And as usual, someone great had to come and rescue my mind from the frosty grip of an increasingly grey winter. This time it was Rumi. And the remaining fire of autumn from an old, old photograph.
"I have lived on the lip
of insanity, wanting to know reasons,
knocking on a door. It opens.
I've been knocking from the inside."
~ Rumi
It's about time I realized that doors do open. That every time it's not a wrong one. That finding the right key takes time. That sometimes there's a dusty alley of doors inside us that need to be opened first. So that the sunlight can creep in through some headstrong cobwebs, and certain caged birds can be freed.
"But listen to me. For one moment
quit being sad. Hear blessings
dropping their blossoms
around you."
~ Rumi
Sometimes it's just mystifying, how things fall into place out of nowhere, almost nothing. Perhaps even more so than how they had fallen apart in the first place. But they just do, one by one, fragment by fragment.
Going through some archived folders of photographs, I chanced upon the Qutub Shahi tombs and like always, inched toward that instinct to post-process some. Although I've already written about these magnificent old tombs last August, I hadn't seen a certain connection between some pictures, not even when I was clicking them - that of the bougainvillea trails and the tombs. From a series of clicks, emerges a grand, ethereal view - first the minaret, then the dome and finally the whole tomb unfolds from the gossamer embrace of the papery pink blossoms. Photographic epiphany, perhaps?
Also, it has been a time to feel blessed. A time to trust that old, feathered thing called hope. The last week was quite unexpected, choked with tumultuous emotions. My Aja, maternal grandfather, was suddenly taken ill and the doctors suspected something rather bad. I was afraid we won't see that surprised, foggy-eyed smile that greets us every time at the clank of the big old gate. I was afraid there would be no constant gardener digging away obsessively and marveling at his own hard work. I was afraid how a tiny yet significant corner of our lives would change forever. And the worst of all - I was afraid how my dearest Aai will cope with it all, after some fifty odd years of steady togetherness. But surprisingly, during all this, the eighty-year-old Mathematics professor who has already braved three massive strokes refused to bow down, astonishing all with his beaming optimism. So, after a series of tests and doubts, the results came yesterday - he is alright! A flood of relief washed away the accumulated fear from our hearts, and I could hear the blessings dropping around us, in soft, blossomy paws.
"I am enslaved to fate, of all else say no more..."
~ Rumi
Hidden
one inside the other
the other inside another
petal after petal
whorl after whorl
living in one another
a lacy latticework of lives
Fate sits by the window
her divine, deft fingers at work
greedy and tireless
weaving stories
secretly but surely
from the womb to the world
"Out beyond ideas of wrongdoing
and rightdoing, there is a field.
I will meet you there."
~ Rumi
Last night a bunch of us friends had been to watch the just released Hindi musical drama Rockstar. I had been looking forward to this since months because of the soul-stirring music of the legendary A.R. Rahman which is accompanied by the sonorous vocals by Mohit Chauhan and the poignant poetry of Irshad Kamil. One absolutely intoxicating trio that is! Now with all the Academy adulation and international accolades post Slumdog Millionaire, the home country had been missing the quintessential Rahman for some time (strange, that I should be talking from that perspective sitting here). His sheer brilliance lies in creating tunes where rhythm after rhythm the music just grows on you and crawls into your soul till you are left with nothing but raw, scathing emotions.
That said, I'm currently mulling over something rather perplexing. The Sufi ideology that pain and heartbreak are the utmost important ingredients for creativity is where the major plot of the movie whirls around. An artist, of whatever form his/her art is, must undergo a powerful emotional catastrophe in order to get truly inspired. That is where I got stuck, and still am. What if there is no internal conflict? How much pain is enough pain? Till what extent does one push oneself and the boundaries? Or should one just wait for the elusive muse of creativity?
In the movie, as an aspiring rock star, Jordan must let his heart ravaged and torn by the ruthless claws of love and rebellion. An Indian, albeit a bit patchy take on Jim Morrison, Rockstar portrays Jordan's tumultuous journey as he lives through it all - love and loss, fame and fortune, destruction and disillusionment. By the end of the movie, when the closing credits were rolling and Jordan was reciting the above quoted Rumi lines with a gnawing intensity, I could no more feel the world around me. Nor could I see it well with a pair of blurry eyes and a tight face. Yes, I do cry at movies but this one just went a tad further and woke up a sea of dormant emotions in me. Some other day I'll sing their moods here, but not now.
Here is one of the jewels from Rahman's eternal collection. Jordan, with his newfound success and staggering popularity, is unable to understand the ways of the world. He laments his inability to articulate the beauty of emotions surrounding him - "Jo bhi main kehna chahoon, barbaad kare alfaaz mere..." (Even though I try to say something beautiful, my words make it mundane and trivial...)
And yes, from now on I am a Ranbir Kapoor fan, stamped and certified. The boy sure has blossomed and how. He has so eloquently eternalised Jordan that it is difficult to get the character out of my head. He just sits there in his military jacket and Afghan pants airing his angst while I croon the songs again and again. And again.
A black-headed gull in flight on Liberty Island, NYC
Last night Rumi spoke to me, in my dreams... "I want to sing like the birds sing, not worrying about who hears or what they think." Or was it the wee bit o' crack between sleep and consciousness?
I wake up and wonder - how hard is it to be a bird? To fly? Just spread your faith and glide on it, as if you belong there. As if the sky is yours and its feathery, fathomless infinity your clothes. Wear the engulfing yet liberating azure.
At times the brisk air catches you unaware, shaking a string of stories and songs. You might waver and fall, but fall you must. For as a phoenix you will be reborn, shedding the ashes of rejection and rise again from the very embers that had gulped you so thoughtlessly once.
And when in mid air, just remember - the ominous land and the embracing skies are balanced by you, within you. Soar higher or crash. It is just you.
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