Meeting the Maestro

We started on a rainy Saturday to Stratford and had to take two trains, as renovation works were happening in few lanes, to get there from Birmingham. Stratford, in the Warwickshire County was a drowsy tiny town, much smaller than what I expected and it took two hours from the Midlands area (where I stay) to reach there. Stratford upon Avon, as the town is called, is a little but well kept train station; no sooner did we reach there than showers started pouring outside. Town seemed like a shaky portrait with a hue of light colours in the back ground, almost empty streets and limited traffic and a nervous breath of chilly breeze in the air; December for no reason is a good choice to voyage in Britain, length of day time is awfully less with recurring mist and uneasy snow fall.

It did not take much time for us to locate the ancestor house of the bard; it was quite close to the town centre. A 16th century wooden house which recreates the family life of the times of the poet was a small two storey cottage and it had a painting gallery near the portico. The solid but serene pathway from the gallery took us through the garden to the un-usually large wooden door at the entrance of the house. I was happy to spot a Tagore statue inside the compound. It was an utterly different world for me when the old lady, apparently the guide there, invited us inside and led to the interiors. Semi polished stones paved the floor, its air and ambience was nothing but perfect for a sheep trader’s home (as it was in my mind) and a flood of memories engulfed me.

My high school class, now I’m sitting in one of the middle rows and Krishnan Nair (the Principal of our school) narrating the legend of Julius Caesar; panicking Brutus, their patriotism, friendship and tribute to each other and the grace of all other characters. The total class is silent and now I listen to Mark Antony’s speech, Krishnan Master shouting at the peak of his pitch:

”Friends, Romans, countrymen, lend me your ears; I come to bury Caesar, not to praise him; The evil that men do lives after them, The good is oft interred with their bones, So let it be with Caesar … The noble Brutus Hath told you Caesar was ambitious: If it were so, it was a grievous fault.”

It was appearing in front of me, my eyes following the artistic moves of Krishnan Master, his imposing acting skills flaunted, and I’m marvelled to glimpse the celebrated characters right in front. Our respected teacher, a famed ‘Kathakali’ artist and a strict disciplinarian, is an English scholar and a Shakespeare enthusiast. He used to memorise major plots of Shakespeare’s plays and perform them for us in the class. In those ‘one-act’ plays we gleefully watched Macbeth and King Lear, Viola and Orsino and all the major figures from Shakespeare.

He was a blessed actor. In the class room, he was able to shower on us the essence of those plays, the very essence which was fresh and alive within me when I stood inside the house, yes only a hand’s breadth from my eyes the birth bed of his dearest poet. The old guide there, dressed in the traditional British robes of olden times, in her charming voice explained to us the history of bard’s family in the most interesting tone and I deeply wished my passionate master (now an octogenarian) were with me. We roamed around the house for few great hours, captured the scent and scene of that historic home with few stills and started wandering outside in search of other major Shakespeare attractions in the town.

Stratford was hazily snowing outside.

We walked down the town to the Holy Trinity cathedral where the poet was buried. England’s most visited parish church, under that roof the wizard of Stratford called William Shakespeare was baptised and there he does his final sleep. Dimly lit candles from the side stands were quiet as if they were frozen in time, blended with an incense like fragrance there seems to be a deep smell from the past that filled the air, very less visitors braved the chilly December day to the church in fact less than twenty. We sat there on the carved wooden seats of the big altar, few empty minutes withered by. On our top giant glass patterns of windows portrayed resurrection from Holy Bible and the threads of silken rays oozing out from them coloured the shades inside the chapel.

Again, under one of those shades, I could sense Krishnan Master there, I felt like watching him, without myself being watched – this time as Othello (and Desdemona as a far back ground voice). His eyes were sparking wild.

”Yet she must die, else she’ll betray more men.
Put out the light, and then put out the light:”
”Who’s there, Othello?”
”Ay, Desdemona.”
“Will you come to bed, my lord?”
“Have you pray’d to-night, Desdemona?”
“Ay, my lord.”
“If you bethink yourself of any crime”
“Unreconcil’d as yet to heaven and grace,
Solicit for it straight.”
“Alack, my lord, what may you mean by that?”
“Well, do it, and be brief; I will walk by.
I would not kill thy unprepared spirit;
No, — heaven forfend! — I would not kill thy soul.”
“Talk you of killing?”
“Ay, I do.” *

Love and passion and revenge and obsession, every thing was there in his eyes. It was there in my eyes too. I was awakened by the whispering call of my friend.
Just outside the cathedral, river Avon was flowing; as it would have always been, silent and steady.

* Final conversation between Othello and Desdemona from ‘Othello’
(In the photo: Krishnan Master)

Solitary Reaper

A voice so thrilling ne'er was heard
In spring-time from the cuckoo-bird,
Breaking the silence of the seas
Among the farthest Hebrides.

Will no one tell me what she sings? -
Perhaps the plaintive numbers flow
For old, unhappy, far-off things,
And battles long ago;

Or is it some more humble lay,
Familiar matter of to-day?
Some natural sorrow, loss, or pain,
That has been, and may be again?

~ Solitary Reaper : Wordsworth ~

To stop India's heartbeat

In the series of manifestos flashed by the terrorist outfits of modern India, the latest message from the perpetrators are meant to ‘stop the heart of India from beating’, it seems! Once again urban India witnessed another naked attack on the civilian establishments of the nation on a normal weekend, this time at the capital, New Delhi.

The shades of a similar script of an ugly story unveils here too, with India Mujahideen, SIMI version 2, put the attack as a tribute to the martyrs in Kashmir. In the most elaborate written manifesto and video show e-mailed to the media those behind the attacks announced that ‘scores will be settled evenly’ and for the first time made reference to the conflict in Jammu and Kashmir – ‘the injustice and pain inflicted on Kashmiri Muslims during the amaranth crisis once again landed you in great trouble,’ it proclaims.

After sixty years of sovereign administration we find our populace struck up with the lexicons of ‘our people’ and ‘your people’ in our celebrated secular state, let us shamefully keep our heads down. In some other parts of the country like Orissa, still there is ferocity ready to come out at the slightest provocation when in contact with people outside religion. What is under question is the identity of being Indian when the terror outfits and religious extremists charge the total nation with words like ‘never ending hostile hatred in your hearts against our religion and people,’ the email the media received soon after the Delhi blasts says that the bombings are intended to ‘prove you our ability and potential to assault any city of India at any time.’ When news rooms are filled with debates and discussions soon after the serial blasts, the very question that challenge the wits of a common man would be where do I fit into - ‘you’ or ‘we.’

Religion and religious identities are being hijacked everywhere when the manifestation announce that ‘from now onwards, we won’t cry alone.’ Those identities, despite the total efforts of the liberal heartbeats, still tickle at the sub conscious of this great nation and its men belittle themselves and find it easy to resolve the issues on religious grounds, a gloomy fact. When members of minority communities find it difficult to rent or lease in several neighbourhoods in Mumbai and Bengaluru it shows the pathetic situation we have fallen to.

It is total agony to the millions who are no way related to your game or our game, but with a simple label of religious minority tagged to them. Spirit of tolerance in our society is clearly dwindling and every time the administration is simply coming up with statements appealing peace and restrain from the citizens. It would not be surprising if a Hindu version of India Mujahideen reiterates on the same coin a similar foolishness at some other part of the nation victimising few hundreds of innocents in their own craziest manner. The juggernaut of religious fundamentalism and violence rolls on the Indian mainland and are we ever going to mature from all these non sense blasphemy and fixture, where no one is going to win?

No administration, how ever powerful can completely wipe our religious extremism. We can be pretentious, as we were all these days, can arrange peace marches, can easily be rhetoric about the secular outlook of the nation, can boast the rich mix and multitude of diversity in our civilisation. Still there are prejudices deep inside, even the educated minds strive in their sub conscious to prove the superiority and originality of own belief and philosophy and they are shamelessly reluctant to acknowledge that truth, simply because it is truth, naturally manifests itself in different faiths. Unless this prejudice is thrown out we will always find ourselves in our road to nowhere.

I Died For Beauty

I died for beauty but was scarce
Adjusted in the tomb,
When one who died for truth was lain
In an adjoining room.

He questioned softly why I failed?
"For beauty," I replied.
"And I for truth, the two are one;
We brethren are," he said.

And so, as kinsmen met a night,
We talked between the rooms,
Until the moss had reached our lips,
And covered up our names.
~ Courtesy: Emily Dickinson (I Died For Beauty) ~

Stalemate

The limited boundaries of the sixty four squares were realized early enough. They appreciated peace according to the scale of unity which they attained in their mutual relationship, and within that limit they found happiness which spreads through time that moves, the things that vary, the life that breeds, and the thoughts that surge inwards. She opened with white and the game had a gentle launch, they respected each other, and the moves were quite predictable and simple for an onlooker. It was as it should be.

The rule of natural selection found its full way and the centre board was equally shared and none of them showed early aggression. In regular intervals they exchanged pieces and smiles, with a silent satisfaction of calculated moves. She looked smarter and she was. It was a beautifully set battle field. She castled on the king side and fused to the traditional Ruy Lopez, with out much variations an early enpassed pawn out reaching the ‘C’ was nullified by her knight and the chances of an open file was barred, easily.

Middle game - The flames were glowed and the hammers started firing, amidst dust and discordance a musical note was being set. He was not prepared to castle, geared up for attacks on both the sides; his queen side was weak when he lost two pinning pawns which defended the bishops. He accepted the detached fact and followed the evolution. But his knights did the ploy, they manoeuvred all across the board and threatened her king to move first to G2 and then to H1. Through out the middle game he flaunted chasm of ruin in the ethics of his moves, in the realisation of positions ahead, not in a supreme sky of negation but in the bosom of a superlative spirit of confidence. Towards the end game he played ruthlessly, but all he could manage was a stalemate!!

And on top of those squares painted thick black and white, he spotted her in truthful tears..!!!!!