Wednesday, November 21, 2018

Colour me green


Have I confessed my deep desire to be artistic on these pages? I must have.

Anyway here’s the thing: I long to draw, paint and colour. Sadly, I am held back, seriously held back by a lack of talent. I stare at a blank page, tighten my grip on the medium at hand and invariably there will emerge – a tree. That is the culmination, the pinnacle of my creations. A gnarled tree, with a few branches, a knot in the middle and tapering roots. And, sadder still, it’s always more or less the same tree. I branched out slightly into coconut trees, but it yielded unsatisfactory results.

In some past life, I must have been surrounded by artists who, with a few magical strokes, could suggest and evoke whole worlds. I must’ve watched and admired, despaired of my own skill. Because I don’t have the imagination and I certainly don’t have the technique. Over my adult life, I’ve bought paints, brushes, charcoal pencils, shading pencils, illustration books... spent rather a lot of money on, as a friend once punned, ‘a paint hope.’


These two pencil shading landscapes from my learning book had convenient outlines that were dead useful as a structure. Perspective is everything!

And then adult colouring books happened. It was godsent. Now, with someone else drawing out the lines, all I had to do was colour within the lines. Now, this was well within my powers. And for a few years now I have enjoyed this – listening to music and poring over printed sheets of sketches. My blending skills have improved, I love using a mixture of water colours and pencils. Then I also bought Johanna Basford’s amazing book, Enchanted Forest






There are many such books now, but I absolutely love Basford’s whimsical, intimate rendering of imagined scenes. I bought myself a rather nice set of colouring pencils and I enjoy the whole process. That is to say, I did. Till yesterday.

I went to pinterest and instagram desultorily looking for finished coloured pages. Awe and angst in equal measure! What imagination, what skill! I hate these showoffs. They should be out there creating their own masterpieces. What are they doing in amateur circuits? Not only is their colouring spectacular, they fill up the white spaces around the illustrations with their own creations, and now alas, in her latest book Johanna has taken to leaving huge portions of blank space to leave scope for these. And WAIL, I don’t know WHAT TO DO WITH THEM!!!

Let me show you what I mean:

3D by night

Riot

He or She colours outside the lines! Fancy that.

All that inside stuff is the colorist's own tweak on this wreath

Let's add a story to that flower wagon

Brown fox in the deep wood.


Have you seen anything so beautiful?
Now I have to plod on with my own pitiful efforts. I don't know how I'm going to find the heart to carry on.

Tuesday, October 23, 2018

Ramnagar ki Ramlila

Last month, I spent a week in Kashi. An absolutely memorable week that seems to have changed me, transformed me. I have never been so hung over over one city before. (Although I do remember going on a bit about my travels in the Himalaya: 1, 2, 3, 4, 5).

When I came back, I absolutely had to write about one aspect, my last evening in Varanasi, when I went to the famous Ramlila of Ramnagar. It was an immersive experience that delighted me on every level. I have been day-dreaming about going back to Kashi at this time next year, negotiate some reasonable long-term lodgings and stay for the whole month. Wander around the city in the mornings... see the 56 Vinayakas, the Nava Durgas, the Panch Kroshi temples, the secret underground temples, the eight Bhairavas, the 12 Adityas... everything! In the evenings, I would head to Ramnagar to see the lila.

Today, as I write, the Ramlila is playing out its last day in Ramnagar. At this moment, perhaps the swaroops and other primary characters are in the palace-fort, being given a hospitable meal by Kashi Naresh, receiving their dakshina from him, before leaving the palace on adorned elephants.

I wrote about it, and the piece appeared in The Hindu’s Sunday Magazine earlier this week. This is a longer, more detailed version of that piece.

======

Ramlila, the dramatic folk re-enactment of the life of Rama is conducted across North India during the Dussehra. The entire culture has been designated an intangible heritage by UNESCO, and the most notable traditions are those observed annually at Ayodhya, Ramnagar and Varanasi, Vrindavan, Almora, Satna and Madhubani. Against the ten-day version at most places, the Ramlila at Ramnagar is an elaborate, protracted affair, and takes 30 to 31 days to tell. The folk narration is done by gaslight and without microphones. The crowds range from a few thousands to over a lakh on different days.
 

Patronised by the Royal Family of Varanasi, the Ramlila here is an extraordinary example of site-specific or environmental theatre. The 5 sq km of Ramnagar town are designated to be various locations: Ayodhya, Janakpur, Lanka and so on, and the performance shifts between these locations, sometimes moving to as many as three locations in a day.

Ramnagar’s Ramlila

Chup raho!! Saavdhaan!” hollers a frail man from the stage. That command for silence is the cue that ‘samvaad’ or conversation is about to take place on the raised platform. The crowd quietens and pitches its collective ears forward, straining to hear the dialogue. Surely, without microphones, the voices wouldn’t carry beyond a 100 rows, and the gathering is several thousands strong. But it doesn’t seem to matter: everyone is following the action closely, already familiar with each line, intimate with the characters and their motivations, keenly anticipating the unfolding of a story they’ve been told and told again since childhood. That is the Ramilia at Ramnagar.

It was chance that my visit to Kashi coincided with the 31-day, elaborately-told Ramlila that unfolds here each year. I had heard so much about this spectacle, and although I’d seen performances in Delhi, it is understood that haven’t seen the lila till you’ve seen ‘Ramnagar ki Ramlila’. I dearly wanted to go, but I was a solo woman traveller... Ramnagar is 12km away and across the river... how would I go, would I be able to muscle my way through crowds, and if the lila ended late, how was I to get back? My hosts put me in the care of Shuklaji, automan and local guide, who would take me there, orient me and bring me back. It was perfect!

But the morning of the day brought worrying news. The previous day’s performance had been cancelled much to the consternation and disappointment of the thousands who had gathered –a thing that had never happened for as long as anyone can remember. Four of the five ‘swaroops’ – the children who don the five primary characters of Ram, Sita, Lakshman, Bharat and Shatrughna – were down with gasteroenteritis. They were in hospital, the newspapers said, and expected to recover by the evening, in time for the next performance.

So we went. We were early, and I had time to wander about the Ramnagar fort and palace-grounds for a while. As I made my way back, elephants were being brought around to the entrance. Kashi Naresh, the nominal ruler of Varanasi, is the patron of the Ramlila and takes close interest in it. In fact, the Ramlila here was started by his ancestor Udit Narayan Singh around 1830 and further honed by Maharaja Ishwari Prasad Narayan Singh, who ruled 1857–1889. He not only took the Ramlila out of the palace-fort into the main town but also commissioned scholars to compose dialogue in Awadhi. Even today, the selection and casting of actors for the main parts is done by the king, and the actors are chosen based on their fluency in Sanskrit, diction and throw. He also provides provisions and upkeep for the thousands of sadhus who come to see the Ramlila each year. Naturally, Kashi Naresh Anant Narayan Singh would be attending the festivities and it was just a matter of time before he and his family set out for the performance.

We trundled off deeper into the dusty town of Ramnagar, and I saw the various locations: here, the site for Ayodhya, over there, Lanka. Today was supposed to be the ‘Dhanush Yagya’, a thrilling episode where Rama strings the bow that wins him the hand of Sita but alas, with the previous day’s cancellation, the program has been rearranged. But Shuklaji consoles me: the ‘Asht Sakhi Samvaad’ or the ‘Conversation Amongst Eight Women’ and ‘Phulwari’, the garden scene where Sita first lays eyes on Rama are highly prized too! The women particularly flock on this day, I learn.
Bhajans by the roadside


We settle into the front rows and the crowd slowly swells. Mats and sacks are laid out, some bring foldable chairs, and some, with great foresight, carry steel dabbas, which do double duty for snacks and a low stool! I also lay out the felt ‘aasan’ I’ve brought for the purpose. (This was a recent acquisition at a charming shop near Dashashwamedh Ghat – a mat woven with kusha grass and this bright-red fabric for Rs 25.) It’s warm, and almost everyone buys a palm-leaf fan.

There is uncertainty in the air. If the swaroops are still ill, this could be a wash out again. “We came yesterday as well,” Tulsiji, next to me, says, “I live near the fort but many walk hours to get here. Nirash ho gaye... everyone was disappointed!”

Thankfully, it’s only a 3-hour delay. I saunter around, eating jalebis dipped in jaggery (a delicacy that’s only served during the lila), sample some excellent revdi and buy a cone-packet of makhana. The Ramlila is famous for ‘niyamis’ – these are regulars who ceremonially attend every day of the lila. I get to be on the sidelines of a pageant of what Shuklaji calls their “aan, baan, shaan”, in other words, their pomp and splendour. Typically the niyamis first take a ritual dip in the waters, wear new clothes (usually blazing white) and walk with what’s almost a swagger. I see an array of forehead markings indicating clan, or Saivite/Vaishnavite orientation. One point of pride are the staffs that they carry – ornate, worked wood with inlay and handles of silver and gold.
The elders wait for the programme to start
Staffs of many impressive kinds


In yet another piquant practice, the niyamis come armed with bottles of ittar, and it is customary to smear your friends and acquaintances with a touch of perfume. The cost of a small vial could go up to a lakh, and the kinds of ittar you carry (a different one each day, if you can afford it) says much about your status. Shuklaji met a friend and my heart leaped for joy when the man we encountered brandished a small sheesha of perfume. I was honoured with a dab – it turned out to be an ambergris-based flavour that I revelled in all evening.

“Has the Maharaja come?” I ask. “Arre, madamji,” Shuklaji says scornfully, “Agar aaye hotey toh ’Har, Har, Mahadev!’ ka aisa gagan-bhedi utkrosh hota ke aapko pata chal jaata!” Had he arrived, cries of ‘Har Har Mahadev’ would’ve pierced the skies! Informed of the delay, the king has delayed his own departure.

Finally, he arrives, and so do the swaroops: Ram-Lakshman are bedecked with sequins, sparkling stones and heavy crowns. Their limbs are smeared with sandalwood paste, lightly scored through to form lines and whorls. The scene is the ‘Asht Sakhi Samvaad’ where Ram and Lakshman walk through the streets of Janakpur, setting the town abuzz with speculation. The boys look regal and impassive as they walk through the crowds, both real and theatrical. All the swaroops, even female parts, are played by boys under the age of 16. In fact, all parts in the lila are played by men. In recent years, the character of Soorpanaka alone has been enacted by a woman, I read later. 

Two of the sakhis in conversation
The swaroops


On stage, the eight women (young men in women’s garb) hold forth, exclaiming over the beauty and grace of the two young men from Ayodhya, wanting one of them to wed their princess. Interestingly, although the actors broadly know their parts, each line is prompted by Vyasji, the director of the performance. He stands behind the actors, with a helper shining a torch on the book he holds open. He mutters the dialogue sotto voce and the actors then pick up each line, declaiming them in a curious sing-song fashion. leaving room for the prompts. To one side, below the platform, the swaroops sit, poised and phlegmatic. The villagers attending them fan them continuously. It is a curious mixture of worship and pragmatism: worry for the sick boys who still have IV catheters embedded in their veins as well as reverence for the gods they represent.

What prompted the actors to perform when their bodies are so frail? Sheer mind over matter? The age-old compulsion that the show must go on, but also because this is a tremendous responsibility. From Ganesh Chaturthi onwards, when they’re cast into their parts till the lila culminates 40 days later on Ashwin Poornima, the boys remain in character. No one addresses them by name, and even amongst themselves, the Ram-swaroop gets all the respect due to the oldest brother.

Now, the scene shifts and we all make our way to an antiquated Gomteshwar temple some distance away. We hunker down around the temple precincts and Shuklaji finds me a spot that lets me see, without craning my neck, both the shrine and the made-up ‘garden’ outside, where the romantic encounter takes place. In the audience, Kashi Naresh sits in a prime spot, unimposing but upright, his white kurta and cap gleaming in the falling light. Finally ‘Janaknandini’ Sita arrives on a palanquin. There are exclamations of delight, and everyone cranes to get a better look... she is clad in red, in contrast to the four brothers who always don yellow. Her bearers shoo crowds out of the way, and the dedicated light man replenishes his ‘mashal’ or torch constantly with kerosene from a quaint, old-fashioned dispenser.

The Gomteshwar mandir which serves as the backdrop for Phulwari
Sita and her companions make their way up the temple steps. I come to realise that time takes on quite a different meaning in rural India. The assembled crowd took the three-hour delay completely in its stride. Shuklaji informs me that every day, the performance, which begins at 5pm takes a flexible break at dusk, so that everyone – from the Maharaja to the performers – can do their ritual sandhya vandan. Small wonder then, that when Sita disappears ‘off-screen’ into the sanctum for a good eight minutes to do her Girija pujan, everyone simply waits. The puja isn’t for show and neither is their devotion.

The Ramlila is punctuated by singing from the Ram Charit Manas by Ramayanis, a group of twelve men who narrate the story in verse. This is followed by the actors who then perform the re-enactment. The Ramayanis finish their verse and the samvaad begins. Ram and Sita meet in the garden, and there is a flare of attraction. Each hopes they are meant to be together. In the rapt audience, mobile rings are frowned upon, chatter is sternly shushed. Some just read the Manas by LED light, following events their own way.

An hour more, and it is done. The swaroops stand for the final aarti, a white firecracker is set off to indicate finis. Within ten minutes, the entire crowd disperses. Till the next day, when Shri Ram will string the Shiv Dhanush and win his bride.

Monday, October 22, 2018

Blast from the Past

Every now and then, a disconcerting thing happens to you on the spiritual path.

For those who are not consciously on the road to liberation, I should perhaps explain that the idea is to become empty – of your likes and dislikes, of your identities, of your opinions, of your personality... a complex bundle of impressions received and kept, unquestioned and unexamined, which is collectively called karma. Dropping one’s karma is the attempt at this stage – and a range of tools, methodologies, approaches and schools are available to a spiritual seeker to help one do it. All forms of yoga serve to cleanse you, and each person picks whatever method or methods suit them best.

With the Master’s Grace, you become perceptibly lighter and paler, so to speak. The ultimate goal of this is to become so pale as to become utterly transparent. 'Vairagya' is the word used, and means ‘without colour’. Without any quality of your own.

Now we are progressing happily, complacent under the delusion that quite a lot has been dropped. Mukti and crystal-clear perception are a matter of time... if not tomorrow, then surely the day after that, enlightenment will happen.

And then, your karma bites you in the butt. Something crude, something very basic, something deep-seated will rear out of your accumulated personality and snarl. Leaving you shaken. And very much doubtful if you have advanced at all. What have you been doing? Is your sadhana achieving anything? Have you lost your way? How could this creep up on you unseen? How, in spite of your efforts to be conscious, did this old rubbish manifest? Shame, worry and disappointment.

Apparently, this is par for the course. Stuff will churn up – stuff you didn’t expect, stuff you thought was gone, stuff you’ll sneer at. There’s nothing to do. Be aware. Observe. Let go. Stuff comes and goes. Seek that which is permanent.

Meanwhile, a delicious haiku by George Dorsty:

am I holding
them correctly?
worry beads

Thursday, October 11, 2018

List of Annoyances

Irritated by everything.

This curtain that tickles the top of my scalp as I type.
The lounge-at-home pajamas that I gave to the tailor to shorten, which he did alter but not enough, and the bottoms of which now annoyingly curl under my heel every damn step.
The fact that I got late with everything.
That I had no creative, exciting plans for brunch and ended up making (and eating!) white rice.
The fact that I ATE without doing a single of my practices and then didn't enjoy it because I was too busy carping and feeling terrible.
The NEWS!!! The MeToo campaign. The horrible disgusting men, the unsavoury stories, the gloating women, the airing of old grievances, the jumping on the bandwagoners, the ugliness of it all.
The fact that I am working against deadlines and feeling anxious about it, instead of enjoying the pressure.
My stuffy head and this persistent headache.
My stomach that gets hungry but doesn't really want anything, but which I feed anyway, in a stupid, compulsive way.
Oh, and inflamed gums that hurt the whole left side of my face.
Plus, I forgot to soak the curtains.
AND my shoulder hurts.


Thursday, September 20, 2018

Reaction

Impatient today.

Of specious sentiment, of aggrandisement of petty things, of small outlooks and small concerns. Of the constant need to pity someone, to tendency to be immersed in sickly sentiment.

Stop!
Look at the sky, I want to shout!

Stop, or at least stop pulling me in to participate. I am not sufficiently established, and so cannot play with you. I will only get entangled, and incoherent, and confused, and angry.

Just. Look at the Sky.

Thursday, June 07, 2018

The other way round

हम परदेसी पंछी रे साधु भाई
इनी देस रा नाइ! 
-Kabir

Now, you believe you are a material person dabbling with spirituality. But essentially, you are a spiritual being dabbling with the material world.
-Sadhguru

Sunday, May 20, 2018

Wave after wave

My last header was a haiku that needed no elaboration. One of my own: 

Again
I hanker
for the simple life



And I replace it with a wonderfully multilayered one by Shrikaanth Krishnamurthy:

one more wave...
my toes curl tighter
around nothing


That’s how I experience it – that my Master comes at me in waves. As strong a wave as I can take at that moment. And each wave takes away the deposit of lifetimes, leaving me with less, clinging, curling my toes around nothing.

Sunday, April 08, 2018

On hold

It seemed certain a couple of weeks ago that we were not going to have a glut of mangoes this summer. And now, into the second week of April, it appears we are not going to have a summer either.

In February the mango trees were bare of flowers. Ours told us quite frankly that it was taking the year off, the usually bountiful tree across the northeastern wall was sparsely dotted with the pale green blooms. Word trickled in that Sita Mami's tree was sulking. When Ugadi came around, Bhudevi was shocked and indignant: We may have to BUY a raw mango for the Ugadi pachchadi, akka! For a residential area well supplied with mango trees, it was a bit of a stunner. So yes, it came to that in the end. I paid Rs 10 for a smallish bit of sour green.

There are hardly any green mangoes and certainly no yellow ones. The desperation will obviously mean that fraudsters will hurry to chemically ripen the available crop, which renders even those inedible. 

But what was happening to the season itself? February was pleasant and we gloated somewhat, with a wary eye out for the punches that March would hurl at us. March marched past, with the higher temperatures hovering around 37 C, sometimes 38. It's hot, we said to each other in a compulsive fashion; it was what we should be saying at this time, but our tones lacked conviction. Now, in April, we are getting the most dramatic storms. Gusts, thunder, lightening and all-night rain. I'm pulling on two sheets and the fan's regulator points at 3, occasionally 2. I'm actually wearing my denims. What on earth is happening?

We may yet get the usual treatment in May, but it is already safe to say that it's going to a highly truncated version.

Pausing
for dramatic effect
Hyderabadi summer

Tuesday, March 20, 2018

Game on

“I’m in love,” I told Shweta.

“Twentieth time this year!” she said.

It’s true. I’m what they call a dil-phenkh. My heart waits eagerly to find something worthy of worship – and in the world of East Asian drama, there are so many, so many demi-gods.

I’ve stayed for the most part with Korean dramas, but a couple of Taiwanese series, one lovely Thai story and a few Japanese pieces (mostly movies) have made it to my binge list. Chinese dramas, I’ve hitherto steered clear of, simply because of their length. 30 to 60 episodes per story are a bit daunting without strong recommendations.

But the mood came upon me and I watched a movie called Love O2O. Such an intriguing concept for a love story, I quickly devoured it in all its forms – I read the exquisite manhua (still in progress), watched the 30-episode drama version and sought out an English translation of the novel (A Slight Smile is Very Alluring) that all these are based on.


University Days: A frame from the manhua


Love O2O: The drama version

The movie version


[HERE BE SPOILERS – because I’m going to rave about it and don’t know when to stop]


Bei Wei Wei is a computer science student at Qing University, Beijing, who is addicted to an MMORPG (Massively Multiplayer Online Role Playing Game) called Dreams of Jianghu – she’s an ace player and ranked among the top ten gamers in the server. One day, she gets proposed to by the No 1 ranking Yi Xiao Nai He – in the game, of course. They should ‘marry’, he says, to win an upcoming couples’ tournament. She agrees. What follows is an immensely sweet (and yet not cloying) courtship. They battle monsters together in beautiful synchronisation, take down enemies, Yi Xiao Nai He fights some badass duels to protect her honour, they fly across the game landscape on a giant phoenix... and the two find themselves spending a lot of time at the game’s Sunset Point – a beautiful cliff edge overlooking a low sun that never sets, and where players hardly come because there are no monsters here to kill, no experience points to be gained, no missions to accomplish.

Normally not interested in meeting her online friends in person or in outing her gaming identity, Wei Wei is still all a’flutter when he finally suggests they meet. Yi Xiao Nai He turns out to be Xaio Nai – computer geek, hacker, programmer, super achiever and all round University star. They take their online love offline (which explains O2O) and then from a university romance, the story of this Alpha Pair becomes immersed in the mechanics of a new game that Xiao Nai and his team are developing.

Running contrary to every screenwriting formula, the love story has no hiccups, no misunderstandings... just development, development, development. To the last, Wei Wei is Xiao Nai’s most devoted fangirl and while he’s cool, impassive, unruffled in all his dealings, his eyes soften for Wei Wei every time he looks at her. The characters are wonderfully drawn. The leads are very alike: strong, passionate, decent and kind. The support characters, particularly Xiao Nai’s band of boys, are delightful.


Had I come across this seven or eight years ago, I’d have had no time for this post. I’d have been hooked to the nearest MMORPG I could lay my hands on and hacking at monsters. But older, wiser and altogether much more wary of my obsessive nature, I have not done so. (Yet.)

The graphics in the movie are better of course, but the drama is beautifully detailed and benefits from the build-up that 45 minutes x 30 can offer. The lead actress Zheng Shuang is fine but you’ll forgive me for throwing the better part of my love at the feet of the scrumptious Yang Yang.

I’m still caught in the tail-spin of this binge. What shall I do next? There are two more dramas based on novels by the same writer, Gu Man. Or if I’m willing to wait and keep pace with it as it airs now in Korea, there is the very tempting ‘The Great Seducer’ which is loosely based, I hear, on Les Liaisons Dangereuses.

Monday, January 29, 2018