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WE have been witnessing curious times, when after a computerised interregnum, just about everyone, it would appear, is writing books; from school children to civil servants; from IT professionals and medical practitioners, to domestic help and cine stars. There is a volley of new books and publications; however, more often than not, they are with little substantive matter or essence. The Young Turk writers and authors in the making seem to have passed over the role of a writer in shaping the destiny of humankind. Today intellectual intervention is of particular relevance for we find society disintegrating at every level with everyone, almost, doing the worst that he can. These are days of deeply entrenched rampant misgoverance in every sphere of life, in India. In this ancient land, in the timeless habitations along the wide Indo-Gangetic plain and the mighty rivers criss-crossing the sub-continent, live over 40 per cent of India’s 1.33 billion population, below the poverty line in 2012, while the exclusive billionaires’ club enlarges its membership. In the overall situation of Chinese stationariness, it is the writer, who steps forward and acts as a psychoanalyst holding up a mirror to society. Today, more than ever before, it is for the man of ideas, the cry of the artist that can change the world and expand the borders of human knowledge. The artist, the writer, lives amidst the tumult in society and yet, perforce, has to distance himself and take a ringside seat to get the total picture of devastation from an objective perspective. Largely, his is a lonely condition for he illuminates the world with an idea, from a citadel of silence. During the twilight of the Mughal Empire, the great Persian and Urdu poets in Delhi presented brilliant verse. It was in the last 50 years of imperial rule before Bahadur Shah Zafar, himself a gifted poet, was imprisoned and the magnificent Empire of the Mughal Emperors confined to a prison cell in Rangoon, at a time, when the resplendent peacock throne had been replaced by a roughly crafted wooden platform; at a time, when the fountains in the royal palaces created to cool the summer air, had dried up; at a time when the bejewelled concubines, who dressed for the evening revelry at court, could be heard crying aloud for food; Mir, Mir Hasan, Momin, Sauda, Mirza Ghalib and the Emperor composed exquisite poetry; surely similar to a rose that has its petals blown away with the first gust of a strong breeze. The thinker has the ability to cross beyond regimented thought and reach the ‘take-off stage’ which in Hindustani classical music is known as the tarana, so also in the breathtaking leap of Rudolf Nureyev in La Bayadere or the apparently incoherent thought processes of the 18th century German poet Hoelderlin as indeed the pirouette of Nijinsky in Spectre de la Rose. In the 80th year of life, Sitara Devi danced the Kathak, scaling the intricate octaves of a poignant bandish
Ek Zamana Beet Gaya – An era has passed by. And it is the lingering look of the art historian who gently directs our gaze to interpret the difference between the perfectly sculpted bust of the charioteer of Delphi and the black princess reclining in the Ajanta caves, indicating that the fiercely large eyes of the Greek warrior look outwards for inspirational light while the lady in the recesses of darkness, with half shut eyes, seeks strength from within her reservoir of strength. Likewise, the writer points to the common roots that are shared by tragedy and the comic aspects of the human condition and it is the philosopher who opens floodgates of thought pointing to man’s pre-ordained destiny, against the rising crescendo of a Greek chorus. It is the burden of the thinker to draw attention to nature’s innocent perfection and to reflect upon man as a dwarf when measured against the majestic snow-capped mountain peaks, the sinking green valley, yellow butterflies negotiating wild flowers, wide rivers, thick jungle, and the deep seas, as indeed the limitless desert. It is also within the writer’s mandate to draw attention to the beauty of relationships and to reflect upon their unsustainability under ideal conditions. Then again, it is the writer, who talks of the need for gods and goddesses, while himself questioning the validity of this proposition: Hikayat-e-hasti sunee to darmiyaan se sunee Na Ibtida ki khabar hai na Intahaa maloom (What I have heard of the story of life is only about the middle I know not its beginning, I know not its end.) It is the writer, who suggests how, quite without notice, tall thrones tilt into the dark blue ocean. The degree of civilisation in society and its sensitivity can be gauged by the level attained by its writers and the recognition that is given to them. In my own long journey, I have laid great stress on writing and poetry and it is to the Greek poet of Alexandria, Constantino Cavafy that I owe my initial insight into life. It is from him that I learnt, in my early youth, that the city is within the human mind and one needs to come to terms with situations as they exist rather than chase shadows where the sunlight never reaches. His poem The City was a turning point in my life. You said I will go to another land/ I will go to another sea. /Another city will be found, a better one than this….. /….. You will find no new lands/ The city will follow you/ As you have destroyed your life,/In this little corner,/You have ruined it, In the entire world. There is little point in being a great artist, a good writer or an accomplished dancer if art does not help in evolution of the mind towards goodness and kind interaction with fellow human beings, with the ability to synergise with those who are living in adverse circumstance. It is the burden of the artist also to draw attention to absurdity and often the futility of human existence and to indicate how best man may traverse the journey meaningfully. The writer also ignites the will to live in a situation of overall failure. Good writing carries the volcanic momentum of truth and the writer flashes upon the cruelty of man and the merciless glitter of unjust social arrangements. Trying to understand life has been a lifelong quest for me: Dhoondta phirta hoon main, ai Iqbal apney aap ko, Aap hee goya musafir, aap hee manzil hoon main
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