Religious Manipulation

The 2011 Census lays down Hindu - Muslim ratio as approximately 6:1 in India. So, does it give us the licence to manipulate ''Hinduism'' to feed our religious egos and make them seem larger than life? In the backdrop of an eclectic mix of cultural practices and traditional beliefs with no single founder, Hinduism better deserves to be imbibed as an 'eternal way of life' than practised as some sort of a religion as and when required.

What makes me yield my pen today is the fact that having been a proud DAVian and the daughter of a strict disciplinarian, refuting idol worship has been 'my way of life'. The scenario outside is different and utterly chaotic. No prizes for guessing, I still consider idol worship a total wastage of time and money. Not just because as far as celebrations are concerned, life has got better moments to offer... but because despite your foolish attempts, your Krishna, Ganesh or Durga can never be made to stay inside the confines of an idol of clay and watch all the askew script being played out in front - out of mere ignorance.

I still fail to understand the objective behind all this nonsense. Save your parents' money and help them with their retirement plans. You want to do good? Wait for your first salary and fund a child's education. But please, for your beloved Krishna's sake, do not applaud and whistle at Paresh Rawal when he's delivering the goods during 'Oh My God' and then indulge in a similar dirty affair afterwards! Do not claim yourself to be a Hindu if you haven't got some sense to distinguish between rightdoings and wrongdoings. You let M. F. Hussain surrender his Indian nationality because your Sarasawati draped in white is bigger than 'Art' - what Sarasawati actually epitomises. And what about those potters who make your idols and leave them to dry - all nude - under the sun along the roadside?

If you do believe in the existence of some Almighty... someone who transcends the walls of a temple and the fence of a puja pandal, I'm sure that spirit is chanting : ''Seek for truth, you'll find me. Peek for lies, you'll blind me.''

IMPRISONED

''What is this life if full of care, we have no time to stand and stare...''

I am staring into the vast, limitless blue expanse stretched above me as I leave my humble, little 'masterpiece' to dry and get ready. Ironic in some ways. And symbolic of how art can effortlessly transduce your survival into existence and elevate it to the state of 'feeling alive'.

Art is an indulgence. Art is liberating ; in a way only an assemblage of colours can be. Art is the place where all the imperfections of the universe metamorphose into an 'indestructible' uniqueness. That's the undying essence of art. It is unmodulated. It is raw. Yet, it is a glowing fountain of inspiration because it teaches you to pursue, not to possess. When you pursue, the thought of making mistakes never overwhelms you because the higher awareness makes you a part of the process called 'improvisation'.

Last evening, it was a heart-warming affair to see a flock of eight-year olds enthusiastically taking part in a drawing competition. There was passion. There was freedom. And there was fearlessness. They were unaware of the fact that in the stark wilderness of real life, art is equated with money. People bid for it. People pay for it. And for some inexplicable reasons, in most of the households, art is tied down and imprisoned in attic rooms and under the mattresses, only to be eaten away by the mites in due course of time.
All this because art is overpowering. It challenges. It questions. It answers. It conveys the imperceptible and the unfathomable. Unfortunately, the insecurities dwelling in our minds are enormous. The question that lingers on is - Where is LIBERATION?

THE 'P' FACTOR

Writing is a 'life line'. For some, it is a kind of drug. It's narcotic. And there are always some withdrawal symptoms if your pen becomes silent all of a sudden. It is painful for a writer to realise that her armoury might be at the risk of exhaustion.

I never knew how inextricably this PAIN lay tangled up with PEACE until I decided to refill my pen with the monsoon ink in the middle of the night.

Yes, writing is eagerness. Writing is passion. Writing is imagery. Writing is poetry. Writing is impatience. Writing is an urge. Writing is rage. Writing is fire. Writing is desire. Writing makes sure your ECG doesn't end up becoming a straight line so soon because if you can't hear your heartbeat aloud, then you're probably not living enough. But life is a juxtaposition of opposites. And if there's pain in shunning your desires, there's PEACE in 'not writing'. An unparalleled kind of peace. As if your entire universe stands silent in meditation. No turbulence in the stream... no ripples in the ocean... no ruffling of leaves... no crackling of thunder... This new-found tranquillity revealed itself to me like a blessing in disguise. Not because I had become any less of a writer. But because it dawned upon me that writing doesn't always do justice to life's little details. Some things are better left unexpressed... some words better left unsaid. There are some moments dyed in 'indigo' colour - that is invisible to the naked eye. And those moments need not be seen through a glass filter. 'Need not.' 'And should not.' It's an irony of sorts : While a soul seeks SOLACE in writing... it discovers PEACE in 'not writing'. A very subtle difference between the two! An interplay of oxymoronic schemes of life.

Interestingly enough, I ended up 'writing' because 'what can't be cured, has got to be endured!'