A Review of Ramayana:

From my Book 

"The Secrets of the Humankind" - Selected Satiric Articles by Bankimchandra Chattopadhyay  (1838-1894):

Bankimchandra was annoyed with so called “orientalist” explanation of ancient Indian literature as well as contemporary anglicised academic approach towards history of India. His mimicry of those foreign scholar’s notes in the following article shows the depth of his displeasure.

 

A Review of Ramayana:

(By a critic from abroad)

The book “Ramayana” surprised me - I read this book starting from the cover page till the end. The poems are at some places almost comparable to the works of some inferior European poets. This is however, not a small achievement for a Hindu poet. The writer could certainly become a good poet if he took a little more effort.

The overall purpose of this book is to describe the triumph of the apes. Apes are probably the ancestors of the non-Aryan Himachal residents called Bonerwal. The conquest of Lanka and the slaughter of Rakshasa clan by the apes is the subject of these poems. Aryans were uncivilized and the Non-Aryans civilized at that time.

Ramayana contains some morals. The poet tried to explain the vice of not being intellectual. A stupid old king had four wives. The ill-effect of polygamy soon came into sight. The intelligent Kaikeyi succeeded to send the eldest son of the king, born of her co-wife’s womb to the forest by convincing the uncultivated king. All she had done was to ensure the prosperity of her own son. And the eldest son, having the innate laziness of an Indian, went to the forest following his old father’s words, never trying to establish own authority over the kingdom. I would suggest you to compare him to the vigorous Turk Aurangzeb; you will be able to realise without difficulty, why Mohammedans exercised authority over Hindus for so long. Ram took his young wife along while going to forest – the result turned out to be also as expected.

Sita’s activity proves very well how promiscuous Indian women are! As soon as she left home, she started looking for another man. She deserted Ram to enjoy the luxury in the Kingdom of Lanka with Ravan. The foolish Ram roamed on the streets wailing for her. This is reason Hindus do not bring their wives out of home.

Laksman is an example of another impurity in the Hindu character. His characterisation tells us about his sluggishness. He could be a successful fellow if he was born in some other community, but he never tried to be one. He always followed Ram, but never strive for self-development. This shows the in-born lethargy of Indians.

Bharat is another primitive fool. He returned the kingdom to his eldest brother after accessing the throne. In fact, Ramayana is the history of inactive people. Establishing this truth is another purpose of the writer. As Ram lost his wife, seeing his distress, the non-Aryans (apes) killed Ravan along with his entire family, snatched Sita back from them and brought her back to Ram. But the brutality of an uncivilized clan never ends. One day Ram attempted to burn his wife to death out of rage. She was saved miraculously that day. Later he brought her to own country, but lived happily only for a couple of days there. His in-born savage anger was lit up again by a lame rumour and that made him drive her out of home. After a few years, suffering from sheer poverty, Sita begged for his help. Her sight made Ram so angry that he buried her under the ground. This is normal incident among savage communities. This is the core story of Ramayana.

Who has written this story - is not easy to determine. According to legends – this was written by Valmiki. But a doubt persists that whether there was any author named Valmiki. The Hindu word Valmiki finds its origin in the word Valmik, i.e. ant-hill. In my opinion, this book was found in some ant-hill. Let’s see what conclusion we reach from this.

I have found a Bengali book named Ramayana. This is written by Krittibas. Both the books have many similarities. So it’s not impossible that Valmiki Ramayana is copied from the book by Krittibas. I agree to the fact that it is not easy to determine whether Valmiki has copied from Krittibas or Krittibas has copied from Valmiki. In this case, the name “Ramayana” itself can be taken as evidence to verify the truth. The word does not mean anything in Sanskrit, but there is a Bengali meaning. It seems that the word “Ramayana” is a pejorative term derived from the word “Rama Yaban”. Only the alphabet “Y” is dropped. Probably Krittibas had written this book first, adopting the life-story of Rama-Yaban or Rama-Musalman. Later someone translated it into Sanskrit and did hide a copy under an ant-hill. Finally it was named Valimiki as it was found is Valmik.

We have published a positive criticism of the book, but could not totally praise it. There are many errors in the book; especially while this is full of vulgarity. The story of Sita’s marriage, Ravan’s eloping with Sita – are not these all vulgar? The sentiment of misery is rare in Ramayana. Misery is found only in the part where the apes built a bridge over the sea. There is little heroic sentiment expressed in the act of eating by Laksman. Some sentiment of humour is expressed using the character of seers like Vashistha. The seers were really witty – they made a lot of jokes on religious issues.

The language of Ramayana is simple and explicit – still there are many mistakes. There is nothing about warriors (yoddha) in one of its chapters and therefore the chapter should have been named No-warrior tale (Ayoddhakanda). But the author had written Ayodhyakanda instead of Ayoddhakanda. This kind of incorrect Sanskrit is frequently seen in old Sanskrit texts. That is why modern European scholars should be the best people to take charge of the language called Sanskrit. 

Separation – the invincible

Stories were becoming too heavy  - needed a pause :)

Every time separation assaults her -  

She cries – inconsolable.

Every time separation tears her, bruises and rapes -

Determined to leave a mark on her,

She tries harder to rub him off.

Every time she takes a new route,

To avoid separation;

Every time he takes a new form.

She can’t turn into Durga.

So that she could pierce his chest,

For ever with her spear.

She turns violent – in her dreams,

Separation remains unbeatable. 

Conscious and Subconscious

Our mind can be separated into two divisions in general. One is conscious and another subconscious. The conscious one is polite, social and refined. The subconscious is not always refined and social – it’s movement and the way it reflects is sometimes strange. Watching the actions of the conscious, it sometimes laughs, sometimes weeps but rarely approves. These two divisions are therefore, always in conflict with each other.

Ramkishorbabu’s subconscious was nearly dead since long. The torture by his conscious led ultimately to its ruin. He is a lawyer. He took support from his conscious mind in all his efforts like finding false witness to protect murderers, destroying the poor subject taking side with the landlord and fabricating forged documents. The subconscious used to create lot of trouble by protesting loudly in the beginning – nowadays it does not make a sound.

That morning, Ramkishorbabu was taking a stroll in his garden and caressing his nearly hairless head. He was little disturbed with a case relating to a widow’s property since quite some time. The hearing for the case was scheduled that day – reason he was little worried.

A middle aged gentleman arrived. Greeting him politely, he stated the reason of his coming to meet the lawyer – he was looking for some good advice. Ramkishorbabu did not know that person. Hence he told without hesitating, “Hope you know that I charge fees to provide guidance in legal issues?”

- “Sure! May I know the amount I need to pay?”

- “Three thousand.”

- “Not an issue.”

Both moved to the drawing room.

The visitor told, “One of my relatives is facing a problem – his son is married almost ten years. But he is still childless. There is little hope of the couple’s having one.”

- “Did you consult doctors?”

- “Oh yes, even they told its difficult.”

-“Is the man healthy?”

- “He is perfectly healthy.”

- “Then what do you want to consult with me?” Ramkishorbabu took a pinch of snuff from his snuff-box.

- “I wanted to know who will inherit the property if they don’t have any offspring.”

Inhaling the snuff, Ramkishorbabu told, “If the man is healthy, then he may marry again; there is provision in Hindu law.”

-“There may be a provision available. But is it possible to take such a step even if the law is favourable?”

 Ramkishrebabu smiled, “Is it possible to lead a life guided by silly emotions? We are doomed because of following those worthless emotions.”

He delivered a short lecture on the ill effects of emotional decisions. His conscious mind furnished the required logic and words for that. The subconscious remained speechless.

The visitor asked again, “Suppose they are not ready to get their son married again – then who will inherit the property?”

Ramkishorbabu recited the law of inheritance maintaining utmost fluency.

He did not forget expressing own opinion once again at the end, - “Why don’t you pursue him to marry again? How come a man stay happy with an infertile wife? Family life becomes barren without children. I am telling you what I find logical. If my suggestion hurts  your sentiment, pardon me!”

The Visitor told, “Not at all! You are a straightforward person who provides clients friendly suggestions – that is what I heard about you. That is reason I came to you.”

He left paying the fees.

→→→→→→→→→→→→→→→→→→→→→→→→→→→→→→→

After a couple of days - a cab stopped in front of Ramkishorbabu’s home. A young lady came down and entered home.

The lawyer was a widower. Servant and cooks were in charge of his household affairs. Almost all of them were away in the afternoon – except only a young servant. He carried the luggage inside home. A name was inscribed on one of the trunks the lady brought along – Sarojini Devi. But the young boy did not recognise Sarojini Devi. He was surprised to find a young lady coming inside home like that.

After arranging her luggage, Sarojini sat in the veranda inside home and asked the boy, “Where is your master?”

- “In office.”

- “When does he come back?”

- “I have no idea.”

She was sitting on one of trunks – depressed.

→→→→→→→→→→→→→→→→→→→→→→→→→→→→→→→→→→

Ramkishorababu looked surprised at her sight as he came back from court. – “What is it Saro? How come you came without informing beforehand?”

- “I cannot stay in their home any longer.”

- “Why? What happened?”

He found his daughter’s behaviour strange.

- “Why can’t you stay there?”

- “They are getting their son married again. Even you gave consent, I have heard?”

- “I gave consent? – What do you mean?”

- “They sent a person to you to ask for your exact opinion. You told – taking second wife would be better option for him!”

Ramkishorbabu’s subconscious mind was trying to suffocate his consciousness seizing its throat.

He looked at his only daughter helplessly.

Sarojini asked, “Did you really tell that, papa?”

Again Banaphul! - story "Bhitar o bahir"

The Argument and a Bizarre Dream

An argument was going on.

The first arguing mammal was telling that meat is tastier if first fried and then boiled.

The second opposed immediately saying, “Meat cannot be cooked easily if fried first. Hence it is better to boil it well at first and then it can be fried drying excess water in the pan. You don't have proper idea of cooking methods.”

-“What makes you decide that I know nothing of cooking! Not only the meat should be fried, also the spices should be added in the beginning.”

-“Cook-books do not say that.”

-“Forget about cook-books! I have heard from acclaimed chefs that meat has to be first fried - “

-“Don’t you abide by the rules of cook-book?”

 -“No.”

-“May I know why?”

-“Because different cook-books have different opinions. So, opinions of the chefs, who cook on their own everyday should be considered authentic.”

The first arguer seemed little muddled, but his mind started functioning at once. -“Not all chefs have same opinion either!”

-“Chefs who like to first fry meat, are no chefs, but dumb fellows. Do you know what the Japanese do?”

The first arguer lost his patience. He reacted, “I do not know what Japan means. Who are you to humiliate chefs? You uncivilized brat!”

- “Stop it! Hold your tongue! You are not at all as knowledgeable as you claim, still trying to be a bragging arguer - Bonehead!”

-“You are calling me bonehead again!?”

-“I will call you bonehead again and again.”

 - “I see - let me have it out …“

-“You crook!”

The argument turned into a battle.

A jackal was enjoying their dispute sitting nearby. He began laughing seeing them preparing for a battle; said, “Hey, aren’t you both vegetarian? Why do you indulge in a riot over non-veg food? You will be in trouble once your master gets up.”

They were not in a mood to pay attention to his words; started fighting violently with their horns pounding against each other’s.  

The coachman suddenly woke up to find the pair of his bullocks fighting among themselves. He knew the right method to stop them. With appropriate use of his bamboo stick and suitable abusive words, he succeeded to tie the bullocks separately keeping right distance between them. He also placed fodder before them –“Eat! You rascals – don’t try to act smart!”

They were given only rice-straws.

******************************************

I too, woke up all of a sudden. I came out my reverie as well. I found two aggressive young men, who were arguing with each other over the news of Japan and Germany, Hitler and Mussolini etc, already got off. The train stopped – the station was Nathnagar.

Translation of Story “Tarko o swapno” by Balaichand Mukhopadhyay

The Solution

The sky was blue; breeze was soothing; flowers were beautiful and meaning of my name resembles rainbow. Still I was married to a village girl whose name signifies ‘unwanted’. She gave birth to a girl-child after a year and named her ‘Buchi’. I expressed my disagreement over the name-selection. But everyone in my family and the neighbourhood dissuaded me with a true statement, “Do you want to name your dark and ugly daughter ‘a bouquet of flowers’? Such an insane idea of yours….!”

She was really ugly. Not only she was dark, one of her eyes was larger than the other. In addition to that, she seemed dumb; salivated all the time. True, she could not be called ‘a bouquet of flowers’.

After two years…

My wife went to her paternal home taking Buchi along.

It was Sunday. We did not have any work; was spending our lazy hours under the shed of our Durga temple, as usual by discussing different topics. The discussion took an abrupt turn towards me.

Nripen told, “Think of Nihar’s fate. Poor man fathered only a girl child – that too so ugly!”

Shyam Bose told, “So true! He will have a tough time to get her married – will need lot of money.”

Haru uncle took a long puff before telling, “No brothers, only money does not suffice these days. People want not only money, but beauty too. Biggest problem is her asymmetric eyes – God know what will happen.”

Everyone was so worried.

The peon of our post-office came at that moment to deliver me a letter.

Nripen asked, “Whose letter is that?”

I finished reading it and announced, “My wife wrote it – Buchi passed away yesterday.”

Translation of the story "Samadhan" by Balaichand Mukhopadhyay

Unknowingly

Someone asked me once – “Why Banaphul?”

My friend was a classicist – he was comparing Banaphul with Tagore. Well, Banaphul is not Tagore. Tagore seems to me more a philosopher whose short stories are filled with philosophical explanations of what he observes. Difference between Tagore’s short stories and Banaphul’s are same with that between ballad and haiku. Banaphul does not comment – he only observes, and he observes human beings – colourful characters not always bright and cheerful but sometimes dark and ugly. And the multifarious human spirits are drawn on the same layer of the canvas – none with higher importance, none lesser and without any judgment of good bad and ugly from the part of the author. Banaphul’s human characters are so very human – they are honest and dishonest, kind and cruel, virtuous and sinner - none qualifies to be anything superior to a human. He does not have a spiritual attraction for life; neither is he devoted to any specific moral. Neither has he tried to be a descriptive realist, nor a loud satirist.

Another quality in Banaphul’s short stories that attracts me is prudence. You won’t find a single instance where the author uses a word pointlessly. And a few lines composed with few reasonable words draws a complete picture! Bengali readers are fortunate ‘cause whenever we try to translate the fun with words specific to particular language is lost.

Anyway, that is paradox in literary translator’s job – doing something that cannot be done – while it’s difficult to resist translating such wonderful works - only option to introduce speakers of other languages with the treasures captivated in one language.

Here is one instance... J

Unknowingly

I received my salary that day.

I thought of buying a bra for my wife on the way home. She was asking for one since long.

It was dark by the time I found the right one after searching in a few stores. On top of that, rain started pouring in as I was coming out of the store buying the undergarment. What else could I do but waiting? After the downpour reduced a little, I started walking with my umbrella open, hence carrying the packet under my arm. I crossed the main road with ease, but after that I had to take the route through the narrow lane which was dark.

I lost myself in my thought as I entered the narrow lane – “how happy she will be getting the bra after long. Today I will –“

Suddenly I stumbled over someone. That person fell; I too fell down. My gift for her went badly soiled.

I stood and noticed that the man could not still get up. He was trying to stand. I was burning with rage – kicked him as hard as I could.

“You bastard! Can’t see the road? ”

He fell down again as I continued hitting him; but did not reply. His silence made me mad. I went on beating him harder.

My yelling was loud enough to get a door of a nearby house opened. A man came out with a lantern in hand and asked, “What happened?”

“See it yourself! This rascal mudded up my expensive cloth like this! It’s completely wasted! Such a scoundrel  - can't even walk properly – crashed on me like anything!”

“Who is that? – Oh! Please forgive him Sir, don’t beat anymore. That wretched fellow is blind and speech-impaired – a beggar, stays in this lane.”

I looked at the beggar. He was still shivering with the shock of being violently thrashed. His entire body was stained with mud. The poor man was standing before me with folded hands. His blind eyes were gazing at me.

Death of a reader

Banaphul (Balaichand Mukhopadhyay) was the King of Bengali short stories - according to me. Translation of one of his stories.

Almost ten years back.

I was waiting for train at Asansol station. Another person was sitting beside me. He had a book in his hand. It was a thick novel. After we started talking to each other, I came to know that he had to wait the whole day for his train.

My train was supposed to arrive in three hours.

Both of us were Bengali.

Hence, within five minutes we started chatting, I asked him, “May I see the book once?”

“Oh yes, why not?” - I received the answer as I expected.

I possessed the book immediately as he handed it over.

It was an intolerable afternoon of the scorching summer.

We were sitting under the tin roof of Asansol station.

Nothing could bother any longer.

It was a wonderful novel.

The owner of the book looked at me once with the corner of his eyes. A line appeared between his eyebrows for a moment.  He took out a time table then and concentrated in that.

I continued reading breathlessly.

Excellent book!

In fact, I did not read such an appealing novel before.

The lines were almost whipping me.

 

Two hours passed.

The owner of the book browsed through the time table several times in the meantime. Finally he looked at me and told, “I think it is almost time for your train – so...” he cleared his throat once.

I was immersed in the book.

Once I took a quick look at my watch. It was still one hour left for my train. The book was left over a half. I did not want to waste time by talking. Again I concentrated in the book. I was devouring it.

Wonderful book!

That one hour almost flew away.

The bell for my train rang.

The large part book was still left.

I became aggressive.

I told, “I will go by next train – not going to leave before finishing this book.”

The owner of the book coughed once and went silent after this.

The train left – I continued reading.

But I could not finish it – a few pages of at the end of the book were torn.

I told the owner of the book, “Oh – so many pages of the book are torn! What a shame! You could tell me before!”

The man only gazed at me in response. I noticed the veins on his forehead bulging.

I found the book once again after ten years.

It was the in-law’s place of my niece. I accompanied her to her home and was supposed to come back that day only. But my attraction for the book made me stay back.

I picked up the book and started reading once again. I decided to start anew instead of reading arbitrarily from the end.

I felt bizarre after a few pages.

I turned the cover – was it the same book? – It was the same!

Again I started – But another few pages of reading brought me the same feeling –something seemed wrong!

Still I continued.

After some time I realized my inability to carry on reading anymore.

Was it the same book which I was reading breathlessly in the scorching summer afternoon in Asansol station?

How could an author write such rubbish!

It was not at all possible to finish it!

I could not even realise when the curious reader of ten years back had died.

I could not finish the book this time as well.

Vidyapati

Translation of few lines from the 14th century Indian poet (from Mithila)

Dear friend! I could not see her well -

Like thunderbolt passing through cloud, wrapped in veil.

Half her body covered by loose end of her clothing;

Half her face was smiling; her eyes half-sparkling.

Her presence made cupid love struck -

The fair lady moves like a golden vibe of luck.

O God, her beauty trapped me obsessed -

Her pearl-teeth those sensuous lips braced.

Vidyapati laments over his pain in despair,

While eyes cannot satisfy his heart’s desire.

-          Vidyapati

Poem - not a concubine

At times, when head is clogged with too many thoughts, poem seems to be last resort.
At times, even she dissents:

Poem - not a concubine

I have to make a poem my concubine

Dragging her by force –

If she doesn’t come on her own.

I prepare my pen and paper -

My weapons – inks red and black

Colour my lips and eyes.

Baby dawn arrives out of the blue,

Throws its ink-pots

On my paper discoloured;

Tells me: Poem is not a concubine.

With you

How about a pinch of romanticism instead of continuous cash-hunting? :)

I built this home for you.

Drawn your pictures on all my walls,

Decorated my courtyard with plants,

Those make me remember your face.

I sought for you so long -

In the roads of crowded cities,

In the forests and sea-beaches,

In the fields and factories,

Those covered my sky endless.

.

I stood in long queues under scorching sun -

To have a glimpse of yours.

I waited in the middle of profound darkness -

To hear you voice once.

I spend long hours in the twilight zone -  

To tell you my soliloquy.

At the end of my myriad moments

Of searching, listening and uttering monologues -  

I am staying with you here;

In the home that I built for you;

That I filled with your presence,

Wrapped forever in your fragrance.

Love doesn’t last forever

“Love” is a word that creates a feeling of pleasure leading to bliss; well, in most of us, except some chicken-hearted stingy ones. We spend considerable amount of time in search of at least one Love in life. We feel blessed finding a Love; some even do struggle throughout life to find “perfect” Love. Love makes us forget all pain in life forever.

Wait! Did your Love really help you forget your pains? E.g. when you had a bad headache or did not find a single tea-stall during a five kilometre hilly road you decided to walk? Probably it did when you found your first Ladylove in a coffee shop close to your college or discovered your first musical instrument delivered at your home.

Is the Love you found yesterday seems so pleasant even today? I think I am anticipating wrong, it is still the same. But does your Love you found last year still brings the same ecstasy this year? Well, if it’s the drug “ecstasy”, then I am sure the Love is same or probably bringing you more bliss than that it was bringing last year. But otherwise, there is something special with Love. The emotion defined by the word Love is variable. It is associated to a feeling of pleasure experienced by our body and brain. And with the same object remain unchanged, the experience of bliss does not remain the same perpetually.   

Research tells that be the object of Love a human being or a lucrative job opportunity or a musical instrument, it does not give us the same pleasurable feeling once obtained. Once one object is achieved, we need another. Once one job is secured, we look forward to promotion. If the job does not offer us expected hike at the end of the year, it is time for another change. Otherwise life is boring – at times intolerable. In case of object of love being books or musical instruments or fine arts, we do not feel that boredom because the vast area of knowledge offered by books or never ending scope of experimentation associated with fine arts. These bring infinite options of pleasure. But in other cases, we need never-ending options to please ourselves, not a single Love, where Maslow’s law of hierarchy proves itself to be safely applicable. According to Maslow, pleasure comes from fulfilment of needs – different at different stages of human psychological development. Love is nothing but a particular stage associated to need for belongings, attachment, intimacy etc. So pleasure is associated to many other Needs, not only Love.

Maslow's hierarchy of needs, represented as a pyramid with the more basic needs at the bottom - Wiki

Question is, what’s next after self actualization is achieved? Does a person who attains ‘self-actualization” stops looking for options or supposed to stop looking for options. Is a person at the top of the pyramid, whose full potential is explored, in a state enjoying perpetual ‘bliss’?  There lies the problem. No bliss is bliss forever. Even if one person had explored own potential and completely aware of own limitations, urge for crossing the hurdle of that limitation drives him\her forever. In other words, self-actualization is not permanent.

Does Maslow accept this?  No, he adds another stage on the top of the pyramid after a few years. After one attains ‘self-actualization, that is all his\her ‘worldly’ needs are fulfilled, human being develops a ‘higher goal’, that is spirituality. Sounds convincing? To most of the Indians, yes. Indian religions like Buddhism and Jainism defines ‘Spiritualism’ as the only goal of life, while in general Vedic philosophy determines attaining Spiritualism as final goal of life. Spirituality brings eternal bliss after which people do not ask for more. And here lies the scope of conflict.

Philosophy established in Bhagavadgita (propagated by Bhagavat school of philosophy?) as well as some other schools find ‘pleasure’ itself the source of pain - that is the obstacle on the way to attain eternal bliss or spirituality. It is pleasure that encourages humans to go though the same painful process of attaining pleasure again and again. Attaining bliss is not the step by step route to self actualization. So avoiding pleasure is good option to avoid pain. In other words one can forget pain if he\she stops seeking pleasure. Hence, one should strive to become a no-seeker or convert into a non-seeker to attain eternal bliss. Once eternal bliss is achieved, one would not have a chance to reborn and fall in the cycle of pain and pleasure. Thus secret of ‘eternal bliss for all’ lies in non-existence.

Conclusion - everyone in the universe would reach the state of eternal bliss once the universe becomes non-existent – sounds convincing? I don’t know whether Maslow’s followers would agree J

Feast for tomorrow

Flies flying around agaitate me.

My strong voice announces, “I will die tomorrow; not today”

Enraged I rush to the window for some fresh air.

Only to find crows, and hawks, and vultures waiting quietly

In a line for a piece of my flesh.

I do not want to disappoint any. Hence I keep on announcing,

“I will die tomorrow, not today”

All will have a share of my sweat and blood, flesh and bones

After my death tomorrow, not today.

The tree named Trust

During difficult times - it is difficult to concentrate in writing and editing at time -  few lines in the form of rhymes seem easier to note down. And that's how the lines in the following comes up:

Let us write a few lines of optimism.

Let us forget those conflicts and treason -

The day on which we cried all alone;

The day one tree named trust fell down.

Even the flora and fauna on the earth –

Need the shade of the tree called trust.

Let us search on the ground now -

If any of its seeds available to sow

May be the tree will grow again -

Fertilised by our toil and pain. 

Visual Art – mystery that mesmerises

Recently I was trying to understand European idea of modernism in painting. And the process went on as it happens .While reading a book having nice illustrations, I get attracted by the illustration beside the text – gaze at it for several minutes – and by the time I come out of my bewitched state, I realize I forgot what I read! That way I could not proceed much with theories describing modernism. But today I discovered an article on the role of visual art in creating subjective truth without illustration. Obviously, I did not have any trouble reading it. And  then, as I incidentally started chatting with one of my old colleagues, I realised how deceptive visual art can be.

Visual art is about vision – the object reveals itself only to the person who views or intends to view it. In other words, try to get some meaning out of it. And there lies the scope of deception. The visual improvised may hold something other than that we assume.

What we look though a camera, camera works as our eyes – and probably eyes see what we want to see. The director of a movie makes his\her actor act the way he\she wants to see them. When I watch the movie, my eyes try to catch nuances those mean the most to me. It may be the same as the director wanted to show. But how am I so sure that only one meaning is attached to that sequence - that shot – that face or gesture?

My colleague told me he remembers how a cosy relationship I had with another lady once. Even after ten years he remembers visuals of my talking to her – sitting on one corner of the office. I know the assumptions - which I never wanted to break – I had my own reasons. Even this time, I could not tell the simple boy, now probably a project manager or something with an MNC, that I actually had a strenuous relationship with the lady who they thought I was in love with. We never had same character or taste; the lady was probably given the responsibility of mentoring me after some other mgmt people failed – and I listened to her attentively while gazing straight to her, always trying to decipher what she meant by her words and tried to understand the cultural aspect that had made her so different from me. A good example of romantic visual creation I believe! And that worked! 

Le roi from Le petit prince

I remember ‘Thinker’ (or Poet?)  - work of Rodin. The man thinks – but what does he think? Forget about the title and then try to imagine. Is he a poet trying to find out lines with his chin resting on his hand? Is he mournful? Or just lost in some deep thought? Probably he is looking for an answer to the question – how to drive ten kilometres next morning in fog? You find your own meaning which may not match with anyone else’s. Remember le roi in the petit prince – did Saint-Exupéry want to show the commanding attitude of the roi or the helplessness? – a grotesque man or poor one waiting for a subject?  Who knows? Same I experienced with an illustration by Devdutt Pattanaik – a king sits with his head bowed, while his eyes are open. Gesture says he is not in a jolly mood. The article written by the author explains the situation but without the article, the viewer is free to decipher own meaning out of it!

I remember my first experience of seeing Gammateshwara Bahubali  - the famous Jain monk in Sravanbelgola. I could not stop myself from expressing –“SOooo, this is the largest male figure in India?” - While I was wondering how they have curved such a colossus so perfectly and following which method one thousand years back. But the next moment I realised that I made my colleague beside me scared – “Tum maroaoge yaar! This is a pilgrimage – this is God – not a male figure….”Same colleague later accepted my appreciations for some other men and women curved in other temples. But by that time she was habituated to tolerate my blasphemous statements.

People’s face as well as gestures are intriguing at times – not all, but some of them – be they are on the other side of camera’s lens, or on a piece of paper or curved on walls. Not because we are able to read them very well, probably because we are not able to read them well. Mystery is mesmerising. Mystery in a visual mesmerises us that in turn leads us to form our subjective truth. . An explanation by a pundit, which wipes the mystery off the persona \ image is therefore, less stimulating.