The titles kept piling up, whining for some more follow up words, phrases and sentences. I went to being what I like being at times of turmoil, a reader. Even if my huge bag was already full with notebooks, loose papers, make-up, hair accessories, food and water, I will carry a book, struggle with my saree and remain glued to the words of the author of my current possession. And I read on.
The ladies getting on board, give me looks, as pushing me sideways, trying to move me, trying to get a reaction out of me, as they are, reacting to the frenzied daily commute. There is never enough seat, never enough space, and somehow, there's always too many people, even men, on the ladies compartment. I irritate them I realise, as I refuse to budge from reading, from engaging in an argument with the lady who just hopped on and is struggling for the same place as I.
I step aside or I don't, depending on how moody I am in the moment or how much I love the author's style and amidst those unwelcome glares, I return to my affair, to the world I'm invited to for a 1000 pages. Shantaram is my muse today and he's describing Bombay. How I love the language, how I wonder, how can people write such stuff, so accurate, so articulate. There's a word for every feeling, and there's an exact word referring to a situation, a word for one entity and the author's ability to use the particular word which is apt, overwhelmes me.
For the first time, I am moved, not by what he is saying, but by the way he is saying it. How can someone mould the language so beautifully, so beautifully, almost yielding it, almost as if inventing it anew. And I went back to the first page, describing the author, who had himself, gone through the events mentioned in the book. His own experiences crafted into a thrilling and profound story, I hear, and I'm thinking, how will someone ever write something who was at peace with themselves at every moment of their lives!
How will someone create beautiful literature if they didn't at their end suffer in the name of disparity in life and the power of the invisible hand. How will poems ever be written unless conflicted within the most distorted emotions. How will rock-stars ever be born, if not at the altar of a broken heart? How will there be art? If there was no pain, no hurt, no conflict.
After all art is emotion, an emotion in form, an emotion escaped on a canvas or a song, or a scream. After all, art is somebody's pain and someone else's rythm. Someone's suffering penned down in an autobiography and someone else's companion on the long boring bus-ride. Somebody's escape from the mundane life, and some director's "into the wild".
After all art is a confession, a submission, a sigh, an invention of the human conflict.
The ladies getting on board, give me looks, as pushing me sideways, trying to move me, trying to get a reaction out of me, as they are, reacting to the frenzied daily commute. There is never enough seat, never enough space, and somehow, there's always too many people, even men, on the ladies compartment. I irritate them I realise, as I refuse to budge from reading, from engaging in an argument with the lady who just hopped on and is struggling for the same place as I.
I step aside or I don't, depending on how moody I am in the moment or how much I love the author's style and amidst those unwelcome glares, I return to my affair, to the world I'm invited to for a 1000 pages. Shantaram is my muse today and he's describing Bombay. How I love the language, how I wonder, how can people write such stuff, so accurate, so articulate. There's a word for every feeling, and there's an exact word referring to a situation, a word for one entity and the author's ability to use the particular word which is apt, overwhelmes me.
For the first time, I am moved, not by what he is saying, but by the way he is saying it. How can someone mould the language so beautifully, so beautifully, almost yielding it, almost as if inventing it anew. And I went back to the first page, describing the author, who had himself, gone through the events mentioned in the book. His own experiences crafted into a thrilling and profound story, I hear, and I'm thinking, how will someone ever write something who was at peace with themselves at every moment of their lives!
How will someone create beautiful literature if they didn't at their end suffer in the name of disparity in life and the power of the invisible hand. How will poems ever be written unless conflicted within the most distorted emotions. How will rock-stars ever be born, if not at the altar of a broken heart? How will there be art? If there was no pain, no hurt, no conflict.
After all art is emotion, an emotion in form, an emotion escaped on a canvas or a song, or a scream. After all, art is somebody's pain and someone else's rythm. Someone's suffering penned down in an autobiography and someone else's companion on the long boring bus-ride. Somebody's escape from the mundane life, and some director's "into the wild".
After all art is a confession, a submission, a sigh, an invention of the human conflict.
The thing is that an individual is forced to express herself only in the face of conflict. Sometimes the conflict is what gives rise to the expression. Sometimes the conflict comes from so deep within that expressions yields as easily as ripples on the surface. Sometimes conflict tears the surface apart but expression is only heard in the silence that guards the bottom
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