Temple

The scorching sunlight has made me weary and tired. I am a wounded soldier, lost in this labyrinthe, stranded alone in this unknown territory. I wonder what my fellow soldiers are doing right now, at this moment. Have they been captured, tortured or even killed? Have they revealed our pursuits? Is someone searching me, showing my photo and promising rewards to whosoever that finds me dead or alive? Thoughts and questions leave me blinded as much as this burning heat. With no more provisions left with me, I have no more choices left but to continue. I had been walking looking for food, water and shade for the last 8 hours. Up from the valley, I could see this structure and I wondered if I would get what I have been looking for. This place seemed so close from there, but, in reality, it was an illusion. The closer it appeared to my deceiving vision, the more distanced it was to my debilitating legs.

From the top of the hill, one would have referred to it as a desolate, abandoned house still mourning in the memory of the lives that it sheltered. It had nothing to boast about. A mediocre architecture, the cascading roofs and a couple of neatly aligned windows gave the impression of a descent poor man's shelter. One could see the electricity poles and the suspending wires: remnants of its recent habitation. The house stood at an awkward position. No contact whatsoever was possible from either sides of the road and it looked as if the mass of bricks and straw was detached from the human civilisation by ages in time and light years in distance. I was afraid of approaching this place, fear of being caught hovering in my thoughts every now and then. If anyone has seen me on the way and informed them to expect me at this temple in some hours, they are bound to patrol this place. What if they are expecting me here? What if they have purposely left the clothes and other insignia of my friends, as a reminder for their inconsolable families? What if they have deliberately spilled the very life of my mates to test my dying patience?

Expecting the worst, I give in and I approach this structure with a pumping heart and careful vision. The vast deserted area had belittled the place earlier on, but down here, resides a charming edifice. The sober look and the modest design can be experienced only from a closer introspection. In fact, none of the beauty of this place could be seen from up there. However, when I reached here, I felt I was home, back to my village, cows grazing in the backyard, unpleasant but the familiar odour of the sheep waste and their constant bleating. The place is covered with trees, plants and wild weeds growing in unison and cool breeze could bring you the smell of soils of distanced, faraway lands. From the veranda, I realize being in the safe hands of an old, holy temple in ruins. This same place that had appeared to be a house is in fact a place of worship. Entering the temple is an experience devoid of any thoughts. The space is so neatly sheltered from the heat, that the cold touch of the surface of the floor gives a tempting urge to relax and recover. It is pitch dark here and there doesn't seem to be an idol dominating the scene, but a faint perfume of incense, some flowers and a meek lantern lay untouched away in the corner. Further away in the corner, to my sheer delight, I can identify two known exhausted bodies almost in the state of blissful meditation.

'The' moment of any concert

  
Music concerts of any kind are remembered for a few special moments. The(se) special moment(s) perfume the concert(s). The perfume on a person helps him/her get noticed without necessarily being seen. A gentleman, engrossed in a charming conversation, may get distracted by his olfactory sense, and tries to search the origin of the fragrance and the beauty carrying it. The same applies to concerts. These performances, without those rare moments, remain as they were: bad, mediocre, good, dazzling. The uniqueness in each of the concerts lies within the realms of those few memorable moments that enable us to retrieve, relive and cherish the spectacle again and again.

However, there are a few memorable moments that stand out wanting for appreciation. It is that particular moment, the scented one, which functions as the identifier of the concert in the catalogues of memory. While discussing about a past concert, one can reconnect to the program saying, “Oh yes! That was the moment when the frenzied crowd, dancing, reached the stage” or “you remember the concert where we were seated just besides the percussionist”. The special moments, to name a few, can be the deafening silence, a giant uproar of the audience or the respectful awe, as per the modalities of the conventions of the concert.

It is also an observation that the ‘precious’ moment at times is the culmination of a series of events; the events being nothing but the different elements of the concert like musical pieces, songs or the different rhythms for elaboration of a raga. The nature of these events can thus be thematic, rhythmic, temporal or any other. Such events, as independent entities, have no individual existence and they gain meaning only from their relationships with other events. We therefore probably tend to compare for instance the first part of the concert with the second or the third or vice verse. The first part of the concert thus may look better organised or otherwise with respect to its counterparts.

The collaborative effort among the separate events takes a certain time, paving way to ‘the moment’ of the concert.  It is probably due to this reason that the excerpts of music clips on Youtube do not seem as soul stirring as live performances. The element of time factoring in different events is crucial as much as that it constitutes the key to understand the true expression of the individual acts involved. Considering the time element, it can be said that the moment of the concert becomes metaphorically, the point, deep down in the earth, which beholds a natural source of water. The vast, natural reserve created over the ages by the patient, incessant, perpetual trickling of droplets. The special, divine, sublime ‘moment’ similar to the source of water nourishes the imagination and creative instincts of man bearing new seeds of ideas and visions.

Mausam de la Mousson!

Il a plu... On sent la fraîcheur envahir tout le pays. La Terre mouillée des pluies, le vol des oiseaux dans le ciel bleu dissipé, les beaux chants d’oiseaux et un brin de lumière entrant sur la scène de l’azur, presque comme un enfant qui, caché derrière les rideaux, regarde et sourit aux invites de la maison...

Les feuilles sont toutes vertes, baignées par les averses. Elles entretiennent toujours les gouttes naturelles qui leur ont rendu visite tout a l’heure. Quelques gouttes se reposent sur les feuilles, les tiges, les fleurs comme les diamants dans les cases bleu foncé en velours. Quelques unes patientent, tout simplement… les autres se forment une colonie et s’initient à une chute. Bientôt, l’ensemble atteint la terre d’où tout a commencé. Quelques autres gouttes d’eau formée en colonie attendant leur route du salut s’écrasent sur la peau d’une jeune fille qui frémit des sensations au-delà de l’univers de mots. Les averses ont remué les couleurs terrestres. Les feuilles de toutes couleurs se ressemblent à une aquarelle terminée sous peu. Les couleurs jeunes sur cette création ne sont visibles qu’aux yeux de l’artiste dans son studio. Elles sont là, comme les fleurs afin d’être cueillies pour les offrandes.

Beaucoup de feuilles sont ainsi rajeunies, au moins le parait-il. Or, quelques unes, vieillies, laides, desséchées, écloses se sont perdues à la poussière. Elles attendent d’être balayées le lendemain matin par les éboueurs. Entre temps, elles restent à l’écart, immobiles en portant le chapeau, “Ici Git”.