Expression Kills

I am not unknown for my conformity issues. This might seem like a desperate attempt to find another 'Road Less Travelled' and a contrived challenge to the accepted norms, but do try to look beyond finding fault in the writer and focus on the subject matter howsoever hard it may seem. Maybe it will open an eye you have shut wide thus far.

The 'accepted norm' in this case is the unflattering, uninhibited and to a large extent unconcealed attraction of the crowds, audience rather, towards the lead singer in a band. I have always felt for the drummer who sat behind his assortment or the synth player lurking deep in shadows for the entire duration of the performance stepping out for a sip of water in between songs or to take a collective bow at the end of the end of the show. All this while the lead singer and the guitarists take their numerous bows, yelling their countless 'Thank you-s'. Even the bass guitarist has his moments during the course of the night - what with the archetypal demeanor and hairstyle (what's with these guys? They seem like a common breed these days... certainly un-human-like!)

I have often thought that it is possible that guitar is a more charismatic instrument compared to its bretheren, but I have also since long discarded the idea. It can't be. Even if it is, it is certainly no deal clincher the way it is made out to be on nights like the ones in discussion.

I have also been, ever since I have found myself to be one, an ardent supporter of the underdog. I did check whether it was a manifestation of that same sentiment that was at play when I felt for the less acknowledged and less loved members of the band. I have no better explanation than - my gut tells me it's not that. I needed then to figure out what was it.

I went to a concert last night and attempted once more to get to the root of the dynamics of the elements at play during a performance, and yes, to try and have a good time too. As the night progressed, and yes, as I got more and more inebriated, I had a sudden clarity. It was expression, as the expression I hope would go, that kills.

There are those of us who are used to being the centre of attention and they love being there. For lack of a better way to put it, I feel they are maxed out. They are too exposed and reveal so much about them as they go along it is conceivable that there will be little in them that is not known by everyone. They'll make their every thought, every action and every emotion very public. They have nothing in them left to themselves and they can't cherish anything without sharing. All the elements that make a human being, for these people, are out in the public domain, open for scrutiny and judgment. They are yelling their lungs out and jumping around the jacks, like jacks for attention. For love.

Ignore the condescending tone, I really appreciate that hunger. The joy of getting that much by just being your natural self and uninhibited expression might actually be something tangible. But you have to embrace the downside of exposing your soul.

The band I had went to see perform had a sax player, who doubled up as a violinist and tripled up as a recorder player. The serenity and peace on his face, the inability to perform any antics lent him a glow that shone him more brightly than the movers and shakers of the band. At least to me he seemed to be wielding an aura of mystery that worked like magic. The enigma of his persona filled the room.

His music was soulful and I found myself waiting in eager anticipation of his solos. The music from his multiple instruments were pregnant with a charm that was characteristic of him. At the end of one of his solos, he opened his eyes only to wink at one of the girls standing in the front row, tuned into his music with rapt attention. That was the most dramatic act he dared that evening. I wouldn't be surprised if the girl was his girlfriend or wife.

To me, hence, simplicity and the quiet fashion in which people go about their work holds a charm irresistible.

As they say - Expression Kills.

It was raining very hard and he had no protection against the wrath ofnature. He was walking, drenched to his bones, on the crowded street of Daddar, lost in the in huge mass of people carrying their black umbrellas. Seems like millions of ants teeming in the rain, he thought. He closed his eyes and transported himself to the 20th floor of the building he was walking next to.

He opened his eyes and found himself removed from the street, in the balcony on the 20th floor. This is not happening, he said out loud, revealing his panic to himself. What the hell just happened? he yelled, sweating in spite of the rain.

He shut his eyes again as hard as he could. He was back on the street, when he opened them.

He found himself walking, as he was moments ago. Wow, that was a weird vision, he said to himself shaking his head atop his shaking body.

He wondered, without stopping, if he was sweating in spite of the rain all along. Weird, he thought and began theorizing whether it is possible or not, choosing the thoughts that he was more comfortable with.

pain

I have often thought and said that pain helps the spark of creativity in us and helps us cross the threshold that otherwise restricts us. I saw Rockstar yesterday and the question rose again. Is pain the only way to produce your best work, creativity wise?
I think it has to do with intense emotions. Any intense emotion, if channeled, can help a creator come up with an inspired creation. If we accept this hypothesis, then the next question comes - why are all our best works a product of a period of suffering?
There can be two reasons for that. I have personally felt that both of them go hand in hand.
First: Pain is the easiest emotion to channel. Compare it witb joy, excitement, success, love... all intense but happy emotions. These emotions have becone occassions to celebrate. And with the passage of time, we have learnt to take them in our stride. Shelf them. And aspire for more. There is no contentment with achievement of these emotions. Rather, they serve as a push to gun for more. Why stop now, when i can go another mile?
Pain stops us on our feet. Forces us to think and change the course that we have been moving along on merrily thus far. It is often this stimulus that guides the work of creativity. It becomes easy to give up all the other things that might be going on and focus on just one thing that really matters. Which is the creation of a creator. This singlemindedness propels the work of art to a personal genius. It comes from the deepest part in us, comes from our soul.
Second: when nothing else matters, the sense of fear on being judged for the work goes away. The creator stops caring for the opinions of the world. This goes hand in hand with the first point to help create the singlemindedness of utmost devotion to the work at hand.

The work, thus created, is undoubtedly the best you'll ever do. And a creator longs for pain. Masochism, is a common trait in all creative people... for the love of art, they'll suffer. Because that is the most important thing in theit lives.

I am sure my thoughts on this are not exhaustive. I welcome any comments or suggestions on this. Would like to understand it better myself.

Love's Labor Costs - Part 2

Bella searched and searched and searched for her Kaspy. From the screeching, rushing docks to the quiet graveyards. But, Kaspy eluded her. No hint....no clue... no trace. She was spiraling deeper and deeper into mind numbing despair, as she searched for her life, her love. Every corner, every street, every lane turned up nothing. Here, there, everywhere - no answers, no reasons, no sense to the tragedy that had silently and abruptly crashed into her life and brought it to a complete halt. She would not, could not, pay attention to the pleas of their family, who she and Kaspy had loved immensely.

As she scoured the streets of the city, something else began to dawn upon her. In all her quests to find Kaspy, one thread seemed to run through. The old and haggard lady was always around. Sometimes far, sometimes near, sometimes just a glimpse. But it was not the old lady herself who intrigued Bella. She realised that in her wake, the old woman would always leave sorrow. People pining with grief, people with tears, people with hollow, empty eyes. People who seemed to be feeling exactly what Bella herself had been feeling. "The old hag is to blame then", thought Bella, eager to grasp at the first semblance of reason offered to her. And Bella began to hate the old lady. With her heart, with her being, with all the despair turned to anger. Where there had been a levity and lightness in her life, now it was a cesspool of darkness, anger, morbidity. She hated the woman but realized that the only way she could triumph over the blow that the old woman had dealt her was, ironically,to meet with her, one final time. She made the arrangements. Laid down the pills and the chocolate milk (Kaspy's favourite drink). She looked around her house one last time, swallowed the mouthful of pills and lay down, closing her eyes.


She woke with a start. The four walls of her house still surrounded her. But they seemed a bit different. There were voices coming from the garden. That couldn't be possible. She had made sure to break off all contact from her family quite some time ago. She got up and moved to the window to take a look. And there they were.

Bella and Kaspy. In happier times. In together times. Laughing, teasing, with love in their eyes for each other. Like a shared secret. Then, suddenly, the mood changed. Kaspy grew sombre and thoughtful. He took Bella's hand in his. "Bella, what I am saying might seem frivolous and untimely, but I do hope you will recollect it when the need arises. There will come a time when we are going to lose the solace of each other's company forever. Without any logic or reason. One of us is going to leave the other one. And it might bring in its wake, grief, anger, darkness. I want us to remember, then. Remember the times we had, the machinations of fate and effort that made those times possible. And feel blessed. Revel in the light and not fall prey to the gloomy darkness that would be beckoning. Let the legacy of our love be happiness and light."

As she looked out of the window at the younger Bella and Kaspy, Bella couldn't help the tears that escaped her eyes. She surrendered to the emotion rising up like a wave inside her, and sobbed and sobbed. Through her tears, through the ouflow of her grief, she remembered, at last. She remembered her time with Kaspy, the love they had shared. Their fights, their grief, and also their happiness. As the wave of grief ebbed, she was left with an empty feeling. But this wasn't the same dark cavern that had existed inside her. It was as if the wave had washed away all of the darkness and heaviness inside of her. And she was free, to live again, to love her family again. She turned away from the window, and to her surprise the old lady stood at the entrance of the room. She shuffled slowly towards Bella and led her by the hand. The old lady's eyes were calm and wise and they seemed strangely soothing to Bella as she lay down to sleep again. Except this time the dream that she had was very chaotic. Lots of people hurrying around, voices shouting, her daughter's among them. Sirens wailing, someone shaking her. Silence descended on her again.

Bella woke to a hospital room and her family. And to a life that seemed worth living some more. She had realized how blessed she and Kaspy had been to have so much love in their lives and she resolved to leave the same legacy to her family as well. After all, love does make the world go round.

Bella did meet the old lady again. One last time. It was the old lady who took Bella by her hand and led her into the waiting arms of Kaspy.

Love's Labor Costs

Bella had no idea what time meant. She had never known how old she was or what date, month or year it was. It seemed odd to those who knew her. It was not that she was lost. She wasn’t lost at all. Just that she had come to a conclusion that time is immaterial. It never bothered her to know, and she quickly forgot when was it exactly that she was.
What people found queer, Bella felt was her way of life. She did not mind people telling her over and over again that she should keep a track of time. People seemed to believe that there was no way one can survive without knowing what time it was. Once the more famous forms of tortures, they said, discovered by men was isolating the candidate and putting him in a room with no windows. Men went crazy without knowing the date or even if its day or night.
The calm and composure of Bella, even as she had no track of time perturbed the people who knew her. Ironically, a lot of them went crazy attempting to ‘fix’ her. Her composure also lent her an air of mystery and no one could comprehend her agnosticism towards knowledge of time.
There was only one old and haggard woman who knew why Bella was the way she was. Bella had come across her several times but she didn't remember that either. Who was this strange lady? She was always around, lurking in shady streets, shady corners of the city, hiding herself from people, who had loathed her forever now. They ignored her and wanted never to look at her and had shunned her to the ruins of the city where she roamed alone. No one to talk to, no one to share with. It had been ages since she had been there, forgotten by all. Generation after generation of men had let her be, and gradually her tale became a myth. She was lost forever. Well, maybe not forever.
It was October, 1965. Bella did not remember this date either. She had started losing track of time then. She had been happy once. Happier than she’d ever known anyone to be. She had loved Kaspy once with all her mind, heart and soul. He was the love of her life, all that she lived for. All that she thought of. She had made sacrifices that seemed to her the most natural thing to do. People were shocked at her decisions. “You are throwing away your whole life’s hard work”, they used to say. “My whole life’s hard work got me to Kaspy. He is the reward of everything I’ve done. Now I want to cherish it. Tell me what’s wrong with that.” She did. Till 2011. She was 70.
I am no one to judge whether the sacrifices were right or wrong. However, she did make a mistake. She should not have loved so much. The ingrate Kaspy just left one day. He was a human being after all. On his way home from the book store, he met the old hag. They had a brief word, and he left with her. Never coming home. Never telling Bella what had happened. He was gone.
He was gone. The void in her life, was much more than what Bella could take. She had no idea where Kaspy was and she was determined to find him. She walked the streets of the city in despair – yet determined to find Kaspy...

Love's labor costs...

Its time to begin another chapter, another story on this dead-for-a-month-and-a-half blog. I am answerable to the writer in me who thinks job is not a good enough reason for not writing anymore. I am anawerable to my sister who got me this android phone, perhaps only for this. I am answerable to my love, who has been searching for kasper for 4 months now.

My next story, which will be in 2 parts, will be posted here soon. I'll write the first and rigveda kadam will write the second. I am dedicating my half to her, and my sister. And of course to the quest of love in a romantic. Stay tuned for the first part.. coming up later tonight.

The Quest Of The Sparrows

Hi All,

My first book - The Quest of the Sparrows: Explore the Joy of Freedom - is out!!! It has been published by Rupa Publications.

About the book:
It is the story of a reluctant young engineer who is forced to become a guru due to his circumstances. He takes inspiration from the life of a sparrow which though being frail in nature, never hoards for the future and lives every day of its life joyously. In http://www.blogger.com/img/blank.gifcomplete contrast, human beings, despite being placed on top of the evolution ladder have flooded their lives with worries. In their anxiety http://www.blogger.com/img/blank.gifto secure their future, they have reduced their lives to mediocrity and given up their quest of evolving themselves. The result is that their lives are no more significant than that of a sparrow: an irony.

It is a fast paced, easy to read book of fiction in which the message is imbibed in the experiences of the characters in the story.

Here is the link to the wiki page of the book: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Quest_of_the_Sparrows
and my website: Kartik Sharma

Enjoy Reading. Happy Evolution.