His soul. Not for sale.

In the car, I made a bubble with a bubble gum. On the street, he made a hundred with his bubble guns..

He didn’t sell any bubble guns, but he beautified the scene… And just as the traffic cleared, and I saw him walk by, I saw his last bubble.

And I burst mine.

The thing about being an artist..

When a bird sings, it doesn’t sing for the advancement of music.

~ Alan Watts

 

Art is pure when it is created to express, rather than impress.

If we can train ourselves to find satisfaction in expression itself, then art is born out of peace of mind, and the sense of wonderment and freedom is never lost.

Have you met this friend yet?

The whole world, dear, just maybe your friend,
so don’t try too hard, don’t pretend,
don’t be afraid of every stranger…
not every darkness must mean danger…

Don’t be afraid to feel satisfied,
it’s alright to want just enough…
having a lot doesn’t always feel better…
unless it’s a lot of love…

Why walk on streets like you might be attacked?
Why hold a straight face? Why not smile back?
Why feel obliged to conform and agree,
when speaking your mind is what sets you free…

Don’t draw back the hand that your heart wants to lend…
For the whole world, dear, just maybe your friend…

We’re all here to wander, then why compete?
Why weigh ambition, why trap it in concrete?
Know that it’s ok to give up the climb,
And your heart’ll know where to land when it’s time…

Share while you can share, mend while you can mend,
Then the whole world, dear, just maybe your friend…

Be surrounded by things you love,
Or feel surrounded by things you fear,

And if love is what you fear, if you brace your dear heart,
Let it slip away, surprise you, lead you to embark…

On a love that is so clear, you don’t see an end,
Then the whole world, dear, walks with you, as your friend…

The Song of the Sufi

A huge, wide center-stage. The faint smell of jasmine and incense wafting in the silent air.
Men dressed in white, wearing white laced-caps, seated in a wide semi-circle.
Each one of them has their eyes closed, and the men in the centre
are seated with instruments before them; a tabla, a harmonium,
and then a couple of singers who hold their heads high and gaze within themselves with closed eyes;
breathing deep, before the first song of prayer and celebration is sung out from the depth of their hearts. Continue reading “The Song of the Sufi”

In 50 words: Post 3: The dripping

An artist struggles all his life to empty himself. To die dry of every trickle of art.

He wastes his many years in synchronizing his feet and heartbeat with the world’s.

The stagnant pool of  art rises, chin-deep, eye-deep, then blinds him and he sees. Inside. And he starts dripping.

Music without music is still music

My best song, till date, is ‘Solomon Shoshanna’ from the Malayalam film that is making waves all over India, Amen.

For artists of most kinds, it is usually the flaws that they notice in their own performance. And I’m no exception. I used to hear Solomon Shoshanna, and think- well, its just OKAY- I could’ve done this here, maybe sung this way here, and so on.

Weeks later, I heard the final mix along with the teaser video. The music composer had decided to keep it without any music, just the vocals singing the melodic tune, and the background sounds of the sloshing lake water and the singing night insects. Continue reading “Music without music is still music”

The boy who never cried

There lived somewhere they say
A boy who never cried,
Through every loss he showed
His handsome superficial side…

They say he never cried
When as a young lad he had to leave home,
That’s when his older kin thought their boy,
would grow up strong, but with a heart of stone…

That might have kept him from weeping
Even on that dreadful unfortunate night,
When sitting ride beside his driver’s seat
his younger brother had died… Continue reading “The boy who never cried”

Tomorrow’s soul

As she lay sleeping, I ponder: Whom does she look like? And what will she look like a few years from now?

What will her interests be? Will she be an artist like her father and me, her aunt? Or will she be a brilliant mind with extra-ordinary capabilities of reasoning and mathematics, like her mother?

What will we teach her? What will I teach her? What values will she be raised in? What will I stand for in her life?

These thoughts reminded me of a beautiful paragraph written by Khalil Gibran in his soul enlightening book, ‘The Prophet’.

“Your children are not your children.
They are the sons and daughters of Life’s longing for itself.
They come through you but not from you,
And though they are with you yet they belong not to you.

You may give them your love but not your thoughts, 
For they have their own thoughts.
You may house their bodies but not their souls,
For their souls dwell in the house of tomorrow, 
which you cannot visit, not even in your dreams.
You may strive to be like them, 
but seek not to make them like you.
For life goes not backward nor tarries with yesterday.

You are the bows from which your children
as living arrows are sent forth.
The archer sees the mark upon the path of the infinite, 
and He bends you with His might 
that His arrows may go swift and far.
Let your bending in the archer’s hand be for gladness;
For even as He loves the arrow that flies, 
so He loves also the bow that is stable.”

A line for the troubled writer

I am a writer, and I often look for inspiration. And for me, through most of my creative blackouts, studying classic poems or quotes that reflect the line of thought of legendary writers does the trick. It fills the void inside with the will and the gush of emotion to write. One such quote that always reminds me of how unadulterated and pure the process of writing truly ought to be, is one of Ernest Hemingway’s:

There is nothing to writing. All you do is sit down at a typewriter and bleed.

To sit down amidst all the chaos that life entails is one challenge. And to bleed without trying to curb the flow is another.

To write, I must be more at peace, I must see more of the worlds existing around me, as well as within me. I must have the courage to let the story remain untamed and unfinished, and to write it in its incomplete state. And present it before the world, whose readers will each give the story a life of its own.

For, as some writer has wisely stated; the writer only starts the story, it is the reader who finishes it.

Pretty Little Things

Some pretty little things, that don’t let go,
Like the thought of a friend, the craving for snow…

The laughs from a memory, the warmth of a baby new,
The delightful sweetness of ‘I love you’…

The rain-splattered face, and wet feet in warm sand,
A child on your chest, the hold of a tiny hand…

An old photo album, a wave from across the street,
The painted school walls, the smell of pancakes sweet…

Living is loving pretty little things,
And embracing them with our heart and its wings,
For what you will remember before you must go,
Would be the pretty little things that did never let go…