Noorunallah!

Pre Scriptum: Before reading this, it would perhaps be advisable to scroll to the bottom of this post and play the track that shares its title with this post.
Thank you.
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This is borne out of only (mostly), and only what this song has given to me this fine morning.
Given the loss of words I find myself in at this point, I shall buy some time by starting with what formed the backdrop for this experience.

Mid terms just ended, I found myself surprisingly free Friday evening. Though there was considerable work pending in matters outside of the classroom, the very fact that another set of exams had just flown past, was dope enough for the mind to fly and be free, after a long, long time (or so it seemed at least! Time dilation anyone? ;)

Starting that night, to the second that has just skiiped by, (yeah, that one right there!) I have finished 4 movies: Memento, Amadeus, Trois Couleurs: Rouge, Trois Couleurs: Blanc.
While people around me are in the double digits, 4 is a treasure for the time spendthrift movie fan in me. Further, prior to this I completed a blog post, which was supremely satisfying, albeit the slight aberrations that may been induced by the forces of empty-tummied-ness, and general insomniation.

Nevertheless, as has been made amply evident, these last 3 days have given wings to that which was stifled somewhere inside, in the face of a world growing up too fast. While this new found freedom provided several such flights, it was also responsible for the coming up of several old questions on life and the likes. However, it is stuff such as what forms the subject of this post, that invokes that all overriding call to divine procrastination, and its all embalming plea to a faith as blind as 2 bats sharing a drink at a tavern north of Northumbria.

Noorunallah.
The Light of the Almighty One.
The light which brings to life all that it falls upon.
The light which once seen, blinds one to the trivialties that the world throws towards one.
The light which, given our instrumental role in schemes larger than our selves, shines often through us and those around us.
The light, which helps us up when we fall into the maze that we ourselves create so masterfully.
The light which blurs all distinctions between I, you, Him, it and that.
The Light which shines through a million little eyes, yet complete as a whole, with meaning that waits, contingent, only for the one to give in to, and indeed become, the One.

All of the above, and SO much more which escapes my mortal comprehension and expression, is what lies concealed under the covers that this piece comes with. Blessed was the day when I procured this folder from my frontie, one of the early days in Jokaland.

To Noorunallah...


PS: Couldn't help but quote this, from this post long long back, which was magical in itself...

"To think of the day that has just passed,
My heart sings to You in joy,
Your eternal love all around me,
What else could I ask of Thee?
I love You and You love me,
What more do I need to be?"

Sigh... Such days... Such light... Such persevering, immaculate, eternal love...

Potently visible by its very absence

The seed for this post was planted late last night, or lets say prohibitively early morning today. Around 5am it must have been, high on a sponty trip to the city for a 2nd dinner, and hours of thass to top, I had America's Ventura Highway on, and was just leaving hostel for another "walk to remember", armed with phone and camera, and accompanied by the muse that reaches out to me through them.

As I was turning to the right, something caught the corner of my eye. Just for a second, I saw a human form walking. But that was all that it was. A momentary aberration of the elements within and without me, to bring to life a figure invisible, yet wholly present; (perhaps) non-existent, yet undenyably alive. To the naked eye, it seemed as if the figure had been carved into the ambience, thus perfectly camouflaged, yet visible by the void it seemed to embody.

However, as is often the case with posts such as these, it is what meets the eye that counts.
And thus began the rapid germination of said seed planted previously.

The need for a particular object/entity (referred to, here on, as 'it' for convenience) is what defines its presence in our lives. Thus to experience it, one need not necessarily have it. Rather, the very fact that one feels its need/importance/indispensability et al, suffices.
Thus, as was the case with me today morning, it needed not the presence of a person there in the morning mists, nor that of a living example of His love, just the very cognizance of such a presence, such potential, such love.

It is in fact existent, solely through the meaning it portrays, the power it weilds so blithely, and the very fact that it is acknowledged among the mortals that spot the earth. In fact, extrapolating this hypothesis further, our very existences are defined and governed by how we influence and affect our surroundings; without a canvas on which to display our colours and shades, our existences woud (perhaps) remain just that, mere, lifeless existences. This canvas is not to be mistaken with a necessarily external, worldly, gaudy object of self adulation, rather, it may be taken to be anything that takes one away from the compelling realms of the self and related derivatives.

Returning to the original theme.
Our lives, are thus (perhaps) governed by an (in?)finite set of needs and wishes that punctuate our existence. And each one of those needs comes to life, by its very presence in our consciousness, as do we ourselves.
Thus, one need not be present to be there, rather, one's absence is as potent in its influence over another.

This is strongly reminiscent of Prof. Rita Ganguly's little discourse at NSIT, after a glorious Spic event (where she ended with our beloved "Zara dheere dheere gaadi haanko"!). There, explaining one of her pieces, she spoke, of how lust did not need the presence of another being; rather, it was defined, and lived in all its glory, solely by the thirst, the need, the longing.

That should be it for now. May we all live to experience that which is always a step ahead, either through its presence, or the lack of it. For, quoting from a post long long back:

"it is the feel that truly matters. Instances of the feel just give it a name, a shape; the feel remains ever free, ever unbounded, ever present, waiting always and only, for the one."

Cheers!

PS: The following deserves a special mention, for the role they played in the R&D of this post! :)

WINAMP playlist

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4 tracks in playlist, average track length: 5:29 Playlist length: 21 minutes 58 seconds Right-click here to save this HTML file.

Playlist files:

1. America - Ventura Highway (3:22)
2. Hazaaron Khwaahishen Aisi - Man Yeh Baanwra (Qawwali) (3:04)
3. Mrigya-ganga (10:31)
4. Steve Vai - Instrumental solo (5:01)

The speed of thought...

The muse for this little post came to me when talking to a friend yesterday, whose Dad was coming over for the day.

Upon asking how much time it took to reach from her native palce to Calcutta, her answer came in 3 parts, one each for air, train and road travel.
Something about that progressively increasing time span, her eyes as she replied, and the general manner in which she reminisces about the days back home, opened up a window in front of me.
Just for a moment, I experienced the infinite speed of thought.

How the mind had the power to transcend all barriers of the world, that too in good time; how it could give you a taste of Goan fish curry you had 15 years back, and in the next instant give you a glimpse of the next big thing in Manchester United, astrophysics or even your own self.

It also seemed incredibly beautiful, how one could travel to any place in the world and beyond, flying on the gleefully free wings of one's mind. How the mind thus, had the power to heal (and dig up?) wounds; to render a thousand enemy arrows useless; to search and pursue any little matter is so chooses.

How true is Milton,
"The mind is its own place, and in itself, can make heaven of Hell, and a hell of Heaven."

Cheers to that which has the power to do SO much, waiting only for an able saarathi for a master.

The outstretched hand

It waits.
It watches.

It looks around at the many people it so loves.
It reads this, and finds a growing sense of purpose in its fleeting existence.

It waits.
It watches.

It craves to bring joy to those around it.
It longs for that one glance that would fulfill its life ambition.

It waits.
It watches.

It tries to be of use when those around it are blues-stricken.
It feels helpless at the seeming futility of its role.

But it waits.
It watches.

It stretches out its hand, to reach out to a friend in need.
Its eyes watch with love streaming out.

And it waits.
It watches.

Having waited and watched and longed for that one touch,
It looks back at the life it has lived.
It remembers the moments that have been its days. It recalls every instance of its attempt at being put to use; of its glance upward at every passing stranger; of its sweet, painful desperation for being a part of something bigger than itself; of its undying love for those it cared for; of that all pervasive, all overpowering need, to be loved.

Hands still outstretched, tears in its eyes, and with a hope for a brighter life ahead, it finally falls, and dies.

Dear, dear flower, Rest in Peace.

"When children wake up in the morning..."

Short observational post this one will be.
This was what prompted it:

"जब बच्चे सुबह सुबह उठते हैं,
तब बड़े cute लगते हैं।"

This was what I said to a friend, when she opened the door to my wake up call today morning.
While it was just a simple observation then, the significance it eventually weaved around itself, was... well it was just very, very beautiful.

Translating + paraphrasing the quoted lines, Children waking up in the morning are really cute.
Further deliberation pointed out the reason behind the accentuated cuteness. At that moment, eyes rubbing, hair ruffled, and a hint of dreaminess in the air, their minds are as blank as mortally possible. That unthinking mind shall soon to be engulfed in a thick mist of infinite shades, aimed at clearing the deepest puzzles of one's consciousness (calculus, finance, love, sorrow, life, anything!). However, for those unforgiving, impatient, fleeting moments, it is gloriously unaffected. It sees the world, the walls, the books, the people, itself, for the first time since its last excursion to that land of unfathomables. The curious observer in me wonders gleefully, if in fact that eternal chase for the elixirs and 42's of life, that we start on every such occasion, does in fact begin with the key right behind us, so close, yet so tragi-comically far; perhaps the answer lies in front of our eye in that moment, only to be flooded into oblivion by the incoming rush of knowledge, intelligence and the smarts.
Perhaps.

Finally, the last observation from that experience, wherein I drew on my memories from the years that have been my days. In that moment described above, one doesn't need to be a child, to be a child. In that moment, I remembered my father, my nephew, my cousins, my friend (whose fortunate sleep affinity led to this wonderful little thought train this beautiful day!), and even myself; I distinctly remembered, how each and every one I had ever seen in that moment, had actually been little children waking up to a new day, who would grow to their respective worldly ages in a matter of seconds.
Great bliss flew in from the countless windows all around.
Sigh...

The child knows all. Keept it alive and well.

I shall conclude with two gems courtesy Tagore:

"Pure joy is the children's joy. They have the power of using any and every trivial thing to create their world of interest, and the ugliest doll is made beautiful with their imagination and lives with their life. He who can retain this faculty of enjoyment after he has grown up, is indeed the true Idealist. For him things are not merely visible to the eye or audible to the ear, but they are also sensible to the heart, and their narrowness and imperfections are lost in the glad music which he himself supplies."

and...

"From the solemn gloom of the temple,
Children run out to sit in the dust.
God watches them play,
And forgets the priest."

बच्चों, खुश रहो।
:)

Jugni...

Firstly, the song may be read and listened to, here.

Ok.
The song appears at first, to be yet another typical peppy, Punjabi party number. And it is all of that, lest you develop early misconceptions from my writing. What it does to parties every single time it plays out its incredible little story, is beyond what words can adequately describe. The DJ becomes instant God, and the most spent bodies around you pick themselves up with a renewed force.
However, that is not what this post wishes to delve into.

And thus, we enter the 2nd level of thought that this song takes one into.
I was fortunate enough to have been pushed into that infinite well by a wingie of mine. His own feel for this song was inspiring, for unlike me, it is sanely rare that he appreciates something to the extent of becoming a dog for it (kutta ban jaana!).
So he took his sweet 16 minutes to explain the song word for word, feel for feel. And for the first time perhaps, I truly appreciated the worth of lyrics and words in a song. Not that I hadn't treasured them till now, but somehow they had always seemed second fiddle like with respect to the wonders of the beat, note and the entire composition. This was one of those rare occasions, when my interpretation of the piece was lent an invaluable hand by the (often taken to be) pedestrian cult of lyrics. For soon after I realized the meaning of the words being spoken:

1. I experienced how this piece was in fact immensely melancholic, tragic, and near depressing in its countenance. Thus the big party hit, did in fact have greater depth than that which causes people to go insane in front of 8kW speakers.

2. Eventually, I began to understand the tongue in which the music was trying to communicate. Things began to get much much clearer all of a sudden. 2 instances to clarify:
--The portion at 1:21 gradually transformed from a regular techno embellishment, to an accurate expression of one's transition to insanity; of how one of the first steps of loving someone or something is to lose one's mind in it's infinite expanses; of how this song seemed to highlight the less rosy side of that love, which though identical in element, is more intense in its shade.
--And the ending instrumental, though already catchy, suddenly stood up and introduced itself as the epitome of absolute power revealing her face as if in mockery of our tiny selves.

And as is very often the case in such matters, just as I began to wallow in a self-satisfied sense of accomplishment, at having successfully deciphered the song, I was told to shut up and sit down.

Out of the blue, I caught a glimpse of that punch which would leave me in a daze for as long as I wished; which would open my eyes to things never before seen, everytime I closed them. Given the near alien nature of this stimulus response, I shall not attempt to give it a socially acceptable form, rather, I shall choose to float on its waves, and write out all that enters and leaves my mind. Think of it as an extended, essay type Rorschach 'audio-blot' test.
Here goes:

All around, one finds inviting trails of sound, light, laughter, pain, tears and passion. But underlying all of these disparate entities, is one common denominator: Lets call it X for now, hopefully we'll stumble on an adequate descriptor by the time we end tonight. The 1:21 incident mentioned previously throws some light on someone passing through an invisible wall of madness, almost as if by chance. It was as simple as slipping from an N-storeyed high-rise, and yet as innocent in its observant smile as one's 2 year old nephew. And yet, after having reached the other side, one finds oneself unscathed, but for a growing sense of awe towards the hand which is causing this massive upheaval of sorts. Dusting, panting, one gets up, and is greeted by the protagonist, tragically unable to give form to that which has so indiscriminately coloured his unsuspecting mind. While at first glance this seems a plaintive cry for help as his beloved systematically deserts his very soul, leaving it bare and helpless in this big world, one soon sees that which punctuates the darkness all around.
The eternal pursuit for that elusive little 'jugni' suddenly catches one's eye, and one knows the end is near, at least for now.
It is there everywhere now. An artiste's pursuit of that perfection, often rendered zilch by the absence of the bhaav; one's absolute and complete surender, to that... that feel. The feel that enslaves all of mankind in its magical web of freedom; which takes one's very core to places one had never dreamt of; which alone has the power to break that which shackles the soul. The feel for nuclear fission, dhrupad, football, neural science, dance, poetry, service, love... shared by different people, to different extents, directed at different objects, either present or absent in the above non-exhaustive list.
One is exposed to a truth thus far buried deep under the earth; that which had been teasing one with stealing glances all this while; that whose immaculate brightness could not be concealed under the many layers of dirt and mirth poured over it.
The necessity to enslave oneself to one of those several faces, in order to find one's own path to freedom. For unless one gives up all one has, all one is, all one aspires to be, one is in essence nothing. The entire life is spent in this chase for that one thing, which shall take one to absolute void-ness, in order to endow one with that one unnamed elixir. One's pursuit of that ideal renders all other directions null and gloriously void.

One is incomplete, as long as one exists.
To give up and give in, is in fact to attain that which can otherwise only be aspired for.
When one comes to the end bare footed, empty handed, armed only with a smile, one has finished the race successfully, while most others loop around in never ending circles.

"Mainu Maar Gayi
Tu Yaar Meri
Tu Pyaar Meri
Tu Jugni Jugni
Tu Jugni Jugni"

For me, the point italicised above marks the lowest one reaches in terms of perceived self assessment. This point onwards, one embarks on a rising voyage, which attains critical mass at:

"O Jugni Tap Tap Tap Tap
Khoon Bahaundi"

For it is here, that one sees all that has been written above. One realizes the truth behind all the blood, sweat and tears.

And it is here, that one tries to share all that unbridled magic with one's own, and sits down to write.

Cheers mateys!

PS:
"O Jugni Aaja Aaja
Hath Na Aundi Ai"

Sigh...