There are time when you can feel absolutely and completely alone while being surrounded by a sea of people. Your face becomes an inscrutable and unyielding mask that puts on the prescribed emotion as if on cue. But inside....its another story. There's a storm brewing. All purple rage and grey gloom.
You let your thoughts wander. Arbitrarily they make tangential connects. I was thinking just this instant of what Truffaut said about Renoir's films - "they're as simple as saying hello." How beautiful....how eloquent. And the next thought that trundles through my head is about the two goats in the phtotograph I saw and how they seemed to be smiling at me. Decidedly odd....
Solitude always meant something good. Something very peaceful. Something you experience as sharply as a moment of clarity and yet, paradoxically, as languidly as watching the sky change hues at twilight. In such a state the inane and the obvious details become infinitely more absorbing than the most bizarre other-wordly occurrence. Flies on the wall acquire such mystique and charm and grace that one could entirely forget their otherwise annoying existence.
Such is happiness - which i believe to be a sensation that originates deep inside the belly - a warm fuzz-like creeping sensation - always sneaks up on you and yet always manages to baffle, surprise and exhilirate.
Wednesday, April 11, 2007
Saturday, April 07, 2007
Blogging : in retrospect
I just realised that my blog is now a year old and doesn't have much to show for it! I have also realised that I dont use my blog in nearly the same way as do most avid bloggers worldwide - the sort who have taken information-sharing and web-logging to new levels. For me it still functions in much the same way as a notebook or a journal except that it is accessible to those who wish to go through it. The whole idea for me was to keep writing. To remind myself what a joy it is to express oneself through the written word. And to reaffirm my faith in my own literary abilities however limited they may be.
There have been many points in my life where I have (unsuccessfully) tried to maintain a personal journal. The sort that you hide from anyone and everyone simply because the palpable fear of discovery and the somewhat perverse pleasure of knowing something no one else knows provides fuel to the keeper of secrets. My journals were mostly mundane records of the daily trials tribulations of living. Peppered occasionally with instances of heartache and trauma, most often played up in writing to the level of intense melodrama. So much so that even the most banal argument could seem like something out of a Greek tragedy.
When I look back on those pages written with such diligence and candour, I often find myself grinning at the words that had burst forth in an unusually distraught moment. It amuses me when I realise again and again how time erodes much of the walls we build around us. The girl who filled those pages with intense emotion sincerely believed at the time that her life had ended for sure. Or in another instance made it abundantly clear that at that moment she was the happiest she would ever be in all the days to come. Even as I laugh at the childish proclamations of love lost and arguments won, I recoginise similar emotions in myself today. They have changed in degree but not so much in the intensity.
I am aware though that in sharp contrast to the days of journals and sercret diaries, I am far more wary of my own feelings and how their open expression leaves me vulnerable and exposed. So as the old walls become worn and weather beaten, we build new walls. And so it goes....
There have been many points in my life where I have (unsuccessfully) tried to maintain a personal journal. The sort that you hide from anyone and everyone simply because the palpable fear of discovery and the somewhat perverse pleasure of knowing something no one else knows provides fuel to the keeper of secrets. My journals were mostly mundane records of the daily trials tribulations of living. Peppered occasionally with instances of heartache and trauma, most often played up in writing to the level of intense melodrama. So much so that even the most banal argument could seem like something out of a Greek tragedy.
When I look back on those pages written with such diligence and candour, I often find myself grinning at the words that had burst forth in an unusually distraught moment. It amuses me when I realise again and again how time erodes much of the walls we build around us. The girl who filled those pages with intense emotion sincerely believed at the time that her life had ended for sure. Or in another instance made it abundantly clear that at that moment she was the happiest she would ever be in all the days to come. Even as I laugh at the childish proclamations of love lost and arguments won, I recoginise similar emotions in myself today. They have changed in degree but not so much in the intensity.
I am aware though that in sharp contrast to the days of journals and sercret diaries, I am far more wary of my own feelings and how their open expression leaves me vulnerable and exposed. So as the old walls become worn and weather beaten, we build new walls. And so it goes....
Monday, February 26, 2007
The Academy will rest in peace
What a day! Scorsese gets a nod from the academy at last! I was reading my earlier post about The Departed and was in half a mind to take it off my blog. Not because the film won best picture along with Scorsese's long overdue accolade, but because having returned to the film after a good long break I realised some things. (Of course my all time favourites of the Italian-american's ouvre still remain Goodfellas and Taxi Driver. )This is for all those who may have some or the other misconception regarding my views on Martin Scorsese after reading the earlier post.
The Departed was perhaps the only film by the director to have garnered as much commercial success as crticial acclaim. And that for Scorsese, I believe would be a first. Scorsese said on being informed about his Oscar nomination for the 7th time, that although the recognition would be appreciated, one could never make films solely to win an Oscar. So much for my fear that he had sold out! What has impressed me most about Scorsese is his immense tenacity and creative stamina as an artist. The thirst for creative excellence and an uncompromising will towards nuanced storytelling has been his hallmark. 30 odd years since he made his feature film debut, the man is still going full throttle! With each project he seems to be aiming bigger and better.
Perhaps what chnaged my views to a certain degree was also that I got the chance to watch The Age of Innocence recently. What is essentially a story of unrequited love , in the hands of Scorsese became an elegy of a society stifled by its own hypocrisy and vanity. The astounding detail is made visible by the camera-eye - an eye that is discriminating but not disparaging. That is the genius of Martin Scorsese. A ceaseless exploration of subject matter through immaculate contsruction of the script and the mis-en-scene.
The range itself of his cinema is mind-boggling. Compare the ruthless and dark Taxi Driver to the eloquent Goodfellas. Or the opulent and decadent Casino to the brilliant insanity that was Aviator. Or the velvet veneer of The Age of Innocence to the enigma and pulse of The Departed. And you will know what I mean.
I mentioned the Movie Brats in my previous post. Imagine my surprise and bewilderment when three of them turned up on stage to present the award to their long-time friend, collaborator and colleague - Martin Scorsese. A fitting end I think. Marty said he was moved. I was in tears.
The Departed was perhaps the only film by the director to have garnered as much commercial success as crticial acclaim. And that for Scorsese, I believe would be a first. Scorsese said on being informed about his Oscar nomination for the 7th time, that although the recognition would be appreciated, one could never make films solely to win an Oscar. So much for my fear that he had sold out! What has impressed me most about Scorsese is his immense tenacity and creative stamina as an artist. The thirst for creative excellence and an uncompromising will towards nuanced storytelling has been his hallmark. 30 odd years since he made his feature film debut, the man is still going full throttle! With each project he seems to be aiming bigger and better.
Perhaps what chnaged my views to a certain degree was also that I got the chance to watch The Age of Innocence recently. What is essentially a story of unrequited love , in the hands of Scorsese became an elegy of a society stifled by its own hypocrisy and vanity. The astounding detail is made visible by the camera-eye - an eye that is discriminating but not disparaging. That is the genius of Martin Scorsese. A ceaseless exploration of subject matter through immaculate contsruction of the script and the mis-en-scene.
The range itself of his cinema is mind-boggling. Compare the ruthless and dark Taxi Driver to the eloquent Goodfellas. Or the opulent and decadent Casino to the brilliant insanity that was Aviator. Or the velvet veneer of The Age of Innocence to the enigma and pulse of The Departed. And you will know what I mean.
I mentioned the Movie Brats in my previous post. Imagine my surprise and bewilderment when three of them turned up on stage to present the award to their long-time friend, collaborator and colleague - Martin Scorsese. A fitting end I think. Marty said he was moved. I was in tears.
Saturday, February 17, 2007
Ways of seeing
A dear friend after reading my blog asked a pertinent question - is it so necessary to have an opinion on everything? I couldnt answer the question but it set me thinking. This urge to write down my thoughts or voice my opinion - is it merely cathartic and therefore selfish or does it have roots in something larger of which I am still unaware? Do writers ask themselves this question before they set out to coin a phrase or frame a sentence? Are opinions damaging or constructive or both? Is criticism in fact easier than going that extra mile to do that certain something which we feel so compelled to comment on but would not touch with a bargepole given the opportunity?
"In life one must do." I cant recall who said it, but it definitely sums up the basic thumb rule that until its been tried it hasnt been tested. I think it was Milton Glaser who said that we must diminish the difference between work and art. And to that end "work is art and art is work."
Isnt it enough to simply experience a great film, book, piece of music or a work of art? Is it the politics of our time that breeds such creative contempt or is it the system of knowledge we belong to? More importantly, are we, while stating with such confidence our carefully thought out opinions, as tolerant to more diverse points of view? Is qualification the only license to an opinion?
I write because I feel most confident expressing myself in this form. Words provide a platform from where images take off. Writing is for me, as of this moment a tool at best. Not as eloquent or free from prejudice as the instinctive brush of the seasoned artist, but more like the strange and daunting piece of charcoal in the clumsy hands of one who is learning to draw and thus learning to see. I too am learning to see - and my image is made or letters and words and phrases and inflexions. It is an untrained eye that knows not many ways of seeing - yet.
"In life one must do." I cant recall who said it, but it definitely sums up the basic thumb rule that until its been tried it hasnt been tested. I think it was Milton Glaser who said that we must diminish the difference between work and art. And to that end "work is art and art is work."
Isnt it enough to simply experience a great film, book, piece of music or a work of art? Is it the politics of our time that breeds such creative contempt or is it the system of knowledge we belong to? More importantly, are we, while stating with such confidence our carefully thought out opinions, as tolerant to more diverse points of view? Is qualification the only license to an opinion?
I write because I feel most confident expressing myself in this form. Words provide a platform from where images take off. Writing is for me, as of this moment a tool at best. Not as eloquent or free from prejudice as the instinctive brush of the seasoned artist, but more like the strange and daunting piece of charcoal in the clumsy hands of one who is learning to draw and thus learning to see. I too am learning to see - and my image is made or letters and words and phrases and inflexions. It is an untrained eye that knows not many ways of seeing - yet.
Friday, February 16, 2007
Hundred Years of Solitude....and then some more.
The last book I read was none other than Gabriel Garcia Marquez's magnum opus - One Hundred Years of Solitude. A book of epic proportions, it tested my imagination in unimaginable ways. In fact I had returned to the book a second time with gritty resolve since the unrelenting repetition of names like Jose Arcadio, Aureliano, Amaranta and Ursula had left me groping in the dark halfway through the book the first time I attempted to read it. But this time I kept pace with offspring after offspring, amazed at the uncanny fecundity of the fictitious Buendia clan. Time ran in loops and doubled up on itself as the miseries and fortunes of the various characters played out page after page with unceremonious candour. Each character lost love, found memory and eventually succumbed to a solitude that had an irrevocable finality.
The book is an ode to memory. Collective memory that in tireless remembrance of things past and a glorious time lost, erases its sinous connect with reality untill it is the stuff of legend. Truth obliterated by memory. Lives lived so much in retrospect that the present is forgotten and constantly committed to the past. No one in Macondo remembered the Banana Plantation massacre because the process of forgetting had begun even before the event had occurred.
One need not speak of Marquez's phenomenal prose for that would be nothing short of stating the obvious. But what must be mentioned is the sheer scale of imagination that the author has brought to the novel. The leaps in time, the collision of characters with history and the cyclical narrative is a feat never before achieved in the written form. This is one book I wish never to be made into a film, for as much as I believe in the possibility and potency of cinema, it is finite in a way that can never do justice to the images inspired by Marquez's infinite prose.
The book is an ode to memory. Collective memory that in tireless remembrance of things past and a glorious time lost, erases its sinous connect with reality untill it is the stuff of legend. Truth obliterated by memory. Lives lived so much in retrospect that the present is forgotten and constantly committed to the past. No one in Macondo remembered the Banana Plantation massacre because the process of forgetting had begun even before the event had occurred.
One need not speak of Marquez's phenomenal prose for that would be nothing short of stating the obvious. But what must be mentioned is the sheer scale of imagination that the author has brought to the novel. The leaps in time, the collision of characters with history and the cyclical narrative is a feat never before achieved in the written form. This is one book I wish never to be made into a film, for as much as I believe in the possibility and potency of cinema, it is finite in a way that can never do justice to the images inspired by Marquez's infinite prose.
Friday, February 09, 2007
"Marty Goes Undercover"
When I heard that Martin Scorsese had won the Directors' Guild of America Award for filmmaker of the year(post-super successful film "The Departed"), the inevitable smile crept up and was glued there for about the whole day. The talk of the town is that Marty is now more than ever in the running for the Best Director accolade doled out by none other than the Academy. This is more fact than fiction at the moment given that in the parallel history of the Guild and the Academy very rarely has the winner of the Guild Award lost out on the Oscar for the same picture in the same year. The precise number would be 6. Sceptics may refer to Wikipedia.
Martin Scorsese may have waited far too long for this one but the naked truth is that he should have won it aeons ago. Having lost out on films like Raging Bull and The Goodfellas, winning while riding on the commercial success of The Departed won't be winning after all.
After watching The Departed, exhilarated as I was, I couldnt help feeling a little cheated. Seems to me that Scorsese had lowered his guard a bit too much to deliver a star-studded big banner production that fell far below the bar he had previously set for himself with films like Taxi Driver, Raging bull, Goodfellas and the heavily underrated Casino. Of course The Departed is not comparable in genre or style to Taxi Driver. I'm not suggesting that. But what I am suggesting is that Scorsese was next to invisible in the film that is being touted by some as his magnum opus. Save for some recognizable tropes like use of voiceover and familiar gangster territory, the watermark blazed into each work with astonishing cinematography and a powerful screenplay was nowhere to be seen. A critic put it eloquently when she wrote, "Marty went undercover on this one."
But to give due credit to the director and the film, the soundtrack was vivid and the editing impeccable as always (thanks to long time collaborator thelma Schoonmaker). Sound performances by both Leo Dicaprio and Mark Whalberg. Frank Costello's transformation from the smooth overlord to an absentminded close-to-senile overlord is remarkable. But cinephiles ask yourself this - does Costello surpass in character the likes of Jake La Motta, Nicky Santuro, Ace Rothstein and Tommy DeVito?
So if Marty does win, I'll be cheering myself hoarse but it'll be for a victory won long before when the Movie Brats were still bratty enough to believe in a producers' nightmare like Travis Bickle!
P.S. - The Movie Brats were Martin Scorsese, Steven Spielberg, Brian de Palma, Francis Ford Coppola, George Lucas and John Milius.
Martin Scorsese may have waited far too long for this one but the naked truth is that he should have won it aeons ago. Having lost out on films like Raging Bull and The Goodfellas, winning while riding on the commercial success of The Departed won't be winning after all.
After watching The Departed, exhilarated as I was, I couldnt help feeling a little cheated. Seems to me that Scorsese had lowered his guard a bit too much to deliver a star-studded big banner production that fell far below the bar he had previously set for himself with films like Taxi Driver, Raging bull, Goodfellas and the heavily underrated Casino. Of course The Departed is not comparable in genre or style to Taxi Driver. I'm not suggesting that. But what I am suggesting is that Scorsese was next to invisible in the film that is being touted by some as his magnum opus. Save for some recognizable tropes like use of voiceover and familiar gangster territory, the watermark blazed into each work with astonishing cinematography and a powerful screenplay was nowhere to be seen. A critic put it eloquently when she wrote, "Marty went undercover on this one."
But to give due credit to the director and the film, the soundtrack was vivid and the editing impeccable as always (thanks to long time collaborator thelma Schoonmaker). Sound performances by both Leo Dicaprio and Mark Whalberg. Frank Costello's transformation from the smooth overlord to an absentminded close-to-senile overlord is remarkable. But cinephiles ask yourself this - does Costello surpass in character the likes of Jake La Motta, Nicky Santuro, Ace Rothstein and Tommy DeVito?
So if Marty does win, I'll be cheering myself hoarse but it'll be for a victory won long before when the Movie Brats were still bratty enough to believe in a producers' nightmare like Travis Bickle!
P.S. - The Movie Brats were Martin Scorsese, Steven Spielberg, Brian de Palma, Francis Ford Coppola, George Lucas and John Milius.
Monday, May 15, 2006
Orchestrations at a red light
" A city without a soul" , said a writer about the national capital. About delhi. About my home. Coming back to delhi after a long break was enough to have the wind knocked out of me. The city is undeniable in its insolence. It provoked me each time I confronted it. Each confrontaion left its mark. But each encounter brimmed with the possibility of a story......
The teeming millions were milling about right here on the ITO crossing. They leapfogged from Tilak Marg onto Sikandra road and onward to the local train that would take them home past the slums and shantytowns - wastelands beyond which lay towers of glass and cool air. But the teeming millions breathed the sticky air ripe with scent of sweat. The city breathed in tandem with the rhythm and pulse of traffic signals, the movement of buses and the chugging of the trains. And so the urban drama would play itself out - a silent musical with an unseen beat.
The old man clinging to his polythene bag for dear life, trying to brave the merciless traffic. The crude man beneath a veneer of sophistication in his big car, cursing the old man who totters shamelessly in front of his expensive self. The traffic policeman in his stuffy uniform who watches the charade and thinks of his tenement in choked West Delhi and the power cut that awaits him. The young college going girl, aimlessly chewing gum and ignoring leering men with studied indifference. the scrawny urchin who momentarily forgets to beg as he is distracted by the burst pileline under Tilak bridge that is spouting jets of water and wetting motorcyclists. The bus conductor who shouts destinations at his flock - the passengers - while chewing on his cigarette and simultaneously tearing those coloured bits of paper marked 2, 7 and 10 Rs. The daredevil hangs perilously from the footboard of the bus hoping the girl chewing gum will notice. The auto-driver ignores the boy and concentrates on his unsuspecting passenger who he has successfully fleeced. He adjusts his rearview mirror to get a good look at the smooth-skinned lady even as she inwardly rebukes her own insolent driver for not having showed up that morning. Visibly upset at being caught in the sweltering heat, she eyes this alien mass of humanity about her from behind her dark shades.
A sick boy throws up on the side of the bus. A rickshaw driver pulls up under the drooping laburnum tree and proceeds to doze off, apparently oblivious to the heat and the stench from the festering drain nearby. The man selling cold water out of a hand cart for Re. 1 only, pours himself a glass of water. The old man has made it to the other side of the road. The traffic signal blinks green, everyone moves on gratefully. Elsewhere, a biker picks a fight with an autowallah. A cyclist wins the fight.
The teeming millions were milling about right here on the ITO crossing. They leapfogged from Tilak Marg onto Sikandra road and onward to the local train that would take them home past the slums and shantytowns - wastelands beyond which lay towers of glass and cool air. But the teeming millions breathed the sticky air ripe with scent of sweat. The city breathed in tandem with the rhythm and pulse of traffic signals, the movement of buses and the chugging of the trains. And so the urban drama would play itself out - a silent musical with an unseen beat.
The old man clinging to his polythene bag for dear life, trying to brave the merciless traffic. The crude man beneath a veneer of sophistication in his big car, cursing the old man who totters shamelessly in front of his expensive self. The traffic policeman in his stuffy uniform who watches the charade and thinks of his tenement in choked West Delhi and the power cut that awaits him. The young college going girl, aimlessly chewing gum and ignoring leering men with studied indifference. the scrawny urchin who momentarily forgets to beg as he is distracted by the burst pileline under Tilak bridge that is spouting jets of water and wetting motorcyclists. The bus conductor who shouts destinations at his flock - the passengers - while chewing on his cigarette and simultaneously tearing those coloured bits of paper marked 2, 7 and 10 Rs. The daredevil hangs perilously from the footboard of the bus hoping the girl chewing gum will notice. The auto-driver ignores the boy and concentrates on his unsuspecting passenger who he has successfully fleeced. He adjusts his rearview mirror to get a good look at the smooth-skinned lady even as she inwardly rebukes her own insolent driver for not having showed up that morning. Visibly upset at being caught in the sweltering heat, she eyes this alien mass of humanity about her from behind her dark shades.
A sick boy throws up on the side of the bus. A rickshaw driver pulls up under the drooping laburnum tree and proceeds to doze off, apparently oblivious to the heat and the stench from the festering drain nearby. The man selling cold water out of a hand cart for Re. 1 only, pours himself a glass of water. The old man has made it to the other side of the road. The traffic signal blinks green, everyone moves on gratefully. Elsewhere, a biker picks a fight with an autowallah. A cyclist wins the fight.
Sunday, April 30, 2006
My article on the web
I wrote an article for the in-house NID Film Club publication Cut Here on the documentary film Jang Aur Aman (War and Peace) made by documentary filmmaker Anand Patwardhan. Anand read the article (thanks to Arun!), liked it and decided to post it on his website. And that is how I now have a web presence! Do check out the article at the link given. Also worth reading is the magazine Cut Here the pdf version of which can be downloaded from the NID website. Both links are given below. http://www.nid.edu/download/cuthere4nov05.pdfhttp://www.patwardhan.com/reviews/WP_NID.htm
Friday, April 28, 2006
Nizamuddin Dargah May 2005
Ahmad Raza, along with a friend, watches the crowds in front of Amir Khusro's shrine at Dargah-e-Nizamuddin, New Delhi. This picture was part of a photo essay that I did for my Field Study. You can check out more pictures at www.flickr.com/photos/thinkaloud/ .I used a Pentax K 1000 (which belongs to my father), Fuji crystal 200 ASA film and a telephoto lens. I am a patron of analog photography. Its so tactile!
Songs of the Mystics
It is impossible for even the whimsical visitor to remain untouched by the energy and vitality of the Dargah. It is in every way an assault on the senses from the moment you enter the crowded lanes till the time you leave the complex. One dare not hurry through it all lest one misses a whisper from beyond the grave. Turn a corner and Mirza Ghalib rests in an unfortunately unnoticed complex. Stop for a moment and you might be waylaid by the insistent perfume seller. "You must try Khus today", he says. Little grubby urchins with an impish sparkle in their eyes tug at your clothes. "Spare a rupee in the name of Allah!" The heaps of roses, the bright green chadors and the pulsating throb of the crowd engulf the unguarded visitor. Just when it seems too overwhelming the first strains of a Sama (traditional Sufi musical assembly) in full swing reach ones ears. That is what one came for. The calm within, despite the chaos without is always a welcome surprise. The Sufi way has revealed itself already. Order in chaos, unity in multiplicity.
Littered with the graves of long forgotten saints and dusty ancestors, the small complex betrays its many liaisons with the ghosts of yesterday. A vagabond mogul and a beloved princess share the same space (if not the same glory) as the mighty poet and his mentor. Many lives thrive within these walls. Some have made this place their home simply for sustenance, others in search of emotional and spiritual reassurance. But each one whatever be the purpose, is tied to the other in their acknowledgement of that Truth that none can deny- the truth of the Universal Spirit. The core of being itself that unites all things on earth. It is this that one sees embodied in the myriad faces of the Dargah-e-Nizamuddin. The water- bearer, the flower seller, the shoe keeper, the qawwal, the fakir, the pir, the sheikh, the pagan, the Hindu, the Mussalman, the rich, the poor, the woman, the child, the old, the young, the dead and the alive. Sufism is a prism through which the unity in the multiplicity of Beings becomes plain for all to see.
The crowd that throngs at the gates of Dargah-e-Nizamuddin each day bears testament to the living legacy of Nizamuddin Auliya and Amir Khusro, and also to the continuing relevance of Sufism. As a poet has rightly said, "In these senseless times a faith that makes you look within is a faith that makes sense". Synonymous with Sufism in India, Nizamuddin Auliya and Amir Khusro stand for values such as tolerance and humanism. Khusro’s contribution to poetry and music is not unknown. His verses have often been a eulogy of a country that he likens to heaven on earth, and a celebration of the diversity of Hindustan. His devotion to his teacher, Nizamuddin Auliya is unmistakable in his work.
I shall be set free from the bonds of the two worlds
If you become my companion for a while.
By your wanton playfulness you must have destroyed
Thousands of hearts of lovers like that of Khusrau.
What is remarkable is that Amir Khusro is perhaps more alive today than his mentor. It is customary at the Dargah to visit the smaller (but no less significant) shrine of Amir Khusro before proceeding to the main shrine of Hazrat Nizamuddin Auliya. Khusro lives in the innumerable verses, riddles, qawwalis and sayings he penned. He was indeed an ambassador of an India that was assimilative and inclusive. The foremost exponent of a spiritual and literary movement that rose above parochial concerns to reflect a truly cross-cultural sentiment.
Love is the only intoxicant in these mystical alleys. A sublime truth; the eternal and immortal soul of being itself. It rests beneath pearly white and swathes of green velvet. Poetry has been put to rest forever in the company of He who inspired it. These marble walls do not bind him. These bloody roses do not bury him. He rises out of his stony grave each time a single voice of the many reverberates through the air. They seek him in pleasure and they seek him in pain. They seek him in ecstasy and they seek him in despair. He seeks no one and yet he turns none away.
A timid strain at first; a lilting melody. Crowds melt into oblivion. No one is spared the tyranny of love. It consumes the self in its wake leaving only the soul. Cleansed, pure, pristine, provoked by passion and yet forever at peace. The words float above, over, under, around and through the crowd, wrapping themselves around the agony and the ecstasy of those who give themselves freely in love. Spirits leave their fleshy confines and come alive in the guise of the flourish of a dervish’s skirt or the solitary tear on a weather-beaten cheek. They take forms so delicate that they defy the cacophony that inspired them.
The attraction of love won’t leave you unmoved;
Should you not come to my funeral, you’ll definitely come to my grave.
My soul has come on my lips
Come so that I may remain alive
After I am no longer - for what purpose will you come?
For some the shrine is the beginning of a life anew whereas for some others it is the culmination of a journey that has brought them closer to achieving a desired state of rest. Ahmad Raza, 8 years old, has left his home in Bihar to come and live with his uncle. He is the boy who collects the empty flower baskets and takes them back to his uncle's flower shop. He knows Nizamuddin like the back of his hand and his eyes betray the many stories that he has to tell. He looks at my camera with curiosity and bewilderment. "What can you see through it? Can I see what you see?" Obviously he knows something I don’t.
The water bearer has seen it all. He has seen the compound choked with people the day riots broke out in Gujarat. They came in droves, he whispers. Some held on to each other while others wept by the grave of their saint, their confidante. Baba Khusro listened to them all. Khusro ki marham jaisi is duniya mein aur koi nahi. Where are you from, he asks. Do you have something to say to Him too? I have come from Ahmedabad I say. And I have come to listen to Him and his people. God bless you, he says. We share a smile and already a moment has transpired between two strangers - a moment of compassion, a moment of truth.
Death is not to be mourned. Rejoice in death for it is death that will unite you with your Beloved. Let me die before I die! Urs is the death anniversary of the Sufi saint and it is celebrated with much pomp and glory. It was my privilege to witness one such celebration. Crippled as one is by the insufficiency of language and the inadequacy of words, it is futile to attempt to describe an experience such as this. To say the least it is a world where you are defined by what you feel and not by what you know. Look around and it is plain to see. A lone voice rises above the crowd. It is some tune you haven’t heard. But listen to it you must. Twilight approaches and the crowd is like viscous glue. The summer air, thick with incense is about to get thicker with the songs of Love. The Qawwali begins without warning. Before you know it your hands join the others in the maddening rhythm. Soon it has made a fanatic out of you. But you stand still while these waves break over you with unending force until you are spent. You wonder, what is the diaphanous glow that has suddenly come over all that you see? Blink. The glow clears as tears flow free.
The journey of the mystic is a tremulous one at first. But only to be transformed, with time, into the confident stride of the seasoned traveler. There are no tourists in these quarters, only wanderers who need no maps, who in fact despise all maps. The journey then is a journey within, an inexorable quest. Who can say what the end shall be in a journey such as this? But the rewards are plenty. Love, compassion, humanity, universal brotherhood, the innate potential of every being to reach a higher state of existence and the realization that God is after all a mirror of the Self, are what drive the Sufi towards greater consciousness. The Sufi proclaims in all earnest: love is the cause of all creation. Love of God is the love of humanity, because to love god is to love all that He has created.
Littered with the graves of long forgotten saints and dusty ancestors, the small complex betrays its many liaisons with the ghosts of yesterday. A vagabond mogul and a beloved princess share the same space (if not the same glory) as the mighty poet and his mentor. Many lives thrive within these walls. Some have made this place their home simply for sustenance, others in search of emotional and spiritual reassurance. But each one whatever be the purpose, is tied to the other in their acknowledgement of that Truth that none can deny- the truth of the Universal Spirit. The core of being itself that unites all things on earth. It is this that one sees embodied in the myriad faces of the Dargah-e-Nizamuddin. The water- bearer, the flower seller, the shoe keeper, the qawwal, the fakir, the pir, the sheikh, the pagan, the Hindu, the Mussalman, the rich, the poor, the woman, the child, the old, the young, the dead and the alive. Sufism is a prism through which the unity in the multiplicity of Beings becomes plain for all to see.
The crowd that throngs at the gates of Dargah-e-Nizamuddin each day bears testament to the living legacy of Nizamuddin Auliya and Amir Khusro, and also to the continuing relevance of Sufism. As a poet has rightly said, "In these senseless times a faith that makes you look within is a faith that makes sense". Synonymous with Sufism in India, Nizamuddin Auliya and Amir Khusro stand for values such as tolerance and humanism. Khusro’s contribution to poetry and music is not unknown. His verses have often been a eulogy of a country that he likens to heaven on earth, and a celebration of the diversity of Hindustan. His devotion to his teacher, Nizamuddin Auliya is unmistakable in his work.
I shall be set free from the bonds of the two worlds
If you become my companion for a while.
By your wanton playfulness you must have destroyed
Thousands of hearts of lovers like that of Khusrau.
What is remarkable is that Amir Khusro is perhaps more alive today than his mentor. It is customary at the Dargah to visit the smaller (but no less significant) shrine of Amir Khusro before proceeding to the main shrine of Hazrat Nizamuddin Auliya. Khusro lives in the innumerable verses, riddles, qawwalis and sayings he penned. He was indeed an ambassador of an India that was assimilative and inclusive. The foremost exponent of a spiritual and literary movement that rose above parochial concerns to reflect a truly cross-cultural sentiment.
Love is the only intoxicant in these mystical alleys. A sublime truth; the eternal and immortal soul of being itself. It rests beneath pearly white and swathes of green velvet. Poetry has been put to rest forever in the company of He who inspired it. These marble walls do not bind him. These bloody roses do not bury him. He rises out of his stony grave each time a single voice of the many reverberates through the air. They seek him in pleasure and they seek him in pain. They seek him in ecstasy and they seek him in despair. He seeks no one and yet he turns none away.
A timid strain at first; a lilting melody. Crowds melt into oblivion. No one is spared the tyranny of love. It consumes the self in its wake leaving only the soul. Cleansed, pure, pristine, provoked by passion and yet forever at peace. The words float above, over, under, around and through the crowd, wrapping themselves around the agony and the ecstasy of those who give themselves freely in love. Spirits leave their fleshy confines and come alive in the guise of the flourish of a dervish’s skirt or the solitary tear on a weather-beaten cheek. They take forms so delicate that they defy the cacophony that inspired them.
The attraction of love won’t leave you unmoved;
Should you not come to my funeral, you’ll definitely come to my grave.
My soul has come on my lips
Come so that I may remain alive
After I am no longer - for what purpose will you come?
For some the shrine is the beginning of a life anew whereas for some others it is the culmination of a journey that has brought them closer to achieving a desired state of rest. Ahmad Raza, 8 years old, has left his home in Bihar to come and live with his uncle. He is the boy who collects the empty flower baskets and takes them back to his uncle's flower shop. He knows Nizamuddin like the back of his hand and his eyes betray the many stories that he has to tell. He looks at my camera with curiosity and bewilderment. "What can you see through it? Can I see what you see?" Obviously he knows something I don’t.
The water bearer has seen it all. He has seen the compound choked with people the day riots broke out in Gujarat. They came in droves, he whispers. Some held on to each other while others wept by the grave of their saint, their confidante. Baba Khusro listened to them all. Khusro ki marham jaisi is duniya mein aur koi nahi. Where are you from, he asks. Do you have something to say to Him too? I have come from Ahmedabad I say. And I have come to listen to Him and his people. God bless you, he says. We share a smile and already a moment has transpired between two strangers - a moment of compassion, a moment of truth.
Death is not to be mourned. Rejoice in death for it is death that will unite you with your Beloved. Let me die before I die! Urs is the death anniversary of the Sufi saint and it is celebrated with much pomp and glory. It was my privilege to witness one such celebration. Crippled as one is by the insufficiency of language and the inadequacy of words, it is futile to attempt to describe an experience such as this. To say the least it is a world where you are defined by what you feel and not by what you know. Look around and it is plain to see. A lone voice rises above the crowd. It is some tune you haven’t heard. But listen to it you must. Twilight approaches and the crowd is like viscous glue. The summer air, thick with incense is about to get thicker with the songs of Love. The Qawwali begins without warning. Before you know it your hands join the others in the maddening rhythm. Soon it has made a fanatic out of you. But you stand still while these waves break over you with unending force until you are spent. You wonder, what is the diaphanous glow that has suddenly come over all that you see? Blink. The glow clears as tears flow free.
The journey of the mystic is a tremulous one at first. But only to be transformed, with time, into the confident stride of the seasoned traveler. There are no tourists in these quarters, only wanderers who need no maps, who in fact despise all maps. The journey then is a journey within, an inexorable quest. Who can say what the end shall be in a journey such as this? But the rewards are plenty. Love, compassion, humanity, universal brotherhood, the innate potential of every being to reach a higher state of existence and the realization that God is after all a mirror of the Self, are what drive the Sufi towards greater consciousness. The Sufi proclaims in all earnest: love is the cause of all creation. Love of God is the love of humanity, because to love god is to love all that He has created.
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