Like the condiments that go into making a good, tasty cup of masala chai; these stories about people, places and events surrounding the ritual of drinking or making tea, draw a portrait of city/nation/self.
It looked like a mosquito. Perched on the white ceiling, this small (but quite large for a mosquito) dark, lithe winged creature, hanging upside down beside the fan, caught my eye which had been quite distracted as I did my needlework today. Winding down for the night, doing some thread work, cradling a black stone-ware cup in my hands. Finishing a cup of not-so-hot Genmaicha (Japanese green tea with toasted rice), I was aimlessly looking around the room when I spied it. And I have to confess that I was more than just a little perturbed by its looming presence in my bedroom.
It was an unusually wintry March, so I couldn't quite put the fan on and swoosh it away with the power of the three-pronged circulating blades. I wasn't feeling very well in this unpredictable weather and started bargaining with the mosquito. Well I hadn't really done a thorough investigation, but the idea of it being a mosquito that could prick me into some dreaded malaria or dengue, in this rather chaotically busy phase of my life, alarmed me. Therefore, I decided to stick with that possibility as a probable certainty and plead my case. Even so, I first called out for its identity.
It stayed very still. I pleaded with it to spare me. I had enough problems on my hands as it is, I said. My cracked toe-bone hadn't exactly hampered my movements but all that organising of things that were rushing into my life was a bit of a brain-screamer. I felt these buzzing creatures must know a thing or two about such a state of mind. I tried being friendly. You know, just a couple of casual questions and stuff, hoping that it would respond amiably.
Not a flicker I noted. But looking some eight odd feet upwards, towards the ceiling, I didn't find my eyes focussing too well. It could have twitched a leg or its proboscis and I doubt I would have seen it. The mosquito seemed a little fuzzy - the details of its form were not very clear to the naked eye. It felt almost like a picture taken out of focus that I was zooming into, on the computer. It didn't exactly pixelate as on the screen, but the fact is that a fuzzy vision wouldn't see those pixels either, would it?
Anyway, the mosquito wouldn't budge, nor reassure me that no attack was planned for tonight. Or, that I wasn't the target. So I decided to arm myself with some repellent. I felt rather intimidated by this minuscule creature hanging upside down; waiting, until I had turned out the lights and could no longer see it, to buzz into my space and lunge for my blood. Infecting me with whatever dirt it had picked up on its flight path to my bedroom.
I searched high and low. I looked in every conceivable place that I may have kept the packet. And then, I remembered that I must have kept them in the half-unpacked toilet bag, which had recently returned from its journey accompanying me to Sangrur. I hadn't needed them there or in Maihar, before that. And the sudden cold and rain in Gurgaon didn't predict mosquito season anytime soon. So a careless unpacking had left them in the bag which, thankfully, I found soon enough.
In my feverish hunt, I had eyes only for the repellent. The mosquito
had seemed resolute and unmoving so I concentrated on finding the mosquito-repellent patches. I know that not everyone's convinced that they work, but surely the reeking citronella must have some effect? When I found them, I hurriedly opened a foil-cum-plastic pack of two and clumsily fumbled in my anxiety to be forearmed in a moment of imminent and unpredictable attack. I finally tore it open and pulled out the citronella-soaked, round, green patch and waved it at the mosquito in glee. Looking up at that spot, to the left of the fan, where it had stayed an interminably long time, I found that the not-so-small mosquito had slyly abandoned its perch. Now, it was nowhere to be seen, depriving me of my moment of triumph. Typical!
On auto-pilot mode, not wanting to think about the implications of the scene that had just unfolded, I placed the bright, lime-green, inch-long-diameter, that sticky and circular thingamajig onto my white tee shirt. I was more just a bit peeved by the antics of the mosquito and more so by the design of the mosquito-repellent patch. Neither of which did much for my self-esteem.
This protective patch that was my supposed shield against mosquito attacks, if not quite the knight in shining armour, bore a rather disproportionate drawing of a silly looking female bear, with a big face on a tiny little body, snugly fitted into a tight red dress. Her lips smudged, with an overdose of matching red lipstick. And between the ears, drawn strangely above the head, was something that must have been intended to represent a floral clip. It was mostly pungent lime-green with just a thin, curly-whirly, red outline. It was the outline that made me think it must be something floral. Her head was turned upwards, eyes as if mooning after a gob-smacking kiss that had smeared the red lipstick all over her bearish nostrils. I looked at it, took in the whole picture, crinkling my nose at the now over-powering smell of the repellent and this unlikely figure that had emerged from the pack as my protection.
But I didn't have the courage to take it off. Beneath the strains of Rachmaninov that were filing the night, it could be buzzing anywhere. And sure enough, a short while later, I spied it, right there crawling beside the fan, in almost the exact same place I had first seen it. Making me wonder at my eyesight and the way this mosquito had succeeded in playing tricks with my mind. Fear does that to you doesn’t it?
Over the last few years I suffered a series of accidents that severely
affected my cervical vertebrae. The only thing that helped was physiotherapy.
And it seemed as if I would have to live with this debilitating pain for the
rest of my life. I was also reading this wonderful book at the time, Anything Can Be Healed by
Martin Brofman and his personal
experience in healing was amazing. He uses something called “The Body Mirror System”. The system is based on the idea that the
parts of your body that suffer reflect the parts of your life that are
dysfunctional; that there is tension in your consciousness which causes these
symptoms. To release a symptom, one has to release the stress that caused the
symptom, and bring harmony to the parts of your life that have been, well, out
of balance.
When
I looked within, I found an answer.
Now consider the fact that the cervical area is controlled by the Vishudha Chakra [i].
According to Brofman, “Metaphysically, this chakra is
related to creativity manifesting in the physical world and the fulfillment of
one's goals….This chakra controls the aspects of expressing and receiving.
Expressing can be in the form of communicating what one wants and what one
feels, or it can be an artistic expression, [singing, for instance] basically
using a form for expressing and bringing to the outside what is within…” I
realized that there was something I had been in denial about for over a decade.
Of course there was disharmony.
There was a time when I was obsessed with classical music. There was a time when this music was like a secret language to me.
It was the language that I used to express my thoughts. Not only was I training under a guru, I had also enrolled
at a reputed music school to learn classical music theory. For me at the time,
the raga was supreme: the be all and end all of my existence.
The word raga is derived from
its root, ‘ranja’, which means ‘to
colour’ or ‘to tinge’. And hence, ‘that by which all people are coloured or elated,
that which gives pleasure to all, is raga.’
A raga is pure aesthetics. It
is the basic melody or phraseology of traditional Indian Classical Music. In
the semantics of music, a particular arrangement of notes ‘colours’ or affects
the emotional core of the mind. Every raga
is composed of a set of principal notes which when employed in varying degrees,
in a prescribed order - stressing on some, while bypassing others - achieves a
particular shade or mood, building the character or personality of the raga. But a raga belongs to a realm larger than the notes it contains. The
notes are just a key. A performance is not just a blending of swaras[ii]
sequentially, and randomly achieving an effect. A performance actually deepens
that ‘colour’ or mood in the listener.
Alternately, a raga has also
been described as the language of the soul. This theory probably comes closest
to explaining my own relationship with music. Each raga expresses itself under the pressure of a certain emotion. For
instance, under the stress of sorrow, one might automatically render a
particular raga; similarly we might
sing a completely different tune on the wings of joy, irrespective of the time
of the day. Imagine what songs we might sing in a storm of passion …imagine
what joy we can communicate in union! A raga
is richer than any musical outline of it could ever hope to describe. Any
mental picture of it is limiting.
Coming back to my story, life and work took over and this music, which
was so important to me, got relegated to being something I indulged in over the
weekend, and then to something I went back to once a month or so--in a burst of
enthusiasm, until finally I covered my tanpuras[iii]
in velvet-lined casing about twelve years ago and there they remained, un-strummed. By denying music, I had been denying myself my secret language, my
self-expression.
And thus began a morning ritual of garam masala chai and riyaaz[iv].
Free of any formal structure or instruments. No rigours of taal[v].
No bandish[vi]
of words. In this moment I dwell in the sphere of the swara. I dissolve
in the deep concentric circles that surround each note, and as I go deeper and
deeper in it, my only aim is to reach the centre—that ethereal space where my
personal deity exists. It is a sacred journey I undertake each day. And every
day I chance upon a different tune, thrown up by the vibrations and moods
around me: mellow and sombre sometimes; playful and wanton at other times.
And unknowingly, a raga is
born in that moment. And although it is born to me and of me in that moment, it
has existed before. It’s just that I had banished it from my conscious memory
but it had continued to exist in my sub-conscious. And slowly as I flesh out
its texture, it takes on a life of its own. A known form - not bound by any bandish and taal, more like a gypsy tune that refuses to be bound by words, or
ever be repeated. And for a few moments in that sacred space, this melody sings
its song into my ear, and just as quickly flits away. Before I can catch it,
before I can note it down, and later it is hard to recall. But for that brief
moment I am captured by that sound. I am saturated with it, until I feel I
might burst.
When I get up from this almost trance-like state, I feel as if I have been
recharged by a high-tension main power line in space. And simultaneously from the
very core of the earth this energy has both exhausted and replenished every
cell in my body. I am in harmony.
And through the rest of the day I strum an imaginary tanpura in
my head and as its music infuses my soul, I know that I may not be fully
repaired but I feel strong and free.
[i]Vishuddha is
positioned at theneckregion, near the spine,
with itsKshetramor superficial activation point in the pit of the
throat. Hence it is also known as the throat chakra
Its Sunday, I usually lie in but
woke up early today. Actually, I woke up at 2.00 am and oddly, started taking
photographs of shadows, of various things around my bedside, created by the soft
yellow light I had switched on to drink some water. Thereafter I did not go
back to sleep. I tried, but in doing yoga nidra, so that I could relax and get
back to sleep I started meditating but, did fall asleep eventually. When I woke
up, the first thing I wanted to do was to pick up the camera and examine photos
of the scene which had mesmerised me in that half asleep state.
But, I first made a pot of tea to
accompany this exercise. I used Orange Pekoe Darjeeling tea leaves with a dash
of Nilgiri. They worked well together. The warm, afternoon flavour of a
southern Nilgiri complemented the rather smoky flavour of the north Indian Orange
pekoe. I drank my tea, listening to Dvorak’s Cello Concerto in B minor, which
is utterly soulful and the sombre cello appropriately reflective of my introspective
mood. On most occasions it moves me to tears.The second movement of the concerto – Adagio ma non troppo[i] is
my favourite part. In this 1978 recording I listened to, it is played by the
renowned Russian Cellist Mstislav Rostropovich[ii]
with the London Philharmonic Orchestra, conducted by Carla Maria Guilini. This
flawless, incredibly moving performance by Rostropovich is considered one of
the greatest recordings of the twentieth century.
[I could not find this Rostropovich recording on the net, but this is a fabulous rendition of Dvorak's Adagio by Jaqueline du Pre]
The sublime adagio was written by
Dvorak in memory of his pupil Josefina whom he had fallen in love with but who
became his sister-in-law, not his wife. His deep affection for her remained and
it was news of her failing health that changed the tenor of this concerto,
which had started as an essay in retrospection of landscapes, to that of lost
loves. The melody moves poignantly from its initial rustic flavour to that of a
lover’s anguish. Written in New York in the winter of 1894-95, the
Czechoslovakian composer’s passionate melodic outburst includes traces of an
earlier composition – a song favoured by Josefina. This sad story always
heightens my appreciation of the heart rending music it inspired. This morning,
it complimented my soulful mood, allowing me to wallow.
It was September, we had not had much
rain this monsoon but it did rain last night, after a long dry spell. The
heavens poured and when I woke in the middle of the night, I stood awhile just observing
the clouds shed their elongated tears as the earth soaked it all in. After this
downpour the sun was out today but, the tone of the day was somehow still melancholic.
I lit a candle, in a caddy, to heat up few drops of geranium essential oil for
an uplifting fragrance. And then, picked up my point and shoot Olympus camera
and studied the photographs I had taken while half asleep in the wee hours of
the morning.
It was the same scene I had
photographed also around 11.35 pm - of the shadow contours of a tray, a light
and wires, created by the bedside light behind them, onto the granite floor,
drawing me into the darkness, lines and textures of the imagery. The colour tones
are all shades of brown - from almost golden to raw sienna, dark umber and the
dark grey of the lamp that I use, when I embroider at night. It has a
fluorescent tube which helps balance the otherwise predominantly yellow incandescent
light in the room. It helps me work better with coloured threads if the light
is neither yellow nor fluorescent. This lamp has a long horizontal, tubular
shade to house the tube, but looks different in the shadow where it resembles
something akin to an upright vase, with a short stand and then an equally short,
but tubular receptacle rising vertically above it. It’s an odd shape.
On the low, marble bed-side table
lays an aluminium framed raffia tray with wobbly metal handles on either side. It
is an old tray; gifted one Diwali long ago, filled with nuts and chocolates. I now
use it to hold the night water-thermos and sundry stuff on my bedside. There is
also a wicker waste-paper basket in the vicinity of the bedside paraphernalia
and, in the near darkness of the night-photos I am drawn into the odd shapes
and patterns of this scene which also features my Reeboks. They, however, are not creating any shadows. Although
slightly yellowed by the light, the otherwise white and blue of the shoe design
is clearly visible. It is mostly the heel and contour of the base that is seen.
Their lighter colour adds depth to the shadows and the contrast highlights
their presence in the picture. I notice they are positioned as if someone had
just taken a couple of footsteps.
The warm tone of shadows around
this is comforting even though the forms and the darker hues are disconcerting.
More than anything else what perplexes me is that this scene is something which
I must see every night, so what is the sudden attraction? Why did I take
pictures at 11.35 pm and then also wake up at 2.00 am and take some more? The
question of what was I trying to tell myself, by drawing my attention to this
incongruous imagery, prompted much thought as I drank a pot full of Nilgiri and
Orange Pekoe tea.
The robust blend of tea and its colour
are reciprocated by the warm tones of the granite floor lit at night. Golden tones
of brown have replaced an otherwise dull, reddish hue, of pale, washed-out burnt
sienna, mottled with blackish dots. It is not my most favourite floor but Ansal’s
had built the apartment with this flooring when I bought it and changing it
would have been an extravagance. I was also short of time as I had to move in
quickly, so the not-so-nice floor tiles stayed.
They form a dark but
monochromatic canvas of some oddly shaped daubs, amid flatter shapes which are
not much more than blobs, or something that I imagine someone called Jackson
Pollock-Cezanne may have created, where ‘Pollockian’ paint daubs have been
flattened in a ‘Cezannesque’ manner. Even though I do not quite appreciate the
design, I have to admit that at 2.00 am they made a perfect backdrop, with
their motley dots and flattened daubs, for the sharp, dark, black shadows that
fell upon them.
This contrast is offset by the softer
raffia weave of the night-tray which is complimented by the raffia of the wicker
basket, and all together it is quite a picture. The Reeboks are placed as if I
had just taken them off. This is odd, as I have been swimming and therefore
could not have worn them for a while. Is this merely a coincidence, or something
that alludes to someone about to run away from the scene? Or maybe it could be
an indication of someone walking into it? My shoes, at home, on a night that I
cannot sleep and am taking photographs at 2.00 am, is certainly not a
coincidence.
I have learned from years of
watching my mind of ‘funny’ things that happen when I do not spend enough time
looking at my thoughts. It’s like those weird dreams we sometimes have where
everything is jumbled up and seems fantastical, even surreal. The message,
however, is not lost on me. At that time of the night, what can I possibly run
from but myself? But is that ever realistically possible? And the fact that I
meditated for much of the remainder of the night tells me that I did not
succeed. But I am really not much wiser this morning and the photos compel me to
think.
I have been busy. The last couple
of weeks have been hectic. Something or the other needs attention, or so I tell
myself, even as I know that mostly what really needs attention is in my mind. I
have observed how much my thoughts are responsible for whatever is going-on in
the external world, in my life as it unfolds but, still, I seem to be avoiding
something. Tricky and discomfiting, but true.
I understand; I am aware of how
things work but feel the resistance nonetheless. I have used my mind for all
sorts of tense situations this past week and I really do not want to do more
mental work at this point. I’d much rather focus on Dvorak’s lost love, and
listen to his heart wrenching anguish than do some deep analysis of my own
thoughts. Neither am I silent enough to ‘feel’ things beyond the emotional. In
such a scenario, pushing myself only succeeds in getting me to switch on the
internet and play scrabble on Facebook instead. Or play detective and study the
‘crime scene’, examining unattractive floor tiles in my apartment, as I have
done for the better part of this morning.
However, this exercise has not
been such a waste of time. Through a preliminary study of the photographs and reflections,
I realise it is not the shadows that have much to say. They set the tone by highlighting
the shoes which suggested someone could be entering, leaving or something along
those lines. I know I should do some serious contemplation. A little coaxing always
helps and its amazing how in that half-asleep state, I took photos which
intrigued, leading to ruminations on the granite canvas, to realise that
everything was not quite under control as I had thought when I turned in, to
sleep last night.
Fascinating as the subtle nuances
of life can be, sometimes I just do not want to go deeper and I do get my moments
of reprieve. But, then, just like with these ‘2.00 am shadows’, some unseen
energy finds a way to nudge me to into paying more attention to my thoughts and
not sleep-walk through life.
Darjeeling tea, with a touch of loose leaf Assam
adding colour as well as fullness of flavour, a December afternoon’s wintry sunshine,
Mendelssohn’s Leider Ohne Worte [Songs without words]: the recipe for a perfect,
lazy Sunday.
The air is still; barely a rustle among the
leaves. The odd pigeon flies from tower to tower. The intermittent cry of a
child for its mother or someone talking loudly on his cell phone disturbs the
quietness, but not enough to send me back indoors, into the chilly, sunless
north half of my apartment.
Last week, I had been nudged by Manisha to go
see an exhibition. And when I pulled up the chicks this morning, a large flock
of pigeons flying past, gracing my view, reminded me of Amina Ahmed’s video –
‘The Call or Bism’ ,shown at Gallery Seven Art, which showed a flock of flying
birds and the patterns they make as they fly back and forth. They do make a
wonderful sight as they take to the skies and I appreciate being reminded of the
beauty in this, that otherwise goes unnoticed in the humdrum of daily living. Pigeons
inhabit this building more than human beings do. They nest in every crevice and
potted plant and are a nuisance with their incessant droppings. It’s only on
occasions like this that one is able to appreciate some facet of their
existence.
I relate to Amina’s idea that these birds flock
to a call, unheard by human ear, for why else would they all seemingly rush in
one direction, inexplicably, following each other? What is it that they hear?
Do they hear or simply sense something that compels them take a particular
direction? There are some that initially
take off in the same direction but then move rapidly away. And the few stray
ones that probably never quite hear the call fly hither, thither, rather
aimlessly, as if confused. Or maybe they are just less connected?
Most of the time, I have to confess, I think of
them as stupid birds for the mess they create but, of late, my more detailed
observations of them has brought about a change in perception. I recollect one
time, when having run out of the bajra[i] that I
usually feed them each morning, I decided to give the hungry birds, pecking on
my window pane, some roasted sunflower seeds I had bought for myself and noted
how they didn’t touch a single seed. Stupid they may seem, I decided then, but
they clearly knew what they liked or didn’t. Since then, a grudging admiration
has arisen.
I wanted to dwell on this ‘flight’, the
seemingly intuitive response of mute birds to something unknown. It intrigues
but my lazy Sunday reflections have been rudely interrupted by a party in the
complex. Some resident and their guests are jiving to loudly played ‘Desi
Boyz’. The mix of Hindi lyrics, a heavy, pounding bass, designed for jhatkas
and matkas and Barenboim’s delicate tinkling on the piano, of Mendelssohn’s
lyrical pieces, is such a crazy sound that the moment of reflection is lost. These
Songs without words were early compositions when Mendelssohn was just nineteen
and German music was shifting from compositions of the more rigid, classical
forms, towards romanticism. They were the perfect accompaniment for ruminations
on a Sunday afternoon and I most certainly, did not appreciate the Bollywood
intervention.
I was
not willingly to sacrifice my sunshine either, so requested that the volume be
turned down. I cannot relate to the culture of listening to such loud music
that you cannot even think! Maybe that is the idea? Frankly, thinking can be a
pain. It’s tedious to reach that understanding where the heart and mind are in
synch and this is what intrigues me about the mute birds that do not seem to need
to think. When they are called, by the divine, as Amina Ahmed suggests, then
their response is seemingly collective, without resistance, or delay. This is
the stuff I admire, because, for the thinking mind, the intellectual who has
learned to depend on logic and reason, it’s tough. We need to understand. At
least I do.
Actually, it isn’t the thinking that irks as much, as how much time and energy it takes to put things into perspective and even though it’s necessary for clarity, in order to deal with what comes up through the day, it also makes me feel inefficient, because there always seems to be so much thought to process. And if one does not, then the aches and pains start. But then I think: I wouldn’t really like to be a pigeon, aimlessly flitting, constantly shitting, messing up the place and then sleeping in this crap too. Like people, nature and her creatures are a constant source of inspiration, but can we ever be anything other than what we are?
The noisy music, screaming children, hysterical
mothers and loud telephonic conversations are getting to me. They did try turning
the music volume down but it still disturbed. I wanted to savour the soft
lyrical music on my head phones but it really was a futile endeavour so I went
indoors to meditate.
When I returned an hour later, the party had
wound up and the birds seemed nowhere in sight, till I heard a mock gunshot;
and from somewhere, they all appeared in the same formation, I had wanted to
romanticise about earlier in the day. Someone must have fired a shot to compel
them vacate the crevices they had sought refuge in, creating an inconvenient
mess, not to mention the objectionable stench. When I saw they did the same
thing when there was a sound I could also hear, as they did earlier, when I had
considered they were responding to something heard at a frequency inaudible to the human
ear, I realised this is what birds do, they fly. Their call is to just to be what
they are meant to be; do what they were created to do.
Within hearing distance they all rose rapidly
up into the sky, carving the wind with their wings; flapping them energetically
but effortlessly. Doing what birds were made to do; they flew up into the air,
rising higher and higher, inspiring my own spirit to soar and reach greater
heights, live the dream, and fulfil all its ambitions and desires. Hearing this call or ‘Bism’, I realised that
just like the birds who do what they must; be what they were meant to be, so
must we.
It was an unusually wintry March, so I couldn't quite put the fan on and swoosh it away with the power of the three-pronged circulating blades. I wasn't feeling very well in this unpredictable weather and started bargaining with the mosquito. Well I hadn't really done a thorough investigation, but the idea of it being a mosquito that could prick me into some dreaded malaria or dengue, in this rather chaotically busy phase of my life, alarmed me. Therefore, I decided to stick with that possibility as a probable certainty and plead my case. Even so, I first called out for its identity.
