceptance in sorrow. There
is clarity and discernment of truth in sorrow. There is compassion in
sorrow.
