क्या हिमाचल में ईंट सीमेंट के घर ज़रूरी हैं?

आज से दस बीस बरस पहले तक हिमाचल में गिने चुने पक्के मकान हुआ करते थे. ईंटों से घर बनाना बड़ी बात मानी जाती थी. मेरा ग्राम मण्डी जिले में है. वहां तकरीबन सभी मकान मिट्टी से बने, गोबर से लिपे और सलेट की छत्तों से सजा करते थे. ज्यूँ ज्यूँ तरक्की का दौर चला, भाम्बला और बरमाना में सीमेंट के कारखाने लगे, हजारों ट्रक सड़कों पर उतर आए, और अब जहाँ देखो ईंट सीमेंट के घर नज़र आते हैं. इस दौड़ में हर कोई शामिल है. हर एक बड़ा और बेहतर कोठे वाला घर चाहता है. कोई यह नहीं सोचता की क्या ईंट पत्थर से बने कोठे वाले मकान हिमाचल के लिए अनुकूल है भी या नहीं.

दस साल पहले तक मैं मात्र एक किशोर छात्र था, और मेरे विचारों का कोई मोल नहीं था. मोल शायद अब भी कुछ ज्यादा नहीं बड़ा है, पर अब लोग बात सुन लिया करते है. मैंने अपनी दादी और रिश्तेदारों से कई दफा बहस की, और यह जानना चाहा की क्या वह पक्के मकान इसलिए चाहते है क्यूंकि वह रहने के लिए बेहतर होते हैं? हमेशा जवाब मिला की पड़ोस में क्या इज्ज़त रह जायेगी, हर एक का पक्का मकान है. किस्सी ने कहा लीपा पोती से छुटकारा मिलेगा. कहा सीमेंट के मकानों की शोभा निराली है. कहा उनको साफ रखना आसान है, कोठे पर बैठ के धुप सेकेंगे. कहीं दो मंजिल, कहीं तीन, और कई जगह चार पाँच मंजिल के मकान उग गए. दस साल पहले भी वही जावाब मिलता था, अब भी वही जवाब मिलते है. पर एक फरक है. अब लोगों को आठ दस साल उन घरों में रहने का तजुर्बा हो गया है. अब मैं भी बड़ा हो गया हूँ, देश विदेश घूम चुका हूँ, और मेरी बातें अब एक शिक्षित और समझदार पौत्र या बुद्धिजीवी व्यक्ति की मान ली जाती हैं. अब फ़िर वही बहस करने की कोशिश कर रहा हूँ.

किसी से पूछो तो खुल के नहीं कहते की पक्के मकानों से वह नाखुश हैं. सबने इतना पैसा खर्च करके यह माकन बनाये है. कोई यह कैसे कहे की उमर भर की कमाई एक भूल में लगा दी. सच यह है की वह पुराने मकान गर्मी और सर्दी दोनों मौसमों में हमारे प्रदेश के तापमान के अनुकूल थे. आप आग्रह करेंगे तो यही बात मैं किस्सी शोध अथवा विज्ञान से भी सिद्ध कर सकता हूँ. पर किसी भी ज्ञान विज्ञान से बड़ी चीज़ होता है तजुर्बा. जब से पक्के मकान बने है, सर्दी में हीटर और गर्मी में कूलर या पंखों के बिना गुजारा नहीं होता. चूल्हे पक्के मकानों के लिए कभी भी उपयुक्त न थे न हो पाएंगे. सर्दी में फर्श इतना ठंडा होता है, की पाँव ज़मीन पर नहीं धर सकते. गर्मी में भी इतना तपा होता है, की पाँव ज़मीन न पड़े टे ही अच्छा है. अब चूल्हों की रोटी की आदत, नंगे पाँव फिरने की आदत तो जाने से रही. ऊपर से कमबख्त मौसम. बरखा में तो कोठे ताल बन जाते है. पर चाह कर भी कोई पुराने कच्चे घरों में वापिस नहीं जा पाता. न सिर्फ़ वह घर सस्ते दाम में बनते है, उनसे बिजली की खपत कम होती थी, और वह हमारी ज़रूरतों के हिसाब से हमारे पुरखों के तजुर्बे के बाद हमें मिले थे.

यह कहकर कि मैं तरक्की नहीं चाहता आप मेरी कही हुई साधारण, पर सच बातों को ठुकरा सकते है. यह कह कर कि मैं ठहरा प्रवासी हिमाचली, आप मेरी बातों को अनसुना कर सकते है. पर अगर आप एक बार बैठ कर हिसाब लगाये, तो आप पाएंगे की हम हिमाचली लोगों को मूरख बनाया गया है. क्या आप बर्फ के दिनों में धोती या निक्कर पहन कर बहिर घुमते है? क्या आपके पास इतना पैसा है की आप पूरे घर को गरम रखने वाली विदेशी मशीनें खरीदें? जो चीज़ें जिस जगह के लिए उपयुक्त नहीं, उनका पाना, उनका होना किसी विलास कि निशानी नहीं. जहाँ लोग बड़े घरों को इज्ज़त का मापदंड बना लेते है, वहाँ चोरी डकैती रिश्वतखोरी से कमाया धन जायज लगने लगता है. अंधी होड़ कोई प्रगति का द्योतक नहीं.समय के साथ चलना अगर ज़रूरी है, तो अपनी स्तिथि परिस्तिथि के अनुसार जीना, पाँव फैलाना और फैसले करना भी समझदारी है,सही है. रोटी, कपड़ा और मकान हमारी तीन मुख्य ज़रूरतें है, थी और रहेंगी. न हमने विदेशी भोजन या न बिकिनी-नुमा वस्त्र अपनाएं है. पर मकानों में यह बेमतलब नक़ल क्यों?

Time and Materials by Robert Hass

Time and Materials: Poems, 1997-2005 by Robert Hass is his first collection of poems to emerge in past ten years. Hass is a familiar name in the contemporary world of poetry. He has been awarded National Book Critics Circle Award twice, and was the poet laureate of the US from 1995-1997. He is a professor at University of Berkeley and is presently a chancellor of the Academy of American Poets. He has co-translated the work of Nobel-winner, Czeslaw Milosz. The present book has lapped up a National Book Awards nomination, and received rave reviews from the poets and journalists alike.

What is a poem? Is it a piece that must be interpreted on basis of what it contains, or based on who has written it? Is the identity of poet important? Do his past achievements bias us to read his poems more favorably? Great poets and artists, irrespective of their reputation during their lifetimes, manage to produce works that transcend time, space, language and meaning. The toolbox is words, workstation is a solitary, barely visible corner chair and table, and the audience is firstly the writer's innate desire to create, and then maybe, a slew of readers who open the book. For a poet with the credentials of Hass, the audience is ensured, and what I wish to examine is if his poems justify the applause for a reader like me. I wish to read his poems with a wonder and appreciation that reviewers have expressed everywhere.

Here is excerpt from one of the poems "State of the planet", and this is representative of typical lines in Hass poetry and the arguments I am about to make:

"Poetry should be able to comprehend the earth,

To set aside from time to time its natural idioms

Of ardor of revulsion, and say, in a style as sober

As the Latin of Lucretis, who reported to Venus

On the state of things two thousand years ago....."

In reading poems by Hass, I found myself at lines which gave me intense feelings: I ravish the first three lines in this example, and then I begin to wonder why does Hass need a mention of Lucretis. Throughout the book, I wonder why he needs to evoke so many names and places that unless it is an erudite reader and a world traveler, the references are entirely lost on the reader. We, as beginning poets, are often asked to write self-contained poems, where images and metaphors stand on their realization by readers. We, as beginner poets, are asked to shun the abstract words, and the mention of painters, philosophers, poets and mythical figures, for cameos contaminate attention. In the poems by Hass, these rules are set aside. We watch paintings by Vermeer, we hear of Czeslaw Milosz, Horace, Whitman, Stevens and Nietzsche. We are at times in Mexican desert, in Bangkok and then we are entirely in the world of Dostoevsky. While at times, I enjoy these interludes, I want to know how Hass or the critics would react to a Hass-like poem written by a poet without Hass-like reputation.

Time and Materials strikes to me as a fairly unusual set of poems, where my own sensibilities as a poet are set aside. I am thrust into long, winding sentences, abstract and quirky details, forty-fifty line poems without stanzas and ten-fifteen words before line-breaks. Here as an example, I quote a line from Hass (and I loved this line): "The human imagination does not do well with large numbers." In another poem, he says, "It must be a gift of evolution that humans/Can't sustain wonder." So given he expresses these sentiments in his poems, I cannot comprehend why he has chosen this style. But a poem "Bush War" (featured in Best American Poetry last year) contains some remarkable and honest reflections on past wars, and strikes me an example of how the Hass-poems can work in spite of their verbosity.

Hass has translated great Haiku masters in the past. His own poems carry many Haiku-like phrases - where an apt image illustrates an emotion and an idea tersely. There are poems where he lets me breathe, stop, gasp, repeat lines to myself. There are lines where I shake my head vigorously and cannot appreciate the idea, the wordplay, the metaphor. I judge him more harshly than I would judge most poets, for he is one of the foremost poets of the country. After Robert Frost, America has not produced a poet who can transcend borders and cultures, and perhaps his poems can provide us a notion of why. Overall, I would still ask you to read Time and Materials, savor the humane moments and the montage of experience plastered all over the poems. I will leave you with the opening poem of the book:

IOWA, JANUARY

In the long winter nights, a farmer's dream are narrow.

Over and over, he enters the furrow.

(Also on Blogcritics.org)

Half-happy with India turning into a Trillion Dollar Economy (Revised)

When half of my nation sleeps
with half-filled bellies, under the half-roofs,
with half-hopes of a mouthful tomorrow,

when half of my nation grows up with half-rights

to education and employment,
with half-health produces babies, with a half-heart
chokes before the stoves that burn wood,
and cook half-water curries made with half-salt,

when half-length men walk the streets
half-naked, willing to work for half-wages,
half-grown women slip into beds at half-price,

when half-sane leaders pocket half-funds,
and divide the nation into halves that fight,
(haves and not-haves all half-fooled)
when half-castes organize into brigands,
and seek half-reservation for their half-intellect,

when half of the news is of rapes, riots, extortions,
half-nation worries about Naxalists, Maoists, terrorists,
half-resolved cases haunt the courts,
where victims of the crime wait half-lives
for half-compensations,

when half-history is distorted or concocted,
sacrifices of men like Gandhi half-known, half-respected,
when half-heritage is lying like wreckage, and half-religions
have pocketed half-faith and finished the better half,

when half-talented sportsmen cloud TV with ads,
half-naked woman talk of modernism with half-minds,
half-cultured men, hypocrites, type half-lies into their
tax returns, and half-acknowledge their sexual slights,

when half of my nation cannot even read or hear my voice,
and other half will ignore it by their own choice,
and half-close their eyes to see half-blessed dreams
of half-American lives.

Lines of Grey, Suchitra Vijayan and Social Change through Photographs

Lines of Grey is a project of social change through photography conceptualized and cultivated by Suchitra Vijayan. The idea is to provide cameras to the children, enabling them to capture their world in pictures. The concept is similar to the award winning documentary film "Born in Brothels", where children of the red-light district in Calcutta recorded moments of their lives through cameras handed out to them. Using the donations from friends and volunteers around the world, Suchitra supplied disposable cameras them to the street children in Tanzania. Cameras in the hands of these children first flicker a smile on their lip. A dream flourishes when their camera captures what any eye merely glances over, never stops to see. The idea rests upon a slogan associated with the project, called "Every child is an artist."

Suchitra is a barrister by training and used to work for the UN. After schooling from Padma Seshadri Bala Bhavan in Chennai, Suchitra moved to UK where she graduated with a LLB and European Law (Hons.) in 2004. Since then she has worked for UN War Tribunal for former Yugoslavia and UN War Tribunal for Rwanda. Suchitra is as young and relentless as she is passionate about her NGO effort. She epitomizes the modern Indian woman, who is global not only in her aspirations and achievements, but also in her pursuit of her dreams and ideals. Her own photography is quite fascinating, and she recently was awarded with the Nikon Imaging - Emerging Talent of the Year award. Suchitra is very well read, widely traveled, and immensely inspiring person, and I am sure this allows her to be an exemplary mentor.

I owe my friendship to Suchitra to our shared love for poetry and literature. Back in 2004, when she was still a student, we exchanged several emails, discussing authors, philosophers and poems. Even back then, I was amazed at her intensity, work ethic, and nature of her will to effect change. Many of us are able dreamers, capable but lazy poets or many times, well meaning mortals trapped in our daily circle of money, education, career, love, relationships, parties and movies. It requires a strong sense of purpose to go out there and try to organize something voluntarily, without a material gain in sight. Suchitra has been actively harvesting creativity in form of images from the children in Tanzania, and has managed to get to a point where some of these will be exhibited in Bay Area in US, and in Chennai, India.

While the intentions are noble, the effort is charged with single-minded devotion, the approach is based on aesthetic, the labor is of love, there are many hurdles in realization of real goals. Let us assume that such an effort can indeed empower kids to channelize their creativity. Yet to make a significant change, one needs volunteers around the globe to carry this effort. The whole issue of logistics is baffling one, and so far Suchitra has limited her scope to Arusha, Tanzania. One might argue that what the kids need most is education, clothing, housing and means to earn a livelihood. The photography seems like a distraction, as if, from those goals. Having worked with children in slums in Delhi, I figured that most children were motivated by play, by humor, by adventure. Poverty molds the scope of their imagination, but does not curtail it. The richest tales would surface through conversations with these children, and the only lesson I learned there was this: No amount of money or schooling distributed randomly to these children can help them as much as a personal attention, where both their angst and amazement at this world are interpreted, addressed and cultivated. Suchitra has been working to provide the flash of hope, a snapshot of creativity and joy to these children.

I shot few Questions to Suchitra and here they are:

1. Why lines of grey?

To answer why “Lines of Grey “ I need to talk about my fascination with the colour grey. This goes back to my own love affair with black and white photography. Like all great love affairs, it started with this heady feeling of getting the winds knocked out of me and I was in an expedited hurry to learn and discover everything there was to know about this medium. In that process I came to understand this subtle but complexly layered colour called “Grey”. Grey is an achromatic colour between white and black that exist in the state of great lightness, caught between the lighter side of black and darker side of white. Grey is a shade of remarkable gradation, it is its own complement. Grey remains grey when its colour spectrum is inverted, and therefore has no opposite and alternately is its own opposite.

Lines of Grey represent the street children who are a part of this project; each shade with its complex mixture of shadows, highlights and mid-tones. They are the product of economic and social injustice that is rampant in this world. These children are prisoners of prejudice, social attitudes and numerous negative associations. Just like the shade grey, these children live on the marginalized edge of extremes. They are the existing reality and the beautiful abstraction.

2. How long do you plan to carry out this project? What happens when you move from your present appointment?

The photography project was designed to last for a period of six month. Then the process of compiling the children’s images, their stories and thoughts begins. This will culminate with the launch of our website and series of exhibitions. The money generated from this project will go back to these children. The website is also geared toward having individuals sponsors for addressing the education and other economical needs of these children. Since I no longer live in Africa, I am planning on getting my friends from that area and some of the older kids form the Project to co-ordinate and continue the project.

3. What is future of lines of grey?

Right now 24 hours of sleep doesn’t seem enough to accommodate the collective dreams and aspiration of everyone who is a part of LOG. Not surprising since most of us are dreamers first. Left to our devices we would conjure an imagine where LOG would solve all of the worlds problems. (Chuckles) . On a more serious note, there are plans underway to start similar projects in India. In June 2007, Lines of Grey was registered as an NGO in India, and plans are underway to launch the NGO in the United States. Right now the projects focus on photography as the medium. If every child is an artist, then art should also take different forms.

Honestly I am not sure what future lies for Lines of Grey. I am not sure if we can generate enough interest, enough momentum to sustain the NGO. I am not sure if it will make any sustainable change. But Lines of Grey is not just a project, it’s an idea. Everyone who is a part of this project decided to be a part of an experiment that seeks to make a difference at a personal level. The project runs on the inherent belief that individuals still possess the power to make that little difference that will one day become a part of the critical mass required to change this society and change it fundamentally.

4. Do you have plans of expansion outlined for your idea or project?

Expansion is a big word for the small acts we do. When I think in terms of expansion, I think about mainstream awareness about this kind of work. Every time I return back to India, I feel the phase at which the country is heading towards its intellectual death has been hastened. We have become a celebrity hungry society tuned only to the stories of rich and famous. We have become characters in soap opera in search of an author. Series of reality shows with “celebrities” shaking their legs to the latest bollywood number has become the nations pre-occupation. Urban India with its increasing disposable income has become deaf and indifferent to the stories of the “other” India and the underdogs of this world. If these stories do surface from time to time they become marketable commodity in a culture of sensationalism. True voices become buried and often do not have a platform. In this context Lines of Grey is a form of social documentary through the eyes of the “others”.

For instance, imagine giving cameras to the kids from various fishermen villages affected by the Tsunami. Imagine the powerful images these children would harvest from their reality. Their images have the power of self. If there is an expansion, that expansion to me is not kick starting more projects all over India and other parts of the world. But merely getting enough people interested to look and maybe think.

5. Have you noticed any change in lives of kids over last many months?

I wish I could say with brimming confidence that “yes I have”. But the harsh reality is not so. This project hasn’t altered their life drastically. But I can vouch for the happiness and joy that I witness every time I handed over the camera. I remember the immense pride, I felt when I saw the first set of pictures when it was developed. How they reacted when they saw their pictures. But these are not tangible and I am very aware of that. Inheritances of fond memories cannot be converted to currency. But they are nonetheless inheritance everyone should have a stake in and I can but only hope that LOG is contributing towards this in some measure.

On the more pragmatic side, in the great Indian art of self justification, I often tell my self the project just got over. When the website is done, when the exhibitions happen things will be different.

Here are few websites that provide images and information about Suchitra and Lines of Grey:

http://linesofgrey.org/
http://www.suchitravijayan.com/
http://photo.net/photos/Suchitra
http://la-moreneta.sulekha.com/

The Rainmakers by Clark C. Spence

The Rainmakers by Clark C. Spence is a delightful read about the history of rainmaking in America. It is based on true stories from the days when charlatans and quacks, for profit or science, promised to cause rain at whim. There is whiff of science, but mostly this is a tale of deception. Grand claims, backed by coincidences made some people appear as successful rainmakers. Most ran out of luck, and vanished into obscurity after being in thick of action from weeks to years.

The newspaper reports mentioned in the book as well as the description of the tricks employed and the sales pitch adopted by Rainmakers are funny for a modern reader. Yet only a hundred years ago, there were farmers and senators, scientists and laymen in Kansas as well as Los Angeles who were being duped by tall claims for methods to make rain and remarkable coincidences which helped Rainmakers. Seen in the light of hoaxes practices and the amount of money scammed, the first artificial rain seems like a more momentous achievement than we credit it as.

Atmospheric science has made most progress in last hundred years and has been instrumental in last two hundred years for inspiring studies about a large number of interesting physics issues that involved great men like Clausius, Stokes, Langmuir, Aitken, Coulier, Rayleigh, Huygens, Newton, Einstein, and so on. Yet the history of rainmakers resembles the history of miracle curers and healers who have provided for hope in desperation and for rain or cure to people where natural course of events was going to end a drought or disease. History of Theories of Rain by Middleton on the other hand is more of a scientific history and a great read. The texts Cloud in a glass of beer by Bohren, and A short course in Cloud Physics by Rogers and Yau could be good resources for reading about our current understanding of rainfall. But when it comes to reading about deceit, conceit and deceptions, Rainmakers by Spencer is entertaining in its own right. The science part is minimal, so it can be read by anyone and everyone, as a history of how easily men are led to believe in miracles when they are faced with a difficulty.

While these tales seem fictional and funny now, it was only a few generations back that people wanted to fly pointed balloons, or use fuming fluid placed in close labs, or chimneys that released steam or charged carrying sand air-dropped into clouds to cause rain. To celebrate the geniuses of the day, requires us to know the other end of the spectrum, and this book manages to do it with tongue in cheek humor.

Ganesha Goes to Lunch (Classics from Mystic India) by Kamla K. Kapur

Ganesha Goes to Lunch by Kamla K. Kapur is a collection of twenty four stories drawn from the oral tradition of mythical tales in India. The stories are retold in contemporary language, and maintain the essential structure and characteristics of the folklores. Kamla's choice of stories ranges from tales about why Ganesha has elephant's trunk, to the marriage of Shiv-Parvati to the creation of Brahma and universe. The story of the friendship of Sudama and Krishna is retold as is the tale of Vishwamitra-Vashisht rivalry.

The Bharatiya (Indian) tradition thrives on stories passed on from generation to generation. Each generation adds its own experience to knowledge and reinterprets the understanding passed to them. The Hindu myths by their very nature don't have absolutes. They represent Gods or men trapped in their vices, roused or limited by their virtues, acting in response to the demands that existence as humans on earth demands from us. The attempt is to create examples as prototypes to deal with contradictions and complexities that daily strife, be it in war, peace, family matters, need, greed, valor, and amorous desires lead us to. This had lead to several epics about avataars or incarnations, and as humans Gods lead exemplary lives, faulting at times, and suffering for them. In Kamla's collection, the gems from the boundless sea of folklore are picked, polished and repackaged to lure Western audiences as well as those Indian readers who have learned most from English education and English Literature.

The book has a number of pictures and illustrations, which allow a non-Indian reader to visualize the God or character in question. We Indians grow up with these tales, and somehow we imbibe their lessons into our being without realizing when or how. The modern age has brought a slew of stories and media into our household, and in these times, it is easy to be overwhelmed by the shallow characterizations and sensationalist serials. The demands of materialistic modern life, makes it even more important for us to connect to the spiritual wisdom of centuries, the philosophy both rich and humbling is present in highly entertaining form in these stories. Kamla Kapur's effort is commendable in both the spirit and the style of execution.

While most of these stories can be read out to children, a few characterizations are little more sensual than I would have hoped for. The discussion about Shiva and Shakti, the male and female powers, is done quite boldly, whereas my encounters with these stories as a child were in an understatement, and in euphemisms. Perhaps the retelling must respond to the contemporary world, where the Victorian writing, the euphemisms are considered trite and cliched. The tale from Ramayana, incorrectly mentions that Hanuman brought Sanjivini (or the hill with that herb on it) for reviving Ram (I am certain that it was needed for Laxman). Aside from these quips, most of the stories are brief and well written, and will form a good reading for people of all ages.

Myths by their very nature appeal to the heroic, and the virtuous elements of our being. Kamla's rendition ensures that the heroic and mystic elements are distilled into a reader's consciousness. The simplicity of language, the delightful imagery, the translation as if of whole oral tradition of myths into this eclectic collection speaks volumes about Kamla's craftsmanship and reverence for these tales. While the tales are derived from Hindu myths, the structure, the impact, the ideals, the virtues they inspire transcend time, space and religion. I enjoyed these, and so I hope you will too.

PS:
http://www.sajaforum.org/2007/10/books-kamla-kap.html
http://himachal.us/2007/10/06/saja-interview-of-kamla-kapur/3190/news/avnish

Too hot to handle (Short Story)

What she lacked in looks, she supplied with her taste. Bold like a mushroom growing on a garden track, she called for attention at places where none of her kind could venture. Spilling skin like cracked shells of peanut, she sashayed through the malls, the local trains and poorest sections of the city. Her boots cover more legs than her skirts. Her shirts tested the bulging ability of eyes that followed her like dogs wagging tongues and tails. She was protected by her own wantonness. Her beauty was not of a well-designed nose or a nicely chiseled body. It was something else, indefinite like her promises, unexplained like her smile.

When I first failed her, I was twenty year old confused intellectual. Raised to conservatism, that valued books over looks, veil over skin, meekness over boldness. She was like a thorn on a stem, and I, who valued no roses, was disturbed by the red drop that came out of my flesh. She made the room around her shrink, such that bodies whispered around her, dancing to her voice, steps around her fell into a rhythm where she was the centerpiece, the piano in the sonata of sensations that unfolded in the drumbeat hearts of the dancers who were numbed by their free fall around her perfume that was an aphrodisiac. I was a twenty year old confused self, who felt that the sensations grip me like a vice, and in stead of feeling exhilarated, I felt choked. The commotion in my mind cursed her as a witch, for wasn't it her witchcraft that was rapturing the crowd with a touch, without a lick, without a whisper?

Five years later, I was in a strange city, traveling in my designer suit, packaged to please the buyers and sellers, as I represented my company that overpaid me for my craft. My craft was in my words that pleased the men like a balm on their tired backs, and touched the women like wind on their necks. My craft was in talking through wit and nuance, unfolding in them a curiosity for what our company was to offer, and leading them into a decisive yes, mainly by intonation of my voice, the demeanour of my hands and body, always inviting and promising control, release and future. I was the cupid sales director as my co-workers called me, and my University of Chicago MBA found me inside doors that businessmen dare not enter.

In an evening party, dressed in a dazzling evening gown, she sauntered down the stairs,. I watched her drift into the consciousness of the crowd, with a smile in their eyes, hum of approval on their lips. As an aftertaste, she had fashioned into a respectability that glided with her; her husband, proud and powerful, carried her like a trophy, displaying his joy like a guild of gold. Years ago, she was a sonata, and now her personality oozed as if a melody from the flute of Himalayan tribals, so unadulterated in its rendering, flowing like a hill stream, surging force at a pace that makes your heartbeat hear itself trickle into peaceful delight.

This was the second time I failed her, for what I just said is what I understood after the night was over. Her entry into the room trembled like a memory that is not easy to shake off, and roused my five years of want into a pledge of making her some kind of offer. I was still in the spell that a twenty year old boy made appear even more surreal. Her picture to me was of the vice I wanted in my veins and all my recent successes made me even more tempted and assured and hungry. I approached her with a pride in my shoes, flash in my tie-pin, and gurgled my words before saying, "Hello." Her recognizing me made me hope. I splurged compliments, laden with metaphor and meaning. Her cheeks reddened, a color that encouraged me further, and then suddenly, her words, "Are you in your senses? Go home. You are drunk!" fell like a hammer on a glass-box, shattering the protected toy house shrine I had built for her.

It was only a chance that I went alone to the symphony. In ten years after that party, I had evolved from a world of pleasure to that of luxury. My pride has become a fine representation of my class, my words were now folded and pocketed like an advice from an expert and my social position made me watchful of my every sigh or smile at a body or a voice. My personal space was shared with a pretty wife and two kids. The two year old and five year old hunted from my back, told me their own stories so rich in dialogue, so flourishing in detail and yet words that came out like blossoms in the wild, standing up for their own pleasure and perhaps my own. It was only a chance that my wife was not accompanying me. And she, she of my youthful fancy and failings, was present, draped in a black, lace shawl. I saw her first, in a row behind me, as I sat down, to hear Pavarotti slam his youthful voice out of his decaying body, till music of eternity silenced every breath and movement.

Yet here I was sitting rather unsymmetrically, with a hand over my face, and my face eyeing her changed self. The music had faded into a drab hum, only her profile was ebbing and echoing. Like painting made softer over time, like childhood memories made more delightful by the effect of nostalgia, like a completed poem or picture or symphony, she sat there, ever so beautiful in her own distinguished way. The face lacked what it lacked fifteen years ago, the forms were still common, and yet like always, she carried an attraction for me, and maybe it was always so, maybe it was always for me that she carried an attraction so vigorous, and violent, that I was ready to risk my smile and sigh for her.

We talked of her deceased husband and my lovely wife in the intermission. The third time I failed her, was perhaps my last, was that day as she offered to meet me for dinner and tell me her story. I cited a promise I hadn't made to the kids to keep me away. A curiousity flashed like a momentary flinch at her brow, and a smile rushed to conceal it. She bid me farewell, leaving me gaping after her. She left with words, "A dinner with your wife and kids would have served for a lovely introduction."