bird-writing:
the memoirs of the wind.
(Octavio Paz, Dawn)
The caravan moves on: hundreds of animals and scores of men. They pass through the villages by the fall of the night: the families, half-asleep, greet them in silence. They pass through the trees: the trees speak in hushed tones about the days gone by, about the merchants that passed by the same route eons ago and the tales they told among themselves. And they pass through the desert asynchronously, searching for their individual identities in this vastness of sand dunes. They march with the stars; they form the constellations on earth. The wind hums a song, the desert-song they say. Many a men had travelled before but couldn’t make it to the end. They feel dwarfed in this seemingly seamless world but they walk with a penchant. Because that makes sense: the sense of joy. They are all headed to Pushkar, for the Pushkar Fair, to harvest the grains of joy.
The horizon turns reddish with some blue tucked in. The daybreak. The sun pops up suddenly like a big juicy orange. The orange on the table. The sky crushes it and spreads the amber extract around earth. The light drenches the people with warmth and energy. Life lives on. The men say the Morning Prayer. They whisper the fair is not far.
The fair is not about trade only, but a part of their religion, a goal of their life. The myths abound about the genesis of the fair. The pious ones take the holy dip in the Pushkar Lake by the daybreak. Gods, animals and men mingle in the crowd. The smile and sweat mix up. The castes and class do not. You can tell a man from another by the color of his turban and a woman by the design of her ornaments and dresses. But there is a sort of sedimentation for this period in history, a kind of non-antagonistic co-existence. This is a socio-economic and religious congregation. This is Pushkar. This is the united colors of India.
The customers bargain hard with the traders for the camel or horse in the vast cattle area. The traders have put up their tents here. Alongside is the Mela ground. Sports and cultural programmes have been arranged for the visitors. The foreigners enjoy themselves in the rural games. The riot of colors of the turbans and women’s dresses dazzle and puzzle them. The kid at the corner looks at them wide-eyed. The snake charmer tries to fascinate the gora sahibs and memsahibs. The poor child does the tightrope tricks. You can take a camel ride for a price. The decorated camel feels baffled at the presence of so many cars and buses. On both sides of the road to the Brahma temple, villagers showcase their products for sale. There you find a child munching on papad and stealthily looking at your camera. Another is happily blowing horns or a flute. Wise men exhibit the wonders of the world: four-legged girl, a poor child with two heads or a child with deformed body.
There are the worldly persons and there are the saintly persons far removed from worldliness. There are the white rich visitors from the West and there are the blackened poor villagers of Rajasthan. There are women: their faces like the calm, deep waters of the Lake Ana Sagar. There are men: their faces bearing the history of times. There are faces quite oblivious of the glitz of the crooked cities. There are people walking alone in the sea of crowd. There are amorous couples just married and having vowed to walk life together. All of them have descended on Pushkar to contribute to this mélange called Life. All of them are here to share their places in this drama of chiaroscuro.
Look at the kid licking the ice cream with glee, look at the young woman washing her feet, look at the sadhu enjoying his ganja, look at the man listening attentively to the preaching, look at the beggar crawling on the road, look at the four-legged girl helplessly exhibiting her skills, the bashful youth of the women and the colors galore. Listen to the cracking of jokes, the smiles, the giggles, the whispers, the bargains, the footsteps, the songs and dances. Enjoy the dust, wind, thirst, hunger, water and food, the huddle, the chaos, the enthusiasm, tiredness and elation.
And then you wait for the night to come. This is the month of Kartika and today’s the full moon night, the Kartika Purnima. The moon grows in color and size, slowly and confidently. The moonlight drops on the parched earth like nectar in a sieve. The floodgates of honeyed light open up to the world. A special night to revel, a special night to reveal the mystery of human life. Till the next morning, regale with the beauty of silence.
Sand-clock moon:
the night empties out,
the hour is lit.
(Octavio Paz, Calm)
The caravan moves on: hundreds of animals and scores of men. They pass through the villages by the fall of the night: the families, half-asleep, greet them in silence. They pass through the trees: the trees speak in hushed tones about the days gone by, about the merchants that passed by the same route eons ago and the tales they told among themselves. And they pass through the desert asynchronously, searching for their individual identities in this vastness of sand dunes. They march with the stars; they form the constellations on earth. The wind hums a song, the desert-song they say. Many a men had travelled before but couldn’t make it to the end. They feel dwarfed in this seemingly seamless world but they walk with a penchant. Because that makes sense: the sense of joy. They are all headed to Pushkar, for the Pushkar Fair, to harvest the grains of joy.
The horizon turns reddish with some blue tucked in. The daybreak. The sun pops up suddenly like a big juicy orange. The orange on the table. The sky crushes it and spreads the amber extract around earth. The light drenches the people with warmth and energy. Life lives on. The men say the Morning Prayer. They whisper the fair is not far.
The fair is not about trade only, but a part of their religion, a goal of their life. The myths abound about the genesis of the fair. The pious ones take the holy dip in the Pushkar Lake by the daybreak. Gods, animals and men mingle in the crowd. The smile and sweat mix up. The castes and class do not. You can tell a man from another by the color of his turban and a woman by the design of her ornaments and dresses. But there is a sort of sedimentation for this period in history, a kind of non-antagonistic co-existence. This is a socio-economic and religious congregation. This is Pushkar. This is the united colors of India.
The customers bargain hard with the traders for the camel or horse in the vast cattle area. The traders have put up their tents here. Alongside is the Mela ground. Sports and cultural programmes have been arranged for the visitors. The foreigners enjoy themselves in the rural games. The riot of colors of the turbans and women’s dresses dazzle and puzzle them. The kid at the corner looks at them wide-eyed. The snake charmer tries to fascinate the gora sahibs and memsahibs. The poor child does the tightrope tricks. You can take a camel ride for a price. The decorated camel feels baffled at the presence of so many cars and buses. On both sides of the road to the Brahma temple, villagers showcase their products for sale. There you find a child munching on papad and stealthily looking at your camera. Another is happily blowing horns or a flute. Wise men exhibit the wonders of the world: four-legged girl, a poor child with two heads or a child with deformed body.
There are the worldly persons and there are the saintly persons far removed from worldliness. There are the white rich visitors from the West and there are the blackened poor villagers of Rajasthan. There are women: their faces like the calm, deep waters of the Lake Ana Sagar. There are men: their faces bearing the history of times. There are faces quite oblivious of the glitz of the crooked cities. There are people walking alone in the sea of crowd. There are amorous couples just married and having vowed to walk life together. All of them have descended on Pushkar to contribute to this mélange called Life. All of them are here to share their places in this drama of chiaroscuro.
Look at the kid licking the ice cream with glee, look at the young woman washing her feet, look at the sadhu enjoying his ganja, look at the man listening attentively to the preaching, look at the beggar crawling on the road, look at the four-legged girl helplessly exhibiting her skills, the bashful youth of the women and the colors galore. Listen to the cracking of jokes, the smiles, the giggles, the whispers, the bargains, the footsteps, the songs and dances. Enjoy the dust, wind, thirst, hunger, water and food, the huddle, the chaos, the enthusiasm, tiredness and elation.
And then you wait for the night to come. This is the month of Kartika and today’s the full moon night, the Kartika Purnima. The moon grows in color and size, slowly and confidently. The moonlight drops on the parched earth like nectar in a sieve. The floodgates of honeyed light open up to the world. A special night to revel, a special night to reveal the mystery of human life. Till the next morning, regale with the beauty of silence.
Sand-clock moon:
the night empties out,
the hour is lit.
(Octavio Paz, Calm)
6 comments:
an album filled with word pictures thats what your post reads like.
Your profile, your post, your pictures-all exude the simplicity that is you.
*wiping my eyes of the tears of happiness with my pallu*
On a totally serious note, this post is smashing. Loved every bit of it, right from Paz to Paz.
Thank you.
You are wasting your time in the corridors of power.
Thanx all of you for your comments. Keep reading.
Hey ur description is almost musical.. i just adore the way u have written a comparison of different people..
How to make a website
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