First my cool,
then my curtsy,
last my silence.
My cool our pleasure
my curtsy my present choice
my silence to move ahead
I was watching a discussion between two guys on TV a few years ago.The first guy said, in the past 1000 years of literature in the Indian subcontinent, there has never been any real Indian drama. Either the plays were written in Sanskrit which was excluding the cognizance of the working masses, as the stories evolved around the kings and Gods or at the other end, the dramas that might have popped up in the folk lore were in vernaculars, and very specifically insulated from the life of the people with other tongues. And only after the independence the united Indian subcontinent has life that is lived in tandem, and the dramas coming out of such a life, are the only ones that can be called Indian Dramas.And among the lot, the pick are Badal Sircar and you.
The second guy[famous for his half-truth… yeah screen-play titled so] said you too.Actually its all the three.
Yeah, as you might have expected both agreed with their great analysis.
A decade later, saying “Rushdie is not a phenomenon, but she is: with one novel, got an international award, became rich, famous and gets media attention.”
the first guy wrote a play called “Heap of broken Images”, claiming only those who write in their mother tongue can do justice to literature. Well, he seems not to have got the money or fame she got with this effort too.
This she, is interestingly described by Tarun Tejpal as
“with aerobically toned sexy body has the biggest balls for an Indian writer, who is generous both with her time and money”.
But the point is , there was a folk art form all the time, which would cater to the poor working classes, in vernaculars as oral tradtion. Usually the players and the writers would be one/many of them, with some extra verbal skills, and used as time pass during the monsoon times, when no work on fields was due.
There were second type of itinerant performers who would come perform amongst these simpletons, and be paid in cash or kind[mostly], for the entertainment they provided. These were a bit more devoted and would be either more political social or mystic in their literary creations. I know some of the marvelous folklore from my own village and surroundings coming down for centuries. These literary works usually were performed by a single person, as “pada”s viz ge ge pada, kamsaLe pada etc or else with a group of 3 to 5 people, usually of the same family. They were again supported by the village working class, not the rich Zamindars, nor patronized by temples. Since they were dedicated to the art form for their livelihood, as a rule, their creations have more artistic attributes, than the once-in-a-while singing and dancing done by the working folks them selves.
The other major part of their performance was the mystic element which would bring God and his favors with in the reach of the religiously kept-out people. This inspired the workers to patronize them for more than entertainment-value of the performances.
On the other side there were Bhasa,KALidasa in Sanskrit and in vernacular pampa ranna and so on directly having the royal patronage.
The two started loosing distinction slowly in the middle ages during elaborate productions arranged for the working classes by the land lords. Yakshagaana etc and finally leading to touring talkies natakagaLu and nataka companies, like gubbi company etc .
During the same time the politico-economic status of the country was also undergoing severe changes, as to shift the balance of profitable remuneration, from the rich few patrons to the large number of working class. Here what worked was the number. Each paying an anna would be a huge amount compared to the patronage of the numbered rich.
So, finally this impact also got into the story lines of the content. The stories of kings were also there, but the stories of people like those in the audience started getting prominence. Thus we have landed up with the master pieces of Dhuttargi like Sampatthige SawAl etc.
The key factor, here is , in both form and content , the dramas all the while, were tailored to the paying audience. That’s it.
There is no more esoteric factor to it.
If Indiana Jones has an Indian element in the story line, the Indian market is also millions strong.
The writer, can write about the life he has lived and things he/she has strong relation with, thematically. But he always tries to tailor it to be affective to the paying masters. Hence the source coding and channel coding.
The form and content are decided by only these two, and manifested as per the artistic capabilities [prathiBhe] of the artist.
Recently, after inspiring (?) collection of or due to “the heap of broken images”, he has come up with his first Originally-English Play .
did you say
PLAYING BY THE RULES OF THE GAME?
Udara nimittham bahukrutha vesham !!!
Two young men, take the blame
One is Praveen, Zahir, other’s name
One means expert; other, to express
My word has both, in Its Flame.
Poor are their hearts
Dull are their wits
who only need, in tiny bits
even the cake and such sweets
They are seldom eaten so
Cherry once, once the flour
Half the distance, for a step
One seldom reaches the door
The midsummer night's dreams are becoming
too indulging that they stretch in time
all day.The reality seems one of the
options for mind, where as to not to loose
myself from its option I need to bootstrap our
status quite cohesively albeit with some morbid
disentanglement from the long acquainted way
ward traits. The whole thing culminates in the day's
cliffs and troughs , getting assimilated by
evening of the evening into the dark night which
leaves me to me, to gaze at the past rage,enrage
and the garbage since dawn.The whining pathos some
times pull me to the edges of the known world into
uninhabited spaces.On one such occasion I bought
a weekly which sells at the shop, only 3 copies a week
compared to the popular one which does 25. While
going through that diverged progeny of its parent
weekly, I saw a book being serialized in it.It is
a scathing take on the first epic of our civilization.
The fact that I would have undone all the
civility by that time of the day, does not
make it an anomaly to look being its reader.
Though it does not interest me much,I
flick to the next page. But I cant bury my
reminiscences unvoiced, of that book ,
he had got me to read two decades ago.
The voices of the past haunt , with its
image mollifying my fragile serenity.
The weekly is Lankesh by Gauri Lankesh and
the book is Seethayana by Dr.Polanki Rama Murthy.
In the dark chambers of the night, as the
world seems going apart, I clutch to that
singularity called hope. The integrity that
I impart to it, draining my vitality transcends
my relevance beyond now.Along with time.Only
to discover many new "now"s. Which just toss
me to the next.The monotony of this truely
has reached the nadir now. The only escape
from this now is the now of a different kind.
A fully actual one, with all virtues and
the real one. A self contained cocoon which
spawns all my restlessness around it like
the thread which webs insulating me from
the chaos in and around. During the
transitive aberrations like these , an
"interpreter of maladies" due to the
"inheritance of loss" it makes.
Then my vanishing persona wakes.
Some days ago there was a series of
non-events that got to the extreme to
leave me frustrated.I was going through
the reactionary work of D.R .Nagaraj,
Allama Prabhu Matthu Shaiva prathibe,
which had such a tone of
criticism of the prevalent nationalised
view of Indian Philosophy,
of Das Guptha,that
it really popped up many interesting
points regarding the issues
of translation and the vernacular's
called singularities. In a very deep
sense I was really going through a
very piece of reactionary literary
scholastic work..As the going got tough,
as my correspondence works met
a dead end during week-end, I decided
to go to the canteen and sip
tea with "colorful"
view around and finish this book,
which I had prioritised to be
before I go ahead with my mail
works.Then as usual there were many
attractive girls, some with boys
many without!, being themselves,
chatting and in abandon. I wonder
are these girls more beautiful
then those of the previous generation
or that these get them selves
suitable haircuts and dress to
maximise the impact, rather than the
monotonously dressed and monotonously
done hair of the previous generation?
after all how can I say! The impact
being a serious function of the
readiness of my self to get impacted ,
makes an objective assessment impossible.
So, any way I just bask in the
thrill of the moment that my circumstances allow me to.
And there was this group of 5 girls
sitting around diagonally facing me,
two tables away, making huge noice.
I was thinking how destituted
the rigour of my work
is making me, by placing a demand on my
time so tight, that I am surely
without any concession, to be devouted to
this lone cause while life with
so much of "these" around me,
gets un touched and unfelt. In a
vague flight of delussion I was
thinking how would it be if I would
go and and talk to them, and
have some fun? Allas there was no
reason for me to relate to them or identify
with them which made this fantasy an
impossibly abberated reality.
Hence I turned the page to delve into
the objection Nagaraj finds in the
ideological ways of Allama with the
anthropological diversions of the
Veerashaiva Movement and how he
compromises his epistemological stands.
Then I survived that hard core analysis
and entered the section where he
addresses the objection of Allama about
the Tatvamasi of Adishandkaracharya.
Then I suddenly heard Hello,
I look up and the girl from that
group whose morphology had achieved
the maximum share of my attention
span is infront of me! I said yes!
but with an annoyed
face as if to make it clear that
I was being disturbed from my study.
She asked "Do I know you?" I Dont
know, pat came the reply. Then she said
"I mean I thought I had seen
you some where." I said "may be!"
Well, at this level, since I did not
have any genuine desire or affinity
for an aquaintance this really annoyed.
I looked annoyed too. Then she asked
where am I from, I told about
my college and my stint at the
company and the Institute. The girl
appologised and went off.
I was since at a very interesting
stage of the book reverted back with
no momentum loss, from this what
could have been a sweet diversion.
I went back and finished the book.
Meanwhile I finished two more cups
of tea. While that girl again was crossing me,
I just asked her had she been to
Institute for some reason,
as there is a chance that she
might have seen me there?
She bluntly said ,
"Look We were playing a game called
'who dares?' ".
In that we have to do some
thing daring. I was asked to
come and ask about your
details which I did. Apart from that
it was nothing else.
"I have never seen you and sorry for
uff As Always !!! Why me? Well,
I did not even have the
next page of the philosophical
text to revert back. I just
had to tell myself...
It happens Dude!! It happens!!!
Moral of the story:- There is some
thing about my exterior, atleast,
which makes girls need "daring"
to approach me! Its time I correct
it completely and become inviting...
I dont have much time
... Soon I shall be swept off my feet,
by my other half...
I am getting ready mate!!!
I read about “Future Poetry” by Aurobindo Ghosh. I don’t know what he meant by it. But here is the way, I see it happening.
One side effect of being on the road, away from the desk, even when the freewheeling effect of studies, is running like a persistent asymptote, in the back ground, is an inter disciplinary spillover.
Time scaling is an important concept for all the DSP guys.
Explanation: If we have two similar graphs[with x-y axes],one below the other, and if we have the scale markings on the x-axis of the top and the bottom graph by hours and days respectively, if we bring any figure from the top graph to the bottom intact, we are indeed scaling it by a factor of 24, as there are 24 hours in a day.
This process has very deep philosophical and epistemological strings attached to it. It is a very often used tool in many mathematical procedures.
Instead of working further problems towards finishing my work, when I stupidly while away, a thought pops up!
Now how will it reflect in poetry?
That late lyricist, had penned a crisp popular anthem in Taal, as
Ramthaa jogi vo ramthaa jogi
sAri madushAlA pI Aya
mI ek pal me sadiyA ji AyA
Yes this is the apt example! in a second or moment [Ek pal ],
centuries [sadiyA] are lived..
Now coming to infinite series, we have a more immediate example. In my post called “blogonomy” [https://recognition.wordpress.com/2007/05/08/blogonomy/] the last two lines are the representation of
summation, i from 1 to infinity, of N divided by 2 times i is always less than N.
Now I am gone.