Thursday, July 31, 2003

Endless, meaningless words. In ‘The Fire and the Rain’, Vishakha succumbs to Yavakri under the guise of the words she declared herself to be hungry for. Words, she has always known are never what they mean. Obvious camouflage. Blatant games.

As an aside, it is also a very fine script. Amazingly nuanced and bitingly political. The film (Agnivarsha) was a disaster. Sajnani just superimposes the words into the mouths of unthinking actors, loses the entire flavour. Karnad is meant to be felt and performed, not just re-created. Karnad is like Steinbeck to the extent that he walks the fine line between grandeur and pomposity.

Sorrow is grand.
Beauty is grand, great beauty grander.
Grotesque, vicious, maligned and slandered...all grand.
Sometimes, some very rare times, I waft into uninhabited space. Untouched and noiseless, cold and unfeeling, safe and sound. And then the world rushes back in…screeching voices and multiple lives, exaggerated existence and crises galore. I wait for the other extreme, the one where beauty returns in small measure, where noise clears out into fugues.

Frankly, like Siddhartha, all I would like to do is think, wait and fast. I am not a very good participant. I resent having to play when I am not in the mood to.
They are old. The gestures, the words, the actions and the deeds. Nothing can be said that hasn’t been said before nor done that hasn’t taken prior form nor attempted that hasn’t been tried a hundredfold by minions beyond count.

I am but an amalgamation of the many that were and a precursor to the many that will be. Just another point on the continuum of no beginning and no end.

In some corner of some labyrinth, I
And then again, I specialise in illusions. Kaleidoscopes of colour. Waves of light.
Tinseltown magic.