Sometimes there is so much to say. Then, come times when 'nothing' becomes the most familiar word. I have said nothing for a while.
Words, characters, situations, plots and scenarios. They all make a story but, for me, colors, smells, sights, taste they are the real deal. Without a trigger there is no creation.
Art has a world of its own. It is very pure and very simple. At times so simple that no one gets it but the artist.
When a story begins, I do not usually know where it will go but, it finds its way somehow to an end. It finds its protagonists, its situations, sights, its cause and also the effect. In other words, it is a whole world, an universe in itself. It usually begins with a big bang, goes through upheavals, re-writes its twists and leaves a trail of history before growing frail and old and returns to the black hole leaving space for another.
It is the same with life. In each of our lives' stories, we are the protagonists. I am the principal character of my life and therefore everything that I go through, all my losses, my victories, my loves, my indifferences, my likes and dislikes, they all make my story. Most of the people I talk to do not understand that. Dreamers are often thought gullible and sometimes, also as those in need of a shrink.
Most think that dreams and aspirations are the same. These are the practical ones. When it comes to dreams of people like me change very little from childhood in terms of content. My first coherent one was to be an astronaut.
I still dream impossible dreams.
Being an astronaut in pre-open market India was a pipe dream. There was no way for it to be a possibility. Eventually, I got over Neil Armstrong and moved to dreams more suited to my kind of psyche barring the one in college when I wanted to be a bus driver of the city's public transport system. But, illusions are my forte. They are also my best defense mechanism. When I get bored of one, I create another.
My mother was perhaps the first one to notice that I lived in a bubble. Inside the bubble everything was perfect though chaotic. There was method in the madness in there but, outside the bubble was scary.
Life outside the bubble is still an overdose of light and noise. Blinding and deafening. People call it reality. I call it hell.
Those who seek perfection through art and see beauty in asymmetry are often scoffed at as dreamers. They are not considered ambitious and often unfit for society. Yet, I wonder when I see thousands trying to adjust everyday by hiding their shapeless technicolor dreams inside the veneer of planes and angles I feel sad.
Their dreams are choking them from inside and life is only a few years.
Why are artists, poets, singers and dancers not given their due unless backed by a shrewd business manager? Why is the term impractical hurled at them to keep them in place? And worse, if they are able to break the glass ceiling, then why is it expected that the spotlight is good enough a compensation for them? Why is money earned the criteria for judging success? Why was the architect who built Taj Mahal maimed once the project finished?
Strolling through the National Museum in Delhi, I always spend time in the rooms displaying objects from the Indus Valley civilization. There are statues, miniature potteries, toys and beautiful hand-crafted accessories. These to me are symbolic because they have survived and outlived the practical.
I often go back to ancient books and find their philosophy and symbolism relevant.
I love the breathtaking works by Van Gogh who never sold a piece but, is priceless in today's market.
There are many I know aspiring to be actors or singers. They are able to hang on only because they have a day job and I think, "why?"
The answer lies in the balance inside the bubble and the chaos outside.
