Jottings - Slice of life - 292 ( Bhanu and I - thirty years of memories, and accumulating more)
Jottings - Slice of life - 292 ( Bhanu and I - thirty years of memories, and accumulating more)
It is fascinating how an old picture, drawn from the forgotten fullness of the past, can seek out from the hidden corners of the brain enough buried memories to create a kaleidoscopic tapestry of visual images. The images are so vivid, surreal and pulsating, that for some brief moments in time the relived past becomes the intense and absorbing present. The mystery of this visual parade of memories lies not in the mechanical sorting of countless small memories scattered in the vastness of one's psyche, but the delectable selection and connections it draws from those memory footprints in the loom of time. The spectacle is mysterious as it is forceful. The faded picture in front of our eyes, in few chronological minutes, reveals to the minds eye a show specially put together, orchestrated and delivered with an eclectic mix of emotions: there is sadness and joy, failure and hope, betrayals and friendships, and above all a powerful sense of feeling that accompanies the memories; just like waves of powerful emotions trailing a melancholy piece of music. Vladimir Nabokov, one of the greatest prose writers ever, captured this mysterious stream of triggered memories in his acclaimed autobiography “ Speak, Memory”. He writes: “I witness with pleasure the supreme achievement of memory, which is the masterly use it makes of innate harmonies when gathering to its fold the suspended and wandering tonalities of the past.” Yes, “..the suspended and wandering tonalities of the past” - what a beautiful expression!!
It was Gore Vidal, the Americal novelist, who called his autobiography “ Palimpsest”. The word means something reused or altered but still bearing visible traces of its earlier form. Our lives are palimpsests. Layers upon layers of meanings and relationships, each camouflaging the one before, and shifting the arc of life ever so slightly, or radically sometimes, in newer directions. But traces still remain. We are what we were decades ago, transformed and catalyzed into different selves, but links, however faint it may be, still remain intact, and every once in a while, an old picture with arms around a friend, a piece of old music, a familiar face, throws the door wide open and a cascade of former selves rush in to fill the canvas.
Bhanu and I met in college in the mid-eighties. I still remember the first time I met him. It was in a classroom on the first floor of Vasavi college in Hyderabad. He walked into the class, with his trademark shirt-out style, deep eyes and said “hello”. A faint mustache on his face flits through my mind's eye. I don't seem to remember the exact moment when that acquaintance turned into friendship - that’s always difficult to identify. I am sure it didn’t happen instantly but over the course of time. At least that’s what condensed fragments of memory tell me now. Emerson wrote in his journals: “ It is one of the blessings of old friends that you can afford to be stupid with them.” Bhanu and I were stupid with each other. We could talk to each other about anything, on anything. In the headiness of youth, we were idealistic too. One of our favorite pastimes was to ride on Bhanu’s Motorbike ( Bhanu had fantastic driving sense, I hope he still does) to a solitary burger joint in Jubilee Hills. We would sit there, order a burger, and chat about life. It would be dark, and the hills around would become utterly quiet with only the buzzing sounds of mosquitoes breaking the silence. During our ride back, we would be very quiet, as though we had revealed enough of each other over the course of the evening, allowing the blast of cold Hyderabad air to fortify our bond even further.
Memories of music rush in when I see this picture. Bhanu worshipped Ilayaraja. He still does, when I met him a year and a half ago In Boston. I can still see his eyes light up like fire when the subject of Ilayaraja came up. He would gesticulate and explain the intricacy of each song in an Ilayaraja album, pointing now to the tonal variation of SPB, or to the subtle use of violins and flute, or the pacy interlude of tabla, and then suddenly conceive a musical connection from a previous album — all done effortlessly and with passion. It was almost as if a devil possessed him when the subject was Ilayaraja. He would bear no criticism. Even when he did, it would be a masked and muted apology on behalf of the maestro, followed by a rationale for that apology. In all those years with him, my sense of music became more and more refined and polished. That film music can contain so many wonders - Bhanu demonstrated and taught me.
This essay can go and on. So many memories are jostling for space. Studies, infatuations, books, spirituality, cinema, college events, other friends, family, and professional dreams - all of them coalesce into one another, and at some point, the images intertwine and overlap to create a rich, puzzling, varied and complex relationship that cannot be explained or dissected. It is one holistic tapestry of memories that define our friendship. Thirty years, out of which, we may not have spoken for fifteen odd years, doesn’t make a difference. There is still that intense closeness of those first few years. Time cannot wash it away. When I close my eyes now and dig into the past to pull out one single thread to conclude this essay, what comes out is an evening at Krishnamurti Foundation of India (KFI), Chennai. We had moved to Chennai in the early nineties, and Bhanu had come to visit us. I drove him this time on my Kinetic Honda. KFI is a beautiful and quiet place. Krishnamurti had passed away a few years ago, but the place was still soaked with his presence. Bhanu and I sat down on the edges of a shallow well, with steps leading to the water below, watching the stillness of its surface, and the small ripples caused by little insects floating on it. We were discussing Krishnamurti’s approach to religion. I don't remember the discussion, but that image of Bhanu and I sitting quietly, not looking at each other, lost in contemplation about life’s bigger questions, somehow remains etched deep in my memory. It was, I guess, a pure unconditional moment between two friends, not feeling the need to talk incessantly, yet deeply understanding each other, and valuing the nature and depth of our friendship.
Thanks for sharing this picture Bhanu. We still continue on that journey...
God bless…
yours in mortality,
Bala
It is fascinating how an old picture, drawn from the forgotten fullness of the past, can seek out from the hidden corners of the brain enough buried memories to create a kaleidoscopic tapestry of visual images. The images are so vivid, surreal and pulsating, that for some brief moments in time the relived past becomes the intense and absorbing present. The mystery of this visual parade of memories lies not in the mechanical sorting of countless small memories scattered in the vastness of one's psyche, but the delectable selection and connections it draws from those memory footprints in the loom of time. The spectacle is mysterious as it is forceful. The faded picture in front of our eyes, in few chronological minutes, reveals to the minds eye a show specially put together, orchestrated and delivered with an eclectic mix of emotions: there is sadness and joy, failure and hope, betrayals and friendships, and above all a powerful sense of feeling that accompanies the memories; just like waves of powerful emotions trailing a melancholy piece of music. Vladimir Nabokov, one of the greatest prose writers ever, captured this mysterious stream of triggered memories in his acclaimed autobiography “ Speak, Memory”. He writes: “I witness with pleasure the supreme achievement of memory, which is the masterly use it makes of innate harmonies when gathering to its fold the suspended and wandering tonalities of the past.” Yes, “..the suspended and wandering tonalities of the past” - what a beautiful expression!!
It was Gore Vidal, the Americal novelist, who called his autobiography “ Palimpsest”. The word means something reused or altered but still bearing visible traces of its earlier form. Our lives are palimpsests. Layers upon layers of meanings and relationships, each camouflaging the one before, and shifting the arc of life ever so slightly, or radically sometimes, in newer directions. But traces still remain. We are what we were decades ago, transformed and catalyzed into different selves, but links, however faint it may be, still remain intact, and every once in a while, an old picture with arms around a friend, a piece of old music, a familiar face, throws the door wide open and a cascade of former selves rush in to fill the canvas.
Bhanu and I met in college in the mid-eighties. I still remember the first time I met him. It was in a classroom on the first floor of Vasavi college in Hyderabad. He walked into the class, with his trademark shirt-out style, deep eyes and said “hello”. A faint mustache on his face flits through my mind's eye. I don't seem to remember the exact moment when that acquaintance turned into friendship - that’s always difficult to identify. I am sure it didn’t happen instantly but over the course of time. At least that’s what condensed fragments of memory tell me now. Emerson wrote in his journals: “ It is one of the blessings of old friends that you can afford to be stupid with them.” Bhanu and I were stupid with each other. We could talk to each other about anything, on anything. In the headiness of youth, we were idealistic too. One of our favorite pastimes was to ride on Bhanu’s Motorbike ( Bhanu had fantastic driving sense, I hope he still does) to a solitary burger joint in Jubilee Hills. We would sit there, order a burger, and chat about life. It would be dark, and the hills around would become utterly quiet with only the buzzing sounds of mosquitoes breaking the silence. During our ride back, we would be very quiet, as though we had revealed enough of each other over the course of the evening, allowing the blast of cold Hyderabad air to fortify our bond even further.
Memories of music rush in when I see this picture. Bhanu worshipped Ilayaraja. He still does, when I met him a year and a half ago In Boston. I can still see his eyes light up like fire when the subject of Ilayaraja came up. He would gesticulate and explain the intricacy of each song in an Ilayaraja album, pointing now to the tonal variation of SPB, or to the subtle use of violins and flute, or the pacy interlude of tabla, and then suddenly conceive a musical connection from a previous album — all done effortlessly and with passion. It was almost as if a devil possessed him when the subject was Ilayaraja. He would bear no criticism. Even when he did, it would be a masked and muted apology on behalf of the maestro, followed by a rationale for that apology. In all those years with him, my sense of music became more and more refined and polished. That film music can contain so many wonders - Bhanu demonstrated and taught me.
This essay can go and on. So many memories are jostling for space. Studies, infatuations, books, spirituality, cinema, college events, other friends, family, and professional dreams - all of them coalesce into one another, and at some point, the images intertwine and overlap to create a rich, puzzling, varied and complex relationship that cannot be explained or dissected. It is one holistic tapestry of memories that define our friendship. Thirty years, out of which, we may not have spoken for fifteen odd years, doesn’t make a difference. There is still that intense closeness of those first few years. Time cannot wash it away. When I close my eyes now and dig into the past to pull out one single thread to conclude this essay, what comes out is an evening at Krishnamurti Foundation of India (KFI), Chennai. We had moved to Chennai in the early nineties, and Bhanu had come to visit us. I drove him this time on my Kinetic Honda. KFI is a beautiful and quiet place. Krishnamurti had passed away a few years ago, but the place was still soaked with his presence. Bhanu and I sat down on the edges of a shallow well, with steps leading to the water below, watching the stillness of its surface, and the small ripples caused by little insects floating on it. We were discussing Krishnamurti’s approach to religion. I don't remember the discussion, but that image of Bhanu and I sitting quietly, not looking at each other, lost in contemplation about life’s bigger questions, somehow remains etched deep in my memory. It was, I guess, a pure unconditional moment between two friends, not feeling the need to talk incessantly, yet deeply understanding each other, and valuing the nature and depth of our friendship.
Thanks for sharing this picture Bhanu. We still continue on that journey...
God bless…
yours in mortality,
Bala
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