tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-210965382024-03-07T08:35:10.036+01:00ShaK|WritesUnknownnoreply@blogger.comBlogger307125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-21096538.post-31296549107921001852017-05-23T04:22:00.001+02:002017-05-23T04:22:09.090+02:00Striving to end the drought<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
Ah has it been this long? Almost three years and not a single blog post. So much has kept me busy I suppose. Nah - that's too easy an explanation. Guess I just did not have anything to write about? Not true. Tons have happened. Then? Well, how about just plain old laziness?<br />
<br />
That's it.<br />
<br />
So here is to another feeble attempt at ending that drought then. Let's see how long this one lasts.<br />
<br />
A toast to the words eagerly awaiting representation on these pages.<br />
<br />
Cheers!</div>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-21096538.post-86412554480800332212014-10-09T07:50:00.002+02:002014-10-09T07:51:06.608+02:00Blue<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgjLwtOvwlrp1lcLozYVWqHuC7nb7ALBq1WDB4FQav2wkKyB7ob0c-2ZFn3KNxkcVKaDOEJcgaGi4PELDm6w14_nxCv4e0lZ3m_BtLpWCMaZQGKjHMbZComOrxXu53whdYQJnIWXQ/s1600/IMG_0437.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgjLwtOvwlrp1lcLozYVWqHuC7nb7ALBq1WDB4FQav2wkKyB7ob0c-2ZFn3KNxkcVKaDOEJcgaGi4PELDm6w14_nxCv4e0lZ3m_BtLpWCMaZQGKjHMbZComOrxXu53whdYQJnIWXQ/s1600/IMG_0437.JPG" height="150" width="200" /></a></div>
I am a Pisces – the fish sign. But
despite that default seeming association one would expect me to have
with water I did not. Growing up we lived mostly in cities that did
not have huge water sources nearby. Adding to this was dad's phobia
of going near the water. Somehow he gave us this gift as well and so
as kids we never really learnt swimming the usual way by going to
classes etc.<br />
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
As a teenager my memories with the
ocean are minimal yet significant. My trips to Goa and Chennai had me
wallowing on the beaches in shallow water, trying to teach myself how
to kick and propel myself inside the water. It is through such
experiences it was that I came closest to what could qualify as
swimming. But the process of actually working with a professional and
learning the strokes happened only after moving to Doha.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiFuQv-VYcY-pBvT08csjkrbwXffjC_90L7t0J28wNoTkLnuF2C7prLs6b7_iLoYKiZ8H9UTX-oywO_OC68YLgMB5G9Oayx9SUu5OFgfojDkyNNZ3xEfZD5JDGbp1WpLzLvsmlTmw/s1600/IMG_0438.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiFuQv-VYcY-pBvT08csjkrbwXffjC_90L7t0J28wNoTkLnuF2C7prLs6b7_iLoYKiZ8H9UTX-oywO_OC68YLgMB5G9Oayx9SUu5OFgfojDkyNNZ3xEfZD5JDGbp1WpLzLvsmlTmw/s1600/IMG_0438.JPG" height="150" width="200" /></a></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Qatar, like most countries in the Gulf
and the Middle East is a place where villas are very common. Just
like apartments are the usual fare in Europe or Asia huge villas with
gardens and private pools are the norm here. And so, up until
December at least, we have access to one such pool in our villa. One
of the first things we did when we got here was hiring a swimming
coach who could help us get our strokes and underwater techniques
right. Even as I write this I am in the midst of getting my freestyle
and breaststroke in order. It has been an exhilarating experience to
put it mildly.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
This is the closest I have come to
letting that force of nature called water wrap me up like this. When
I am underwater there is a transcendental moment of surreality. It is
as if all I can hear and see there is part of a world that is so
different from the one above. There is stillness and hope there. When
I struggle to kick sometimes and push myself ahead, there is some
force in that blue which holds me, reassures me and keeps me going.
When I blow bubbles from within the wish to come up for a breathe of
fresh air actually is small. Instead I wish I could just live in that
blue world where the body can always be nimble and the mind can
always be so relaxed.
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
All my life whenever I would watch
nature shows I would often wonder about the lives underwater
creatures lived. What it could feel like to just live out an entire
life span in water. Today I feel as though some of that wonder is
receding. To let the limbs span out and part the water, or to cut
through the dancing mounds as I make my way to the deep end … the
experience is nothing short of a revelation.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjanvmE-xU_-hBY-Pk8B40UPWevsTEMOdBDLQdG4pND0f4Ofvt4g3nWsufc0tysB2Yor8Xg_gkcxYk0k0CLVa_4STdMi4DALVYQuglvK4JEB2y4L97qiCBSpIN69uMDAdGaUoQfyQ/s1600/IMG_0435.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjanvmE-xU_-hBY-Pk8B40UPWevsTEMOdBDLQdG4pND0f4Ofvt4g3nWsufc0tysB2Yor8Xg_gkcxYk0k0CLVa_4STdMi4DALVYQuglvK4JEB2y4L97qiCBSpIN69uMDAdGaUoQfyQ/s1600/IMG_0435.JPG" height="150" width="200" /></a></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
As we move to a VIP style community
compound in December we will no more have access to private pools.
One Olympic sized pool will be our only access point to the wonders
of underwater delights. But I look forward to that too. By then, I
hope, I would have mastered the nitty gritty of the basic strokes and
let my body and mind constantly become one in blankets of water.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Our swimming coach (a total
professional) always tells me to 'Relax....!' whenever I struggle to
get around the strokes. Yes – I must. But I also realize swimming
is more than just an activity to relax. It is one of those few
processes where one has to let go of the body's control to gain more
control of it. Having had no experience with letting myself go this
way I am quite excited about the prospect of letting the underwater
currents take charge of my movements and guide me to much deeper ends
than what our pool currently has.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Just like I recommend everyone should
live on their own for at least one year in their lives, I now add
mandatory swimming as another important aspect to that process of
knowing oneself.
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<i>Go, take a dive with zeal and zest. The
blue within shall heal, shall take care of the rest.</i></div>
</div>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-21096538.post-90909861059223008172014-10-06T07:26:00.000+02:002014-10-06T07:29:03.945+02:00Wanderlust<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
I wonder at what point writing keeps
vanishing from my life. Perhaps it is because I do not care about it
as strongly as I once used to. Or maybe it is because it doesn't feed
my cravings within as fiercely as it is supposed to. Nevertheless,
and as a mild compensation, reading has been a major force to reckon
with these past few months.
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Actually no.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Writing has not left me as I just
mentioned. As I look at this blog the last entry was made when I had
just started looking for new job opportunities back in December 2013.
Almost an year ago. Since then (and even though I did get a good deal
back in January of this year) a lot of other personal and
professional commitments distracted to me such an extent that writing
as a process, regrettably, was no longer my support system. Instead I
dove into my Kindle (of which I had <a href="http://shakri.blogspot.com/2013/12/about-kindle.html" target="_blank">written last</a>) and devoured over <a href="http://www.goodreads.com/review/list/4885566-sha?shelf=read" target="_blank">half a dozen novels</a> in search of that illusive spirit that periodically
ignites in me the urge, nay, the irresistible energy, in me to write.
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
And then there is this new life.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
We moved to Doha in the gulf nation of
Qatar in August. To say that it is different from Denmark is as good
an overstatement as any. Our choice to come here was two-fold. One,
we wanted to experience a genuinely warm region's living (that said I
do miss the chilly bite of Danish winds around October) and two, the
wanderlust bug within us was jumping a little too high in hopes
of getting out feet moving to a new and strange land. And then we
were in Doha one afternoon.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
The weather was leaning on the high
side of 30s when we landed. As the humid blanket wrapped us in its
familiar throes I could not help smile to myself – oh yes, this was
exactly what we needed. Something so out there that we would be
forced out of our cocoons of familiarity that had started to grow
thick back in Scandinavia.
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
In a few days we finish two months in
Doha. As a country this is typical gulf as I had envisioned it.
Everything here is larger than life. The villa we live in has eight
foot walls and gates. For the first time in several years we have
help in the house – a lady who comes once a week to clean the whole
place, a gardener who visits five days a week to tend to some of the
gorgeous bougainvillea peppered across our lawn (and yes, we have a
lawn too) and a team of experts who come for a couple of hours each
morning to, ahem, clean our swimming pool. As I said, this is
definitely the change we had hoped for.
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Doha is a city of compounds – small
communities built over several acres of land and guarded by metal
detectors and grim looking security folk. Though we do not live in
one yet the feeling of a secure lifestyle is already here. True, the
villa is old and huge and has needed repairs of various kinds in
these short few weeks, but it is an experience we are not likely to
forget for several years. While Copenhagen was a city of straight
roads and apartments that looked exactly like each other, Doha is a
city of straighter streets and huge mansions that have similar gates
but different insides. And compounds are a big part of living here.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
I have started enjoying the mornings
here. Sharp bright rays penetrate our kitchen floor as early as 6am
and the entire lawn comes alive with the short chirps of dozens of
birds – mostly sparrows. A comforting calm settles around the house
as I walk past the long hallway and make my first cup of tea in the
morning. The subtle ripples of the pool invite me for a dive as I
take a quick swim to rejuvenate my senses. As early as 4am, the call
for prayer, the <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=mUHDYlJHaOQ" target="_blank">Azan</a>, rings across the city. As if in a symbolic
gesture of blessing we have a mosque both in front of our home and
behind it. So we have the pleasure of being awoken (at least stirred
out of our slumber) at the crack of dawn and several times
thereafter. I have come to realize I am falling in love with this
prayer call. Even though the folks who sing it range from
interestingly poetic to downright bored, every time I hear it a sense
of belonging surfaces within me. Why? I cannot explain yet.
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
The new job and lifestyle has brought a
lot of pleasant (and a couple of slightly alarming) surprises with
it. But I guess this is what J and I have craved for a long time.
This sense of being both alien and a local at the same time. The
wanderlust that took me out of my home in India back in 2000 seems to
have grown bigger and better as through it I have now had a chance to
start tasting the flavors of a country as different and unique as
Qatar. We hope to visit all the major spots in this region before the
urge to try something this new catches us again. Until then, I look
forward to another beautiful Azan from the neighborhood and another
cup of masala tea each morning.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Here is hoping I get to write about
this beautiful change more often.</div>
</div>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-21096538.post-84871413930341570332013-12-12T16:40:00.002+01:002013-12-12T16:40:58.354+01:00About a Kindle<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Palatino Linotype","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;">A few days
ago on the bus to work a woman came and sat next to me. A few seconds later she
had pulled out a questionnaire for me to respond to about my reading habits.
Now the reason she had managed to lasso me into this little project of hers was
because I had a Kindle in my hands. So absorbed was I in the book that it took
her a second calling to get my attention. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Palatino Linotype","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Palatino Linotype","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;">As she
pounded me with questions on my reading and sought my feedback on the device I
found myself grappling for the right answers. In the few minutes we spent interacting
I surprisingly found it a challenge to surmise what the Kindle has really done
for me over the last few months. I did give her a gist of the deal eventually but
after much reflection thereafter I knew I had to pen my thoughts properly on
the subject.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Palatino Linotype","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Palatino Linotype","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;">It was
perhaps either happy coincidence or just plain destiny. Earlier this year,
around April, I was pondering over whether or not to buy a Tablet PC (this was
when iPads and RT Surfaces were plastered everywhere in town trying to seduce
you into their lair). The one question that kept bugging me was this – Why do I
need one? <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Palatino Linotype","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Palatino Linotype","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;">The answer,
regardless of the rationale, invariably was settling on just one word – to
read. But to read what? And how often? If by reading I meant magazine articles,
data hurricanes from social networks and the chronic email check syndrome then
my android phone was plenty sufficient for that. Then why did I need a Tablet?
Well, I would justify, for lengthier reads, long type articles and such (whilst
still being able to access the same assortment of online information as I was
already doing on my phone). Somehow that still looked precariously insufficient
for an investment which would undoubtedly be a bulky one. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Palatino Linotype","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Palatino Linotype","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;">It was
during such a season of thoughts that I ran into the Kindle Fire HD. As I
watched their made-to-please commercials featuring happy people sitting in sun
drenched living rooms and cozily reading a book on their device my gut feeling was
that it looked great. Along with connectivity to social networks it even had a
full blown video streaming app with NetFlix using which entire movies and
television shows could be watched. I could surf the net, check my messages,
share cool stuff on Twitter and yes, also read books. Yes – this looked and
felt like the device I wanted. The plus was obviously that it was cheaper than
the other Tablets I had seen (definitely the iPad!). A Tablet but also a cool reader
for my long reading purposes. That dilemma resolved I signed on to Amazon,
looked up the Kindle Fire HD and hit the “Buy” button. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Palatino Linotype","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Palatino Linotype","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;">There were a
lot of factors I would come to realize much later but when I went to the next
stage of buying the device and having it shipped to me an error message greeted
me. Was it that my card was not processing properly? No. Was it that I had accidently
selected something else instead of the Fire? Nope. Turned out at the time
Amazon could not ship the Fire to Denmark. A deep disappointment fell over me
like a silent curtain. In fact, the Amazon page went on to tell me, the only
device I could order was the less fancy, basic touch screen type, black and
white, non-social media connected model called PaperWhite. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Palatino Linotype","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Palatino Linotype","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;">I spent
almost a week brooding over this bizarre turn of events. I had the money, I had
the will and just when I had thought my decision had been the right one fate
was throwing me another curveball with this technicality. I looked at the
commercials for the PaperWhite in an effort to rationalize the incident
somehow. Yet my initial thoughts were that of grief. It didn’t do anything
except allow you to read books! No connection to FB or Twitter, no surfing
online (except the Amazon’s store) or no popups to tell me something I had
shared was being retweeted by some big names on Twitter. In fact, and the
sunshine of the possibility began to ascend in my psyche’s skies, it was a
device with absolutely no distractions.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Palatino Linotype","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Palatino Linotype","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;">For the
longest time whenever posed with the query – Do you read? – I had always
answered back “Oh yes! I am an avid reader!” But for the last couple of years
the word “avid” had sort of become untrue what with me barely finishing one
novel in six months. The only things I would read were the bursts of profundity
on Twitter or the regular sites I would visit to get my daily dose of updates
in fields of my interest. Was this the same as reading proper literature?
Hardly. The effects of such a lifestyle became more evident when my vocabulary
was filled with terms like TIL and WTF. What sort of an avid reader was I whose
immediate refuge for an argument was an acronym? Something had gone woefully
wrong. No – I had to fess up. I was not an avid reader. In fact I was barely a
reader at all.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Palatino Linotype","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Palatino Linotype","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;">A few weeks
later when the PaperWhite showed up I began connecting the dots. Its unassuming
down to earth look caught my admiration right away. No fancy 3D buttons with a
light halo on their foreheads. No decorative icons to sift through and
definitely no familiar symbols of distraction like a W of Wiki, a T of Twitter
and an F of Facebook. Not having access to this W-T-F was perhaps the first
step to escaping the short term bursts of my knowledge bank.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Palatino Linotype","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Palatino Linotype","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;">I spent a day
getting familiar with the minimalistic interface. The device was quite light to
hold, big enough to read a page but small enough to push inside a jacket pocket
and most importantly had a fantastic light setting which made reading text in
any type of visibility easy. One of my biggest apprehensions of digital display
has been the degree of ease with which black and white text can be read
effortlessly on it. The PaperWhite, as it became evident quickly, was brilliant
at this.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Palatino Linotype","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Palatino Linotype","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;">I have had
it now since early May 2013 and just as a self-check exercise I made a list of
all the books I have managed to read on it thus far.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Palatino Linotype","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Palatino Linotype","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;">The Home and
the World <br />
The Great Gatsby<br />
Love in the time of cholera<br />
The Canterville Ghost<br />
The Picture of Dorian Gray<br />
Americanah<br />
The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Night-Time<br />
Murder as a Fine Art<br />
Straw Men<br />
We Are Here<br />
The Shining<br />
Misery<br />
The Prophet<br />
Psycho<br />
Fight Club<br />
Gods, Sages and Kings<br />
The Man Who Knew Infinity<br />
<br />
And currently “A Murder at Rosamund’s Gate”. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Palatino Linotype","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;">So that
means 17 books and 18<sup>th</sup> in progress. I also did read an offline book
– For The Love Of a Son – on a long haul flight to India which I did not
include. But the idea that reading as a habit has kicked in big time needs no
further proof. So seven months and 18 books – averaging between two to three books
a month. That to me comes closer to being an “avid reader” than the one book
per six months ritual I had going on for the past couple of years.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Palatino Linotype","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Palatino Linotype","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;">Not being
able to order the Fire HD version of this device quickly seems like a divine
act of providence now. Somehow, knowing myself, I suspect I would have
succumbed to the familiar allure of dings and popups once more despite being in
the middle of a really good book. This short attention span habit I have
developed has been a big reason behind me reducing the amount of books I was
reading in the pre-Kindle era. The android would constantly remind me of an
alert that <i>had to be attended </i>right
away thus making the whole act of having to carry a book everywhere that much less
of a priority. I cringe to think of the times I spent an entire year on a 400
odd page novel without even getting past page 50. Why? Too many distractions.
Too many sources of quick validation. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Palatino Linotype","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;">Now, does
this mean I am never going to buy a book ever? Of course not. Nothing can replace
the look and feel of a really good book. So yes, I will continue to invest in
books but only after they have passed the “Kindle test”. If I read it first on
the Kindle and it happens to be one of those classics that are impossible not
to own a hard copy of then yes – my feet will find their way to the nearest
book store. But until that happens I look forward to completing more books each
month in a consistent effort to get back to the sane habit of reading.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Palatino Linotype","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;">And for this
I thank Amazon for not shipping the Fire to Denmark at the right time in my reading
life.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Palatino Linotype","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;"><b>..ShaKri..</b></span></div>
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-21096538.post-55354114012286808242013-11-29T11:10:00.003+01:002013-12-11T10:53:52.771+01:00Rediscovering Ramanujan<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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To say that Robert Kanigal's book “The Man Who Knew Infinity” is about the life and times of Indian Mathematician extraordinaire Srinivasa Ramanujan is actually a huge disservice not just to the author but also to the muse. Packed in the pages of this book is so much information on the times that prevailed before and after Ramanujan that the author needs to take a bow for the colossal amount of research he has conducted on every critical aspect of the man's life. Be it examining G.H.Hardy's life before he heard of Ramanujan, or be it the vessel S.S.Nevasa that took Ramanujan from India to England – the book is a treasure trove of information for anyone wanting to genuinely want to know more about the man behind the genius. In writing this bird's eye review of the book I find myself debating what to add and what not to given that almost every page of this fantastic biography is peppered with thousands of little details that go beyond the names of Ramanujan and Hardy.<br />
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But first things first – what this book does quite well is demystifies the man we in India (and abroad) have to come know only from the tilted face view of his photograph. As it turns out that photograph was taken during the worse times of his life in England as he prepared to make his journey back home after several months of ill health. Known to be a rather portly fellow Ramanujan fell victim to a bizarre case of TB from which he never fully recovered. Other photographs of him during his early days in England perhaps do more justice to the generous extremities he was actually known for. It is said he looked like a male version of his mother and that is quite a good way to put it.<br />
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But his journey into England and then his return to India to draw his final breathe is really the tip of the iceberg. There is so much more that I did not know about this man before reading this book. Like, for instance, the ineffective and almost merciless education system prevalent during those days which disallowed him from having a proper education given his natural affections only towards Mathematics. Or the extremely absurd yet rigid in its roots – the Tripos Mathematics examination – that every Cambridge scholar hoping to become a Wrangler had to take. Or the dozens of people – Indian and British alike – who moved heaven and earth to bypass regulations and rewrote rules to get Ramanujan to Cambridge, to Trinity. Hardy, obviously, played a big role in being the one person who came closest to perhaps knowing what Ramanujan was about (and there is abundant evidence in the book for the contrary) but so were people like EH Neville, a lecturer in Madras, Hanumantha Rao (a math professor at an engineering college), Narayan Iyer (Ramanujan's colleague) and many more such intellectuals who came together to find a way to prove to the West, and to the world really, that Ramanujan was no crank and his theories were no “products of a fake genius” but a talent so rare and powerful that it had to be nurtured, cared for and if at all possible, amplified for generations to come.<br />
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The book looks at Kumbakonam of that time (which surprisingly – and refreshingly – even after a century has still retained a lot of its old world charm) which became home for a young Ramanujan. We get to meet his formidable mother, a rather prominent force in his life, Komalatammal – a woman of a strong personality bordering on the irrational. We get to look at young Janaki's life who married Ramanujan at the tender age of thirteen but it would take her six more years to really get to know her husband who spent most of his remaining life in absentia. Her becoming a widow at the young age of twenty and then her struggle for survival in a society that had no mercy for widows makes for a compelling read. We also get a close up look at Hardy who steps out of the one dimensional image of being “that Brit with whom Ramanujan collaborated” and gets a background, a human face and soul and is layered with various levels of style, charisma, precision and elegance both as a mathematician and as an Englishman. A man who was forced to come out of his social shell to accommodate the rare talent in Ramanujan. As the author at one point states - “Hardy did not discover Ramanujan. It was Ramanujan who had discovered Hardy.” This rings true throughout their journey as two perfect contradictions in every imaginable way brought together for the love of numbers and the beauty of infinity.<br />
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The book is also loaded with a lot of interesting mathematics. It occurred to me while reading the book that had I been (and I speak for a lot of my generation) introduced to mathematics in a fun way which made the connections seem logical I would perhaps had a better appreciation (and who knows, even love!) for the subject. But the reason I feel maths is hated around the world as a popular opinion is the bizarre and unnecessarily complicated ways in which it is learnt and taught across the board. The book, through simple examples of theories like continued fractions or mock theta functions or the prime number series captures such fantastic patterns that for a brief fleeting moment I could not help but admire the fun aspect of mathematics.<br />
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The book also spends considerable time on the Brahminical roots that Ramanujan was woefully tied to. Given his orthodox ways in the religion and an absolute refusal to adapt to Western diets despite his falling health and consistent appeals from physicians it makes for a frustrating read in some parts as we watch a true gift, a miracle, wither away because of lessons he had picked up as part of his life before England. Much of his belief in God and the infinite nature of the universe stemmed from his love for mathematics. This is perhaps why his famous statement on equations and god's thought is so prominently heralded to this day. For him there was truth in all gods and yet his obstinate attitude towards anything alien, his gradual disconnection from the realms of reality, his slow descent into depression towards his final days in England – all point to a mentally fragile individual who had the nerves for mathematics but little else. His erratic eating habits, lack of exercise, reluctance in being part of a culture that was so different from his own – all add up eventually to bring to him the lethal disease.<br />
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The book ends, as expected, with Ramanujan's death at the age of thirty two resembling a “bag of bones” due to his abnormal weight loss. It then goes on to talk about the events that took place after that, leading up to the 1980s when a lot of his theories were found and examined by prominent mathematicians around the world. To this day a lot of his work remains a mystery as more talents try to figure out just how a semi-educated poor Brahmin from an almost nondescript town in Southern India had the vision to formulate such complex equations to begin with. I guess that will forever remain a fascinating story to tell indeed.<br />
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After several years of knowing about Ramanujan and having seen only glimpses of his work in passing I am finally happy that through Kanigel's book I finally got a front row seat to not only his life but also those whom he touched and inspired. His collaborations from 1914 until 1920 are perhaps one of the most significant ones in the history of world mathematics. I only hope that more people (and not just Indians – although I do feel this book should be compulsory reading in all Indian schools) get to know the man behind the genius to fully appreciate and acknowledge what a rare talent had been born in what was supposed to be an extremely poor, immensely diseased and unashamedly uneducated part of the world.<br />
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I can only hope that India continues to recognize and support millions of Ramanujans who, even as I write this, are struggling to get their ounce of recognition in a society that cares only for the shallow requirements of an equally shallow world outside.<br />
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..ShaKri..</div>
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-21096538.post-42048648358519670312013-07-30T12:00:00.001+02:002013-07-30T14:48:52.413+02:00Endearing people and their endangered languages<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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Among the many quotes about language that come to mind it is Virginia Woolf’s words that I remember the most – “Language is wine upon the lips”. Her intention to fuse the timelessness of good wine with language, easily one of the pillars of any culture or civilization, got me wondering if the two were inversely proportional to each other. While wine’s primary characteristic is getting better with age, language seems to have suffered an opposite fate. Yes – evolution is the inevitable attribute of any tongue known to humans but that always depends on the number of people speaking it. It is through usage after all that language much like wine grows in potency and takes on new meanings. And so just like wine even the best languages cease to exist if there are no word vineyards where interested feet are trampling over raw letter grapes to produce the finest in aroma and texture to communicate a thought or an emotion.<br />
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The reason I find my mind wandering into the forests of languages is because of a meeting I was recently part of. As I had mentioned in an earlier post my extended family now consists of <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Thanjavur_Marathi" target="_blank"><span style="color: blue;">Tanjavur Marathis</span></a> (TM). So I grabbed at the opportunity to finally come face to face with a community that is currently in the process of salvaging not just their unique language but also a lot of their customs, traditions and history. Hosted by Dr. Vijendra Rao – an eminent wood scientist with scores of doctoral papers and books on the subject at his warm residence in Bangalore – the event was a resounding success. In his inaugural speech he candidly remarked “My love for wood is perhaps more than my love for food”. This seems accurate given that his current book is going to examine the types of wood used for chariots in ancient India. A work I eagerly look forward to obtaining. Accompanying him in this gala was his better half Mrs. Usha Rao (a teacher by profession) and several veterans from the TM community. These included retired directors of well-known companies and organizations, accomplished doctors, academicians and research scientists to name a few.<br />
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After an extremely warm welcome full of good cheer and well meaning humor the focus turned towards one of the main agendas of the meet – language. Such is the nature of the spoken word that it automatically has a direct effect on other key areas such as literature, music and familial customs. These areas were also discussed at length but since language is often the root in such a conversation it will be the primary focus of this piece.<br />
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Hearing them express their growing concern over the quickly disappearing count of TM speakers got me thinking about other places in the world where the exact symptom is prevalent. I was reminded of a National Geographic article I had come across a few months ago about the <span style="color: blue;"><a href="http://travel.nationalgeographic.com/travel/enduring-voices/" target="_blank">“<span style="color: blue;">Enduring Voices Project</span>”</a></span> which is a Nat Geo initiative aimed at creating awareness and promoting proactive measures for languages on the brink of extinction. According to their estimate more than 7000 languages spoken on Earth may disappear by 2100. The demographic shows that the epidemic of dying languages is not restricted to just one part of the world. It showcases languages like Chylum, Aka and Yami that are clinging to the last remaining survivors who, with their passing, shall take along with them an entire civilization. While the result seems quite extreme I could certainly relate with it.<br />
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Being a native Kannada speaker I have constantly complained about how, even in the most “local areas”, folks in Bangalore no longer speak proper Kannada. Either they have switched over to a badly sculpted version of English (which is specifically designed to be robotic, non-committal and woefully incorrect) or a bizarre amalgamation of Hindi, English and some other native tongue (which I am not familiar with but people tell me it is indeed Kannada). Through greedy commercialization of every street in the country it appears a carefully yet horribly orchestrated erosion of languages has started.<br />
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But the issue with TM suffering as an endangered kind has several factors that are much more than commercialization of one prominent language. Everything from parents choosing the more dominant tongue for their children to the lack of proper resources from where new learning can begin seem to be at play. So, in a quest to familiarize myself better with the problem that seems to have counterparts all over the globe I began by asking myself three simple questions. The answers or recommendations I have come up with are nothing more than a scratch on the surface but hopefully the first grape has been plucked for the oenophiles to come out of their hiding.<br />
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<b>Why do languages disappear? </b><br />
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The primary answer for this seems to be – loss of a reason to use it. All communication in mankind has happened for some foreseeable purpose. But when that purpose is attacked and is replaced by a much higher seemingly better alternative the mode of speech is forced to go into hiding where it dies a slow death by starvation. Like TM every language that is currently under threat has undergone a similar phenomenon either due to invasions, mass migration of native speakers or a gradual shift in the socio-economic landscape of the region. In TM’s case (and this came up during the meeting) the 1857 rebellion seems to be the catalyst for the abrupt halting in its linguistic development. Following that event the gradual decrease it has experienced both in Maharashtra and certainly Tanjavur are plain facts now. With time and the influx of English as the language of both education and trade languages like TM (and I am sure there are hundreds of such native tongues just in Southern India) have had to bear the blow of cowing under the shadows of more dominant languages like Marathi or Tamil. So slowly the belt of people who spoke such tongues moved to different parts of the country/world and with changing generations records of its glorious past were slowly left behind in dusty museums for the unaware public to view dispassionately. Even I, as someone who is viewing this topic with sincere empathy, had previously been guilty of wondering – “So what? Such is human evolution isn’t it? Survival of the fittest? What really happens if a language dies out? Is it not replaced by a tongue stronger and more communicative?” My misplaced wondering was answered by some concrete perspectives.<br />
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<b>What happens if a language dies?</b><br />
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In an <a href="http://www.npr.org/2013/06/18/193135997/when-a-language-dies-what-happens-to-culture" target="_blank"><span style="color: blue;">interview with Bud Lane</span></a>, vice chairman of Siletz tribal council and a native speaker of Athabaskan (a language of the Siletz tribe in Pacific Northwest), the same question was asked. His response was the following:<br />
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“You would lose your people's view of the world, and not just of the world today but you would lose your view of how a world came to be for you. And there's lots of ways to describe things in many languages, of course. But like with ours, I'll just give you an example of how our people view our land here. You always - you hear different stories about how people love the land in many different cultures. But our word for the earth is (speaking foreign language), and what it literally means is made for you, and that's our view of our land. God made these lands for us. It's made for us to inhabit and to benefit from. And so when you take - when you say a world view, there's just a different way of looking at the world... than another culture might have. And I'm not saying it's superior to any other culture. I'm just saying that it's different, and that's what we talk about, about language lost and the culture and the world view that goes with those words.” </blockquote>
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His words addressed some key points of my query about the consequences of a language’s death, the most important being – world view. There are writings in old Kannada etched all over the walls of historic places like Belur and Hampi that I am certain only a handful can read and understand. These are more than just “interesting writings” that a casual tourist might snap as a memento for a Facebook page. These are in fact chronicles of how the people from that era, hundreds of centuries ago, saw their world. Their world – the root purpose of all languages. A way to express the feel, the sights and the sounds of a world that belongs to an age we cannot even begin to imagine. A time capsule that has sadly been masked by the stereotypes of dominant languages like English which, with tragic irony, is my current tool to pen my thoughts. I am certain those writings contain words, expressions and sayings that capture our world much better than any language we currently know. The same holds true for unique languages like TM which document an emotion of those times that is so unlike, almost so alien, to the ones we are familiar with. So I guess to surmise – the only purpose that should matter for salvaging a language should be this – a unique way to see the world so that expressing oneself becomes a globally connected theme.<br />
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<b>How to save a language from extinction? </b><br />
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The ground of the discussions that took place at the meeting was thinking of ways to create practical solutions for not just sustaining TM but also to help it grow. To repeat my analogy with Virginia’s words on language and wine, a seed has to be sown somewhere. And that seed can take up several forms, a few of which I have compiled below.<br />
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- All language starts from the mouth of a learner. It is in those first words that the majestic trees of all languages find water. So, the most obvious starting point could be the child of the native speaker. But again, the lack of a reason added to the missing support structure outside the home can be barriers. So to counter that experts recommend continuing home traditions (marriages, prayer ceremonies, etc.) always only in the native tongue. Teaching the child songs and lullabies in that language helps cement a better understanding and appreciation for it. And most importantly, giving the young one a clear perspective of just why s/he should know the tongue always helps. Hopefully it will be something more rational and less intimidating than “Because I said so!”<br />
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- Creating a love for the words is yet another way I feel helps anyone love a language – child and adult alike. Often people learn a foreign language not for job or education purposes but just for the love of it. The fabric of spoken language is full of hidden meanings that go beyond flat dictionaries. I have even heard of languages where there is no word for “me” or “I”, “mine” or “hate”. This tells me something about that culture. To be able to embed an entire community in that sort of brotherhood instantly creates a new world view. So to find hooks in a language that will engage the learner is a key, albeit challenging, aspect.<br />
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- Learning anything new, including language, requires an application. (With the existing haven of technology sources online this is perhaps the easiest thing to do. If people from an era where oral and written were the only modes of communication have left behind such a bounty for us to explore then we should certainly be able to do better?) This takes me back to the prime factor why languages die out – lack of reason. So being able to create feasible deliverable - like small audio/visual tutorials, stories, talking dictionaries, sing along songs and even translations of some very popular literature out there - would be a great step forward. Creating a knowledge bank of something so unique would certainly instill a sense of both pride and accomplishment in the learner. Free services like <a href="http://www.youtube.com/" target="_blank"><span style="color: blue;">YouTube</span></a> and <a href="http://www.soundcloud.com/" target="_blank"><span style="color: blue;">SoundCloud</span></a> can easily be used to design and publish such attempts.<br />
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I brought up the last point in since as an invariable part of a schooling ordeal I was made to sit through obscure Sanskrit lessons. At the time (and thanks to an extremely unhelpful and uninterested teacher) I lost whatever little hope I might have found kindled within me for the “language of the gods”. Today at an age when I look at people proficiently speaking the tongue I am stung with the memories of the same unpleasant experience which often has been a barrier for me to ever learn this beautiful language again. A barrier I look forward to surpassing someday. So this last point of being able to create fun and practical applications for the language helps create good memory associations with it and perhaps will motivate the learner to take it forward for the next generation.<br />
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<b>What to do after gaining some mastery on the language?</b><br />
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I lived in South America for several years at the beginning of my career. The only language spoken on the streets was Spanish (although it was more a corrupted version of the original). Despite my working place being English I found myself at a woeful disadvantage when I stepped out into the city. Everyone from the supermarket people to the taxi drivers to the barbers spoke only Spanish. I had a choice of whether or not to attend special classes to pick up the language but I chose an interesting alternative instead. I decided to use a medium I personally enjoyed more than sitting through a 3 hour lecture session after an 8 hour day at work. Every evening I would come home and at least for an hour I would watch Spanish soap operas. I would then switch on popular English sitcoms that I enjoy like Seinfeld, Frasier or Friends and read the Spanish subtitles underneath. Within the first year I was actually confident enough to speak some of the language openly in public. I remember stunning my local colleagues by dishing out my polished Español as they would pat my back and congratulate me. So the lesson for me here was this, and perhaps the most challenging thing about dying languages – finding a personal connection. If a connection can be made with a language, be it through any route – mythological, historical, artistic, scientific or literary – the chances of that learning staying longer with us seem stronger.<br />
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I returned from the meeting with the deliciously addictive taste of TM on my lips after almost four hours of listening to some scintillating conversations. Woolf was right. Language certainly is the wine on our lips if only we can find a way to grow that vineyard of reasons from where future generations can continue tasting our history’s finest labels.<br />
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<img border="0" height="28" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiXd4ShqrPjFdDxKlCduss-TgwIxbRahV-TH_2DFDWU9xa7qtRFd06Jyol6Ru4z-rvEpIVz2Dfjhndr2VPVHUDff29XIxD1OxyPFWzGM6QvA42ikJ0lNmJox_SvD36h85Xq2RcYfw/s400/sk.gif" width="68" /></div>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-21096538.post-23620058722945467252013-07-17T20:02:00.000+02:002013-07-18T05:21:09.379+02:00Krishna Row Agraharam<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEggDOXkG7w0I0_nwNl64DN7K0G8WQyKS2c9ude5sD2pjCqNVVAN8NcTh_vS1JNrVttVGFk-Zmnq2RjFuPIiwFpBgjmpZyTKCqQaPQn1zDXXPhIY8-c_JsyNRB6KBiPvS6ug6D5m9A/s1600/DSC_4390.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="132" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEggDOXkG7w0I0_nwNl64DN7K0G8WQyKS2c9ude5sD2pjCqNVVAN8NcTh_vS1JNrVttVGFk-Zmnq2RjFuPIiwFpBgjmpZyTKCqQaPQn1zDXXPhIY8-c_JsyNRB6KBiPvS6ug6D5m9A/s200/DSC_4390.jpg" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Historic sign at the entrance</td></tr>
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The pillars are quiet now yet leaning against them is like meeting a thousand memories. The floors are now ripe with age yet one can feel the soft rumble of a thousand feet from before. The walls have swallowed sunshine and rain yet seem to be forever smeared with voices from a century ago. A mere stroll through #1 Krishna Rao Agraharam – a palatial mansion in the heart of old Kumbakonam – has the potency of bringing back powerful images from another era. Sitting first in a row of several homes built in a similar style this mansion is the highlight of a larger collection that form the part of the legacy of Mr. Gopal Rao – the current descendant and caretaker of a story that began more than two centuries ago. Looking into this house’s generously laid out living spaces, examining the rusted bars sealed between its pleasant blue window frames, taking in the air that envelopes this fine moment in time revealed several stories that span across so many eventful decades.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhH6Qb-xMF4MeYy_rN4WkVAxwW7-kG0Rh7jDlkxMARJlPNx1AAhJL_8wV4clySj9JchCBRzCuthLEsSK1MB4VuGR2qkEd3_jRkBDNE84TztQHePEueDwD2DuN7O8gAMLLj5TAhM7w/s1600/DSC_4295.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhH6Qb-xMF4MeYy_rN4WkVAxwW7-kG0Rh7jDlkxMARJlPNx1AAhJL_8wV4clySj9JchCBRzCuthLEsSK1MB4VuGR2qkEd3_jRkBDNE84TztQHePEueDwD2DuN7O8gAMLLj5TAhM7w/s200/DSC_4295.jpg" width="132" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Portrait of Ranganatha Rao</td></tr>
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But the real story of this place begins elsewhere. In those days a man named Narahari Rao is said to have acquired property amounting to over 6000 acres through means that I am told qualify to fill up several interesting volumes. An employee of the then Nayak kings, Rao was said to have changed allegiance to join the East India Company at Tirucherai, a beautiful village nestled on the banks of Cauvery, once the British began establishing domain in the region. Subsequently around 150 years ago his descendants then shifted base to Kumbakonam which was the cultural and literary hub of the time. It was through this move that the person after whom this cocoon of homes is named – Krishna Rao – ended up being a descendant of this huge family.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Living spaces in the ground floor</td></tr>
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Though part of an adopted lineage Krishna Rao managed to acquire several urban properties and one of which became the Agraharam. The word “Rao” was spelt “Row” at the time and this can be seen imprinted firmly at the entrance of the street to this day. The word “Private” in the engraving further solidifies his desire to create this spacious haven for all his kith and kin. After Krishna Rao’s time the house continued onto several hands. Amongst first of those were children of Krishna Rao’s two wives (daughters of Reddy Rao, a former Dewan of Travencore). It was his son Ranganatha Rao who built the home located at # 1 in its current state. A fire incident is said to have destroyed what was formerly a smaller establishment.<br />
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<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHYlkYD0GH3JmYUpj7hD4HYdabM2xkyCcOsoGjAq_edMt0xQ1epjt0HadCQknwZMU_ek4tqTmhHVS5Bp0lIxpMjBpe-WHfmT9DU18CjKN3tqWIEt9zZ1cz4GnKxC-O0c9y-riOIg/s1600/DSC_4306.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHYlkYD0GH3JmYUpj7hD4HYdabM2xkyCcOsoGjAq_edMt0xQ1epjt0HadCQknwZMU_ek4tqTmhHVS5Bp0lIxpMjBpe-WHfmT9DU18CjKN3tqWIEt9zZ1cz4GnKxC-O0c9y-riOIg/s200/DSC_4306.jpg" width="132" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Pillars in the main area</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
Built in the naatukottai style the current version of the house is 90 years old. Attached to this generous edifice are several other homes of which # 4 is used by Mr. Gopal Rao whenever he visits Kumbakonam. Homes that follow the fourth house were given away as gifts to Vedic scholars and other employees of the family. A Vittala temple was also constructed as part of this Agraharam while the entire stretch of area opposite to this street was housed by orchards, stables and flowering gardens. Today unfortunately these spaces have been replaced by less attractive and more intrusive concrete blocks where other folks live.<br />
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<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjsOWQpvyrQQTfLTeE1ZH78W3Th5FOPYdBwzWkFnFvgQtuhVlBE9mAz1LeqsGaIBaLI3EyQD6N327CZjNyR9QslBG9A04YtvbzNc7Px_shWHlBpESQ-D2Stf7SL8hUEBy8UescLRQ/s1600/DSC_4301.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="132" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjsOWQpvyrQQTfLTeE1ZH78W3Th5FOPYdBwzWkFnFvgQtuhVlBE9mAz1LeqsGaIBaLI3EyQD6N327CZjNyR9QslBG9A04YtvbzNc7Px_shWHlBpESQ-D2Stf7SL8hUEBy8UescLRQ/s200/DSC_4301.jpg" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Living area on entering the house</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
With passing time Krishna Rao’s legacy began taking various forms. Both of Ranganatha Rao’s sons were childless and so children of his three daughters and their families began living in the homes. At one point, and I was shown a fabulous black and white family photograph as evidence, there were more than 150 people living in this house! Just imagining such a crowd walking in and out of its spaces day in day out made me reflect in wonder at the sheer energy of this corner. Of the collection of homes the first two were a place where everyone <br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjXRkLWIwf7Bt78l7csS83flQr7RN81wtTeFUPgKrvoy20sTW4yRq680grAC11R4ddb3L84SGuDxa6_iEA7geBHTfEUv06CTff9HTAbrGgGzh8H-k8-_fHtqF2MfInUXRY4g4kSAQ/s1600/DSC_4302.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="132" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjXRkLWIwf7Bt78l7csS83flQr7RN81wtTeFUPgKrvoy20sTW4yRq680grAC11R4ddb3L84SGuDxa6_iEA7geBHTfEUv06CTff9HTAbrGgGzh8H-k8-_fHtqF2MfInUXRY4g4kSAQ/s200/DSC_4302.jpg" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Well ventilated spaces on entrance</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
lived the most. Armed with an attached kitchen the whole place must have felt like a never ending wedding ceremony with hot meals being dished out each hour of the day! Together with the first floor sections the entire collection of four houses in the Agraharam comprise a whopping 22000 square feet in area!<br />
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Apart from being one of the largest homes of its time this Agraharam was a pioneer for various things. It was the first residential house to have electricity, running water, a custom built rice hulling mill and a battalion of support staff that included accountants, cart and car drivers, milk men, sweepers, cooks, servers and watchmen. A continuous stream of life forms would enter and exit this activity-heavy entity <br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg52gG-eUl9lveecR_HBOBhSzpRDYmWO-1YirTPB2uQobm5kKSALMQpjIVHDJRa_aOorV9N61Kx1-hwYQdQokMHplFvuEj_OJrY0cOF4vVIVwieeEkKCKkdr9pVKSFIUEtrMq6hiQ/s1600/DSC_4342.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="132" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg52gG-eUl9lveecR_HBOBhSzpRDYmWO-1YirTPB2uQobm5kKSALMQpjIVHDJRa_aOorV9N61Kx1-hwYQdQokMHplFvuEj_OJrY0cOF4vVIVwieeEkKCKkdr9pVKSFIUEtrMq6hiQ/s200/DSC_4342.jpg" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Rooms on the first floor</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
throughout the year. It is said that whenever a celebration of any kind would take place (and you can only imagine the unending crescendo of voices and events at such a time) the entire area including the adjoining streets would be cordoned off to disallow public entry. Rows of cars would be lined up awaiting service at any moment. Adding to this colossal list of amenities was a separate bathing ghat inside the Vittala temple exclusively for the women in the household.<br />
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<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgx_IIMaQsDVRIUFWP0BAW5bQPd50uzC-MP762uQkEtRJ1bWvJxL6mcDmv5B_aIpDsc9L38g4EtNizR0MHOJcVoJ1AJBsjW2Imfxiqh5qhp0xT7yj6uPmKh065_4hyST9gauP38zw/s1600/DSC_4365.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="132" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgx_IIMaQsDVRIUFWP0BAW5bQPd50uzC-MP762uQkEtRJ1bWvJxL6mcDmv5B_aIpDsc9L38g4EtNizR0MHOJcVoJ1AJBsjW2Imfxiqh5qhp0xT7yj6uPmKh065_4hyST9gauP38zw/s200/DSC_4365.jpg" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">First floor view of the house</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
As I stood there watching the stories unfold and tales from a bygone era spill forth like velvety dreams my mind filled up with voices and apparitions. I could see men in traditional attire crisscrossing the floor spaces, their faces busy with intent for the day. I could see children wailing on young women’s arms as the elderly ladies sat in corners and dispensed invaluable advice on proper child care. I could smell the heavenly aroma of a dozen dishes emanating from the culinary corners as people – young, old, tall, short, fat, thin, sleepy, awake, known, unknown – sat in dedicated rows indulging in all the delicacies served up on fresh green banana leaves. I smiled at the realization that such a scene perhaps was now a lost glimpse in history’s infinitely growing painting.<br />
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<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZILM0QCPEMKdM25mWvNu1IqUzeR1YixqYMnoqqFVZ2fCJCc6IDb0rBeeYcDF-ESpq3R072Hr5ZbS_91USDU78NKSZoIcZ2J0Mh3Ufm16u9l_NOHKG839_2liFcLC4XhzkEubL4w/s1600/DSC_4317.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="132" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZILM0QCPEMKdM25mWvNu1IqUzeR1YixqYMnoqqFVZ2fCJCc6IDb0rBeeYcDF-ESpq3R072Hr5ZbS_91USDU78NKSZoIcZ2J0Mh3Ufm16u9l_NOHKG839_2liFcLC4XhzkEubL4w/s200/DSC_4317.jpg" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The action packed kitchen area</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
Over the years a trust fund (currently in the name of Satyatma Teertha of Uttaradi Mutt) has been established to help maintain it as best as possible. There are over 30 claimants from the family who sort of own the entire Agraharam. Currently Mrs. Shyamala Rao (Mr. Gopal Rao’s first cousin Ranga Rao’s bereaved septuagenarian wife) lives at the palatial mansion mostly by herself. People who have known the family for literally centuries visit the place often and help out in more ways than one. During our first visit to the house the chronic power blackout that plagues the region had struck. Despite the pitch darkness a certain Geeta aunty – a family friend – prepared a wonderful dinner just for J and I at Mr. Gopal Rao’s request. Watching her serve up that excellent meal with an earnest smile was truly a humbling experience. It helped me learn some more of the cordial relationships that Mr. Gopal Rao has maintained with the families in the neighborhood to this day. Little wonder then that such sincerely helpful people are part of his very diverse network.<br />
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<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjExSu8covpsQFIVNlE5bGG4D5HVYeuAJsIq7wLzpcutmVCtNm0q5whY0yFC4CEuCB8q8HWzZTB2jxr0cdur61u2ikzTVqJ5qD72546xjBVVMzGCPbMKPztCgAAHuKlOVoxB8cT4Q/s1600/DSC_4349.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="132" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjExSu8covpsQFIVNlE5bGG4D5HVYeuAJsIq7wLzpcutmVCtNm0q5whY0yFC4CEuCB8q8HWzZTB2jxr0cdur61u2ikzTVqJ5qD72546xjBVVMzGCPbMKPztCgAAHuKlOVoxB8cT4Q/s200/DSC_4349.jpg" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Terrace area on the second floor</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
On our second visit to the Agraharam a larger banquet had been arranged where, due to the water shortage problems at the Vijayendra Swamy mutt nearby, about 30 odd people (mostly strangers) had been invited over for a festive lunch at Mr. Gopal Rao’s residence. We found it fascinating that such a diverse and mutually unknown group was sitting down with us and enjoying the delicious Tanjavur Marathi cuisine coming out of the kitchen. It felt like the ideal way to continue such a beloved family tradition. Some heavenly “emergency halwa” and the quintessential Mandi Sambar Bhath were consumed while observing the dedication that had gone into both preparing and serving up the luncheon.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgmzkedx9OgPsJTh-uZ5N8Gxtwfc41QrN82SA6n12Rpw5ZIWL-kJaJXWTOpzvWysit2xny_v6agM0rkdTzgF_m1suhhGgeYlhnHDY4ZIQxP6T-LjUwWl06LK5ScUSX_gLPGqEfeew/s1600/DSC_4334.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="132" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgmzkedx9OgPsJTh-uZ5N8Gxtwfc41QrN82SA6n12Rpw5ZIWL-kJaJXWTOpzvWysit2xny_v6agM0rkdTzgF_m1suhhGgeYlhnHDY4ZIQxP6T-LjUwWl06LK5ScUSX_gLPGqEfeew/s200/DSC_4334.jpg" width="200" /></a></div>
J spent the next hour and a half of our visit to the palatial house speaking to Mrs. Shyamala Rao. I walked around snapping whatever my limited understanding of such grandeur could surmise. She later told me about the eventful life Mrs. Rao had led in that house since the day she had walked into this gargantuan family as a teenaged bride. Coming from a less traditional background she had spoken of the culture shock she had to put up with in a home that was pretty high on Brahmin orthodoxy. Since it was a time when strict regulations were in place for the women of the house Mrs. Rao had faced an uphill task in getting used to her prescribed chores. Being from a liberal family she had found it challenging to adhere to special feminine restrictions levied upon her during certain times of the month. She, amusingly, shared her grief about having to use a less sophisticated toilet facility which she also admitted had become modernized with time.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgc3d6DUQmFXUwXnEX5NsY2nBcvzrqfeu4X_ENViX15XtnlGk6wGMzyZ5HdpKWQic0pmqlJfd-BSnYTfQO5ebnKdrMVPzudhUZVQN3DKj-QrQW6IC8LB3W6ps2iK3zWqqlYr4uXDg/s1600/DSC_4343.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="132" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgc3d6DUQmFXUwXnEX5NsY2nBcvzrqfeu4X_ENViX15XtnlGk6wGMzyZ5HdpKWQic0pmqlJfd-BSnYTfQO5ebnKdrMVPzudhUZVQN3DKj-QrQW6IC8LB3W6ps2iK3zWqqlYr4uXDg/s200/DSC_4343.jpg" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">View from the first floor</td></tr>
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Being a fiercely Brahmin household the concept of soula (“madi” in Kannada and in a lighter tone: also defined as “an exaggerated, sometimes misguided, religious explanation of basic hygiene”) was in full swing. To help maintain this purity of things Mrs. Rao spoke of the different rooms in the Agraharam that had designated functions. One of the rooms in Mr. Gopal Rao’s residence (where I switched over to a traditional South Indian panche/veshtee/waist cloth for the mega festive luncheon) was assigned only for child births. A record number of sixty children are said to have been born there. It was funny, and a little scary, to imagine all the sixty kids wailing in that little room at the same time. <br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjgfesGXwGC4-5CE4FN2GOoiYeoopwSxXgRi6iBpqabXXC9ZZ7dUFmDDwfG5V3OAu-QdYo9XGmHA2tXFrvIeFhUnRr7G_8QWtgx9QnUJLyLbVTjOBOaBFY3F2n0A6Sdr-eY1V6l1g/s1600/DSC_4296.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="132" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjgfesGXwGC4-5CE4FN2GOoiYeoopwSxXgRi6iBpqabXXC9ZZ7dUFmDDwfG5V3OAu-QdYo9XGmHA2tXFrvIeFhUnRr7G_8QWtgx9QnUJLyLbVTjOBOaBFY3F2n0A6Sdr-eY1V6l1g/s200/DSC_4296.jpg" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Divine presence on the walls</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
There remains a strong presence of divine adherence in the family. Hence, the Agraharam has played host to many a swamiji from various Brahmin sects when they spent several days performing prayers and blessing the household. Grainy photographs exist of their attendance to this day acting as a friendly reminder of better days. The pooja room on the ground floor and the large main living area’s walls are sprayed with dozens of photographs of various Hindu gods. I even spotted a couple of authentic Tanjavur paintings in that collection – a family heirloom of sorts – which have been preserved quite well.<br />
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<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgkQQfnL9jOSGukAVNRLAooJRdFlnptUPRSt-XRkHE33RhzwfjHWST7U5fS232KgEAt78SsEUVxFjCr76y6leZaw_clx7gsKMwVMTeod_peGRose-BcfrUzMHL3d_OR4Rk-IctPqA/s1600/DSC_4362.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="132" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgkQQfnL9jOSGukAVNRLAooJRdFlnptUPRSt-XRkHE33RhzwfjHWST7U5fS232KgEAt78SsEUVxFjCr76y6leZaw_clx7gsKMwVMTeod_peGRose-BcfrUzMHL3d_OR4Rk-IctPqA/s200/DSC_4362.jpg" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Row of rooms on the first floor</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
Given such an unending stream of social and religious fares the kitchen was always open. In fact Mrs. Rao told us of a traditional wooden stove that was used exclusively only for the Jahangir sweet! Since that sweetmeat was considered “non-Brahmin” (it was from Persia and hence labeled a foreign entity) a special stove was dedicated only to it. The idea of designing something so exclusive to indulge in it whilst maintaining disdain for its origins made us all laugh with empathy at the familiarity of it all. The entire area around the kitchen was used to store large quantities of fresh fruit, vegetables and grains for the endless torrent of people entering and exiting the premises.<br />
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<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgRV1QiasHQLz7kJGkl3goQEq7JrhMIDt_ExeWTxKGoDFk3hd-Bq28lC3R33gAsi2QnJl_y2DCDwl4mkNY9sqIMzRUUh6An-xXbbphx7fu_vGLKegWT3W3RG1kutDH6-exCjOU6CQ/s1600/DSC_4313.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgRV1QiasHQLz7kJGkl3goQEq7JrhMIDt_ExeWTxKGoDFk3hd-Bq28lC3R33gAsi2QnJl_y2DCDwl4mkNY9sqIMzRUUh6An-xXbbphx7fu_vGLKegWT3W3RG1kutDH6-exCjOU6CQ/s200/DSC_4313.jpg" width="132" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The grinding stone</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
Our meeting with this wonderfully chatty and refreshingly open lady came to an end where, with a sigh, she told us of the changed times. She spoke of her loneliness in that huge mansion after the passing away of her husband. She did mention that loyal helpers (some second or even third generation) of the family dropped by and gave her company but the visible grandeur and majesty of the place was no longer there. Fragmented family structures and shifting priorities had driven everyone away from that cocoon of fellowship. The entire family is now scattered in different parts of the world although some of them do make the long trip back to this house to relive old memories. Mr. Gopal Rao and his family remain one such group.<br />
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Though the house is almost a century old it’s condition is still quite robust. Mr. Rao explained to us how the wood for the roof’s insides had to be specially ordered and designed since they were no longer used. All the homes now boast of all the modern facilities but a sad side effect has been the slight compromising of the old world feel. As we discussed the issue we all agreed that too much restoration could have a detrimental effect on the authentic feel of the place and the need to preserve what is left of an era that shall never return.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjqGdeqcIQp-TdT7HYOyUeTgH1dX8xwAM6f0VMsWxETIJggwaCvabvJ-mh-d85w8OVr_jJnVkKFiqbYHE6sd1NP8wXeByY0fTCuFJxeJGi7wPqxPmoMorCOY5e2mTldl03v07PykA/s1600/DSC_4307.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjqGdeqcIQp-TdT7HYOyUeTgH1dX8xwAM6f0VMsWxETIJggwaCvabvJ-mh-d85w8OVr_jJnVkKFiqbYHE6sd1NP8wXeByY0fTCuFJxeJGi7wPqxPmoMorCOY5e2mTldl03v07PykA/s200/DSC_4307.jpg" width="132" /></a></div>
We stepped back out into the afternoon sun having experienced the warmth and affection of Mr. Gopal Rao, Geetha aunty, Mrs. Shyamala Rao and many other acquaintances of the family. Our trip to this region had been to investigate, understand and appreciate the historic vein that runs through it. “Krishna Row Agraharam” only amplified that objective by showcasing to us with its silent grace several pleasant echoes from over two centuries ago. For this J and I will be eternally thankful to Mr. Gopal Rao for giving us such a warm invitation to visit his past. Through him we got a chance to meet and be won over by so many humble, transparent and well-meaning individuals. These were people who had lived a life so full of meaning, pride and most importantly so in touch with fellow human beings – an attribute that seems to be quickly vanishing from our chaotic lives. We had gone to the Agraharam to see something from the olden days of life but instead returned with a lot of new perspectives on humanity itself.<br />
<br />
..ShaKri..
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<b>Some more beautiful frames from this historic place:</b><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjC80G4Dvryt4UVTIE7vOOrBtNMqDhGd4YclLAuAps7OkGZplSxnnm052a4Czz-aFJSAgO-2ajssoWaRBXGXo7eNvr7kDxvsS13G0EOI6rwqnBjAwOI8wHCXLybkKfg20Cmgi84aw/s1600/DSC_4303.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="132" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjC80G4Dvryt4UVTIE7vOOrBtNMqDhGd4YclLAuAps7OkGZplSxnnm052a4Czz-aFJSAgO-2ajssoWaRBXGXo7eNvr7kDxvsS13G0EOI6rwqnBjAwOI8wHCXLybkKfg20Cmgi84aw/s200/DSC_4303.jpg" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Artifacts around the house</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjlYUmPttxo29exT_aUeMQtYAZNwq48Lcjh9V9gJTOEJWTL-oYTSrZvuiphofn_VlZfREU66VdFRbS9BwyYVdwdmf37m7HrXwP3mxHCGkGSsvpXW7ISzI96NnM1QzPbYBcE6GOs1g/s1600/DSC_4316.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="132" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjlYUmPttxo29exT_aUeMQtYAZNwq48Lcjh9V9gJTOEJWTL-oYTSrZvuiphofn_VlZfREU66VdFRbS9BwyYVdwdmf37m7HrXwP3mxHCGkGSsvpXW7ISzI96NnM1QzPbYBcE6GOs1g/s200/DSC_4316.jpg" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Special stove for making coffee</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi14d2LHdgPesTEyL0KEMyvx74YaNaBpYeJWrkRd2CNye6W0UA7q5IRqmg2FV5hENVOTARodegLlC52wuomQdIbVqOrnWDhR3CRcwuqrxu73o7y_UiDoI-8zRmvjQtCZcXyIbi25A/s1600/DSC_4367.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="132" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi14d2LHdgPesTEyL0KEMyvx74YaNaBpYeJWrkRd2CNye6W0UA7q5IRqmg2FV5hENVOTARodegLlC52wuomQdIbVqOrnWDhR3CRcwuqrxu73o7y_UiDoI-8zRmvjQtCZcXyIbi25A/s200/DSC_4367.jpg" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Stairs to the terrace area</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgcPHA3YK3zaZn_ei2MlvllZjBtcjBTvQj4Kibdk9OSjnVxSEn7KT5DYx88IM48k8vetevYEZcPKkNwYrV1qKBP2ao1HW6514JP3arMot2JY5NV1_JUkatl29pCjcn1sRqxi7-gdA/s1600/DSC_4311.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; display: inline !important; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgcPHA3YK3zaZn_ei2MlvllZjBtcjBTvQj4Kibdk9OSjnVxSEn7KT5DYx88IM48k8vetevYEZcPKkNwYrV1qKBP2ao1HW6514JP3arMot2JY5NV1_JUkatl29pCjcn1sRqxi7-gdA/s200/DSC_4311.jpg" width="132" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">View from the center of the house</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6WTUBH2hVITknM_GwNLcr_vQlXxBuu-qe74RglrYP-_nJ9HNNnl0Vx2dlV_yyS4pDSid4IZKdT6t3ey9O2xKVL0bTK1xEPGHZBL2rvyJqMBQNhm6Bpt5neQf7N544AJzI0H-1gg/s1600/DSC_4374.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="132" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6WTUBH2hVITknM_GwNLcr_vQlXxBuu-qe74RglrYP-_nJ9HNNnl0Vx2dlV_yyS4pDSid4IZKdT6t3ey9O2xKVL0bTK1xEPGHZBL2rvyJqMBQNhm6Bpt5neQf7N544AJzI0H-1gg/s200/DSC_4374.jpg" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Authentic Tanjore paintings</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiI9oxC4Wtue12thaDN3Mw6AhKjSafpSIhdJtT1toSMR1DwS_mm2veaptd7ty3BUsiYz6nIOTbDnGekFSOv_nktgRMwOYBmvw4BrMfD8Yh6RfEkTrtQGFd0MNeRXih440-4g47Wlg/s1600/DSC_4356.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="132" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiI9oxC4Wtue12thaDN3Mw6AhKjSafpSIhdJtT1toSMR1DwS_mm2veaptd7ty3BUsiYz6nIOTbDnGekFSOv_nktgRMwOYBmvw4BrMfD8Yh6RfEkTrtQGFd0MNeRXih440-4g47Wlg/s200/DSC_4356.jpg" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">View of roof from the terrace</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEigffMRa30GXs2faLLXF6uABdUZUmGdbaMSYU_g6_WYN7eTHZ_F3dxbtV3Z0DtZhpCu4DaK3ue1l1D2HP2xhvth-7V7OrsBHSKcjxcYUcz4s_q5b-UCKiGaj7Psfw7c2AzOvC3Fdw/s1600/DSC_4297.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="132" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEigffMRa30GXs2faLLXF6uABdUZUmGdbaMSYU_g6_WYN7eTHZ_F3dxbtV3Z0DtZhpCu4DaK3ue1l1D2HP2xhvth-7V7OrsBHSKcjxcYUcz4s_q5b-UCKiGaj7Psfw7c2AzOvC3Fdw/s200/DSC_4297.jpg" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">J with Mrs. Shyamala in living area</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEihW70FPQe83frkagy305SG17r0eDzkD0FmnsNA5DZfyYbkHVIgT2JoMbLgs1eEEDu4ACoSKL8G6ludVnivAoGcsbQGeN4KNItOy-_4oLcDSlFY-BiT9H4dt8_tWkEXWcGdOu1Vlg/s1600/DSC_4364.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="132" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEihW70FPQe83frkagy305SG17r0eDzkD0FmnsNA5DZfyYbkHVIgT2JoMbLgs1eEEDu4ACoSKL8G6ludVnivAoGcsbQGeN4KNItOy-_4oLcDSlFY-BiT9H4dt8_tWkEXWcGdOu1Vlg/s200/DSC_4364.jpg" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Doors to the past are locked</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEifQYpwxdXd93yfsvUykwuv8PZHqFg0xNE8iJj-6I8iYCP_Uv4U2VDHow_HyqtSvCg88qWHltGw-j73rPIQZPxY8Cs5Hi0het9P1TjkkTayLXGmT9soUAftBid2yhtgDXaaAsKEhw/s1600/DSC_4319.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEifQYpwxdXd93yfsvUykwuv8PZHqFg0xNE8iJj-6I8iYCP_Uv4U2VDHow_HyqtSvCg88qWHltGw-j73rPIQZPxY8Cs5Hi0het9P1TjkkTayLXGmT9soUAftBid2yhtgDXaaAsKEhw/s200/DSC_4319.jpg" width="132" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Pooja Room</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiX_f94BDW7qxhYl2AI66wWh8XzBxP2PFdNhpCXi8QT09HY_Pq0m4CVuoHIafDZ3UcSZDt7w5dRplBRYlYN0GIYRGoe7_5ghQu60AKnJ5GrTwdP7IpigmyG6ujzWdAsLMtxFpnE_w/s1600/DSC_4322.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiX_f94BDW7qxhYl2AI66wWh8XzBxP2PFdNhpCXi8QT09HY_Pq0m4CVuoHIafDZ3UcSZDt7w5dRplBRYlYN0GIYRGoe7_5ghQu60AKnJ5GrTwdP7IpigmyG6ujzWdAsLMtxFpnE_w/s200/DSC_4322.jpg" width="132" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Doors leading to inner areas</td></tr>
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-21096538.post-44677670330409558442013-07-14T20:06:00.000+02:002013-07-18T07:37:56.765+02:00Walking into a time capsule | Part 2 of 2<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVBLHjQXrP3XDILGKhl3SRjOssSFoouXBt1uXyQ7zQk-Yk-1L1w8sBiJfiev7HjLgvtHFT5vaAjKbDVjQWnhUDYnrdE5T8wPGYpOiHXCcsmCPbc_4OJWv2P_wsufzr6ISRNEkuXw/s1600/DSC_4404.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="132" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVBLHjQXrP3XDILGKhl3SRjOssSFoouXBt1uXyQ7zQk-Yk-1L1w8sBiJfiev7HjLgvtHFT5vaAjKbDVjQWnhUDYnrdE5T8wPGYpOiHXCcsmCPbc_4OJWv2P_wsufzr6ISRNEkuXw/s200/DSC_4404.jpg" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">View from hotel window</td></tr>
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Our hotel room’s window overlooked a group of low roofed huts, couple of concrete homes and a splash of nature’s best as far as the eye could see. The morning air was a mix of the humidity in the place along with the crackle of local songs of devotion. Somewhere in the mix was Subbalakshmi’s Venkatesha Suprabhatam laced with a Tamil melody being sung by the versatile SP Balasubramaniam. Holding what is locally called “degree coffee” (the real deal is served in a steel tumbler) I sensed that comfortable feeling of lethargic nothingness around. The kind of nothingness that tourists often find in quaint little towns before boredom starts to creep in due to lack of traffic noise and pollution. And so, on that amusing little note to self, a crispy start of the next day was done.<br />
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Another visit to the most inviting complimentary breakfast at Sara Regency was neatly executed. Mouth-watering moongdaal halwa had been dished out along with, among many things, freshly steamed idlis as light as clouds with a dash of tangy tomato chutney. The combination was heaven exemplified. After a patient indulgence we were once again on the road to a city my wife had longed to visit for as long as she can remember – the soulful place called Tanjavur.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjBm_csQvPxio4L9L8CfyKZGbc10G3giNwm71G5y8eZVF66oOYufPApwJKkehbZmiXIIjucA_VdcVAPHo80khQrIZWHEbxD6Pv8jYGtJy34uWAoguAl2K-W1jWm1BwBZWmmOSBVKA/s1600/DSC_4180.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="132" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjBm_csQvPxio4L9L8CfyKZGbc10G3giNwm71G5y8eZVF66oOYufPApwJKkehbZmiXIIjucA_VdcVAPHo80khQrIZWHEbxD6Pv8jYGtJy34uWAoguAl2K-W1jWm1BwBZWmmOSBVKA/s1600/DSC_4180.jpg" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Brihadeswara Temple main arc</td></tr>
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At this point it is pivotal to mention that my wife is a Tanjavur Marathi (TM). She belongs to a community that had migrated to Tanjavur from Maharashtra several years before Shivaji lay siege to that region. Some of these people were men of finance, business, arts, literature and even folks who worked for the royal palace. It was after my association with J that I learned of the TMs – a proud collection of individuals many of whom are actively contributing on Facebook to create awareness about themselves as a <a href="https://www.facebook.com/groups/madwadesasthas/" target="_blank"><span style="color: blue;">distinctive community of thinkers</span></a>. For several years now I have heard of their milestones in the creative fields but it was during this trip to Tanjavur that I had a first-hand look at just how significant some of their rulers were to both the city’s and the country’s history.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhyI8aVLYIr444Toc27UDn42CoRv1FLXf-JDeyXybBcrd8wCPf-AAvbY_8Ee5Xk61L9Zkp5Lj_L-vIW_zljIwtucJEFxg5g3A7DJ0oASCKp5fhrVM_pL-mumGIfTZmd6pN8aV3VAw/s1600/DSC_4234.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="132" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhyI8aVLYIr444Toc27UDn42CoRv1FLXf-JDeyXybBcrd8wCPf-AAvbY_8Ee5Xk61L9Zkp5Lj_L-vIW_zljIwtucJEFxg5g3A7DJ0oASCKp5fhrVM_pL-mumGIfTZmd6pN8aV3VAw/s200/DSC_4234.jpg" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Brihadeswara Temple main shrine</td></tr>
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Tanjavur is located about two hours away from Kumbakonam (KK). Our cab whizzed past the comfortable buzz of smaller towns like Darasuram, Papanasam and Ayyampettai, almost all of which were smeared with giant posters of Jayalalitha, Karunanidhi, golden colored statuettes of MGR and a colorful array of Tamil movie star Surya’s grinning face. It was curious to notice that an entire stretch of highway just outside the city had been declared as being Jayalalitha’s personal project. Even without that detail the general quality of the roads, even in the remotest of places, was refreshingly good. Adding to this consistent palette of fine maintenance was the unhurried pace of life that whizzed past us like parts of a wonderfully crafted painting in motion.<br />
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After we’d taken in the sights of politics and cinema it was finally time to revisit history. This came to us in the form of an astoundingly fresh looking magnificence called the Brihadeswara Temple built by Raja Raja Cholan in the year circa 1010 AD.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhiTQ7X0dCzTer_JDBMauKjsv8JJOuWaUP-vvEsWUgFWWNhvV19opUu5v1ms3H8FAoBrAYw0jchQn_DAhGVm3PNk5iPNfzWrBAMvHJByC9Rco90KzaF8UCWV1-Z1_e_zd28GFPP2Q/s1600/DSC_4199.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="132" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhiTQ7X0dCzTer_JDBMauKjsv8JJOuWaUP-vvEsWUgFWWNhvV19opUu5v1ms3H8FAoBrAYw0jchQn_DAhGVm3PNk5iPNfzWrBAMvHJByC9Rco90KzaF8UCWV1-Z1_e_zd28GFPP2Q/s200/DSC_4199.jpg" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Brihadeswara Temple sculptures</td></tr>
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No blog, no amount of videos, no high definition photographs can really do justice to the sheer size, beauty and magnitude of this monument. Set right in the heart of the city this breathtakingly beautiful masterpiece appears out of the blue like an exotic oasis in the middle of an arid desert. The geographic location reminded me of Athens where several placards of the Roman empire exist but without the grandeur and finesse as this classy relic. Even from the traffic heavy road we could make out the delicate lifelike sculptures that were embroidered on the main entrance gateway. Despite the 30+ degree heat we just had to stand in awe of that sight for a few seconds to let the fact sink into us – yes, we were in the presence of something supreme. The brazen confidence the building oozes just by being there is enough to humble the grandest of egos. It was something so beyond mortal imagination that the nerves of steel that had built this place seemed embedded firmly in every rock that had been cut into shape. The most intriguing aspect of it though is this – there is not a single rocky (or other kind) mountain anywhere in sight of this temple. So just how on earth were all these gigantic stones brought here from possibly hundreds of miles away? Was there some sort of special bridge that had been <br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiXbV2hI4FkKOeT_uvNBnmmxj-8izGK9pzKQn6IO_dcCZ-8bNd78wcj6-UTbGpH2mxCeFFWaieACFeOuJfiaKp6f4tGFUjFFeABdkBe1mfQqo_ANhenQYOoG7NcRhskgksryXeU1Q/s1600/DSC_4260.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="132" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiXbV2hI4FkKOeT_uvNBnmmxj-8izGK9pzKQn6IO_dcCZ-8bNd78wcj6-UTbGpH2mxCeFFWaieACFeOuJfiaKp6f4tGFUjFFeABdkBe1mfQqo_ANhenQYOoG7NcRhskgksryXeU1Q/s200/DSC_4260.jpg" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Intricately designed gopuram</td></tr>
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built for this mega project? Were there thousands of elephants deployed to carry tons of massive rocks across the jungle for this purpose? Did unimaginably complex wooden and metal contraptions aid in both the transport and production of this robust structure? Even if these tools and mechanisms were actually used then can you imagine the brute force used in getting this work done? When we think of mega projects we often cite the great Pyramids of Egypt or the Great Wall of China or, nearer to home, the Taj Mahal. One wonders why places like this one in Tanjavur aren’t more popular to highlight instances of gritty determination shown by emperors of old to document forever a stamp of their existence!<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhiU_TXuoQblMKUxhdycnKIhgn5MoqjjxnHo_bPuIxCYXbJVcbjqGlrkKNZ6nMTnCtrm2N9q3Ve2m88TYCaiViHQZAdOhvx2qwv14gY60MIIv9ur2foilTb3O0xyvdBd27Se91-BQ/s1600/DSC_4290.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="132" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhiU_TXuoQblMKUxhdycnKIhgn5MoqjjxnHo_bPuIxCYXbJVcbjqGlrkKNZ6nMTnCtrm2N9q3Ve2m88TYCaiViHQZAdOhvx2qwv14gY60MIIv9ur2foilTb3O0xyvdBd27Se91-BQ/s200/DSC_4290.jpg" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Inscriptions on the temple walls</td></tr>
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The mammoth complex is a sequence of three unmistakably original rock gopurams with a peculiar shade of brown stone when drenched by rain. Yes, over the last thousand years the monument has certainly undergone restorations and maintenance work. But in the quadrant of its walls you do find inscriptions, faded stone chippings and evidence that seem to shout out at you and proclaim with unbridled joy – “Yes! I was here! I saw it all! I was part of this glorious story!”<br />
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<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg45peqZmigjNf11rc4VA_t0_P2X4lzrXx_JayWgRxAJ9mAzTNIFfGJBOSHuLN8e9oNOXhPm2T-RS1uRrNrJxOmir10QHj1I2uIBt0ngjLFijZ6EQVUuNB4wIKsWOAnzySiJSf6RQ/s1600/DSC_4222.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg45peqZmigjNf11rc4VA_t0_P2X4lzrXx_JayWgRxAJ9mAzTNIFfGJBOSHuLN8e9oNOXhPm2T-RS1uRrNrJxOmir10QHj1I2uIBt0ngjLFijZ6EQVUuNB4wIKsWOAnzySiJSf6RQ/s200/DSC_4222.jpg" width="132" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Nandi statue</td></tr>
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As we walked past the main arc and approached the prominent Nandi statue with its tongue sticking out we could not help but admire the neatly arranged row of teeth peeking from behind its majestic lips. The attention to detail on this statue is nothing less than brilliant. Right from the perfect angle that curves its tail to the curious eyes that seem to ask you “Pray, visitor, who art thou? And what land dost thou come from?” Few Nandi structures have I seen that command such majesty and class as the one housed in the heart of this temple complex.<br />
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By now our feet had started to feel the unbearable sting of the noon’s sun. So we paced up to the inner sanctum where the breathe-taking Shiva lingam greeted us with its splendor. At a commendable 3.7 meters in height and with brightly smeared white lines on it this icon for Shiva is a sight for sore eyes. All the temples we visited in that region, including this one in Tanjavur, have been designed to let the visitor be able to see the idol even from the street – which in some cases is as far as half a kilometer away! This design made me reflect on the transparent nature of the relationship between god and man ought to be. The line of sight approach seemed to indicate a straight forward mode to finding divinity. No puzzles. No riddles. No labyrinthine queues to wade through. Just clear access for reverence. A novel message sent across time itself.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgBhQ8nEzWrbQ747SqHuGDzui16AOAQ0ga5BgugeNf9JZjnU3erw0_34Fqf_9HYEfJfmFm8WQajyWLwfDwp_iKhB2I2ch5NHUMKWpWwmb7iHGcNDLz3Y7QTcZ6QwQdR-YSBUw6Syw/s1600/DSC_4279.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="132" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgBhQ8nEzWrbQ747SqHuGDzui16AOAQ0ga5BgugeNf9JZjnU3erw0_34Fqf_9HYEfJfmFm8WQajyWLwfDwp_iKhB2I2ch5NHUMKWpWwmb7iHGcNDLz3Y7QTcZ6QwQdR-YSBUw6Syw/s200/DSC_4279.jpg" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A rocky splendor - Brihadeswara temple</td></tr>
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We spent about an hour and a half walking around the temple complex admiring not just the size of the structure but also the well maintained look of it. Surrounding the three doorways is a square shaped canopy of rock-cut shelters that allow visitors to sit in its shade if the sun gets unbearable. Studded like precious stones all along the exterior of the monument are statues of dancers, consorts, musicians, gods, demons and humans. All life is scattered around the temple as if to create a painting in stone for all time to come. It was like a flowing rock mural of sorts that acts as a journal to another era.<br />
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So, speaking of time, it just seemed to fly by just as quickly as the heat began penetrating our bare feet. The intensity of the burn was as if the paths had been sprayed with boiling water! With a heavy heart and unending reluctance we began our trek back towards the exit. As I mentioned earlier no amount of turning around and looking back at this gorgeous edifice that combines power, ambition and devotion would suffice. Yet the mere knowledge of having been in the presence of something as unique as the Brihadeswara Temple of Tanjavur will forever stir some powerful memories. Of this I am certain.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgF__CCQeCXM1FluPRURg2EWyu6PtvXiIHBXSMKwC-aIRaNL5p_EyOg93N_7I05HMQEX1Ys18gwpYw71rI-5kJyqvM8OrW6NyplVsqnEvtw1_PaMxWMqLJQb95Q6sWSFU4zXFPtTQ/s1600/BOnrd44CUAAzgyy.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgF__CCQeCXM1FluPRURg2EWyu6PtvXiIHBXSMKwC-aIRaNL5p_EyOg93N_7I05HMQEX1Ys18gwpYw71rI-5kJyqvM8OrW6NyplVsqnEvtw1_PaMxWMqLJQb95Q6sWSFU4zXFPtTQ/s200/BOnrd44CUAAzgyy.jpg" width="124" /></a></div>
From the temple our next stop was the Saraswati Mahal palace and library. It was here that I came face to face with the accomplishments of <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Serfoji_II" target="_blank"><span style="color: blue;">Serfoji II</span></a> – a Tanjavur Marathi king who ruled the region from late 1700s until early 1800s. The library contains a beautiful collection of manuscripts, rare memorabilia, paintings and many other artifacts belonging to this versatile king who was also a physician, writer and a great enthusiast of various foreign tongues. We found Sanskrit, Danish, Italian, Spanish, German and French translations of his books (one of which was “Gaja Sastra” written in Marathi) along with royal accessories from so many centuries ago. His prolific status as a king is further highlighted by his efforts to bring together the Marathi and Tamil cultures in a distinct blend. Certainly a respectable sovereign who pioneered various projects involving educational and social reforms during his time. A noteworthy icon representing the Tanjavur Marathi community.<br />
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Once we had nestled back into the air conditioned comfort of the cab our attention turned towards food. Despite the Cholan and Tanjavur Maratha brilliance we had just experienced our stomachs, oblivious of it all, demanded respite from hunger. So we stopped by a regular family style vegetarian restaurant called Gnanam and indulged in a good old South Indian meal. Lunch wrapped up we then had yet another challenge at hand. We just <i>had </i>to buy one of the popular icons of the city – a Tanjavur painting.<br />
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Much to our surprise finding a place to buy these was not as easy as we’d hoped. We must have inquired at about half a dozen spots around the city’s main streets without any concrete information on just how to get one! After forty-five minutes of aimless roaming around we had almost given up on the idea when we suddenly spotted a shop that claimed to be selling some. We spent a few minutes browsing through the rather limited collection and settled for a neat looking portrait of Krishna and Radha on the swing. Sort of a cliché, I know, but everything else in that shop was so intensely religious that the portrait of timeless love seemed most apt as a keepsake from this unique city.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjRElbE4c-1cMHqL-XDh9xAgEOh3N11YD7g1Qm-xvkh15sJOfjejeQaHdkIFN6fZbFKAKY7cw9G8vK2yo0AVdLI658kilhmsN1h2j_f84K8yHOX-DX0IwBOAAAOZTon6YcqAvXfug/s1600/DSC_4215.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjRElbE4c-1cMHqL-XDh9xAgEOh3N11YD7g1Qm-xvkh15sJOfjejeQaHdkIFN6fZbFKAKY7cw9G8vK2yo0AVdLI658kilhmsN1h2j_f84K8yHOX-DX0IwBOAAAOZTon6YcqAvXfug/s200/DSC_4215.jpg" width="132" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Ceiling paintings in Tanjavur</td></tr>
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All this took us to about two o’ clock in the noon. Our next stop for the day was the heavily Vaishnav city of Srirangam where the popular Sri Ranganatha temple is situated. Srirangam is one among the 108 divyadesams. A divyadesam is a popular Vaishnav pilgrimage center dedicated to Vishnu and his many forms. The popular belief is that if one visits all the 108 divyadesams one is certainly going to enter Vaikunta (heaven in Hindu mythology) after death. An invitation to the heavenly abode notwithstanding our decision to visit this temple had a historic rationale though. For the uninitiated the statue of Ranganatha that is kept at this temple has quite an action based back story of kidnap, battle and the curious case of a Muslim girl becoming a hardened devotee of the Hindu god. You can read all about this <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Sri_Ranganathaswamy_Temple,_Srirangam" target="_blank"><span style="color: blue;">fascinating saga behind the statue here</span></a>.<br />
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While the darshan part of the visit was not such a big deal the appalling bit was the way random old men in priestly garbs lazed about the temple complex and tried to misguide us deliberately. One elderly gentleman tried to give us the whole song and dance about “special archanas/sevas” and “things that have to be done without fail” given our out-of-towners look. His query to us remained “English? Hindi?” His refusal to help us out with simple directions bothered me so much that I had to scream at him in front of several people for the right information before getting him to spill out the facts. I wasn’t proud of the way I behaved with that veteran but his petty behavior had left me no choice.<br />
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This incident further solidified my belief that most large temples in India are quickly becoming a haven for all sorts of con. People’s trust is violated as the man in a priest’s attire belts off a long list of absolute rubbish all the while smirking at having relieved you off your money. He has become that brazen thief who executes his plan in broad daylight right in front of you and, what’s worse, with your approval! Walking away from the old man was a moral victory for me although I am sure he still managed to get his share of the daily loot from somewhere else. It was most likely from that unsuspecting North Indian couple whom the same priest was later seen convincing to donate a golden crown, golden sacred thread and a gold necklace to the Ranganatha idol for best results. An absolutely pitiful display by someone who claims to be a wise one. My thoughts on the matter notwithstanding I did hope the couple would find whatever it was they were looking for.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHHqUcYIltOhIs-5CGIdD-Wmg5UrDF7v5q1w6Z2NdlZfzcV-7KIxmgQkWl0z6SGx9Cxr4XwocwP2AqAeQCvUc2v8pgUAq_Ged8gFf4KWL1MtLKJ5iwuMTj6L99rEXW29cO4PlYgg/s1600/DSC_2274.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="112" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHHqUcYIltOhIs-5CGIdD-Wmg5UrDF7v5q1w6Z2NdlZfzcV-7KIxmgQkWl0z6SGx9Cxr4XwocwP2AqAeQCvUc2v8pgUAq_Ged8gFf4KWL1MtLKJ5iwuMTj6L99rEXW29cO4PlYgg/s200/DSC_2274.jpg" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Ramasamy Temple in KK</td></tr>
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And while on the subject I need to share my two cents. The amount of money being flushed into divinity in our country dumbfounds me. The fact that people still invest millions of their hard earned bucks in decking up an idol in hopes to earn its blessing says more about us humans than it does about god. These events reminded me of something a friend had once told me about seers like Kabir or Sai Baba or Madhvacharya or Tukaram. He’d said “They were enlightened not because they finally were able to see god but because they finally understood god.” Looking at the rabidly mechanical way in which things get dealt in holy places in our lands it might suffice to say we have a long way to go before understanding the divine component. I remain optimistic on that front.<br />
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As I settled down that evening for another cup of hot filter coffee my mind was filled with visions of life-like statues, green fields flying past, curious eyes, greedy priests and camphor. As I closed my eyes and tried to capture all the sights, sounds and smells of the places I had visited an epiphany of sorts began to emerge. The belt of towns and cities that surround Kumbakonam are full of temples for every deity imaginable from the Hindu pantheon. I’d wager you cannot walk through any street without running into some sort of shrine honoring some divinity. From a hole in the wall that sits long ignored and locked up…to the breathing and majestic Brihadeswara temple – there are infinite ways to acknowledge the presence of a higher power everywhere you turn. The delicate manner in which gods and humans are interlaced in the culture’s fabric makes for a fascinating experience. And here is why.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiNLklM3jXQJ8XguLjjfx5GRhWKXyDFFJ6yv8gxBD-6QW7gqnIvk1wJDU58NFFPlRw0dum07E7m5ufW1H-LiExr2dBtfedtXUT-bPZkI0TDzn6U0eE6HLQwj5PuWMu1pwljxPpSPw/s1600/DSC_2276.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="112" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiNLklM3jXQJ8XguLjjfx5GRhWKXyDFFJ6yv8gxBD-6QW7gqnIvk1wJDU58NFFPlRw0dum07E7m5ufW1H-LiExr2dBtfedtXUT-bPZkI0TDzn6U0eE6HLQwj5PuWMu1pwljxPpSPw/s200/DSC_2276.jpg" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Unique Ramayana narration</td></tr>
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It isn't about whether or not you are religious enough to walk into all these temples to see the same Shiva lingam or similar idols of Venkateshwara replicated over and over. It is in fact more about being a spectator to everything <i>else</i> that the temple has to offer.<br />
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Walk into these buildings and notice the beautifully carved pillars that hold together gigantic roofs on their heads. See the creative ways in which stories are told on the walls – like the unique way in which the Ramayana is narrated via pictures in the Ramasamy Temple at KK. Look up at the ceilings, some several hundred years old, and notice the faded and decaying shades that whisper tales of a bygone era to you. Let your eyes roam around the altar of the main idol and notice those small almost insignificant seeming artifacts that are nothing less than a heritage item. It was in such pockets of history that I found most satisfaction in. Be it in the sly smirk of the Yama idol, or the somber image of Brahma or the overwhelming presence of Brihadeswara’s Shiva lingam…if you looked carefully you will notice history’s magic unhook so many new chapters from the golden ages of the region. You will find evidences of an age when faith wasn’t treated as a lottery system where temple visit and worship was a mechanical cycle of darshan, bells, mangalaarati, teerth and kumkum on the forehead. Instead you see how every person from every possible occupation of those times offered worship in a million different ways.<br />
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The sculptor worshipped his idol when his tools banged open a piece of lifeless rock to create a masterpiece for the rest. The builder worshipped his god when he stood atop temple gopurams and installed awe inspiring damsels there. The painter revered his deity when he used his brush to create colorful strokes of hope. There was worship happening everywhere. Everyone, I felt, was contributing in their own ways to ensure a strong sense of community and brotherhood was maintained. Little else can explain how despite the passage of time and the ravages of invasions these masterpieces still stand today with the same confident smile on their faces. It is perhaps the earnest glow within their hard insides that overflow outside to this day as beauty for our eyes to behold? Maybe, maybe not. But having had my share of run-ins with both the divine and the mortal I let such thoughts buzz about to bring me peace. <br />
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Our final day in the region ended with the most memorable visit to <a href="http://shakri.blogspot.in/2013/07/krishna-row-agraharam.html" target="_blank"><span style="color: blue;">Krishna Rao Agraharam</span></a> in the heart of Kumbakonam. But for those couple of days we had come to the land where the historic and the mystic had crossed paths leaving clear footfalls for over a thousand years. A path both J and I can hopefully revisit someday again to appreciate and admire so that new memories can be built.<br />
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<b>Couple of stay, travel and food recommendations:</b><br />
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- If you wish to stay in Kumbakonam then <a href="http://www.sararegency.com/" target="_blank"><span style="color: blue;">Sara Regency</span></a> is the best choice out there. Their facilities, location and level of professionalism is most competent and you shall certainly not regret it. They also arrange car and autorickshaw services for an extremely nominal price. If you do not speak the local language then they also help you out in negotiating the price. As already mentioned their complimentary breakfast is the ideal way to start the day.<br />
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- If you are tired of cliché restaurants and want something more simmered down and home like then do <br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEis_spPckf_olew9XyWSTQ1wGCnOT7XSQ-rUN8Vp7-_gwUMyiAhf0rjq8S6EJk452eYwjx0lEG3A0m0sVpCLyYmGvhJX4MBwufdiMgyYSPGttG1NxPZPqflAx5_psuVRaEEbrDwyA/s1600/mami.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="112" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEis_spPckf_olew9XyWSTQ1wGCnOT7XSQ-rUN8Vp7-_gwUMyiAhf0rjq8S6EJk452eYwjx0lEG3A0m0sVpCLyYmGvhJX4MBwufdiMgyYSPGttG1NxPZPqflAx5_psuVRaEEbrDwyA/s200/mami.jpg" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Mami's Mess</td></tr>
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try “Mami’s Mess” on Bhakti Pura Street in the city. An extremely down to earth place where you can savor some refreshingly simple and healthy food served on the traditional banana leaves. Do not judge the place by how it looks. It’s the food that makes it so good.<br />
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- If you are making KK your base and traveling around the region like we did then hiring a cab for out of city journeys is the best option. For as little as 1500 – 2000 rupees for an entire day (12 hours) you can cover up to 200 kilometers. Anything extra, and this rarely happens since major cities are so nearby, is to be paid additionally. But hoping to rely on bus services there is going to be a challenge since we never even saw any local buses plying about.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjRv7y3vfSjUfZ2rkLAFEMw4kT0CT00cPHlELGo3MrbIhoyZRA_IJKkZNtthwZ21Wxb-ub3_cxxTWwE3CF1Ow4srW9JBCSBcMPMoGmtgKGA959oaWIQsXGDCBJQoEntx0tnoeOWfA/s1600/coffee.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="112" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjRv7y3vfSjUfZ2rkLAFEMw4kT0CT00cPHlELGo3MrbIhoyZRA_IJKkZNtthwZ21Wxb-ub3_cxxTWwE3CF1Ow4srW9JBCSBcMPMoGmtgKGA959oaWIQsXGDCBJQoEntx0tnoeOWfA/s200/coffee.jpg" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Degree Coffee!</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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- If you are a coffee enthusiast then do try out the “degree coffee” in the region. The aroma of freshly brewed filter coffee is so intoxicating I almost wished I could capture it somehow and take it away with me. Alas, such a technology isn’t out yet!<br />
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- None of the autorickshaws in the region have a meter attached. So if you do choose to stray out on your own and get into one then ensure that you bargain a price before getting in. Not that we had any unpleasant experiences with this but coming from a notorious place for autos like Bangalore this is still good advice.<br />
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- And finally, the whole region is about temples and more temples. If you get tired of them then do visit the Saraswati Mahal palace and library in Tanjavur. It houses some very unique memorabilia on the Tanjavur Marathi kings including the prolific Serfoji II. It also has a pretty good handicraft emporium where you can buy some very good local artwork as souvenirs. Apart from this there is the Danish colony of Tranquebar (about 70-80 kms from KK) which is also quite picturesque. Despite our best efforts we could not manage it this time but we hope to the next time we are in the region. And of course, do drop by any of the temples to admire the architectural brilliance of it all.<br />
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-21096538.post-54567015809030339262013-07-14T07:24:00.001+02:002013-07-14T20:11:13.683+02:00Walking into a time capsule | Part 1 of 2<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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I was about ten or eleven when as part of a bigger South India tour dad had taken the family to all the major temple towns. I still possess color photographs of that trip where, standing next to what was possibly a 1000 year old relic, my young mind was in no position to either grasp or appreciate the historic time capsule I had been put into. Considering the passage of two decades since and a certain amount of knowledge/perspective gained this short three day trip to the southern gorges of India seemed like an ideal way to reconnect with memories of those southern footfalls I had come by so many long years ago.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjqHLkSryfUKWLwttw8kp4yE0yfmWGCyZRythChz9_qrEigtLKvmhWyPhB-ofQh79criICQlmlpyxy70aFPFmyOpxa6PG-W6FtIsCUg5kOMMmrD1gxwx53nGUjG0rLGv2YxIlm7vg/s1600/DSC_4159.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="132" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjqHLkSryfUKWLwttw8kp4yE0yfmWGCyZRythChz9_qrEigtLKvmhWyPhB-ofQh79criICQlmlpyxy70aFPFmyOpxa6PG-W6FtIsCUg5kOMMmrD1gxwx53nGUjG0rLGv2YxIlm7vg/s200/DSC_4159.jpg" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The chatty autowallah</td></tr>
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My wife, J, and I began our journey across that region from Kumbakonam (KK). Our initial assumptions that KK was a larger city than Tanjavur were laid to rest the moment we stepped out into the sleepy landscape of its warm dawn after having alighted from our sleeper bus from Bangalore. Still reeling from the delightful wafts of crisp vadais and coconut chutney in the air our first challenge was getting an auto rickshaw to our hotel. Once we’d managed to bag one I was a little stunned to realize that the auto we were in did not have a meter device! On looking around I realized that in fact all of the autos that were trotting in the neighborhood shared a similar symptom. This observation set the stage for what I hoped would be civil and hopefully less complex conversations with auto drivers for our future trips over the next couple of days.<br />
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Auto woes addressed I let my sight drift to the surroundings as the auto snaked its way across the streets of KK. The nest of southern splendor was waking up from its slumber. Women in bright colored saris and their heads spilling over with white flowers were busy designing front yards with rangoli patterns. Men walked purposefully by the road side as curious children stared at us from outside their homes. The scenery of life in all its hue, fragrance and warmth began wrapping its arms around us. Small coffee shops were getting ready for the day’s business as energetic folk either sat scraping dozens of coconuts for the chutneys or were busy preparing batter in furiously rotating machinery. The chatty auto driver, convinced we were there as part of some “holy wish”, began giving us tips on which temples would most certainly assure us a child soon. We smiled at each other at his well meaning albeit grossly inaccurate assumption.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQRRjgsWX4cGIzGnGw8xFDogJ1WXWq2QoL0Xso8w_RBJ4mqVORLL_YU5kMoesN6azuuTQUyvsvEC1rzXatFna-vUk-QiAhT_VT_hBpeNl9xRrls2V4-4fTlF2dPVz_M751MbwtNw/s1600/DSC_4157.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="132" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQRRjgsWX4cGIzGnGw8xFDogJ1WXWq2QoL0Xso8w_RBJ4mqVORLL_YU5kMoesN6azuuTQUyvsvEC1rzXatFna-vUk-QiAhT_VT_hBpeNl9xRrls2V4-4fTlF2dPVz_M751MbwtNw/s200/DSC_4157.jpg" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">KK Countryside</td></tr>
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Amid such bursts of humanity at play there were the generous stretches of green laid out as if on a large platter from which every visitor could choose any delightful treat. Long stretches of coconut trees dotted the horizon as the place came alive with the din and doldrums of another day.<br />
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We checked into what is certainly one of the most well maintained hotels I have seen in all my journeys across India – Sara Regency. A well-lit and well-staffed block of goodness on the outskirts of the city. After a smooth check-in, a cup of hot coffee to kick start the senses and a surprisingly delicious complimentary breakfast, we hit the road to check out the local sights.<br />
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KK, like many of its neighbors, is a temple town. Neither J nor I are religious in the sense that we would make a journey that deep into the region purely to pay respects to the many gods pinned to the Indian pantheon. Our trip there was primarily to visit some rare and historic edifices of worship to the lesser acknowledged members of the aforementioned club of the divine. Among them were the temples that housed prime idols of Brahma (creator of all things in the universe), Indra/Airawata (the chief of the Deva clan and his vehicle), and Yama (the manager of all death in the universe). From a historic perspective these places are just as old and important as the grand old Brihadeswara Temple in Tanjavur built by the great Chola king Raja Raja. But they seem to have seeped into the daily routine of people’s lives with such regularity that their singular nature has somehow become less noticeable. This was perhaps why these temples not only were scantily crowded even in the middle of the day but also found little mention in people’s conversations during our stay there.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiiosZtPZu8LDrxxIy2YSE_vrCQWwntbQD8f61_veswTRR3TtpP7xSZgVGYPmoau6DRBq3DZr2HNOvLtCznjE5KHzrDp42D6caBgNTOUAATzd0x4BQLfw9DZ5SIjZaBOR_5hEwuXA/s1600/DSC_4119.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiiosZtPZu8LDrxxIy2YSE_vrCQWwntbQD8f61_veswTRR3TtpP7xSZgVGYPmoau6DRBq3DZr2HNOvLtCznjE5KHzrDp42D6caBgNTOUAATzd0x4BQLfw9DZ5SIjZaBOR_5hEwuXA/s200/DSC_4119.jpg" width="132" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Kumbeswara Temple</td></tr>
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Shiva and Vishnu (and their many incarnations) are the ones with the most shrines in not just KK but that entire belt of towns and cities. We began our visits by covering the prominent Kumbeswara temple in the heart of the town, the Sarangapani Temple, a haven of some breathtakingly beautiful sculptures on the majestic gopuram, and the bulwark of an edifice called the Airawateswara Temple. One unique facet of each of these temples was how brazenly uncompromising they all were in allocation of real estate for the celebration of the divine. The Cholas (followed by the Nayakars and other royal clans) seemed absolutely convinced that the way to the thrones of power was via that one potent pulse that vibrates throughout our subcontinent – faith. This conviction of theirs became astonishingly clear as we walked past Herculean stone pillars that, to this day, hold on top of them multi-floored <br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1xU7K-MsxYUBbz9egYeYDCarlfP6XwJrYXf_mHi3zB1GKccTVdfWieiLmHiTASjC2lCxkBBUXXFNtL_gSn0KVoQXP3bwCbh5vlzJ1xSEZ6VIiF5wiDy23ssQN4-VXKyP_b_4pVw/s1600/DSC_4128.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="132" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1xU7K-MsxYUBbz9egYeYDCarlfP6XwJrYXf_mHi3zB1GKccTVdfWieiLmHiTASjC2lCxkBBUXXFNtL_gSn0KVoQXP3bwCbh5vlzJ1xSEZ6VIiF5wiDy23ssQN4-VXKyP_b_4pVw/s200/DSC_4128.jpg" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Exotic and erotic sculptures</td></tr>
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gopurams with excruciatingly detailed imagery of everything from the exotic to the erotic. In fact the explicit nature of some of the sculptures was so realistic and stunning that we did a double take to ensure what we had just seen was in fact an artifact from the so called “conservative era” of our nation. It was refreshing to note the effervescently liberal sexuality on display while time has somehow managed to convert such open forums into unspeakable taboos today. A tragic consequence of foreign invasions perhaps, we observed.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjs-9PpljeqIN4wH05cdH8JP1sbDpY4Jff3yzpSV-Yg5o1jMpLsjoVU0KykiXqCIwat_nNcXN2inaXoPghaZM2K21vxLwTRaGihKoFI8EEFz80w8p_qmmtZM5vpshgRQwU3vkLm1Q/s1600/DSC_4127.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="132" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjs-9PpljeqIN4wH05cdH8JP1sbDpY4Jff3yzpSV-Yg5o1jMpLsjoVU0KykiXqCIwat_nNcXN2inaXoPghaZM2K21vxLwTRaGihKoFI8EEFz80w8p_qmmtZM5vpshgRQwU3vkLm1Q/s200/DSC_4127.jpg" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Sarangapani Temple's Gopuram</td></tr>
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After lunch that day we hired a cab (arranged by the hotel for a very reasonable price) and drove down to see the temple dedicated to Yama at Srivanchiyam. Situated in the bosom of the Tamil heartland this place is surrounded by several acres of fertile and bouncy fields. The roads are narrow but are well maintained. The road to Srivanchiyam cuts through some pleasantly spread out hamlets housed by folks busy with their routines. The driver, a local, had to stop at several spots to find out the route to the temple. This only confirmed our suspicions that despite being something of a rarity it wasn’t the most frequented spot in the region.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhXct3-fhRiqeTgD7cVlhzIr8kZQkfZ5vroNJYigHnRZIovJUVyZK3acy5tW4O7c0tYqg_8siIpkW7aNftl6cg2YehqiGIoqf2em7kSwugDxfDwbBqOHs5fzqo1dPxbLuprbtfR4Q/s1600/DSC_4160.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="132" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhXct3-fhRiqeTgD7cVlhzIr8kZQkfZ5vroNJYigHnRZIovJUVyZK3acy5tW4O7c0tYqg_8siIpkW7aNftl6cg2YehqiGIoqf2em7kSwugDxfDwbBqOHs5fzqo1dPxbLuprbtfR4Q/s200/DSC_4160.jpg" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Outside Yama Temple, Srivanchiyam</td></tr>
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Once at the temple a few details emerged. Despite the main idol being a Shiva lingam just to the left on arrival into the temple complex is an area where facing away from the crowd is a mustachioed idol of Yama. The shrine isn’t much to speak of but there is a lot of character and a sense of authority in the image of Yama’s statue there. The idol is fully black in color, the eyes sort of shut yet I could not help detect a hint of a smile on the thin yet plainly visible lips. Was it the artist’s deliberate attempt at creating a sense of the mystical? Or was it a chance event stemming from the artist’s own fears and devotion to the lord who hands out death? One will never know I’m afraid.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg0o8BA_20cvjKP2BETDXda-MpbciRnq33exR9Mcylg8sYsVVZ4kXsrIk_At7kRb0RnqnQV_s3eIEGlsfRRMsol21k-Igy_E4XyY6HEkacN7DA7bfD6tzQQU6GozGMNElt8rpJ98w/s1600/DSC_4143.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="132" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg0o8BA_20cvjKP2BETDXda-MpbciRnq33exR9Mcylg8sYsVVZ4kXsrIk_At7kRb0RnqnQV_s3eIEGlsfRRMsol21k-Igy_E4XyY6HEkacN7DA7bfD6tzQQU6GozGMNElt8rpJ98w/s200/DSC_4143.jpg" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The formidable Airawateswara Temple</td></tr>
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The sequence of darshan in this temple is that one visits Yama’s shrine first before heading to the Shiva shrine and not the other way around. Since we had not noticed Yama’s shrine when we entered we visited it on our way out. Just as we were about to leave a man frantically motioned to us to go back into the Shiva shrine before exiting the complex. We then took a quick glance at the Shiva lingam from a distance again and exited but this act got me thinking about the various “to-do” lists that faiths in India seem to have created over the centuries. While I agree that a lot of them could have (and do have) scientific and practical purposes the rest of them seem to have been spun out of the very animated concoction of history and mythology that our lands are famous for. Technically Shiva too is referred as the “destroyer of things” but to give him more devotion than the lord of death himself seemed a little prejudiced for my taste. Death, after all, is just another phase of existence much like life itself! But that theory notwithstanding we did head back to KK quite satisfied that we had visited a supremely unique spot.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-iGgee5R8OdF0GdPBuuNllFUblngYH7fhiiwdk9FckPSFAxn6hrDdMgYUDYdnXPA8FBm6P1w1Msfl4AHCOGJcEb2VawPfDpJDTPn7R8uQgbiv_OaFThlDetVyoS-zNCIwjSS3JQ/s1600/DSC_4144.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="132" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-iGgee5R8OdF0GdPBuuNllFUblngYH7fhiiwdk9FckPSFAxn6hrDdMgYUDYdnXPA8FBm6P1w1Msfl4AHCOGJcEb2VawPfDpJDTPn7R8uQgbiv_OaFThlDetVyoS-zNCIwjSS3JQ/s200/DSC_4144.jpg" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Robust exterior of Airawateswara</td></tr>
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The day drew to the most interesting close with a visit to Krishna Rao Agraharam near Solaippan street. This place has the ancestral home (a separate post just on this historic place coming soon!) of Mr. Gopal Rao, a retired professional and a prominent member of the Tanjore Marathi community on Facebook, who had invited J and me over for a traditional meal at his place. Seated on the pleasant red oxide floor and surrounded by the warmth of excellent company and a delightful cuisine to match it we could not have asked for a better way to end such a memorable day in one of southern India’s most historic pockets.<br />
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<b><a href="http://shakri.blogspot.in/2013/07/walking-into-time-capsule-part-2-of-2.html" target="_blank">Click here to read Part 2!</a></b><br />
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-21096538.post-12082333603166122172013-05-29T09:31:00.001+02:002013-05-29T13:01:39.483+02:00The Thing Around Your Neck<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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Many years ago, seated atop a lush green mountain as part of an office picnic, my friend Carlos had said to me “Books are a good reason to continue living”. Now, Carlos was a singular individual. Without having left the confines of his country any time during his lifetime he had traveled the world through books. With such affluent finesse he would speak of the different tribes in the Middle East and the grass root issues that hounded them under the arid sun. He would educate us about the peculiar customs of the Japanese and the internal struggles they have faced in leaping onto the future without letting the string of their past slip from their hands. He would narrate for hours the complexities in religion and the human need to create different variations of a supreme being. It made for fascinating sessions. And even as someone who considered himself a pretty avid reader I would often wonder at the depth with which the words Carlos was seeing had penetrated his untraveled feet and made their way silently to his nomadic heart taking him to places he was yet to visit.<br />
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Reading Adichie’s “The Thing Around Your Neck” rekindled that feeling in me. Of having never set foot in Africa’s generous landscape but of having had the good fortune of partaken in her many hues. It has been quite a while since I have read a collection of short stories (perhaps the last one being Jhumpa Lahiri’s “Unaccustomed Earth” many years ago) so I began the book hoping that each story would be sculpted with a closure that wouldn’t make me yearn for more. Alas, that is what did not happen. Right from the first story “Cell One”, a story of young Nigeria rebelling against the system desperately wanting to handcuff itself to freedoms of expression, the sense of wanting more had settled in thick. As the stories tumbled forth – “Imitation”, “A Private Experience”, “Ghosts”, “On Monday Last Week”… - the itch to follow these characters further down the road, just a little bit more, to see which way they would go, what they would do, what they would say…intensified. It is this art of stitching a fine layer of humanity – under the guise of men, women and children who eat kola nuts, enjoy jollof rice, climb avocado trees, indulge in palm wine, revere their ancestors and understand the prejudice the world hands them mercilessly– that makes Adichie a most relevant voice of Western Africa.<br />
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Right from the days of reading her “Half of a Yellow Sun” and “Purple Hibiscus” I have found a bizarre sense of longing to that region. I often wonder if one of my ancestors was from there since a unique blot of melancholy and nostalgia engulfs me when those lands open up their wares with care and kindness. In the long shadows of the sun that somehow seems bigger and brighter, in the breeze laced with the fragrance of a thousand different flowers, in the smell of earth peppered strongly with herbs and spices of a dozen kind, the want of digging my fingers deep into that soil and letting it fall gracefully back down like a majestic waterfall grows stronger.<br />
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Perhaps this is Adichie’s genius. Perhaps it is because she is able to capture so much with so few words that makes her writing so addictive. Hidden behind those words, perhaps, is the knowledge that if she has to make the continent’s thick and misguided cobwebs come apart, if her vision is to fling open the windows of misconceptions to let the big bright sunshine flush out the birds of lies…then her weapons are to be simple. This is what she does best. Emboldens her characters to come loose from word cocoons and through action and dialog bring to life a heritage, a civilization, a story that is as grand as the planet itself. Be it in the struggles of the Nigerian caught between two cultures, struggling to escape his reality, be it in the silences filling up a widow’s life haunted by traditions of her tribe, be it in the mute observations of a girl awaiting the spring of adulthood yet unable to escape the loud crimes of life around her … Adichie injects such power into the narratives that the reader has no choice but to surrender.<br />
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“The Thing Around Your Neck” is such a collection of short stories. Stories that showcase a wide array of characters caught in turbulent times yet unwilling to negotiate with their inner self. People from various walks of life constantly crisscrossing across the haphazard labyrinth of political, personal and historical decisions in constant need for a validation to their existence. People caught up between fast changing times unable to stand steady against the ravage storms of religion blowing from outside their lands. And in the end, when the storms are done blowing and people are done mourning, the land of Africa will remain just as strong and grounded as it has always been. It is through their inner and outer struggles both as a continent (so unique in every aspect yet cursed to be painted with the same African brush) and as a collection of traditions, that we get to see perspectives that would have elluded us if narrated by a foreign voice. Someone who goes deeper than writing of Igbos and Hausas. Someone who digs each word out like a hidden flower to create a garden of such unique learning. And for this constant realization I cannot wait to read her latest work “Americanah”.<br />
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My mind floats back to Carlos and that picnic. That day I had little to say in response to his prophetic words but today I would certainly join him in celebrating the power of words and writers who, like djinns with a magic carpet, transport you to worlds that may seem alien but might just have been the source of your roots.<br />
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..ShaKri..</div>
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-21096538.post-72802539141586639082013-05-19T17:14:00.005+02:002013-05-29T09:33:13.255+02:00Love in the time of cholera<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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I decided to finally read, from the first page to the last, Gabriel Marquez’s “Love in the time of cholera”, as a novel way to inaugurate my new Kindle. It was an exhilarating experience to say the least for a few vital reasons. One; this was the first time I have ever completed reading a novel using a hand held device. Two; this was the first novel I had read by Marquez after reading the first few chapters of “One hundred years of solitude” a few years ago (something I intend to remedy soon). And three; had I read this book a few years ago as an unmarried man my thoughts about the characters and their decisions would perhaps have been radically different. What I also realized was that I would definitely like to re-read this book in another ten maybe twenty years to see if the journey of marital accomplishments would have given me enough fuel to rethink my beliefs about the basic idea this book seems to project.<br />
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So: what is it all about? The central theme of the book is the story of two stories – one of Dr. Juvenal Urbino and his wife Fermina Daza and the second of Fermina Daza and a man who calls her the love of his life Florentino Ariza. On the outset it appears to be a love triangle that has been done ad nauseum in Bollywood but once my knees got wet with the word pool emerging from the pages some interesting perspectives began to surface along with them.<br />
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The concept of love is often tied to relationships. The ones defined by society, the ones of marriage and the ones we are so often told are “just the right way to go”. But in these opposing stories, with Fermina being the common entity, love’s landscapes seem to go beyond mere definitions. On the one hand there is the unplanned and unrequited love that Florentino finds in Fermina as a teenager. That whole phase of their initial wandering as fresh seekers of love’s eternal potion seems to set up a premise that only marriage would be the ideal end for. But when Fermina, in true masala movie style, is married off to the sophisticated Europe-returned Dr. Urbino it appears her phase with Florentino was “a phase” after all. A harmless little adventure in finding physical union by masking it with the garb of “true love”. But as the married couple begin their fifty year journey together love’s meaning is once again re-defined. From being absolute strangers they manage to strike a relationship, through the caged limits of a marital union, which brings a sort of stability to the concept of love. A sort of evident closure to whatever it was Fermina experienced earlier.<br />
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The orthodox part of me felt this was the right way to go. Yes – Fermina needed to understand true love not by the vagaries of a nobody but by the stable hand of an educated, well established man who could bring to her much needed perspective to what real love is all about. In parallel, Florentino’s unending physical exploits in his mad panic of having lost Fermina and using those adventures as a sort of pain killer to his aching heart seemed ludicrous. How on earth could a man who was so easy to be lead into the carnal world of infidelity be faithful to Fermina even if he had ended up with her? But this is where my dilemma as to who I was supporting started to get muddled.<br />
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We see Florentino go through one physical heist after another but never once either a) sharing his sorry tale of grief with anyone or b) truly surrendering his heart to any of his liaisons. But as a man brought up by the popular norms of what is ethical and what isn’t I found myself despising Florentino for, without even having touched Fermina, being so monstrously unfaithful to her. But as the story progressed I began to see just how tormented, lonely and pitiful Florentino became as his thoughts, regardless of where he was and what he was doing, eventually found their way back to Fermina. Even after fifty long years, in his twilight age, Florentino still had shivers in his spine when he finally did find Fermina in his radius of existence.<br />
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My sympathies to Dr. Urbino (despite his questionable morals eventually) stayed the same through his struggles as a husband, a son and the man of the world. He represented to me a world where everything is pre-planned. A land where every event has a pre and post condition. An institution where even love has a certain rhythm no one can venture to adjust.<br />
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But my repulsion towards Florentino, the opposing viewpoint in the concept of love, began to decrease. But why? Once my fury for his predictable behavior of using women as pawns to rid himself of self-inflicted pain grew low I began to admire his consistent need to be in and around Fermina’s life. She was no mere conquest for him – no. She was the one he had given his heart to. Both Dr.Urbino and Florentino were strangers to Fermina when she found them but despite being practically away from her for most of his lifetime, it appeared he knew Fermina better than the good doctor who had stayed with her all the time.<br />
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In my days as an unattached man I had often wondered about the various manifestations of love. The way relationships are made and broken based on the changing (and admittedly often misused) definitions of love. And at that time had I read this book then I would have, purely from the viewpoint of someone who thought he knew what was morally right, supported Dr. Urbino without a shadow of doubt. But now, having taken a few steps in the shoes of a husband, I found myself wanting to examine Florentino’s point of view more than the doctor’s. What was his motivation in waiting half a century for just one word of acknowledgement from his love? What made him pretty much throw his life away in mostly meaningless exploits of the flesh? When seen from his eyes the story elevates itself from being a black and white categorization of ethical and unethical and goes into a region I am still not completely familiar with. To tie one’s inner identity with another person to such an extent as to lose sight of everything else and, with age, not letting that lamp of hope to diminish even a bit…yes, love perhaps is that. Something that doesn’t require the square and circle of marriage to stand within. Something that doesn’t need a complimentary force to fulfill itself into reality. Something so independent and random that finding a pattern in it would be just as hard as to stem the rabid cholera outbreak the doctor strives to conquer.<br />
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A million songs have been sung in our country that compare love to an incurable disease. This book gave me a first-hand insight into the days of a man who chooses to live with it, grows along with it and finds salvation in his own unmaking. It challenged me to question my belief system on what I thought about love as an emotion. It provoked me to explore absolutely outrageous scenarios by contradicting, in several places, my decisions had I been either the doctor or Florentino. And just for these reasons, I do hope I get to read this book again in a decade or two to check if I am still left with more questions or if I have found answers to a few of them. <br />
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..ShaKri..</div>
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-21096538.post-50504556591522535072012-09-20T08:41:00.001+02:002013-05-29T14:23:23.442+02:00Vinka's New Friend<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
Once upon a time, in a land far far away, there lived a little boy named Vinka. The place Vinka lived in was full of tall green trees that held the juiciest of fruits and huge velvety mountains that were home to the friendliest of birds and animals. Every morning the sun would rise slowly from behind those mountains and spread soft sunlight all around. Tree by tree, fruit by fruit, bird by bird and animal by animal, everyone would be soaked in its cozy warmth. The animals would come to the water front to get a quick drink while the birds would fly from tree to tree and sing many happy tunes. Soon the entire place would be drenched in golden curtains and butterflies would come out to dance. The place was truly a paradise. <br /> <br />
But despite being surrounded by such beauty Vinka was a sad boy. <br /> <br />
He was an only child to his parents so they showered him with all their attention. They constantly pampered him with all kinds of sweets and other delicacies. They took him to various fun places like the large park where jugglers came and showed off their tricks and magicians arrived grandly on sparkly flying sticks. They took little Vinka on various nature trails where they showed him birds that had wings but could not fly and monkeys that flew from tree to tree without any wings at all! They would show him flowers that were huge but lived on really short plants and fruits that were so tiny yet grew on the tallest trees!<br /> <br />
But nothing, it appeared, could make little Vinka genuinely happy. <br /> <br />
You see, Vinka was born with nose and ears that weren’t like the rest of the kids he knew. His nose was a bit longer than the ones he had seen and drooped a little towards his mouth. This made his nose look a little like an elephant’s trunk! His ears weren’t tiny and soft like the rest either. They were slightly large, a little rough to touch and stuck out from the sides of his head. The other kids would endlessly tease poor Vinka with the notorious chant “Vinka Vinka never sneeze! Your ears are banana leaves!” every time he made an attempt to befriend them.<br /> <br />
All this hurt little Vinka very much and so he would run to his mother erupting into tears. He would hug her tight and ask her “Why ma? Why am I so ugly? Why am I not like the others? Why shouldn’t I ever sneeze? Why are my ears like banana leaves?”<br /> <br />
His mother would comfort him with every pleasant word she knew. She would sing him his favorite songs, cook him his favorite dishes and tell him that everything would be alright. But deep down Vinka was convinced – nothing would be alright. He was somehow different and ugly and nothing could be done to fix that. He would have to stay unhappy for the rest of his life. His tears were the only friends he had. They were the only friends he could afford.<br /> <br />
With things looking like this, one sunny day Vinka’s grand uncle, Uncle Dwaipa, stopped by. <br /> <br />
Now, if there was one person in the whole wide world who could make little unhappy Vinka laugh and dance in joy, even if it was for just a little while, it was Uncle Dwaipa. He would bring along various curious items such as the wooden bear that could sing and dance at the same time! Or the mechanical clock that would tell Vinka the time of the day along with his name! Once, Uncle Dwaipa even brought Vinka a large colorful blanket. He called it the “Secret Mask of Happiness”. It had strange shaped holes and odd looking patterns in it. Whenever Vinka wrapped himself in it the world outside would look strange and odd too! Trees would look upside down. Birds would appear as if they were flying in the ocean. Why, even the kids who tormented little Vinka would appear with no heads or legs! Just floating torsos! His little spot of joy in a life filled with disappointments was Uncle Dwaipa’s blanket. He would wrap himself with it every time he wanted to have a little laugh at the world that was laughing at him.<br /> <br />
But that day when Uncle Dwaipa visited, Vinka was in a terrible mood. The moment Uncle Dwaipa walked into the house he knew something was very wrong. Sure, he had walked in before when Vinka would be weeping or some other commotion would be taking place. But never before had there been such a deafening silence in the house. Uncle Dwaipa immediately rushed to Vinka’s room to find him sitting in the corner covered head to toe with the “Secret Mask of Happiness”.<br /> <br />
“He has been like this for a few days now!” Vinka’s helpless parents complained to Uncle Dwaipa. “He eats very little, doesn’t want to go out. He even doesn’t sleep properly! He just sits there like that most of the time...” his poor mother said breaking off into sobs. “Please help him!” his father added with sad eyes. “We have tried everything. We have no one else to turn to…”
“Let me have a moment with him” said Uncle Dwaipa in his deep baritone after a brief pause. Vinka’s parents left the room slowly. Uncle Dwaipa walked up to Vinka and sat on a large wooden stool right next to him. <br /> <br />
“Hello Vinka!” he said and tried to remove the blanket.<br /> <br />
“No!” Vinka shouted struggling back. “I don’t want to talk to you! Go away!”<br /> <br />
This was very serious matter indeed, Uncle Dwaipa observed. Never before had Vinka reacted like this. All the distractions that he had devised for little Vinka now seemed to have served their purpose. No more mechanical toys, no more magic blankets, no more mind boggling tricks would do. Uncle Dwaipa knew exactly what he had to do next. It was time.<br /> <br />
“Very well” he said untying his large bag. “Then I guess you do not want to meet your new friend.”<br /> <br />
Vinka’s curiosity was tickled just a wee bit but he shook his head vigorously from within the blanket.<br /> <br />
“Ah alright then” Uncle Dwaipa continued. “I guess I will play with your new friend myself. It is such a pity you will never know how brilliant your new friend is!” <br /> <br />
Saying thus, Uncle Dwaipa began humming a cheery tune and pulled out something from his bag that seemed quite heavy. Vinka did not react. He continued blinking in the dark of his magic blanket.<br /> <br />
“Ah let us see here then” Uncle Dwaipa said placing Vinka’s new friend on the lap. <br /> <br />
No sooner had the new friend been produced than Vinka’s nose picked up an unfamiliar fragrance. It wasn’t anything like he had ever smelt before. It was like a mixed concoction of old trees, young leaves and fresh honey. Or was it like the mixture of roots, barks and mud? The sounds it made too were nothing like Vinka had ever heard before. They were like a mix of dry leaves, coarse sand and gentle breeze. Or was it like the mix of shifting feet, water ripples and rain?<br /> <br />
Vinka couldn’t tell! <br /> <br />
His slightly oversized nose and ears were now starting to itch. He <i>had </i>to find out what it was Uncle Dwaipa had brought.<br /> <br />
“Ohoho! This is a good one. Yes it is indeed” Uncle Dwaipa guffawed. “Just look at his big crooked teeth! And he is trying to eat this little man! How stupid! The man has a sword hidden in his shirt!” roared Uncle Dwaipa slapping his thigh and letting out a storm of laughter.<br /> <br />
Outside the room Vinka’a parents looked at each other with questioning eyes. <br /> <br />
“O no! Don’t do that you silly ape!” Uncle Dwaipa continued, the rustling sound accompanying his monolog. “That blind crocodile will eat you because it is not really blind! It is all a drama you clueless beast!”<br /> <br />
From the corner of his eye Uncle Dwaipa could notice a blanket wrapped figure stirring in increasing curiosity. He could sense the rising levels of impatience emanating from that blanket.
It wouldn’t be long now.<br /> <br />
“Five and five isn’t eight you silly bird! Did you not learn mathematics? How much is five and five? Everyone knows that! Even our Vinka does! Don’t you?” asked Uncle Dwaipa now turning towards Vinka. <br /> <br />
“It is ten!” screamed the little boy finally flinging off the blanket and jumping onto Uncle Dwaipa’s side.<br /> <br />
What he saw next was the most beautiful thing he had ever laid eyes upon his whole life. Uncle Dwaipa held in his lap a large box like object which contained hundreds of rectangle-shaped, smooth-surfaced, thin slices of bark. The top edge of all these slices had tiny holes in them through which slim strands of threads ran and held them all together. This mechanism made it possible to turn the slices back and forth! And on each of those smooth barks he saw such colorful illustrations! There was the blue of the sky, the red of the berries, the green of the grasshopper, the yellow of the flowers – it was like a rainbow of shapes. It was, Vinka thought at first glance, even better than the magic blanket. This new friend did not change his vision of things that weren’t different in reality. On the contrary it remained as it was and allowed Vinka to choose what he wanted to see. This was better than magic!<br /> <br />
As Uncle Dwaipa slowly turned over each slice of bark more colors and more drawings became visible. Vinka now saw creatures in them that he had never seen before. A boy with three heads and four arms! A girl with large angry eyes, her red tongue sticking out in thirst and ten arms! A creature that had the head of a horse and the body of a man! Another creature had no body at all! Just a flying head that could look around and spit out fire whenever it yawned! <br /> <br />
Vinka quickly elbowed out the large frame of Uncle Dwaipa and buried his face into the barks. His slightly long nose and slightly large ears were alert now. He would giggle when a large bellied king was chased by a very short man holding an even smaller wooden umbrella in his hand. He would cackle when a boar-faced beast with two long white horns was shown running away with the entire earth in its hands! He couldn’t stop laughing when he saw hundreds of tiny sweaty men trying to wake up an incredibly large and extremely sleepy giant! <br /> <br />
“Who <i>are </i>these people Uncle Dwaipa?” Vinka asked amid bouts of laughter. <br /> <br />
“They? O, why they are all part of a very long and the most adventurous story!” said Uncle Dwaipa taking the little boy in his arms.<br /> <br />
“Which story Uncle Dwaipa? Tell me tell me! Please tell me!” implored an impatient Vinka.<br /> <br />
“Not today my dear child” said Uncle Dwaipa in an assuring tone. “Today I want you to play with this new friend of yours. Look at these people, these creatures and see how different and odd and crazy they are. How strange yet how interesting they look! The next time I come you should be ready to tell me one story using them. But remember you can only tell me one story so make sure it is a good one! Can you do that?”<br /> <br />
Vinka thought about it for a minute. This was an interesting challenge. All these days his mother would tell him stories. But he would never be able to change them the way he wanted to. Now he was being given a chance to make up his own using such a wide range of absolutely hilarious characters! He liked the idea immensely.<br /> <br />
“Yes! Yes!” he screamed. Despite his small stature Vinka grabbed the collection of barks from Uncle Dwaipa and keenly began looking at the drawings one by one, clapping to himself in pure joy.
Uncle Dwaipa got up and walked out of the room leaving Vinka with his new friend. Outside the room his parents stood waiting with eager and puzzled eyes.<br /> <br />
“Do not worry” Uncle Dwaipa told them. “Vinka may no longer want to go out and play. He may no longer wish to see magicians perform tricks. He may no longer want to befriend other kids. But that is alright. I have introduced him to the only friend he will ever need. But know this - from this point forward Vinka will never be sad again.”<br /> <br />
Vinka’s parents looked a little relieved but questions still remained. Just as they were about to ask something they heard Vinka’s echoing laughter from the room. They had never heard Vinka laugh with such pleasure. They realized Uncle Dwaipa had created some magic, as always. So they didn’t say a word. They just looked at each other and smiled, happy that Vinka had finally found what he was looking for.<br /> <br />
Uncle Dwaipa continued to visit little Vinka for several years after that day. Each time he would bring along a new better looking friend of the same kind. With each visit he would sit and listen patiently to the fascinating stories Vinka had made up using his imagination. He had given the creatures he had seen various names and added some amazingly interesting incidents to each one of them. He would stand and enact various scenes from his stories as Uncle Dwaipa and the parents would sit and watch their little boy with tears of joy.<br /> <br />
Then one day, many years later, Vinka got another visit from his grand uncle. This time Uncle Dwaipa didn’t bring along any new friends. Instead he brought with him several blank slices of smooth-surfaced bark, a few big bottles of black ink and several beautifully carved sandalwood pens. <br /> <br />
This time Uncle Dwaipa wanted Vinka to write something.<br /> <br /><br /> <br />
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<i>PS:Given that Ganesha Chaturthi celebrations are agog all around I wanted to use the premise of Ganesha being the scribe for the Indian epic Mahabharata at the behest of the sage Veda Vyasa (or Krishna Dwaipayana, as he was originally called). This piece is based on that idea where Vyasa (Uncle Dwaipa here) essentially trains Ganesha (Vinka here) for such a gigantic project by first introducing him to his own imagination. </i><br /> <br />
<img border="0" height="28" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiXd4ShqrPjFdDxKlCduss-TgwIxbRahV-TH_2DFDWU9xa7qtRFd06Jyol6Ru4z-rvEpIVz2Dfjhndr2VPVHUDff29XIxD1OxyPFWzGM6QvA42ikJ0lNmJox_SvD36h85Xq2RcYfw/s400/sk.gif" width="68" /></div>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com12tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-21096538.post-17121648211211784782012-09-18T10:38:00.003+02:002013-05-29T14:24:01.742+02:00Eega : Some thoughts<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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Teasers for Indian movies have always been quite revealing. In fact there are some movies that have such explicit teasers that they contain almost all of the best scenes the movie has to offer. Bitter experiences ensue later when the same movies are watched on the large screen and it is realized that the sequences from the teaser were perhaps the only tolerable portions of the entire thing. SS Rajamouli’s ‘Eega’ (‘Naan Ee’ in its Tamil avatar) is no exception in that department as the teaser pretty much captures the basic plot while also brazenly giving away hints about the predictability of the whole affair (a brave move for someone who is investing everything on a story based on a CGI character). Hence, to save us all time I shall focus on some elements that were not covered in the teaser.<br /><br />
The opening credits run with a background track of a child pestering his father for a bedtime story. With great reluctance the father begins telling the child the story of a housefly. This is an important sequence for two reasons: One, with just that the director sets up the premise for the entire film – it is a bedtime story. And two, because it is a bedtime story the idea that whatever is to follow, however fantastical and unrealistic it may be, will seek respite in that setting. <br /><br />
So the plot is as old as time itself. A young couple is head over heels in love with each other albeit they are yet to confess the same to one another. The fact that they are neighbors only allows the hero to apply some reflection based physics to impress the girl next door. Things seem a little too sweet to be true. All is color and song in slow motion amid flying autumn leaves. <br /><br />
Enter: the much needed antagonist. A playboy millionaire with a flair for money and women – in no particular order. As the teaser already reveals he manages to eliminate the competition by killing off the boy. As if to drive home the point of a harmless housefly being the real focal point of the plot the director makes the villain literally squash the hero with his bare feet – like an insignificant bug. <br /><br />
The girl is devastated by the news (of course she isn’t clued in on who did it…yet) as the villain swoops in to claim his prize. Meanwhile, elsewhere in the woods, the soul of the deceased young man has found home in an insect. Before you know it (and before the movie marker hits 25 minutes) you are introduced to the central character of the film – the buzzing housefly Eega. <br /><br />
As is evident from the teaser the rest of the movie is about how the housefly, generally deemed harmless by humans, can take on such an impossible task of plotting and killing one of us. What struck me as interesting was how the film maker here is so convinced of his vision that he leaves no stone unturned in getting us to look at the plot from the housefly’s perspective. We see the extremely-larger-than-life sequences of the visions the housefly has of the world around it. We are shown the titanic nature of seemingly trivial things like a water droplet falling to the ground when seen from the eyes of so small a being. We are led into a world of such small proportions that our existence as human beings fascinates us. The smallest of things we do so spontaneously are shown to have such catastrophic consequences in the worlds of beings smaller, much smaller, than us. These are sequences that act as gentle reminders to us about the fact that we, as a species, are not alone. We are not the only ones who matter in the big scheme of things. <br /><br />
The scenes that show how the housefly goes about bothering the villain are creatively done. If buzzing around and biting is the only annoying thing we thought a mosquito can do then seeing some of the outrageous things a harmless seeming housefly is capable of took me by surprise! There are scenes with just one human protagonist in them but the way Rajamouli utilizes the furniture, the carpets, the walls, almost all the props available in the frame to act as catalysts for the housefly to do it’s deed is remarkable. Everything from a glass of iced lemon tea to a bed sheet is used as a potential ‘actor’ in the scene. This is an achievement that the director deserves a pat on the back for. The ability to understand the importance of inanimate objects in a frame. <br /><br />
What is also curious is how much emotion is added to a rather dull creature like a housefly. Without the anatomy to give it expressive eyes the creative team of the movie still manages to get it to display anger, grief, shock and best of all – happiness – quite effectively. Since the context is completely Indian (and given our insatiable appetite for the whimsical) the antics the housefly indulges in are entertaining to watch. Once the villain has the plot figured out (that the housefly is the re-incarnated version of the young man he brutally murdered earlier…) his reactions aimed to kill the fly make up for the perfect clash: human vs fly, both wanting the other dead. <br /><br />
There is rarely a dull moment in the film after the first half an hour. It is perhaps for this reason that a lot of the plot holes can be ignored. One can tell that the director just couldn’t wait to start animating the fly and get the antagonist (Sudeep in what is arguably one of his most memorable roles thus far) to make his lethal moves in response. The CGI is well done, as mentioned earlier, and despite the predictable nature of the plot it makes for an engaging watch. Attention to detail, especially from the fly’s perspective, is remarkably accurate. <br /><br />
Performances belong largely to Sudeep (although the leading lady lights up the screen with her graceful presence quite often) and the CGI generated housefly. The two display remarkable chemistry despite the barrier of existence that separates them. Sudeep is extremely expressive throughout the film fully aware that it is through his act of rage and despair that his opponent gains life and worth on screen. And so he breathes hard, and often, to make both of them glow. What shows up as a result of this is a product of much honest hard work and dedication that is hard to ignore.
The bottom line I took away from the movie was that of courage. Not just from the story’s perspective where a classic David vs Goliath method is used to deliver but also from a film making point of view where the director’s conviction with the story is so clear. For a director, known for his widely acclaimed commercial attempts over the years, to get his hands dirty with something so ‘out of tradition’ is worth appreciation. It shows his courage not just with the potency of the plot but also in the trust he has with the audience. An acknowledgement all film makers can take a leaf out of. Such an effort to ensure a bedtime story for a child is done justice on the screen needs to be lauded. <br /><br />
With ‘Eega’ what Rajamouli has done is created a benchmark where the protagonist of the story need not be a human. This opens up new ways to tell a traditional story. It offers room for stories that have the human element in them without the visible presence of them. It creates space for the much needed aspect of human existence – empathy. One can only hope both Rajamouli and the nation’s film fraternity continue to find new stories that hinge on this much needed human attribute. Even if they appear only in bed time stories.<br /><br />
<img border="0" height="28" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiXd4ShqrPjFdDxKlCduss-TgwIxbRahV-TH_2DFDWU9xa7qtRFd06Jyol6Ru4z-rvEpIVz2Dfjhndr2VPVHUDff29XIxD1OxyPFWzGM6QvA42ikJ0lNmJox_SvD36h85Xq2RcYfw/s400/sk.gif" width="68" />
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-21096538.post-29052806821640443612012-09-17T12:17:00.002+02:002013-05-29T14:24:17.314+02:00Naked & Clothed - A poem<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<b>Naked & Clothed</b><br><br>
On the naked wooden table lay pages clothed in words,<br>
On the naked skin of each letter stood a clothed meaning.<br>
On the clothed wrinkled bed sat a naked emotion,<br>
On his wrinkle clothed face sat a naked tear shivering.<br><br>
The naked breeze outside came clothed with the scent of a tree,<br>
The naked flower by the window stood clothed in that glee,<br>
It clothed the room with fragrance and its naked glory,<br>
It clothed his walls with remembrance, with naked memory.<br><br>
The naked pages fluttered slowly now clothed with his sighs,<br>
Its naked essence dripped onto well clothed denials,<br>
Clothed in a momentary respite the naked breeze brought along,<br>
He clothed his sorrow further with a newfound naked song.<br><br>
Yet the naked truth pierced into his well clothed heart within,<br>
Sending many naked shocks into his regret clothed skin,<br>
With the clothed words of venom his naked love had sent him,<br>
His past now stood clothed with naked facts sans whim.<br><br>
The naked wooden table now stood clothed with perspective,<br>
As the naked words clothed him slowly, made him introspective,<br>
Clothed now warmly with the naked sunlight of reality,<br>
Clothed windows went asunder, his naked heart could finally see.<br><br>
<img border="0" height="28" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiXd4ShqrPjFdDxKlCduss-TgwIxbRahV-TH_2DFDWU9xa7qtRFd06Jyol6Ru4z-rvEpIVz2Dfjhndr2VPVHUDff29XIxD1OxyPFWzGM6QvA42ikJ0lNmJox_SvD36h85Xq2RcYfw/s400/sk.gif" width="68" />
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-21096538.post-41268228219673306312012-08-15T16:00:00.001+02:002013-05-29T14:24:39.140+02:00Ramayan 2.0 : Some thoughts<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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RAMAYAN 2.0 : Some thoughts</b>
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Two triggers got me interested in Vijayendra Mohanty's (<a href="http://twitter.com/vimoh">@Vimoh</a>) free e-book 'Ramayan 2.0'. The first was it's size. It is 30 pages long. My instant reaction to it was that of cynicism laced surprise. What kind of a Ramayana book can be this small when even the shortest episodes of such epics tend to run into hundreds of pages? The second trigger, which in some ways counteracted the cynical aspect from before, was the preface by the author and the names given to the chapters. Titles like 'Dashrath and Democracy', 'The vanar who flew', 'V for Valmiki' invited my attention. It was after I had started reading the second chapter, 'Kurup and Ramarajya' that I began seeing the general idea of the entire piece. The big picture was emerging.
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For starters Ramayan 2.0 is fortunately not just another retelling. The structure of the tales which the author calls fables follows an A-B-A-B pattern. Here, A is an actual episode from the Ramayana (where Vimoh carefully chooses which events to document) and B is a narrative told from the perspective of animals and birds as if in response to (or as a consequence of) the story narrated in A. I found this approach most refreshing primarily because of the coherence it offered not only to the A-story but also in the metaphors used in the B-story that followed it. The bonding of these pair-stories, if you will, was good reading.
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In the preface Vimoh writes that he intended to juxtapose some of Ramayana's stories to events in the present day context. True to this introduction he captures the questions about democracy in the very first chapter where Dasharatha is asked if the next king of Ayodhya could be someone not belonging to the royal clan. A question that has the king stumped but gives root to the idea of democracy that the author is trying to capture. This episode is immediately followed by the tale of a cow which is given the raw end of a democratic society where anyone can say anything about someone and get away with it. By combining these two facets of democracy Vimoh fleshes out a vital aspect of the concept of 'Ramarajya' – a sense of perfection but with a price. The remaining set of fables follow the same pattern with each episode dissecting the true meaning of words like brotherhood and humanity in the midst of serious turmoil. Questions arising from true power and self doubt are thrown at us. Is power merely an illusion? Or is it a secret locked up in every human mind and is merely awaiting the right context to unleash itself? Questions that rise up slowly like soft molehills on the sandy ground of the mind and await the rebellious snake of hard truths to take over.
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Vimoh ends the series with the reiteration of the basic idea that Ramayana, like it's counterpart Mahabharata, is all about what lessons one takes away from them. Each retelling ends up, invariably, polishing it further to fit the needs of the civilization in play. Over the centuries such modifications have been put in place to guide the wisdom of the masses so that all these words – democracy, power, humanity, brotherhood – can go beyond just the epics and find a place in the actions of citizens around the world.
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'Ramayan 2.0' was a memorable read. I look forward to more such attempts by Vimoh where old objects when seen under new light ignite tiny sparks of introspection and where the marriage of old teaching and new learning finds air to breathe and fly.
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<b>Download and read 'Ramayan 2.0' as a PDF at the link here <a href="http://t.co/JQmoeGus">http://t.co/JQmoeGus</a><b>
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<img border="0" height="28" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiXd4ShqrPjFdDxKlCduss-TgwIxbRahV-TH_2DFDWU9xa7qtRFd06Jyol6Ru4z-rvEpIVz2Dfjhndr2VPVHUDff29XIxD1OxyPFWzGM6QvA42ikJ0lNmJox_SvD36h85Xq2RcYfw/s400/sk.gif" width="68" />
</div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-21096538.post-69198638477754463832012-05-04T11:41:00.001+02:002013-06-10T14:27:22.531+02:00trividha<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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§ trividha §
</b><br /><br />A short fiction by <a href="https://twitter.com/#!/shakwrites">ShaKri</a>, <a href="https://twitter.com/#!/URM1">Urmi</a> and <a href="https://twitter.com/#!/ScrollsNInk">Reema</a>. <br />(A Twitter friends collaborative literary piece)<br /><br />
Dusk had started its greedy journey of claiming real estate across the lands. Like a witch’s sinewy hands shadows grew, consuming a chunk of grass here, some trees there. Soon the land would be flooded with darkness. A darkness that perhaps no new sun would be able to erase again completely. The skies bore a hint of melancholy as she waited, patiently, for their arrival. But within her, behind the veils of reasons, a storm awaited.
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The air was thick with incense. An everyday ritual in the palace, whenever the sun took a graceful exit. But that particular day she felt as if the smoke would snake across the gleaming floors, crawl up around her like an innocent creeper and choke the remaining life out of her. Such had been the impact of the news she had received. She could no longer see the poetry of the colours that had always been her one resort of solace. No more would the fragrance of flowers bring her peace. Not that day would the arrival of her heart’s beloved master and emperor, Arjuna, make her rush to the threshold to greet him into her arms. Everything was whirlpooling into a blank. A void. And she had started to ask questions that she feared she already knew the answers to.
<br /><br />
He mused at the lightness and heaviness of the air. The breeze brushed past his arm as playfully as ever, fragrant like the new bride by his side, yet it was laced with a gloom, a cold, that he knew the palatial air would be like. He absently placed his arms around that warm nubile body as they walked, his steps light with anticipation, and heavy with guilt. Subhadra, that beautiful creature made of misty mornings, seemed to be floating alongside him. So different she was from Draupadi - that woman of flaming beauty. Yet how similar they were in their love for him. He sighed, his broad shoulders drooping under the weight of what was to be. “I should learn to live with paradoxes now,” he thought to himself. Even as a gale began to rise from the pit of his stomach, he wondered what was going through Subhadra’s mind, and let the chariot soar.
<br /><br />
She repeated her name in her own head, over and over. Subhadra, Subhadra. Auspicious. Blessed. Her whole life had brought her to this one juncture where she was on the brink of questioning why she was here. What was she learning? She felt Arjuna’s body radiating guilt and a measure of worry as they swooped towards Indraprastha in the air-borne chariot. She was reminded of a child that had to go home after a day of rule-breaking to a waiting mother, ready to be chastised. It almost made her smile. Auspicious? Who could ever tell what Krishna had planned for her, for Arjuna, for Draupadi? But she had learnt one thing from all her time with this flute-player that everybody seemed to adore; everything you perceive is the tip of the iceberg. As they stepped out of the chariot and walked up the palace stairway, she remembered that it was she who had ridden the chariot. She had made Arjuna elope with her, albeit on Krishna’s instructions. She knew she could shield Arjuna. She also knew she would never have to do that until Krishna called for it.
<br /><br />
The chambermaid came in and announced that the valiant Pandava had arrived with his new bride. Without batting an eyelid, Draupadi nodded her head in acknowledgement. It was so mechanical and instant that it was almost as if she had heard the maid’s voice inside her head. “Here he comes now” she told herself and began walking towards the main door. “How do I make him see what burns inside me?” she wondered, as her legs, unwillingly, dragged her towards him. “What misses the great Gandiva-bearing Pandava’s eyes? Nothing.” she reminded herself and approached the giant gold embroidered doors that somehow seemed taller than usual. Heavier and more merciless than what she had of them in memory. Every inch of her body was aflame with feelings that had been so alien to her. But she was no stranger to fire. It was her home, after all. So she awaited the pristine moment that would convert this raging wildfire inside her into a placid lamp.
<br /><br />
The first thing she spotted was just Arjuna. For a fleeting moment all the rage within her disappeared. Could it be true? Was it really just him who stood there outside the door? Had he abandoned the idea of crushing her tender heart and decided to smother it with more love instead? A droplet of happiness pushed itself out of her eyes as these thoughts made home within her. But as she blinked in anticipation, the mist grew thin. And her smile, shaped like the beautiful Gandiva, was cruelly broken. Standing next to her Arjuna was the new girl. Krishna’s sister and the new stakeholder of her beloved’s heart. Subhadra. The tears in her eyes froze from the heat that now surged through her, turning them from transparent pearls to translucent sparks. Red with reason. Red like the tongue of a flame.
<br /><br />
Arjuna froze too. Draupadi’s eyes locked into his, a million images flashed through his head. He remembered the Swayamwara, and Draupadi’s eyes when she first saw him there - she had smiled a bashful yet knowing smile. She knew that no one but him could win the contest. It was designed for the archer supreme. He remembered her victorious eyes again, when he stood before her, neck bent to wear the varmala, past all his contenders. Her eyes full of dreams when they walked together towards the Pandavas’ kutir in the forest. Her confused eyes when Kunti and Yudhishtir discussed dividing her into five parts. Her hurt, angry eyes, when they made the biggest decision of her life. Nobody had asked her then. Nobody had asked her now. She had acquiesced then to not giving all of herself to Arjuna. But would she agree now to not having Arjuna all to herself? Would she agree to a painful splitting again? He couldn’t tell.
<br /><br />
All Arjuna saw were proud, angry tears, that streaked Draupadi’s fiery beauty. The tears singed him. How would he ever explain why Subhadra was here at her door, claiming to be another wife to him? How would he explain that his love for Draupadi hadn’t died, but a new love for Subhadra had been born? He summoned his voice with great difficulty. Words came forth from his throat like arrows, hurting his mouth, his head, his entire being. “I come to ask of you again today, to share what you hold dear. Would you, my love, give up a little of me?” His sigh melted into Subhadra’s - two united breaths. The first words had been uttered. Whether it would annihilate them or embrace them, at least the floodgates had been opened.
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The wind from Arjuna’s and Subhadra’s sighs amplified the already roaring firestorm inside Draupadi. She collected herself, inhaled deep, and looking at Subhadra’s downcast eyes, said in a clear distinct voice “Greetings, O great son of Pandu. Would you be so kind as to also tell me why this is being asked of me?”
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Subhadra put a restraining arm on Arjuna. She had sensed his lips part, ready with a reply but she had also seen Draupadi’s eyes boring into hers. She knew it was a question thrown at her. She could see that Draupadi, this glorious, powerful creature literally born of fire, had faced betrayal before from Arjuna. She hardly expected an answer from him. But a woman, a woman just like her in so many ways, how could she do this to her? There were a thousand questions in Draupadi’s fiery glare but Subhadra was protected. She looked into those red eyes, gently tilted her head and noticed something. She was home. There was Krishna everywhere. There were his symbols strewn across Indraprastha and in this moment, when those should be least of her concerns, Subhadra’s heart leapt in joy.
<br /><br />
Peacocks strolled languorously in the sweeping gardens surrounding Indraprastha. She heard the gentle note of a flute playing somewhere far away. Draupadi was exactly how Krishna had described. In that one moment, she knew she was meeting a part of her own soul; a lover of Krishna, no different from who she was. Arjuna’s first queen, no different from who she was. “You don’t have to,” she whispered, glancing at Draupadi’s red-lined feet. “Krishna sends me.” A tear drop rolled down her eye as she uttered her only truth.
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For a brief moment Draupadi’s fury seemed to find a sense of calm. Such a magical concoction lay in Krishna’s mere mention. In Subhadra’s words she could almost hear Krishna’s melodious voice. She relented, briefly. And in that brief instance she realised how tender Subhadra really was. Krishna’s name in the conversation had started to kill the fires. But it wasn’t comforting. The sting of desperation resumed with renewed energies when her gaze shifted to Arjuna, standing like a rock, next to the new girl.
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“Did Krishna just send this new gift to Indraprastha? Or did he also send some arrow-tipped words with the great Arjuna? Why do I not see that quiver strapped to his person? What words will you choose, O famous Pandu putra, to explain this truth to me?” Draupadi said, without mincing her words, aiming them straight at Arjuna’s bosom.
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“How do I say this, Panchali?” Arjuna began. “ How do I begin to mirror what churns beneath my skin? How do I explain the motivations of Keshava, which my actions have fructified?”
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“He, who is sarathi to me, sakha to you, and bhrata to Subhadra has brought us together, like three flowers bound with one string. While it was Madhava who prompted me, Subhadra who whisked me away, it was I who has chosen to love and be loved back. Yet, dear Draupadi, I love you no less. While it was in the soil of your heart that my love first took root, I cannot now thrive without the water of Subhadra’s affections. And the sunlight of Dwarkadhish’s blessing is indispensible for all of us. You have been, and remain, my first love. In the name of that love, I implore you, in the name of our rashtra, I implore you to accept Subhadra. Accept her because it is Krishna’s will, accept her because it is my doing, accept her because it will make our state stronger. Accept her as you will partake in all of my karmas as my ardhangini. Accept her as your sister. All Subhadra seeks is a little place by your side, our side,” he said, turning towards his new bride.
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Draupadi looked away. Krishna, it occurred to her, had indeed sent well-sharpened arrows with Arjuna. Each one of them made their mark on her hurting heart. With each new pierce the grief and rage in the pit of her stomach only worsened. Her mind was filled with memories.
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“Acceptance...,”she said slowly. “You have chosen your words wisely, O valiant one. Many moons ago, was it not this same request for acceptance that gave me more than the man I had chosen at my Swayamwara? Was it not the same venom of acceptance I had been made to forcefully consume in the name of dharma, in the name of rashtra, in the name of the betterment of all humanity? What guile had been used against me back then to accept five husbands instead of one? How strategically was I implored, time and again, to consume within me the flames of someone else’s decisions? A land that was supposed to be your empire, a haven that would flourish with your monarchy, a golden oasis of nectar that would extinguish the flames of my barren life, had to accept the hands of four more men to rule it. Yes, I accepted. I accepted relinquishing you for four years at end. I accepted standing equally with your shadow wherever you went. I accepted the tiny piece of attention I got from your war riddled lifetime. I accepted them all Partha. But the only gushing waterfall in the dense rainforest of my little heart. That one small stone of pleasure on which I sit today along with you in my arms....”
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She turned now to face Subhadra.
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“...is being taken away from me. That singular tree I sit under. Krishna’s truth, I must admit...” Draupadi continued as the ghosts from her days bygone began choking her voice. “...is not cutting down that tree Gandeevi. It is killing that tree’s only existent, life-giving, pleasant shadow. And what is a tree without a shadow? That, I cannot accept, O Dhananjaya...” she said looking expectantly into her beloved’s quizzical eyes.
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“Do not accept it, then. You are well within your rights to send me back. You are my king’s first queen. He first found love in your eyes, in your embrace. The love of an equal, the love of a woman, he found it first in your words and your silences. And I? I am but a pawn in this story of life. While I have loved your Arjuna more than I have ever loved any man, I harbour no illusions about what position I hold in his life, and in your life with him. I know why Krishna chose to name me Subhadra. I know I am being used. But that also tells me that I am useful. I do not know what Madhava plans. I am blessed with only human eyes and a human intellect and it is not for me to show you what lies beyond the horizon. I can only tell you that I place my unflinching faith in Govinda, in his plans, no matter how dark the clouds loom over the horizon.
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“So send me back. But know this, Panchali, that the responsibility of refuting Krishna’s word rests heavy on your already-laden shoulders. Know this, O Krishnaa, that you make Krishna who he is. To refute his word is to go against your own grain. Remember. And I shall go in peace.”
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Arjuna looked distraught. Tearing in the middle, fraught with pain. He looked at Subhadra, in awe of her stand. Yes, she was a woman who could steer destinies as well as she could steer chariots. She was, after all, Parthasarathi’s sister. Then he looked at Draupadi, a woman cast in embers, flaming with a passion of love and defiance, teetering on the edge of a decision.
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Draupadi smiled. Not at what had been said by the new love in Arjuna’s life but at the familiarity of the situation. She recalled the words of her father, the great king Drupada, back when she was just a child. On an evening not too unlike the one that day, the aged king had made little Draupadi sit on his lap and told her the magical story of her birth. He had spoken of sacred fires, as tall as mount Meru itself, that had roared relentlessly for several days as many renowned sages had prayed to the heavens to grant the king a gift. “The gift,” Drupada had whispered in the little girl’s anxious ears “was wrapped in gold, yellow and red. It was made of fire. It was as if Lord Agni himself had walked into my humble home holding this beautiful little bundle of unbridled bliss. A little girl born of fire. A little soul that had the command of turning empires to dust with its fury and also the gentleness of giving warmth to shivering mortals.” The girl, amused at this comparison to fire, had laughed out loud. “Yes..” the king had added. “In time, you will see my little fire flower, that there will gather skies above your head that will need you to choose. What kind of fire will you unleash? Will you burn down castles of ambitions? Or will you set afire a million hopes?”
<br /><br />
A tear rolled down Draupadi’s cheek. Much like the one Subhadra had let out a few moments ago while releasing her truth. This was Draupadi’s truth now. Her lifetime of truths wrapped in various boxes of acceptance from different corners of the universe. Her dark exterior had, much like the shadows cast by the Parijata tree, absorbed all the heat the world gifted her with. She recalled Arjuna’s look of surprise and admiration back at the Swayamwara at having spotted her singular beauty. But she wondered if he knew how many rabid energies had penetrated her to make her glow from the inside. Today, under the skies as dark as her, Draupadi was being asked the same question her father had asked her. What will she be? The generous flame that consumes everything it is presented with? Or the uncontrollable hurricane of anger that spares no one, vaporizes anything that comes its way?
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“Krishnaa exists because of Krishna...” she finally managed to mouth. “Had it not been for the immortal hands of Keshava, the many mortals who have ruled Draupadi’s heart would have extinguished her long ago.”
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She looked at Subhadra. It was true what she had heard of her. Just like her brother, she had been born with the gift of words. But how different she was from him too. Unlike him, who chose his words to show the way ahead, her words seemed aimed to herald the truth of today. This moment. This heartbeat.
<br /><br />
Subhadra stepped carefully over the threshold and approached Draupadi. Draupadi stood, barely balancing herself on her two feet, almost in a daze. Subhadra covered the last few steps towards Draupadi in a run and clasped her arms around her. “I know. I stoke no fire. I am not water. I will never put you out. I am Krishna too. And I will hold this earth beneath your feet. Forever and beyond,” she whispered. Words that passed only between her and Panchali. Draupadi felt frail in that one moment, like embers about to die out and Subhadra knew it was her job to fan them to keep them going. There was a long journey ahead. This life had hardly begun.
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Draupadi’s fury came out as tears. Much like the waterfall in her mind’s forest, this was generous too. Much like the shadow of her singular tree, this was greedy too. Greedy not just for claiming Arjuna’s sole rights to her heart, but greedy for this new vision of Krishna to, hopefully, make the forest fire in her become a lamp that would brighten the dark days strewn like fallen flowers ahead. She held on to Subhadra.
<br /><br />
Subhadra held one hand out behind her. They would never be complete without Arjuna. Arjuna held it fast.
<br /><br />
In that one moment a confluence was created. The life forces of three strong streams merging into one. The barriers breaking between the elements of fire, water and earth and forming one divine. Arjuna saw Draupadi melt, forging a bond between her and Subhadra, forming one Prakriti with two faces, to accompany him, the Purusha, into the future. “Paradoxes,” he mused, “exist only as long as we fail to perceive the larger, divine picture.”
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By accepting duality, we understand the presence of the One. It is this One that may sometimes play life’s sweet music on the banks of the Yamuna, and sometimes send life’s toughest choices in the way He sent a Draupadi, a Subhadra, an Arjuna, a Draupadi and a Subhadra, an Arjuna.
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.com17tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-21096538.post-27831327273765971232012-04-19T19:41:00.000+02:002012-04-19T19:41:41.092+02:00Ramayana captured in Moghul art<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'palatino linotype', georgia, occidental, serif;">
Dear reader,
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'palatino linotype', georgia, occidental, serif;"><br /></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'palatino linotype', georgia, occidental, serif;">In an earlier post I had documented the existence of <a href="http://shakri.blogspot.com/2011/12/razmnama-mahabharatas-persian.html">Razmnama</a>, a Persian translation of the Mahabharata that was undertaken under Akbar's regime. This post is about 'Freer Ramayana' which, from what I have been able to gather, is an illustrated manuscript of the Indian epic Ramayana which was painted for a Moghul nobleman. There is no accurate information on who this nobleman was but the style of artwork it uses is quite similar to the ones found in Akbar's aforementioned work. So it could be that Akbar was the Moghul who had sanctioned this project too. Any further information on this would of course be appreciated.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'palatino linotype', georgia, occidental, serif;"><br /></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'palatino linotype', georgia, occidental, serif;">Given below are some of the pages I could gather. What is curious about it is the consistent usage of horns (as seen in depictions of Satan/Shaitaan) to depict evil characters in them while the Kings have the symbol headdress commonly seen in Islamic and Christian art. What is also interesting is the use of predominantly red and black to depict the evil characters in the epic while the heroes are shaded in human form.</span><br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiPwVugxfIfanGCUTZfo0oA9TtJeVpoKuM4K3JMpxXlHNVLvnkRLfL2HyO8t9bhgQPqJrRxbeEM4GH4mh3LTer4wpqnQvhzOxgK1IGgCAZY1xKoKZPTfsQiuT83GU8wZ61dV03WiA/s1600/angadaKillsDevantaka.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiPwVugxfIfanGCUTZfo0oA9TtJeVpoKuM4K3JMpxXlHNVLvnkRLfL2HyO8t9bhgQPqJrRxbeEM4GH4mh3LTer4wpqnQvhzOxgK1IGgCAZY1xKoKZPTfsQiuT83GU8wZ61dV03WiA/s320/angadaKillsDevantaka.jpg" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Angada kills Devantaka</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj1pAtRMkWblFQ3zV8mGVpensc3fPuT8YLi0haof2y_D3ylM4oH4y6UqTd_ALAha6Bo7qUs7xmgPpC6jh1rcgcOjwyaxwcYpFLeUCm07yj7f8dhSur4_FJ3oB7k6WHo-5o_VsrWuw/s1600/angadaNarantaka.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj1pAtRMkWblFQ3zV8mGVpensc3fPuT8YLi0haof2y_D3ylM4oH4y6UqTd_ALAha6Bo7qUs7xmgPpC6jh1rcgcOjwyaxwcYpFLeUCm07yj7f8dhSur4_FJ3oB7k6WHo-5o_VsrWuw/s320/angadaNarantaka.jpg" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Angada kills Narantaka</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgwGsJ-4rS5hWacALOvU66FgpXbEUcIJHbO_GWYF5eD0pgJ4brva-WKnDXUGzoMxQOb8FbiP-VklVK_XHdnDm3YzpKk8PlJ2gkjTGjcbr5677YxdbN-n1W9M8-j_UUhg6gu2jJM_A/s1600/bharatasetsouttofindrama.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgwGsJ-4rS5hWacALOvU66FgpXbEUcIJHbO_GWYF5eD0pgJ4brva-WKnDXUGzoMxQOb8FbiP-VklVK_XHdnDm3YzpKk8PlJ2gkjTGjcbr5677YxdbN-n1W9M8-j_UUhg6gu2jJM_A/s320/bharatasetsouttofindrama.jpg" width="188" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Bharata sets out to find Rama</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhnMafBLFpFR4SCqKpvBrEn65xNAdFkJAMdPMes9mSoB31RJxvyMGEGijco7QkhZaZgMGC2O4XLBKI7JvT2FfNqJ_3ZMHS7URoE6Nc6BAOoZ3IrkXHGQfEwOMrNff5dnYLfV564XA/s1600/dasharatha.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhnMafBLFpFR4SCqKpvBrEn65xNAdFkJAMdPMes9mSoB31RJxvyMGEGijco7QkhZaZgMGC2O4XLBKI7JvT2FfNqJ_3ZMHS7URoE6Nc6BAOoZ3IrkXHGQfEwOMrNff5dnYLfV564XA/s320/dasharatha.jpg" width="177" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Dasharatha in Ayodhya</td></tr>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTUl8xPXC9eSnn0CQQ_RTwodeHjfckarBEqTFBJ4vnBOK8TABpXkUStUfy1SwDzUYGs3hXclYllNsBk7FcmkRWNrYFwyR3CrFVLytPrTGwDUQgaqouyYJcYtPygEZ9uJn6xEta5Q/s1600/dasharathaandsonsreturn.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTUl8xPXC9eSnn0CQQ_RTwodeHjfckarBEqTFBJ4vnBOK8TABpXkUStUfy1SwDzUYGs3hXclYllNsBk7FcmkRWNrYFwyR3CrFVLytPrTGwDUQgaqouyYJcYtPygEZ9uJn6xEta5Q/s320/dasharathaandsonsreturn.jpg" width="180" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Dasharatha and sons return to Ayodhya</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEipz5T_bpMPA8VJ2Rs5bZjxG2KV4xaPFR80NkmrmutLZCCn9na0fJit1KBcCjFm6gsm1NUANJ_kNR_2DHhEU4XLG3QHcxoBcDU9pU7KVBYWZDFfVujoNHl9qRX6XIaMf4Gt9Y_GPg/s1600/hanumanandravana.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEipz5T_bpMPA8VJ2Rs5bZjxG2KV4xaPFR80NkmrmutLZCCn9na0fJit1KBcCjFm6gsm1NUANJ_kNR_2DHhEU4XLG3QHcxoBcDU9pU7KVBYWZDFfVujoNHl9qRX6XIaMf4Gt9Y_GPg/s320/hanumanandravana.jpg" width="186" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Hanuman and Ravana</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj8EKJ0C0FoefUqxzV9qo7t0FrJjBxkCv_sk8O3GMAhtvGlff8s1IOv9MoYrO3I0bc2jr5JCV_BOfVu4iP_87YBz8mpgbmKXyBcWrgsXp-d5MYj5r6iSXgv82RNnrOTchH03uVQDg/s1600/hanumanbeheadsTrisiras.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj8EKJ0C0FoefUqxzV9qo7t0FrJjBxkCv_sk8O3GMAhtvGlff8s1IOv9MoYrO3I0bc2jr5JCV_BOfVu4iP_87YBz8mpgbmKXyBcWrgsXp-d5MYj5r6iSXgv82RNnrOTchH03uVQDg/s320/hanumanbeheadsTrisiras.jpg" width="173" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Hanuman beheads Trisiras</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgjy61Xfhb7a5OGVfN_1tqgLpwuJrcJtVJAcrgZWsvdifpqWZijga8pm7BtcUhXl7sNUQlODu-1rx9Wzr6mYQ3kUJh2i_mkG_UQXNhnWVm6Bns65SF1zaTc6nJYz0X-qCIWQXhXsQ/s1600/hanumansanjeevani.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgjy61Xfhb7a5OGVfN_1tqgLpwuJrcJtVJAcrgZWsvdifpqWZijga8pm7BtcUhXl7sNUQlODu-1rx9Wzr6mYQ3kUJh2i_mkG_UQXNhnWVm6Bns65SF1zaTc6nJYz0X-qCIWQXhXsQ/s320/hanumansanjeevani.jpg" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Hanuman looking for Sanjeevani herb</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiA6jdP8eiUr7fcpm28TTXWI1LkHcIqi5KeH9rQGPwZVTGnask1IOCue5qBJlrpCP7d4gqp08o54SgihbtR9a3_u07SPd52wi5x7GW8CcPXa-XY7NL6B0-1_ntSyKZ35uVsxWLQ4Q/s1600/indrapreventstrishanku.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiA6jdP8eiUr7fcpm28TTXWI1LkHcIqi5KeH9rQGPwZVTGnask1IOCue5qBJlrpCP7d4gqp08o54SgihbtR9a3_u07SPd52wi5x7GW8CcPXa-XY7NL6B0-1_ntSyKZ35uVsxWLQ4Q/s320/indrapreventstrishanku.jpg" width="189" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Indra prevents Trishanku from entering heaven</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-dfILoPIs-Xw6nxvsD87vHaCiSKVZr_5auagFnWvhKEOoPk20nUoWRDfiO8YeoeUMfKa3ov4S7u9niW6MYW4P8ZwmjisRbFOxzVbjsziyVTPzDu3UBrHEdXoaNUs0HDchHbw7YA/s1600/kumbhakarna.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-dfILoPIs-Xw6nxvsD87vHaCiSKVZr_5auagFnWvhKEOoPk20nUoWRDfiO8YeoeUMfKa3ov4S7u9niW6MYW4P8ZwmjisRbFOxzVbjsziyVTPzDu3UBrHEdXoaNUs0HDchHbw7YA/s320/kumbhakarna.jpg" width="186" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Kumbhakarna getting up</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNiMvPJWjTE34jEVSIuxm-zA-ONHMKEmg8_D80PPRbWCHM97nhT9pgc2AmDZ50jSAHTmTKqkN4Zveszn6OikSqILsze64ozCBSZ6mQb9oPMvKE7eGTNbBqAU6uhSwbvf9D2dPIig/s1600/kumbhakarnaattack.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNiMvPJWjTE34jEVSIuxm-zA-ONHMKEmg8_D80PPRbWCHM97nhT9pgc2AmDZ50jSAHTmTKqkN4Zveszn6OikSqILsze64ozCBSZ6mQb9oPMvKE7eGTNbBqAU6uhSwbvf9D2dPIig/s320/kumbhakarnaattack.jpg" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Kumbhakarna in battle</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiiaJ2WMo7ik9kh7J2A6Xu_Yyx2XTHd_5mnyQWw9jZ7yz_2_bu4zoD1H0Y6Le__PNlGMWCrA5XvkCvy8J8OUPkg6j4LgHp2RQZI-obZXBHcLacw8hl2pAxXI45iamDE5SA29fHcCg/s1600/r1.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiiaJ2WMo7ik9kh7J2A6Xu_Yyx2XTHd_5mnyQWw9jZ7yz_2_bu4zoD1H0Y6Le__PNlGMWCrA5XvkCvy8J8OUPkg6j4LgHp2RQZI-obZXBHcLacw8hl2pAxXI45iamDE5SA29fHcCg/s320/r1.png" width="198" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Hanuman carries a mountain back </td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJ9ArYfkGmUn_-4LpmwF1hiXs3kO5hqwolJjpKXVam1jMtoDjt-4JBgwjayPvAVI01XgPKt08rHU5slsIgcbHZbPqW0455wZOezSgyxhbq-f6CtYC_038iwaxq3KjUBpf7o1OG5Q/s1600/ramakillsmaharaksha.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJ9ArYfkGmUn_-4LpmwF1hiXs3kO5hqwolJjpKXVam1jMtoDjt-4JBgwjayPvAVI01XgPKt08rHU5slsIgcbHZbPqW0455wZOezSgyxhbq-f6CtYC_038iwaxq3KjUBpf7o1OG5Q/s320/ramakillsmaharaksha.jpg" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="text-align: left;">Rama kills Maharaksha<br /> </span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiyhyphenhyphenON2DLzPigFs4OMyFNfobuu5dRUW1leRAb8G6C_vCV2b8GziDq7b7nzOhunofdbeWPJAUXDuFFuaxQFbPXwp5u-Zf68SPIxXHWKFSmTXcR3wmiZW2GTVCx9zIxKLrMatKiWwQ/s1600/ramakillsviradha.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiyhyphenhyphenON2DLzPigFs4OMyFNfobuu5dRUW1leRAb8G6C_vCV2b8GziDq7b7nzOhunofdbeWPJAUXDuFFuaxQFbPXwp5u-Zf68SPIxXHWKFSmTXcR3wmiZW2GTVCx9zIxKLrMatKiWwQ/s320/ramakillsviradha.jpg" width="181" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Rama kills Viradha</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8Ohec9X9Tf2_zyopMwDFFIRdADLTPOQpDvp44iTpMVFvmk6r0IjBFhEYesHFpm8WaiZQQEdXU_8OPS6DKFFifMlyN8rglMBNjq4cZXhUDyR5T5S81WEVptWtrbA8INxrEnjrIxA/s1600/ramalakshmanasita.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8Ohec9X9Tf2_zyopMwDFFIRdADLTPOQpDvp44iTpMVFvmk6r0IjBFhEYesHFpm8WaiZQQEdXU_8OPS6DKFFifMlyN8rglMBNjq4cZXhUDyR5T5S81WEVptWtrbA8INxrEnjrIxA/s320/ramalakshmanasita.jpg" width="290" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Rama Lakshama Sita Hanuman</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhy3s5BJv4vM9ZkBcSDy4ILZZB1psqqvHoS207_Q57owsib4eAVolIwPVyBFOEj5lKKyA6u9tnW_KDDIRAHBiHoy8z2JxKjVOj48MAbQduXVI0m2ZoDB8izEWQ66wUQdSxrpr2WnQ/s1600/ramaleavesforheaven.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhy3s5BJv4vM9ZkBcSDy4ILZZB1psqqvHoS207_Q57owsib4eAVolIwPVyBFOEj5lKKyA6u9tnW_KDDIRAHBiHoy8z2JxKjVOj48MAbQduXVI0m2ZoDB8izEWQ66wUQdSxrpr2WnQ/s320/ramaleavesforheaven.jpg" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Rama leaves for heavens</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiu3wgDb_esstK09vnK4Br87AfCP8D8Nt1rlOWfjkrAO_6weNQ_pGOL25xnIDJk6pPPbEHkr9G2T8vwuFBQdG_DEEiswWdC60mB0jl_11Pjo1u_cZsDt3ctBHbp2dBIewU4aU-FFg/s1600/ramaslayshambuka.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiu3wgDb_esstK09vnK4Br87AfCP8D8Nt1rlOWfjkrAO_6weNQ_pGOL25xnIDJk6pPPbEHkr9G2T8vwuFBQdG_DEEiswWdC60mB0jl_11Pjo1u_cZsDt3ctBHbp2dBIewU4aU-FFg/s320/ramaslayshambuka.jpg" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Rama slays Shambuka</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEifdxT6ntmbIyWH4Pf7P77bipCnrqov81QSjSUdpfEB4mNE2d_H33_AFzcAs4t-1H8mAJgVJFLW7t1VCTbbxr4OFVBnqcR2cFp3pcM3THNmtuR7wseGzG9c_jNlJnPiXuG4IteAOA/s1600/ramaslaysravana.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEifdxT6ntmbIyWH4Pf7P77bipCnrqov81QSjSUdpfEB4mNE2d_H33_AFzcAs4t-1H8mAJgVJFLW7t1VCTbbxr4OFVBnqcR2cFp3pcM3THNmtuR7wseGzG9c_jNlJnPiXuG4IteAOA/s320/ramaslaysravana.jpg" width="177" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Rama slays Ravana</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi91StH8ZrS7OfPp-qivRSaKRxa7xoNRo2eNGjbbmB2TyScvZdWJ1Z-JyER-1oBvaQec-1fJUgJpaP2l5T0_KwZQT4tHHff7Hwm9gXNqda6XkkTLX9OiGNgMD26usTDkubI_0dGkA/s1600/ramawithvanaraas.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi91StH8ZrS7OfPp-qivRSaKRxa7xoNRo2eNGjbbmB2TyScvZdWJ1Z-JyER-1oBvaQec-1fJUgJpaP2l5T0_KwZQT4tHHff7Hwm9gXNqda6XkkTLX9OiGNgMD26usTDkubI_0dGkA/s320/ramawithvanaraas.jpg" width="196" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Rama with the Vanaras</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjvnhQbU51PabQNXna5AkjtTWukhsjs1acsxRyvD-vzsPVSW_5h6HsgzktXX6mFQOH6LM_yT3e0_oD29NLvBjqjox489SVdw8bpROhFEAQAcBThW8elReoKRdVz-i2cfjw_gInTzA/s1600/ravanaSita.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjvnhQbU51PabQNXna5AkjtTWukhsjs1acsxRyvD-vzsPVSW_5h6HsgzktXX6mFQOH6LM_yT3e0_oD29NLvBjqjox489SVdw8bpROhFEAQAcBThW8elReoKRdVz-i2cfjw_gInTzA/s320/ravanaSita.jpg" width="180" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Ravana abducts Sita</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-Ukxg_8ED-8MGnz04G9x_JqdSep8IURNswLSuD_NYB0JiUoSPFIm0FeA5hk4K0n4hV29vVUYxrvC12lsVMo3XEB_gD9RyyHKb5TNpjDi5HAXchK6QaTUEvMGBaEacZzuiRIdA1w/s1600/ravanalootskubera.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-Ukxg_8ED-8MGnz04G9x_JqdSep8IURNswLSuD_NYB0JiUoSPFIm0FeA5hk4K0n4hV29vVUYxrvC12lsVMo3XEB_gD9RyyHKb5TNpjDi5HAXchK6QaTUEvMGBaEacZzuiRIdA1w/s320/ravanalootskubera.jpg" width="166" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Ravana loots Kuvera</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhnlA2g0T6Kqp_SVEReonwiaFz9MQ9DUAHOR56Pgb8ApphGgfSA5N829X9QFmOZfQTBdEyB_mFbePaEqRSM26CXzODdF03I5pSBur1A-NbDZ44EiNrwcbSG3d_wLCVcXrk2XvRxtA/s1600/rysasrngatravelstoayodhya.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhnlA2g0T6Kqp_SVEReonwiaFz9MQ9DUAHOR56Pgb8ApphGgfSA5N829X9QFmOZfQTBdEyB_mFbePaEqRSM26CXzODdF03I5pSBur1A-NbDZ44EiNrwcbSG3d_wLCVcXrk2XvRxtA/s320/rysasrngatravelstoayodhya.jpg" width="177" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Rysasrunga travels to Ayodhya</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVLPyFcOjEz23ZIrFc6WGwjPAgAY6GsK1aqvDgm8EXAm0g-XYdsL7CrHx9KTI3qQkryldUtrXX0cxb51Ay-BDto-OTYvkGm3F_xAeTUOePSjgiobvSxrgyjxNJQ6PYkcxKd_gzKA/s1600/sugreeva.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVLPyFcOjEz23ZIrFc6WGwjPAgAY6GsK1aqvDgm8EXAm0g-XYdsL7CrHx9KTI3qQkryldUtrXX0cxb51Ay-BDto-OTYvkGm3F_xAeTUOePSjgiobvSxrgyjxNJQ6PYkcxKd_gzKA/s320/sugreeva.jpg" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Sugreeva in battle</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Sugreeva attacks Kumbhakarna</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiXbeNWq8I7fUbc94Rovg8nX8TAVGdXa91-A_e_ekNiOBKTCSiHR5cYymCgAfOIv5zPtlIa9MUrAHbMa2JPQS4ny7c3FUJKYha9huANVcwO3aUqEVupJIyMwfaO762KpWGUm4BdVg/s1600/valmiki.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiXbeNWq8I7fUbc94Rovg8nX8TAVGdXa91-A_e_ekNiOBKTCSiHR5cYymCgAfOIv5zPtlIa9MUrAHbMa2JPQS4ny7c3FUJKYha9huANVcwO3aUqEVupJIyMwfaO762KpWGUm4BdVg/s320/valmiki.jpg" width="171" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Valmiki getting the tone of Ramayana from a dying bird</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhbZesD3eapx_9rfANY9dqo8laSqjsb0bTx7BhLD2xbZiRdICl0V0Yf_MIL_B0PfZJ07_qDwIrZQ3lyjDF7wfqo0FaN6KglB1wdsQPKcXksGZK-VVLxK16BKFlzEPY6ogFhprUKeQ/s1600/vishnugaruda.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhbZesD3eapx_9rfANY9dqo8laSqjsb0bTx7BhLD2xbZiRdICl0V0Yf_MIL_B0PfZJ07_qDwIrZQ3lyjDF7wfqo0FaN6KglB1wdsQPKcXksGZK-VVLxK16BKFlzEPY6ogFhprUKeQ/s320/vishnugaruda.jpg" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Garuda and Vsnu</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Dasharatha being cremated</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhtE1rhUheu949KoHauE_aFeAL6MC3W2plrdMFNjeLA6BxToGZYA8CPQMLCnagXEh_LIvzB1l4tVc-4qiH9C0SVhUbhUmDALxEsqOvi4-TWK2hl_5Cu98NVgwSH5zORim9mQVv4QQ/s1600/shatrughnaslayslavanasura.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhtE1rhUheu949KoHauE_aFeAL6MC3W2plrdMFNjeLA6BxToGZYA8CPQMLCnagXEh_LIvzB1l4tVc-4qiH9C0SVhUbhUmDALxEsqOvi4-TWK2hl_5Cu98NVgwSH5zORim9mQVv4QQ/s320/shatrughnaslayslavanasura.jpg" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Shatrughna killing Lavanasura and conquering Mathura</td></tr>
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<img border="0" height="28" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiXd4ShqrPjFdDxKlCduss-TgwIxbRahV-TH_2DFDWU9xa7qtRFd06Jyol6Ru4z-rvEpIVz2Dfjhndr2VPVHUDff29XIxD1OxyPFWzGM6QvA42ikJ0lNmJox_SvD36h85Xq2RcYfw/s400/sk.gif" width="68" /></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-21096538.post-58991391836753096482012-04-16T18:12:00.000+02:002012-04-26T14:51:13.219+02:00Poem : Eka's gift<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'palatino linotype', georgia, occidental, serif;">
Dear reader, </span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'palatino linotype', georgia, occidental, serif;"><br /></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'palatino linotype', georgia, occidental, serif;">Have been reading a lot about the Nishada prince Ekalavya lately. And it occurred to me how similar, in some ways, his life is with Krsna's. Both had extremely humble beginnings and yet, with time, went on to become important names in our ancient epics. Both went on to work with important people of the times and are marked in our legends for their several heroics. If Ekalavya, despite his thumb being taken by Drona Acharya by trickery, went on to be King Jarasandha's confidant and an important member of his team, then Krsna, the son of a cowherd went on to become the king of Dwarka. Perhaps it is poetically apt that Ekalavya finally meets his end at the hands of Krsna. This short poem is, hence, a tribute to that warrior who had the gift of giving. An attribute which earns him a higher pedestal as a warrior than the rest.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'palatino linotype', georgia, occidental, serif;"><br /></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'palatino linotype', georgia, occidental, serif;"><br /></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'palatino linotype', georgia, occidental, serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"> ~ Eka's gift ~</span><br /><br /><br />
Droplets of bliss, hued deep red,<br />
Fell like helpless comets, earth bound,<br />
Sketching tiny dust craters, they hastily sped,<br />
To their invisible destiny. On visible ground.<br />
His chapped lips bore not a hint,<br />
Not an inkling of the waters of disdain,<br />
Eyes, steady, bejeweled with gems distinct,<br />
Knew no resident from the lands of pain.<br />
A jaggedly sawed stub, fresh and oozing,<br />
Sent snaking streams in joint celebration,<br />
He, head bowed for the official offering,<br />
Regaled in company of such magnification.<br />
Like the ancient king Satyavrata, or Manu,<br />
Who once held a tiny fish, it had been said,<br />
Eka's palms, washed clean with bliss anew,<br />
Cradled lines of fate, etched in blood instead.<br />
The aged ascetic looked on, unperturbed,<br />
Anxious faces around him watched, amazed,<br />
Their princely feet moved not, stayed undisturbed,<br />
As audience to Eka – the intruder, the unfazed.<br />
The master's hands, with much unbridled pride,<br />
Plucked and picked up the gift of the hour,<br />
Muttering words incoherent from every side,<br />
Placed in Eka's red palms, a golden flower.<br />In the lad, the master had seen divinity,
</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'palatino linotype', georgia, occidental, serif;">In his humility lay the true gift he would bring,</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'palatino linotype', georgia, occidental, serif;">After the conch had been blown on all humanity,</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'palatino linotype', georgia, occidental, serif;">His name would stand for giving. And forgiving.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'palatino linotype', georgia, occidental, serif;">Eka vanished into the woods, head bowed,<br />
A trail of little red tears clinging to him,<br />
Drawing the dotted line, that would never erode,<br />
From rust of time, in winds placid or grim.<br />
Oily clouds shifted hazily in heavens above,<br />
Connecting disconnecting residue of emotions,<br />
Guiding Eka forever on the path of love,<br />
Taking him to guide clans, build nations.<br />
Moons later, in a grand battle far far away,<br />
A king from Dwarka spotted Eka's smiling face,<br />
Not a tussle of a divine and a mortal, that day,<br />
One great leader, had celebrated another, with grace.<br />
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<img border="0" height="28" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiXd4ShqrPjFdDxKlCduss-TgwIxbRahV-TH_2DFDWU9xa7qtRFd06Jyol6Ru4z-rvEpIVz2Dfjhndr2VPVHUDff29XIxD1OxyPFWzGM6QvA42ikJ0lNmJox_SvD36h85Xq2RcYfw/s400/sk.gif" width="68" />
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<b>OTHER RECOMMENDED READS</b><br />
<a href="http://shakri.blogspot.com/2011/10/poem-dvarka.html">Poem : Dvarka </a><br />
<a href="http://shakri.blogspot.com/2009/05/mothers-day-special-eldest-kaunteya.html">Poem : Eldest Kaunteya</a> <br /><br />
</span></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-21096538.post-9570990485733729572012-04-12T14:28:00.000+02:002013-05-29T14:29:56.822+02:00"Nanna Tamma Shankara" : A summary<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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In July last year I came across a Kannada book called 'Nanna tamma Shankara' (My brother Shankara) written by Anant Nag, brother of the late film maker and actor Shankar Nag. I grew up on a strong diet of Shankar's 'Malgudi Days' and was witness to the Nag brothers in the 80s via their many Kannada and Hindi movies. It was only over the last few years that I have had the chance to properly process the impact of Shankar's untimely demise not only on Kannada cinema but also on Karnataka. Over this time period I have read a lot about Shankar's off screen life, his passionate associations with theater, his immersion in literature of Pablo Neruda and Gabriel Garcia Marquez among others and his highly ambitious visions for both Bengaluru and the rest of the state. In all of this his elder brother Anant Nag's thoughts on Shankar's life and demise somehow never seemed to surface. Given how low profile that family remains to this day 'Nanna tamma Shankara' seemed like a wonderful opportunity to learn more about the man behind the actor/filmmaker/celebrity.
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Hence, here are some of the highlights of what I gathered from the book.
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<b>Bonds of brotherhood</b><br /><br />
I always knew how close the brothers were but it wasn't until I began reading the book that I was able to understand the true nature of the bond they shared. I also got a sense of the painful pinch of irreplaceable loss Anant Nag must be (is) going through with each passing day. My perspective on him as a talented performer amplified some more after recalling that he did some amazing comedies like 'Ganeshana maduve', 'Gauri Ganesha', 'HendatigelbeDi' and 'Yaarigu Helabedi' after Shankar's death. I cannot comprehend how this man was able to overcome such a horrific loss and yet manage to pull himself together for these performances. I came across a book called 'Off the record' written by veteran cinema journalist Ganesh Kasargod recently where he mentions that Anant Nag in fact had traveled to Hyderabad in grave depression after Shankar's death to end his own life. It was after long and hard conversations with his wife Gayatri that he eventually decided not to go through with it. <br /><br />
The book essentially begins with Shankar's birth in Honnavara, North Canara. Anant Nag, six years his senior, talks about the immense pampering Shankar received for being the youngest in the family. He also writes how his father would never miss an opportunity to smack him behind the head but always ensured Shankar was left unharmed. I also learnt that Anant Nag has a elder sister who, not surprisingly, also did her best to pamper little Shankar. He goes on to speak of how unafraid the boy was without forgetting to mention how extremely close he was to Anant. Being six years younger it was no surprise to learn that Shankar looked up to Anant as a father figure in many ways. Right up to the point where the two began formal education shuttling between Honnavara and Mumbai, due to their parents' circumstances, Shankar is shown to have been Anant's shadow in almost everything. <br /><br />
<b>Life in Mumbai and entering cinema</b><br /><br />
It isn't until Shankar moves to Mumbai that he gets a chance to finally start doing things his own way. His love for stage takes him to the Marathi theater scene and thus begin his associations with the fine arts. Anant documents in good detail the way Shankar immersed himself into the various activities there and came in close contact with likes of Amol Palekar, Smita Patil, Girish Karnad among many others. It is also during this time that Shankar started acting in movies, his first feature being a Karnad directed venture called 'Ondanondu Kaaladalli' which went on to win various awards when it was released. The book then talks of the way the two brothers got together and started to think of starting their own production house. It was here that the movie 'Janmajanumada Anubandha' was released with Shankar donning the director's cap for the first time with Anant and himself in the lead roles. The film, Anant says, was a pretty bad disappointment probably because of the often used reincarnation theme in the plot. The book at this stage includes various conversations between the two about everything from personal life to political scenarios in the country. Anant also documents the successes of the later films they made like 'Minchina Ota' and 'Accident' that continued to register Shankar as a better film maker than an actor. In one particular sequence Anant writes about how the climax for the movie 'Accident' was changed at the last moment. A climax scene that shows the protagonist kill the minister in frustration had to be changed to a non violent one since, coincidentally, it was the same time that the then Prime Minister of India Indira Gandhi had been gunned down. The censors clearly raised objections about it because of which Shankar is said to have screamed at Anant and asked him to sit down when he got up to pay respect during the television forecast of her funeral. 'Shankar' he writes 'had taken his first political decision.' Anant also reflects, with slight melancholy, that for a long time Shankar wasn't accepted as a local Kannadiga due to his roots predominantly coming from the Marathi scene. But he also acknowledges the effort Shankar put into ensuring that his name became synonymous with Kannada.
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<b>Malgudi Days</b><br /><br />
This part of the book was perhaps the most interesting one for me. Having been a major aficionado of both the RK Narayan book and the television series, it was refreshing to learn the beginnings of it. Anant writes of his associations with the series producer TN Narsimhan who had expressed interest in bringing Malgudi to life. It was with much reluctance that Shankar is said to have accepted the project primarily due to his commitments to both cinema and the theater. In fact it was Anant Nag who recommended to Shankar that Agumbe in Karnataka was perhaps the ideal spot to recreate Malgudi. It was then that Shankar spent months reading and re-reading Malgudi Days to ensure that he did complete justice to the adaptation. Anant speaks of how, once the project got underway, their lives became all about Malgudi Days for a good three to four years. Every conversation they had at the time would invariably be about thinking of the best possible way to shoot the mini series by hiring the most suitable actors to play the role. Anant writes of how their extended circle of friends came forward to help Shankar launch himself on the national scene by volunteering to play many of the roles. This list included great names like Girish Karnad, Vishnuvardhan, various people from the Marathi and Hindi cinema and of course Shankar's constant friend-philosopher-guide Anant Nag. All of Agumbe had become a shooting set with literally every home in the area used at some point to cook food for the cast and crew members. In fact, I heard Kashinath (one of Shankar's closest friends) speak in an interview recently that as one of the assistant directors he would always keep a guy handy during the shoot of Malgudi Days to ensure the walls of homes Shankar had broken to get the camera angles just right would be constructed back. Shankar wanted no compromise to the vision of Malgudi he wanted to portray. An attribute becoming quite rare in the field of cinema today. Anant then documents the way in which the two brothers traveled to Canada to market their product and to get people overseas also invested in spreading the word. As I read these stories in the book I also looked up interviews of Arundati Nag (Shankar's wife) and others who spoke on similar lines of just how energetic Shankar was during the shoot of Malgudi Days. Despite the non stop stress of working with a limited budget Shankar went to extreme lengths in ensuring that RK Narayan's work did not get jeopardized on screen after the debacle called 'Guide' by Dev Anand many years before that. History, as we have seen, is proof that Malgudi Days did in fact find the best maker in Shankar Nag.<br /><br />
<b>Visions of a better tomorrow</b><br /><br />
One of the prominent portions of the second half of the book documents Shankar's affection to new and exciting ideas. The way he observed things in foreign countries and then asked himself 'Why can't we have that in India?' In that long list of projects that Shankar wanted to implement are – the much talked about metro train service in Bengaluru (which is now a reality after more than two decades and more than two hundred crores), the Nandi hills ropeway project, house building scheme for the poor using German construction mechanism, looking at alternatives to health care for the middle and lower middle class and of course, the country club – a project that involved creating an exclusive place for people to come and relax. Today we look around and find such places on every street but for a man to see this vision for a sleepy city like Bengaluru back in the 80s is nothing less than a marvel. Apart from these projects Shankar's love for the theater is consistently documented as his 'Nagamandala' based on Karnad's play by the same name went on to run to packed houses for several weeks. It was to realize this dream of his that Arundati Nag, after his untimely demise, went to hell and back to build 'Ranga Shankara' in Bengaluru. After reading all this it occurred to me that what Karnataka really lost wasn't just a brilliant film maker with an eye for detail but also a much needed visionary who would have perhaps created magic with the technology now available. A 'what if' scenario that will haunt his admirers forever.
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<b>Untimely death and final statements</b>
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The last few pages of the book are full of anticipation. That agonizing wait for the inevitable to occur. It was during the shooting of a film Shankar had managed to get sponsorship for called 'Jokumara Swamy' that his car met with a gruesome accident in the wee hours of September 30, 1990. His wife Arundati and daughter Kavya were with him at the time. Anant writes of the unimaginable waves of shock that passed through him when a stranger called him up that fateful morning and delivered the awful news to him. When he broke the news to his mother she is reported to have said – 'He was supposed to die many years ago as a child in Mumbai when he almost got hit by the truck. The time he got until now since then was his gift. A second birth.'
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Anant documents the support he and his family members got from the huge gathering of friends and innumerable fans of Shankar after that. The nonstop incoming of well wishers from the most unexpected corners of the globe. He writes that it was then that he truly realized just how beloved his brother Shankara had been. He ends the book with the lines...
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'Shankara is unforgettable to me. Not just as a brother but as an individual – as a complete individual. It is impossible to document the millions of memories I have of him. I don't think it suffices to say 'I think of him a lot'. He is in my thoughts every day, every passing moment, tormenting me.'
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<b>Some photographs from the book</b>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Anant Nag, Shankar Nag with their father</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0lqw6hsDdf8cH014TrceyfOjwj9hlbDVAGAuFN2OFsZRHDrBIocOaL7OlOYCdPlBGTIDNbkS69pKIGPm03SRh9ohAT9GOdvstatlnvIjcDV0N-0-KduJ2Ywtlbt9tEUKaoNrsdw/s1600/DSC_1039.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="239" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0lqw6hsDdf8cH014TrceyfOjwj9hlbDVAGAuFN2OFsZRHDrBIocOaL7OlOYCdPlBGTIDNbkS69pKIGPm03SRh9ohAT9GOdvstatlnvIjcDV0N-0-KduJ2Ywtlbt9tEUKaoNrsdw/s320/DSC_1039.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">During the shooting of Malgudi Days in Agumbe</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh5hRqBYaUCxwpuPgF6u8UrKKp78JWMX6EuQTqfDPnxcIydsL3KGKp8RfscGnEJyrw_VbpoN4q03hO8EQlxHJM0JsdxLPvcRol4PVV0E9sv2yiLQ5oQLa4Yyeu3EFODprrq_8mAFQ/s1600/DSC_1040.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh5hRqBYaUCxwpuPgF6u8UrKKp78JWMX6EuQTqfDPnxcIydsL3KGKp8RfscGnEJyrw_VbpoN4q03hO8EQlxHJM0JsdxLPvcRol4PVV0E9sv2yiLQ5oQLa4Yyeu3EFODprrq_8mAFQ/s320/DSC_1040.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">During the shooting of 'The Green Jacket' episode</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">During the shooting of 'The vendor of sweets' with brother Anant Nag</td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: 'palatino linotype', georgia, occidental, serif;"><b><br /></b></span></div>
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<img border="0" height="28" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiXd4ShqrPjFdDxKlCduss-TgwIxbRahV-TH_2DFDWU9xa7qtRFd06Jyol6Ru4z-rvEpIVz2Dfjhndr2VPVHUDff29XIxD1OxyPFWzGM6QvA42ikJ0lNmJox_SvD36h85Xq2RcYfw/s400/sk.gif" width="68" /></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com12tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-21096538.post-81026377643953416312012-03-01T12:06:00.000+01:002012-10-31T10:19:09.066+01:00Online Comic Collection<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span>
<b><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">My Online Comic Collection<br /><br /><i>featuring Amar Chitra Katha, Tinkle, Archies, Mandrake, Phantom and many many others!</i></span></b><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><b><i><br /></i></b>
</span><br />
<b><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Collection 1 (88 Comics : ACK, Tinkle, Jughead and Archie Comics)</span></b><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><a href="http://bit.ly/rp3IIq">http://bit.ly/rp3IIq</a></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /><b>Collection 2 (24 Amar Chitra Katha, Tinkle Comics, <span style="color: red;">Ongoing Collection</span>)</b></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><a href="http://bit.ly/PvgqhB">http://bit.ly/PvgqhB</a></span><br />
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<b><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Collection 3(30 Archie's Double Digests | </span></b><b style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span style="color: red;">Ongoing Collection</span></b><b><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">)</span></b><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><a href="http://bit.ly/QPffGO">http://bit.ly/QPffGO</a></span><br />
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<b><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">For Chandamama Fans: Browse their archives for editions in several Indian languages all the way back to the 1940s!</span></b><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><a href="http://bit.ly/gEgBtP">http://bit.ly/gEgBtP</a></span><br />
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<b style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Comic finds bookmarked (Comics from all over the world)</b><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><a href="http://bit.ly/UC2PYg">http://bit.ly/UC2PYg</a></span><br />
<br />
<b><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">More Archies Comic Finds</span></b><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><a href="http://bit.ly/WKWLdl">http://bit.ly/WKWLdl</a></span><br />
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<br />
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<br /></div>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-21096538.post-11584572388002902072011-12-29T18:05:00.000+01:002012-12-31T12:18:15.390+01:00Season's Greetings<html>
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</html> Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-21096538.post-2348765727519365112011-12-04T18:15:00.001+01:002011-12-04T23:03:37.782+01:00Razmnama : Mahabharata's Persian translation by Akbar<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'palatino linotype', georgia, occidental, serif;">Dear reader,</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'palatino linotype', georgia, occidental, serif;"><br /></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'palatino linotype', georgia, occidental, serif;">Recently I came across the word "Razmnama" which, on further investigation I learnt, was the Persian name given to the translation of the epic Mahabharata that had been started initially by the Mughal Emperor Akbar. On further looking around I found a lot of evidence indicating the existence of such an illustrated book. The comprehensive collection of these, now scattered and almost extinct, illustrations is titled 'Razmnama : The book of war' - <a href="http://amzn.to/vpRnix">http://amzn.to/vpRnix</a>.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'palatino linotype', georgia, occidental, serif;"><br /></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'palatino linotype', georgia, occidental, serif;">Given below are a few fine examples of these paintings that had been created at the behest of Akbar during their translation to Persian at the time of his reign. The pieces have the unmistakable influence of Mughal art and also carry writings in Persian. I shall add more of these illustrations here as and when I find them. </span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'palatino linotype', georgia, occidental, serif;"><br /></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'palatino linotype', georgia, occidental, serif;">You may click on them for larger versions.</span><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi48_BgW8IZ96MFX4uyUbrO14KTM1mgM1nUh10KGKKPU_f9q96GpgV2IxPrQMwZApzxQie9oTpJzkT-Q8NDYLXYGMagRKAHViCCJ-7JNR2ULF-iNkuTSr5xz9dIjFfKLDXB3XdRsQ/s1600/mahabharata2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi48_BgW8IZ96MFX4uyUbrO14KTM1mgM1nUh10KGKKPU_f9q96GpgV2IxPrQMwZApzxQie9oTpJzkT-Q8NDYLXYGMagRKAHViCCJ-7JNR2ULF-iNkuTSr5xz9dIjFfKLDXB3XdRsQ/s320/mahabharata2.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The disrobing of Draupadi</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUVbAr4MTiZnCQji0GG0f6vW-o7iSQ4fghBspzgOWQHuLGW8TXS3j86uZNpu5wp_KZst5G6r2p_ah0qotbvbo9UoEf4fk1lpuUlHvw1LsQP2bu71JJ67xqn7WAeq2d_kmmRr-V-Q/s1600/KrsnaTalksToYud.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUVbAr4MTiZnCQji0GG0f6vW-o7iSQ4fghBspzgOWQHuLGW8TXS3j86uZNpu5wp_KZst5G6r2p_ah0qotbvbo9UoEf4fk1lpuUlHvw1LsQP2bu71JJ67xqn7WAeq2d_kmmRr-V-Q/s320/KrsnaTalksToYud.jpg" width="207" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Krsna talks to Yudhishitira</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjP9uQxfFUKa4r9H_O-EqsZ_gzulBoTaFUwtWMy4vZKIMrfdsmDl2BnVD3DNtTZrsKk-VZdaOWrBrxZyGZQshjIKRWrIjM6dnYZF36voBi5pdGGHPSHeJR3fKWs_P4vmaUXWLSxkA/s1600/BhishmaDeath.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjP9uQxfFUKa4r9H_O-EqsZ_gzulBoTaFUwtWMy4vZKIMrfdsmDl2BnVD3DNtTZrsKk-VZdaOWrBrxZyGZQshjIKRWrIjM6dnYZF36voBi5pdGGHPSHeJR3fKWs_P4vmaUXWLSxkA/s320/BhishmaDeath.jpg" width="203" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Death of Bheeshma</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgjl424XYhRhqmIcMYIl8ENURvECtt8CG9CjCHKTbK7TDt3m0pcHq-rosQb4V3KgPGcQZDbLSj_FfnxX5wtLWekB1Ma7jGWwl2OX3MGIi7vPsKRS90wzpA-P71aMJTGmcjabSIHDw/s1600/BabruvahanaFightsNagas.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgjl424XYhRhqmIcMYIl8ENURvECtt8CG9CjCHKTbK7TDt3m0pcHq-rosQb4V3KgPGcQZDbLSj_FfnxX5wtLWekB1Ma7jGWwl2OX3MGIi7vPsKRS90wzpA-P71aMJTGmcjabSIHDw/s320/BabruvahanaFightsNagas.jpg" width="173" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Arjna's son Babruvahana fights the Nagas</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Karna kills Bhma's son Gatotkacha</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi10RB9C-M5G7sV6zZRsxvMm_yyuogBilL9v-pFKTNLc2thw0qF8LKsF71jE_wgpBEnLNzNI21IEhrBclO3Vk402jzTvUi_2AJNRQfs02D9YCUUzG1z8MclcJeEAqti_gLMbHH-dg/s1600/KrishnaPandavas.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi10RB9C-M5G7sV6zZRsxvMm_yyuogBilL9v-pFKTNLc2thw0qF8LKsF71jE_wgpBEnLNzNI21IEhrBclO3Vk402jzTvUi_2AJNRQfs02D9YCUUzG1z8MclcJeEAqti_gLMbHH-dg/s320/KrishnaPandavas.jpg" width="186" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Krsna with the Pandavas</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEio4xChtSx16d2oMcqiGWPFYWVagHj4G39HjuQNdJTmXq8P33DO62Q8gT5j7rjxuHkvyt_3aZpYgX86LcAns0lH3r3GOPfl-KOgvQJsUaQy-36KHZ7_4zB6AdxdX6yD87htEy3WpQ/s1600/KrsnaDeclaresEndOfWAR.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEio4xChtSx16d2oMcqiGWPFYWVagHj4G39HjuQNdJTmXq8P33DO62Q8gT5j7rjxuHkvyt_3aZpYgX86LcAns0lH3r3GOPfl-KOgvQJsUaQy-36KHZ7_4zB6AdxdX6yD87htEy3WpQ/s320/KrsnaDeclaresEndOfWAR.jpg" width="192" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Krsna declares end of war by blowing on conch</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhoitSWDHeEcqI5CrQQ9JXSe3FpfcNyQzJ5T0Y9UirEZ54wU5DUvGBxlR0bPHGOQZSiYtYDIOqSqik-5cfgn-FbUKWkJFq27GxRhyphenhyphenBu6O1ev1OCfdKmktDndw9OvikDCLDChUWLNg/s1600/KuntiLeadsGandhariD.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhoitSWDHeEcqI5CrQQ9JXSe3FpfcNyQzJ5T0Y9UirEZ54wU5DUvGBxlR0bPHGOQZSiYtYDIOqSqik-5cfgn-FbUKWkJFq27GxRhyphenhyphenBu6O1ev1OCfdKmktDndw9OvikDCLDChUWLNg/s320/KuntiLeadsGandhariD.jpg" width="177" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Kunti leads Dritarashtra & Gandhari to the forest</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Arjna and Krsna in battle</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Scholars discuss in a court about the translations</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgrYb2M2xbH400aIxqeoS_gcTrCRzEr75QqqhJ04lsXH7xZmjEmFPuSrxhm6Zf4QsDKEAoUs4BLOsS6caczHPSD8isVGYYqBZ1wvwH5eWFMQw67g6EoFCoTk_C6qqBEvb3F02wHYg/s1600/yudhstrabBshma.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgrYb2M2xbH400aIxqeoS_gcTrCRzEr75QqqhJ04lsXH7xZmjEmFPuSrxhm6Zf4QsDKEAoUs4BLOsS6caczHPSD8isVGYYqBZ1wvwH5eWFMQw67g6EoFCoTk_C6qqBEvb3F02wHYg/s320/yudhstrabBshma.jpg" width="206" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Yudhistra with Bheeshma 1</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmmez9gg-Q7PMMbvi963MGVD0plgUMD96fmC7X3KCugiczn_IispkV_glBUhAM-We7s9r_gO6eqYvmqRcieOi0JD_6yJNT6sfGL_Ez-HSwMXrlG5b-Sz0As9YC11_ZlKjbF3RMOg/s1600/arjnaBhsma.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmmez9gg-Q7PMMbvi963MGVD0plgUMD96fmC7X3KCugiczn_IispkV_glBUhAM-We7s9r_gO6eqYvmqRcieOi0JD_6yJNT6sfGL_Ez-HSwMXrlG5b-Sz0As9YC11_ZlKjbF3RMOg/s320/arjnaBhsma.jpg" width="289" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Arjna shoots Bhshma</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Yudhistra and brothers ask Bhsma permission to fight</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgCzbgcUx8JJr400Sh1XsVvXLWea1wvrspaiXnWkwZrZrmw9HAeN8i5az6BGb4bNVHl-Dt-_A_PXRNF9OV2iWd37dq5Ho40HqrQqNW2kSOt2ESuBaF1_CuBzyaa-wRBYNEhLlyC0Q/s1600/karnaVishoka.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgCzbgcUx8JJr400Sh1XsVvXLWea1wvrspaiXnWkwZrZrmw9HAeN8i5az6BGb4bNVHl-Dt-_A_PXRNF9OV2iWd37dq5Ho40HqrQqNW2kSOt2ESuBaF1_CuBzyaa-wRBYNEhLlyC0Q/s1600/karnaVishoka.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Karna slays Kaikeya prince Visoka</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiC6EN1ikwfKUhTI_JWnbciPf1WXq3MdyS9w_YsCQa0sACvUkKPmnaPgXNXbKn3KmbvJ4aklV6Z09iI93QjKxjSDmn7sB7C1yccknrIEg-OvqVycT7mOnjFPEektEET1d9jwLJlSQ/s1600/rama.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiC6EN1ikwfKUhTI_JWnbciPf1WXq3MdyS9w_YsCQa0sACvUkKPmnaPgXNXbKn3KmbvJ4aklV6Z09iI93QjKxjSDmn7sB7C1yccknrIEg-OvqVycT7mOnjFPEektEET1d9jwLJlSQ/s320/rama.jpg" width="168" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Vanaras help Rama build a bridge</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj6h8TLe9BiN7ads40QyhNSOkou9znm5nofvHzepFVAZ8CgDCtqXF1g_y_xHEo99gAJbbPP1LleKAxoHjE9nCc5zGCqo3e7t6vNsp4uXndTLMMu-sWskgr1FHsEZ3dDTHZ4wXgeWg/s1600/manthan.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj6h8TLe9BiN7ads40QyhNSOkou9znm5nofvHzepFVAZ8CgDCtqXF1g_y_xHEo99gAJbbPP1LleKAxoHjE9nCc5zGCqo3e7t6vNsp4uXndTLMMu-sWskgr1FHsEZ3dDTHZ4wXgeWg/s320/manthan.jpg" width="192" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Churning of the ocean - Manthan</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiAsBBCROxUDVE3o4OYQqXS2YwCaqEh2Gq-HbKPvV2biypfSGda09cMFzeBwZjyXk6TxBDiKkIkeBoIaEPOqydiLsjwpT-blFD5HRg9G3E0cj6RH4XXVNTdsAf8P-8ZbDAMJRuuVw/s1600/chandrahasa.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="306" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiAsBBCROxUDVE3o4OYQqXS2YwCaqEh2Gq-HbKPvV2biypfSGda09cMFzeBwZjyXk6TxBDiKkIkeBoIaEPOqydiLsjwpT-blFD5HRg9G3E0cj6RH4XXVNTdsAf8P-8ZbDAMJRuuVw/s320/chandrahasa.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Prince Chandrahasa with a Goddess</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjyE9AoFS3lPP2gFT-N6O5p8o0pW1qElzBWXslVc3DRZyZvxLMIW9maA8Mj3GB3L-HlZ9vrCLAJN0LjArINe-VgnGTNP9R1CBBnR5Nnna7l-_-4XG3OIoGwucpFfKZ4FWz4CQnTyw/s1600/draupadi.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="282" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjyE9AoFS3lPP2gFT-N6O5p8o0pW1qElzBWXslVc3DRZyZvxLMIW9maA8Mj3GB3L-HlZ9vrCLAJN0LjArINe-VgnGTNP9R1CBBnR5Nnna7l-_-4XG3OIoGwucpFfKZ4FWz4CQnTyw/s320/draupadi.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Draupadi with companions on a terrace</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj96Nckrh17PGsY-BqQ_kV5FmSA585Diu_7cC2NeTbGB9xDOieSYOfoLjrE0ajj3qQNA6iPjGDR1BGUr1tro3x-XSP2QuPvsUcYK23AWOc7V77J6uFWpbCdDcm7Ro3-o0gEN4GEGQ/s1600/babruvahanaKillsArjuna.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj96Nckrh17PGsY-BqQ_kV5FmSA585Diu_7cC2NeTbGB9xDOieSYOfoLjrE0ajj3qQNA6iPjGDR1BGUr1tro3x-XSP2QuPvsUcYK23AWOc7V77J6uFWpbCdDcm7Ro3-o0gEN4GEGQ/s320/babruvahanaKillsArjuna.jpg" width="262" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Arjuna is killed by his son Babruvahana</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Garuda carries the elephant & the turtle</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Ydishtira with Bheeshma 2<br />
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</div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-21096538.post-58374026325520893562011-11-19T18:10:00.000+01:002011-11-19T18:28:35.730+01:00A mystery called Kalidasa<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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I was about 10 years old when I first saw 'Kaviratna Kalidasa' in Kannada featuring the thespian Dr. Rajkumar. Out of the various scenes the one that stuck most to my memory was the transformation he undergoes from a quintessential rural goatherd to one of the biggest names in Sanskrit literature. The scene where this takes place is depicted thus: Having shocked the living daylights out of the immensely intelligent and articulate princess he married (due to the evil motives of a minister) he tries to console her in the time of such grief. To help him out with this she takes him to the Kali temple (a deity Kalidasa is known to have utmost devotion for) and tells him to sit and pray to her all night. She also assures him that Kali will appear before him and 'cure him' from the illiteracy that plagues him. Kalidasa, hence, sits and starts to pray. Lo and behold the goddess does appear in human form (bejewelled with the usual cinematic inclusion of theatrical ornaments) and asks him to push out his tongue. When he does so she dramatically raises her trident and etches the word 'Aum' on it. The very next moment a halo of knowledge starts to glow behind his head as he opens his eyes, now welled up by the effect of this drastic transformation, and starts to sing Kali's praises in pure Sanskrit.
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The scene, needless to say, is a memorable one. Partly because of the masterful authenticity Dr. Raj brings to this otherwise comic version of how Kalidasa actually got his skills. (As a child, and being one who was woefully inept at topics like Math and Biology, I secretly hoped that I too could get a goddess to come to me this way and etch that magical 'Aum' on my tongue so that I could ace exams and get more Amar Chitra Katha and GI Joe's as gifts...)
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A second version of this story is presented in the aforementioned Amar Chitra Katha comic where Kalidasa is shunned by the princess on realizing she has been swindled into marrying an absolute dimwit. Unable to tolerate the shame he walks straight to the Kali temple and spends many days in meditation trying to please the goddess. On failing to do so he picks up the sword near the idol and tries to kill himself (as a sacrificial offering) when, finally, the goddess appears and blesses him with the vision and tongue of a poet laureate.
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To me both these versions, despite their colorful variety, of Kalidasa's literary beginnings began to seem less and less accurate with passing time. The one point I had a hard time digesting was the appearance of Kali as some sort of quick fix mantra to take care of all of his problems. A premise, that, just seems too easy for the start of such a legend's historic journey.
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Over the last few years I have sporadically tried to find out as much as I could about Kalidasa's origins as a poet but have failed to find anything reliable. So, as an attempt to try and rationalize the intellectual start of such a literary giant in Indian literature, I present to you my humble version of the same episode.
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So what might have happened? Perhaps this: Contrary to popular belief Kalidasa was not a complete illiterate. He is said to have had 'minimal literacy' but was not a very bright lad. This perhaps means that he did get some crude sort of formal education but either due to poverty (given that he was a goatherd in all versions) or due to the lack of motivation, the boy never learned much. This brings us to the next point. Now, why does anyone learn anything sincerely? Some ounce of genuine purpose? Maybe some spoonfuls of passion mixed in? But Kalidasa had none of these factors to actual see the benefits of a good education. At such a point in his life enters the wronged minister. He spots an ideal way to get back at the egotistical princess. He takes a gullible Kalidasa under his wing and trains him enough to pass the 'groom test' she conducts with every man who walks into the palace wanting to be her husband. Due to a sequence of circumstantial events the princess does not detect the plot hole. In fact I have also read that Kalidasa was quite a handsome looking fellow. So there is also a bright chance the princess, despite her centered demeanor, developed a slight state of infatuation just by laying her eyes on him. This perhaps also explains why she didn't think too much of his bizarre responses which were being aptly paraphrased by the minister.
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Long story short, the marriage takes place. She discovers she was wrong and kicks him out. Initially I was surprised she didn't have him executed immediately. But on second consideration it dawned upon me that it could have been her soft feelings for the man and the blatant realization that he too was a victim, that made her merely let go of him, albeit with a broken heart. What happened next? Kalidasa, clearly now full of self hate and uncontrollable fury (at having been shamed by the princess thus) goes to an abandoned Kali temple (or even somewhere in the middle of a forest. It doesn't matter where) and starts to meditate intensely.
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Initially he is full of distractions. He thinks of the beautiful princess and lets his thoughts wander. That then brings back the ugliness of her words that drove him out of her life. Anger keeps returning and fuelling the energy in him to focus on the goal at hand – to prove her wrong. For several days, Kalidasa is in this state of trance. Animals, birds and insects wander about him but do not harm him as he doesn't seem like a threat. His mind is full of prayer verses that he knows for Kali. His face and body is now covered with all kinds of debris. Rain, sunshine, wind – each one of them have come and showered him with their presence. His body has also been regularly answering nature's calls without his knowledge since, well, it has to do what it has to do. His soiled garments are proof that despite the shabbiest state of affairs the man has not moved a muscle. His body remains but his mind is fixed only on Kali. He wants to please her and get her blessings. It is also possible that due to the state of fatigue and growing hunger he may have had bizarre hallucinations of Kali at some points too.
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Now, while all of this is happening in his conscious state his subconscious state has been picking up a few things. It notices the song of birds, the perfume of trees, the music in the breeze, the rustle of leaves, the hum of bees, the rhythm in the rain drops, the way a wind runs up to someone and hugs them like a child eager for attention, the way different times of a single day smell so unique from one another, the way animals communicate various feelings to each other – of anger, of lust, of sorrow, of trust. Every single entity in the world around him is coming alive in a way that Kalidasa had never bothered to notice before. In fact it seems he didn't have the faculty to do so. By filling up his conscious state with so many disturbances and wants, he had subdued the poet in him for a very long time. But now, in these moments when his body is not his own and nothing else matters, the poet inside him is waking up. A sense of calm comes over him. He looks and smells like the foulest garbage mound on earth but within that heap of hovering flies and maggots stirs the psyche of a man in whom the thirst for knowledge has begun. It starts in the inner most walls in his mind. First as a drop of dew, then multiple drops, drop by drop accumulating, a puddle, many such puddles now, filling up quickly as the elements around him start to influence the volume, growing with each passing day, becoming too heavy for him to hold it within until it starts to fill his insides. His itch for learning becomes so grave that he can't even reach it to scratch it back to peace. It continues to well up like an emerging lava as the fumes of its impending arrival start to ooze out of him. His yogic trance starts to die away as the long hidden meaning for his birth breaks down every door and like a flood that cannot be tamed, gushes out of him, illuminating him from within and exploding out into the open. The raw fierce energy of the force ignites his conscious state now and switches his eyes open. The lack of food in his stomach and water in his throat for days, perhaps weeks, now suddenly hits him. His mental strain in keeping his focus on the goal was so overwhelming that it now overpowers his physical attributes. He leans over immediately and loses consciousness.
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The reason I feel something similar to this, if not all of it, happened was because the mind is arguably one of the most powerful things in the universe. Learning to control it basically means being able to control pretty much everything else in and around one. So if Kalidasa was to go on into the passages of history and create epics then the fire of ambition to actually go there had to have come from within him. His devotion to Kali was perhaps so huge that in a sheer display of humility he later on dedicated his mastery to her – thus earning the name Kalidasa (there is literature that says his name was something else earlier to this episode. He became Kalidasa much later).
<br /><br />
So let us wrap up then. Maybe he did faint, maybe he didn't. That is besides the point. Either way once he was back to his senses he was a different man. He got up and walked straight to the river where he shed his awful clothes, bathed till his mind was content and came out a completely new man. Maybe, while in the waters, he wept bitterly till his heart's content too so that along with those foul tears his past also might disappear into the waters never to resurface again.
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He then perhaps got some help from someone for shelter and food, after which began a lengthy phase of him reading and analyzing every scripture, epic, upanishad and veda known to man. This must have taken him several years since even though he had the burning desire to overcome his own shortcomings it still needed a different sort of mental and physical acumen to actually absorb the literature he was gradually being exposed to. It is conceivable then, that after such rigorous self training (or perhaps he did seek out a guru too. We have no evidence to claim he didn't) he walks into the court of King Bhoja one day and enthralls the audience with his abilities. The rest, as they say, is history.
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Like many of the pieces I have recently written, this too is an attempt to dissect out the mysterious origins of Kalidasa and try to find a non-mythical way to explain his talents. That he eventually fell prey to the same (the story that he was killed by a greedy courtesan to get some extra money) is perhaps the most fitting end to a life that was always somehow so much larger than itself.
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Thoughts and feedback most welcome.
<br /><br />
<img border="0" height="28" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiXd4ShqrPjFdDxKlCduss-TgwIxbRahV-TH_2DFDWU9xa7qtRFd06Jyol6Ru4z-rvEpIVz2Dfjhndr2VPVHUDff29XIxD1OxyPFWzGM6QvA42ikJ0lNmJox_SvD36h85Xq2RcYfw/s400/sk.gif" width="68" /></span></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-21096538.post-9726316695592672192011-11-05T13:57:00.001+01:002011-11-07T08:29:09.071+01:00Short Fiction : Ranga and the demon king<div><div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'palatino linotype', georgia, occidental, serif;"><b>
Ranga and the demon king</b><br /><b>
a short fiction by ShaKri</b><br />
<br /><br />
Circa 19— and the land was a meat mart. Fresh ones went for a higher price while the aging skins were left on the back burner. Dicey ones abandoned in the name of the Omnipresent while the smarter ones were often found in a puddle of their own blood. A shameful dance of how meaningless and absolutely worthless a human life was became more apparent with every tabloid spill. Burning the soles of his hardened feet was the common man, stuck somewhere between the moon and the rainbow, trying to scratch his back in peace. Ignored, he sat waiting in line for an unknown finale just because others like him did too. Fanning themselves with the only other piece of clothing they had brought, they waited. And they hoped.
<br /><br />
Thrown somewhere into this bizarre equation of simmering humanity was Ranga. Burning the tips of his fingers with a beedi he had borrowed, he smoked in deep drags with a moist hand towel on his head. Strapped in a dirty dhoti that begged for a wash and an equally shabby cotton shirt he sat enjoying his ten minute lunch break. His face was an image of eternal struggle laced with a hint of a discerning frown. Little was known about this middle aged looking wrinkle-faced nobody who minded his own business and slaved at almost every road repair, flyover construction, brick-laying and sign painting project the city would undertake. Sniffing till his mouth went dry in the blistering heat, Ranga would get soaked in sweat as he toiled relentlessly each passing day to make the few rupaiyyah he got at the end of it. A quick wipe of the weary face and another deep whiff of the foul tasting beedi was all he needed to get through the day.
<br /><br />
He ate when there was food available. He slept where there was room. His only possession was a hand-sown cotton bag that hung in desperation along his groin. He would flap up his dhoti with an air of uncouth proficiency and stuff his earnings into that bank of atomic fortunes. Many a time this rather ghastly act of uninvited publicity would see orthodox faces in the crowd look away in utter disgust. With little care for anything around him he would sneeze out a long one, adjust his crotch with practiced ease and move on. Nothing, it appeared, could make the fellow blink an eyelid of concern for anyone else besides himself.
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Not far from the invisible shanty-town that was the city’s eyesore was the new project at hand. Ranga’s discovery about this high yielding job had borne fruit when he found himself tenth in the ant-hill that was forming for rapid occupation. A name exchange, a nod of approval on the payment rules and he was in. Zaveri Builders had taken it upon themselves to provide the already bejeweled headdress of the city yet another elite column of apartments with one bedroom and two bathrooms. Ranga was once forced to join in some banter about the owner being a major power player but being the way he was, he coughed and spat before resuming work.
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His apathetic reactions to the people around him had created unrest among the ranks as he quickly got the repute of being a loathsome loner. He was, without a shred of doubt, a man of few words but somehow the only salvation others like him with nastier coughing and spitting habits had was to know they were part of a community. This blatant disregard by Ranga of the working-ants brotherhood did not seem to gel well with the clan.
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The meat market would remain simmering with the blister of each passing sun. The women folk carried heaps of gravel and stones during the day while their bare bottomed toddlers watched in curious glee before returning to their sand play. At night these mothers and their children nestled next to each other with a half empty stomach while the fathers drank themselves insane and yelled obscenities at the perfumed bedrooms of the snoring elite. Their make shift tents with a dull kitchen outside would be filled with badly sung lullabies and the occasional wail of a nightmare as the stars enveloped this part of the globe. Apart from this faction of noise and activity the rest of the area and all sixteen-floors of it would be the city of the dead.
<br /><br />
The booze-hound men would sit around all night exchanging dirty jokes about the owner of the building being an impotent with only one working testis. They would guffaw at various ill conceived rumors about the project’s money being generated by the mafia. Some of them would swear on their dead mothers (‘God rest her soul!’ they would add) that they had seen with their own living eyes covert exchanges at late night meetings. Initially they would call out to Ranga to come on over and join their verbal exploits but on his consistent reluctance to do so they had confidently declared that even he was not a complete man either. Too bad, they said, that at least the owner had so much money! And they might as well have been right about Ranga’s non existent manhood had it not been for that fateful night when the demon king finally decided to make an appearance.
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Literacy among these folk was pretty minimal. Agriculture had been their main occupation before the land started to crack and worms began consummating on their crops. While some of them took rat poison for dessert others fled the land to the city where the dreams were produced and caged. They left behind wailing wives and dead kin. Memories of a hard life were past them as the glitz and distraction of a disoriented metro consumed them in one merciless gulp. The silence that engulfed their empty eyes would be filled with the reflections of the stars sequined on some teenager’s ripped jean. The masks they would wear as they built someone's aspiration during the day would burn off their faces as the liquor made way into their food craving veins. With a stomach full of lost ambitions, they would disappear into a mirage of poison vials and humping ring worms before the irksome crow would croak each morning. Those few minutes of reconciliation was all they had. It was all they could afford.
<br /><br />
What did not bother Ranga about this scene was the familiarity of it all. He too was a child of abuse in the name of democracy. A lowly farmer whose land had been lost in oceans of debt that would take at least three generations of buttock peeling to pay back. As the heads of the administration looked the other way his home burned. His brothers hung from banyan trees with letters of sorrow cold in their still palms. The elders cremated their mortal remains but the spirits still wandered around the old banyan tree, looking for a release. A proper one. And hopefully a happy one. It seemed like the mixed emotions of the banyan tree dwellers fell on the wrong ears. Somewhere in the belly of an undigested sky slept the demon king in peace. Their cries soaked in flesh-scented fury, somehow, reached the pit of the evil that sang itself a lullaby of death. Not the silent kind O no! The noisy kind. The kind that makes stomachs churn and tongues heave. Somewhere someone somehow had managed to say those two words – magical concoctions of liberty – that would descend from the ill bowels of the skies. That unmistakable pair wrapped in one pristine request – ‘Release Us’.
<br /><br />
Ranga squatted for a quick late night relief near the garbage mound when the signs initially appeared. Two drunks were discussing various ways of having rough sex with the latest starlet when mixed with the wind came the scent of decaying souls. Ranga picked it up almost right away. His thoughts ran back to his village, to his family, to his wife, to his twin-daughters who still had not yet reached their tenth year of existence and to his dying land. The land that sat buried inside the shame of his family. The land that had made him as hard as itself. That mass of helpless earth that sat choking on its spit with no one to care for it. As the silence broke with the demon king’s flaming eyeballs Ranga was on his feet – alert, aware, ready. He stood all set to take the monster by his blazing horns and send him back to where he came from.
<br /><br />
It was close to 3 AM when the out of control four wheeled chariot of the demon king was on its final ride. Loud and unfamiliar music radiated with glaring insanity from its foul interiors that spat out sparks of fire as it mercilessly banged itself against the sidewalk. Ranga’s math was as accurate as it had ever been. If he did not come in the way of the demon king’s death-strewn path then more than two dozen drunks and eight sobers would be trampled under the hot wheels of the chariot the demon king was riding. The refugee camps with the mothers and children would be next in line. If he did manage to cross paths with the frenzied machine then there was no way to predict which route the dying chariot would take before fragmenting into a thousands pieces perhaps taking Ranga along with it.
<br /><br />
Without a second to spare, Ranga took one last look at the boiling lights from hell and leaped onto the chariot’s view. The dark shades prevented him from seeing the demon king in the eye but what a sight that was! An ear piercing crescendo of unearthly noises came out of the metal chariot as Ranga clung onto it desperately trying to force it out of its path of impending mayhem. A few meters away from the snoring half-dead Ranga realized he had gained access to the chariot's steering wheel. He quickly maneuvered his arm onto the square that was dimly lit by smoke and expensive alcohol. He heard a cry behind him; a sleepy sober was shouting at the top of his lungs and trying to pull out every sleeping worker away from that cursed sidewalk. In the following moment the chariot was in Ranga’s control. At a speed unimaginable the demon king's chariot sped onto the construction site narrowly missing the snoozing booze-hounds and crashed violently into one of the weaker pillars in the basement area.
<br /><br />
The explosion that followed echoed across the neighborhood. The roar of melting metal was so intense that life in the hundred meter radius was brought out of its slumber. Within a few seconds scores of groggy heads surrounded the smoking chariot of the demon king that was now engulfed in raging flames. Wailing children and their hysterical mothers appeared from their camps and did little to bring order to this chaos. Residents from the neighborhood rushed towards the accident spot with overflowing buckets of water and blankets. Within minutes the fire was brought under control as the entire area was engulfed in a foggy layer of invisible grief.
<br /><br />
A burly man, who identified himself as Yadav, began pushing curious onlookers aside to try and rip open the doors of the burning chariot. Using the water and the blankets as fire-safety gadgets he pulled open the door with some effort to find two seriously injured individuals trapped inside. One of them was a young woman who seemed to have hurt her head with a bright red stream of blood dripping down her face and the second one, the driver, was a young man who was immediately identified as the impotent owner’s only son. Someone’s presence of mind worked well that dreary night as an ambulance and a police jeep arrived within the next few minutes.
<br /><br />
The impact had been quite vexing. The front portion of the chariot had been completely damaged as the bodies of the unconscious occupants were awkwardly stuck inside. With efforts by the burly Yadav they were finally pulled out and put on sanitized stretchers before being whisked away to safety. The police quickly cleared out the area so that the clean up operation would go smoothly. Considering the owner’s son was involved in this grisly incident they did not want any delay. Not a minute more. Not a second more.
<br /><br />
‘Hey! See this!’ screamed one of the younger workers as the ambulances disappeared into the distance. The crowd turned its attention towards the lad only to realize that one more fatality had occurred. One of the local workers, whose name no one knew, lay in a pool of blood as the back of his head had pierced into one of the metal rods that stuck out of one of the concrete blocks of aspirations. They slowly pulled out the dead body of the stranger from its entanglement and laid it out in the open for everyone to take a peek.
<br /><br />
‘Sorry son of a bastard’ said one of the intoxicated workers. ‘We pleaded with this fellow to be with us. If he had been then he would have been alive today. You see what happens if you act too smart? I always knew he was not man enough!’ Having said this he spat on Ranga’s bloodied face before being pushed away by the others. Someone later called the local authorities and informed them about an unknown body that had been involved in the incident and needed cremation. Thus, Ranga’s historic tryst with the demon king remained undocumented.
<br /><br />
.<img border="0" height="28" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiXd4ShqrPjFdDxKlCduss-TgwIxbRahV-TH_2DFDWU9xa7qtRFd06Jyol6Ru4z-rvEpIVz2Dfjhndr2VPVHUDff29XIxD1OxyPFWzGM6QvA42ikJ0lNmJox_SvD36h85Xq2RcYfw/s400/sk.gif" width="68" />
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<b>Note:</b><br>
The inspiration for 'Ranga and the demon king' came from Shankar Nag's 1985 Kannada movie called 'Accident'. <br><br>
<b>Other posts of a similar genre:<br></b>
<a href="http://shakri.blogspot.com/2011/11/short-fiction-tale-for-ambu.html">A tale for Ambu</a><br>
<a href="http://shakri.blogspot.com/2011/11/short-fiction-death-of-krsna.html">The death of Krsna</a><br>
</span>
</div></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-21096538.post-36194558554603661312011-11-01T09:36:00.000+01:002011-11-01T20:01:02.380+01:00Short Fiction : The death of Krsna<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'palatino linotype', georgia, occidental, serif;">
Dear reader, </span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'palatino linotype', georgia, occidental, serif;"><br /></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'palatino linotype', georgia, occidental, serif;">I had<a href="http://shakri.blogspot.com/2011/10/death-of-krishna-alternate-view.html"> posted a blog yesterday</a> discussing the death of Krsna. One possibility was that he could have been perhaps executed for his controversial role in various parts of the epic. The more I thought about that possibility the more I wanted to pen those moments where, perhaps, a group of assailants accosted Krsna one evening and killed him in a planned ambush. Given the room for some creative freedom there I present to you the short fiction version of mine below. It details the final moments of the attack. It has been eons since I blogged short fiction so this was one way of breaking those shackles of uncertainty.
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Feedback, of course, is most welcome.
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Cheers.
<br><br>
<br><br>
<br /></span><br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'palatino linotype', georgia, occidental, serif;">~ The death of Krsna ~ </span> <br>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'palatino linotype', georgia, occidental, serif;">a short fiction by ShaKri</span><br /></div>
<br /><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'palatino linotype', georgia, occidental, serif;">
The meandering clouds bore a reddened glow even before the blood spill that fateful dusk. Stunned into a sense of helplessness by their impending tryst with destiny the tall trees that overlooked the palace city for centuries swayed about uneasily. From the cacophony of a bustling day in paradisiacal nests the king emerged. Exiting from the rear side of the colossal palace, he took the snaking path to the river’s edge for his evening bath. Silent shadows had followed him with the precision of a hawk and the grace of a swan ever since he had slipped out for his evening dip in the river from the palatial halls. On recognizing the followers, he had then acknowledged their need for anonymity whilst continuing his journey towards the water front. The breeze that gently danced on the impatient surface of the river somehow seemed to carry a bitter pinch of melancholy with it as he, the dark skinned monarch of the Yadavas, walked without the slightest hint of royalty on him despite his standing. No jewels, no footwear, no head dress. He walked like a man in a state of eternal trance yet his gait was unwavering. His face bore the pain of the crumbling walls of a once mighty empire yet his lips managed to curl into a subtle smile. To the untrained eye he might have seemed like the commonplace wanderer with no home or country to call his own yet his confident stride bore the mark of a man who could own every inch of land he stepped upon. His flowing auburn tresses swayed about with the same playful nature that had for many decades sent a flurry of inexplicable affections into the hearts of absolute strangers. His saffron colored silk dhauti fluttered in the stiff breeze as he took one meticulously placed step after another.
<br /><br />
Barefooted, he stood a few meters away from the river's edge and silently gazed at the horizon. After those humble beginnings behind caged rooms here he was this day; prepared, perhaps, to finally find liberation. His eyes, now lit by the dying light of the day, seemed to be in a wordless conversation with an invisible entity. Or perhaps it was just the image of the remaining sparks of hope that still sat smoldering in them despite the obvious absence of that roaring fire which had made him the creator, architect, father and emperor of that city... his city...his Dvarka.
<br /><br />
The setting sun in the distance somehow seemed to be in the most irregular haste to bring that day to an end. The solitary king, even with his eyes into the nothingness beyond, could pick up restless feet moving about in the shade of those tall trees. He showed no reaction. Instead, he walked on, stepping into the welcoming arms of the nervous river that seemed equally impatient to embrace him. With the abundance of time at his disposal, the great king began disappearing into the shimmering layers of liquid gold and silver.
<br><br>
'Now?' whispered an inquisitorial voice from within the shadows.
<br /><br />
'No!' asserted another. 'No one is to waste a single breathe! We wait for him to emerge. The venom we bring today shall enter him from the front. Not the back! We perform this so that he may be aware of every moment of it!'
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'What difference, O learned one, does it make in what direction death arrives from?' reasoned another voice.
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'Direction?' hissed the commander. 'You speak of direction O venerable warrior? Do you not see the rotting corpses of those he has slain O brethren? Have your senses gone blind to the fiend in that glorified Yadava? Without laying a finger on a fly in the battle field he has claimed victory by slaughtering thousands, tens of thousands of kinsmen merely by pointing the arrow in the right direction. Yes...direction. The charioteer of mayhem masters that quite well. The imposter! The thief! Listen closely. Tonight we point our craft to his heart as his eyes watch. That, my brethren, would be the right direction. The just direction!' he added with an emphatic appeal in the word 'just'.
<br /><br />
Meanwhile in the distance, away from the ghostly patch of hissing whisperers, the king had slowly emerged out of the waters. His blue dhauti clung to him so purposefully that it seemed as though he had changed his skin to a bluish tint. He brought his jewel-less hands in rapt salutation to the swiftly setting sun and prayed under his breathe. Eager faces, boiling with fury, watched his ritual as their breathing got heavier and stance became more alert. The aged king then repeated this sequence standing in the cold and soothing bosom of the river twice more before turning around and plastering the dripping tresses onto his nape. He then stepped out of the river onto the sandy shore like a fresh memory of a long forgotten dream.
<br /><br />
He walked a few paces towards the majestic trees and stood there admiring their poise for a few fleeting moments. Tiny granules of muck stuck to his feet as if pleading him in desperation not to tread any further. He found the thought amusing. The birds he could speak to were nowhere in sight. The animals he had cared for were absent that day. And yet, he reflected, the earth he stood upon was smearing itself against him in a hapless attempt to shield him. But before the king could ponder further at his futile attempt at life’s poetry, it began.
<br /><br />
He heard the impatient release first followed by a short grunt.
<br /><br />
Before the next few sand grains in time’s capsule could drop, a sleek arrow swiftly appeared from oblivion and punctured the pages of history. It pierced through the generous space just under his heart, like a knife cutting through fresh fruit, and forcefully lodged half of itself into his rib cage.
<br /><br />
The king gasped and made a choking sound, stepping back a little. His eyes instantly welled up from a familiar feeling of loneliness at such a vacant junction in his long life. Perhaps, he thought in that passing slice of time, too long a life. Blinking rapidly through moist eyes he looked around and tried to regain his posture. A recognizable figure emerged from the shadows of the trees followed by three more faces the king had come to know quite well. Each of them held a sturdy bow and a full quiver of poison tipped arrows. The end had commenced.
<br /><br />
'Hearty salutations O Dvarkadeesh!' screamed one of the men stepping from behind the leader and taking aim from a closer range to let go of another arrow. This one sped past the previous resident in the king's person and made a clean penetration into his stomach. He noticed the bottom half of the arrow protruding from his torso before the pain hit his senses. On realizing the agony, he swayed erratically to his left, lost his balance and collapsed on his knees. He could hear the distant sound of a conch being blown somewhere. He wondered if it was that from the palace that had realized his unannounced absence. Or was it just another figment of his many illusions? The river's soothing waters still dripping from his sides, he parted his lips, struggling for air. His eyes remained open and his face still seemed to carry a subtle smile. Was that a smile of prior knowledge? Or was it that of unexpected relief?
<br /><br />
'Halt!' the leader screamed before a third arrow could be planted. His eyes searched the area around the fallen emperor and spotted something which made him grin. He walked up to the king and having grabbed him by his wet tresses, dragged him away from the river's edge onto the foot of a giant Pippala tree nearby.
<br /><br />
'For centuries have you played all the wrong games O son of Vasudeva!' he said pulling the king up on his unstable feet and propping him against the tree. 'Many a silent night has been curdled with the venom of your deception that now freely flows out of you. Today, O kin of the Pandavas, you are no longer playing any game. You, sire, are the game.'
Having mouthed these words he, unhesitatingly, stepped back a couple of steps, pulled the string on his sturdy bow to its maximum length, said something incoherent under his breathe and released a third arrow that penetrated the king's right thigh. This time the wound was the deepest. It cut right through him and lodged itself into the tree on which he had been placed. The king shut his eyes tighter and winced in visibly excruciating agony yet not a hint of noise escaped his mouth.
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'The grit deserves applause your majesty!' another voice opined. 'Three arrows and not a single scream leaves your lips! But your city will scream, sire! O yes it will! When the news of your pitiful end spreads like wildfire, every stone, every grain, every inch of the grand city of yours will howl so loud that its echoes will be heard for hundreds of yugas to come!'
<br /><br />
The fourth assailant now stepped forward and took aim.
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'And for the four maha yugas...' he said inhaling deep '...here are four little tokens for your royal pleasure!'
<br /><br />
The last arrow found its mark on the king's left foot fracturing it and, thus, paralyzing it as it pierced a gaping hole into the tree as well, pinning him in the process.<br /><br />
The leader walked up to the semi-conscious emperor who lay nailed to the Peepul tree and spoke in a low tone in his ear.<br /><br />
'You can tell your own story now Madhava for now you have received an end akin to the grandsire Bhsma whom you fell on a bed of arrows that day. This is no bed, indeed. But the bowl of nectar that pours into us from crushing your world of deceit to smithereens shall last us till the end of time itself.'<br /><br />
Throwing these venomous words around the injured king like cobwebs of a nightmare he could not wake up from the assailants cautiously withdrew and vanished forever into the annals of the past. <br /><br />
Resting his head against the comforting bark of the tree the king slowly opened his eyes and looked at the clouds. Darkness was almost complete yet he could make out the final few layers of sunshine still reluctant to leave. Nightfall would surface soon. He also knew that even though the sun would reappear to the world in a few hours the black mask of fate that had been tied around Dvarka's lovely face to asphyxiate it away from existence could never be undone. Much like its creator, his beloved city was also breathing its last. His era had now arrived at the threshold of an uncertainty he knew no way out of. Or was it perhaps because he knew all the ways that he had been stitched in such an unceremonious fashion to nature herself?<br /><br />
It was in the medley of such random thoughts that his fading eyes rested on yet another familiar face. He emerged from the shadows with tears streaming down the cheeks and eyes red rimmed with grief. He approached the king gingerly and clutched his lifeless and limp hand. <br /><br />
'Welcome...dear....Uddhava...' said the dying king to his friend.<br /><br />
.<img border="0" height="28" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiXd4ShqrPjFdDxKlCduss-TgwIxbRahV-TH_2DFDWU9xa7qtRFd06Jyol6Ru4z-rvEpIVz2Dfjhndr2VPVHUDff29XIxD1OxyPFWzGM6QvA42ikJ0lNmJox_SvD36h85Xq2RcYfw/s400/sk.gif" width="68" />
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Recommended reading of a similar nature:<br><br>
<a href="http://shakri.blogspot.com/2011/10/poem-dvarka.html">Dvarka</a><br>
<a href="http://shakri.blogspot.com/2009/05/mothers-day-special-eldest-kaunteya.html">The Eldest Kaunteya</a><br>
</span></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com7