Tuesday, May 3, 2011

Breaking Silence

May 3rd.

Finally after almost two months there is a desire to write again, and when there is such a huge timelag, one wonders what one reminesces about and what one leaves out.  Sitting on the couch yesterday, someone mentioned a movie that is a kalidescope of images that weave through the canvas, a silent non voice over movie the sileouhette of images leaves one grasping for breath as it forces the audience to deal with the greusome realities of life. (Baraka http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Baraka_(film)

In the past months there has been that, floating images that have woven through villages in the east and north, some cities, beaches and paradise, airports and towns, relationships and deaths, inner dilemas and external musings, from this carasoul of incidents some little things remain get lodged as memories.

Borrowing into the rabbit hole of time.

A beggar women standing at a buzy intersection getting her slipper repaired in Patna, a tiny boy looking wistfully at a plate of grapes that 4 rich farmers were eating in front of him, as he watched, holding him on my lap feeding him grapes watching him gobble as many as he can, drinking rum in the backseat of a car, sipping drinks out of plastic cups after ages, standing on a cliff face watching waves bash into rocks, sitting on the rooftop of a swanky delhi resteraunt thats empty on a Friday night, red neon lit place advertising Hell Kitchen, a farmers son defiant in his refusal to farm, an old man nodding his head at the changes needed, village children showing off their puppy, two black dogs playing in the sand, tired men haggling devil horned headcare day after day on the beach, fat men and women lining the beach belching the beer, sitting cross legged in front of a tarot card reader, hearing the best and the news together, watching children dance in front of a dead body, a ailing grandmom, crying over book thief, agonizing over the future, reading osho for the present, twins to appear, ganda flowers strewn inside a loo with the sun streaming in its May splendor, sipping a cold coffee early in the morning, hugging him tight in his green tshirt at the airport, aurangabad and the waiter who comes popping into the room, clapping hands in front of the TV as india wins the match, signing cheques off, eating the best watermelons, learning about lenses and photography, gifting a book, recieving one, watching chickens poop on themselves in a Punjabi Dhabha, craving simplicity, silence of the sea and blue beads.

Nothing of note and yet this is what the last few months amounted to. In the world of airplanes and airlines there is not a lot to hang out to there is so much that ones sees.

As I travelled through the Indian villages, leaving them behind for indian towns and then zooming into the cities the ageold theory came back, there is only you that you take with you. There is one eternal truth that however seemed to leap out over and over again.

Standing there, moving through the brick lined tiny village lane, cocking my camera to take a image of the bullocks eating in the cow shed, a women creeped up next to me demanding to know what what the meaning of this shooting, I smiled and nodded my head hoping that I came across as neutral and non threatening. Walking away, all i could smile and state was, that it could be me.

There is no race, no where to go that makes life such a race. Its all good.