chaotic order

I was listening to Verdi's "Requiem" - an operatic composition set on the lines of Roman catholic mass; dedicated to his close friend and great Italian writer Alessandro Monzani. Reclining on my couch with a Julian Barnes book in hand, the slow movement and tenor of the Soprano in chaste and undecipherable Latin rises layer after layer into a rarefied atmosphere of pure sound, and heart stirring  octaves. The hundred odd violins carry and jettison the restrained passion and deep pathos of Leontyne Price (arguably the most prolific operatic tenors of the twentieth century). At some time during the second movement of the mass, The book I was reading involuntarily dropped onto my chest ,and I lost contact with what i was reading; mesmerized and transported into the hallowed world of Renaissance; inside the Basilica of a Catholic church, gilded in gold , with priests in purple vestments and the choir boys and girls in pure white flowing robes, standing erect with their voice

Blaise Pascal, the seventeenth century philosopher and mathematician left behind a body of observations and insights, which later was collected in a book called "Pensees" ( thoughts, in French). Pascal was more a man of the world than an ascetic in the literary sense. Sometimes, when I read the "Pensees", I find, that it has remarkable similarities with aphorisms in the Bhagavad Gita : Strikingl y practical, and oozing with common sense. Not surprising though because Pascal was a trained mathematician of the highest order , hence his thoughts were very precise, incisive and never shies away from the truth. The reason i am reminded of Pascal now is because of a phone call I received a couple of hours ago from a friend in Atlanta. He said he was going mad , restless ,sitting at home, with all this Ice and snow on the roads making it impossible to venture out or do anything. I sympathized with him, but at the back of my mind a particular observation from Pensees came

"The mind is its own place, and in itself can make a heaven of hell, a hell of heaven..”. John Milton wrote this verse in 1667, in his immortal poem "Paradise lost" . The other day, I happened to be researching Milton for my work, and my eyes glanced upon this timeless verse by the poet. Over ten thousand lines of blank verse, each sparkling with originality and spontaneous vitality, gushing forth  like a torrential river in spate , symbolizing the proverbial "fall" of Man from grace and his possible redemption - this poem is a watershed in the history of theology and literature. Milton was impoverished and virtually blind when he composed these magisterial lines. Like his Musical counterparts Beethoven and Bach ,who created some of their finest music when their sensory apparatus had completely failed them, Milton dictated "Paradise Lost" to his aides over a period of five years and sold it for a pittance to a publisher, who couldn't afford to ha

Unless one starts feeling raw pain, suffering or happiness, without pigeon- holing it into conceptualized compartments, the experience and the understanding of it is often incomplete. The psychological ideation of experience kills its beauty and any direct contact with it. When the Buddha held up a rose in front of his disciples as a sermon, only Ananda kept quiet and smiled without any ratiocina tion about it ; or when Gertrude Stein wrote : 'A rose is a rose is a rose', she indicated the "factualness" of things that are self evident and needs no further elaboration. The point is that the process of labeling is merely a socially convenient contrivance , and the moment it takes on the mantle of reality then we are in serious trouble. The other day I heard somebody telling me that she was going through a "Mid life crisis". Now, in one single pithily defined phrase, she has wrapped her entire gamut of feelings and thoughts spread over years into a snug little

The nation loses yet another fine, sensitive director in Balumahendra. His work may not be very familiar to audiences in Northern India , but he will, forever be remembered and cherished as the Man who conceived the beautiful, poignant and  tragic drama on Indian screen - "Sadma" : that wonderful biopic which captured the essence of altruistic love and its repercussions, bringing out the best in Kamal Hassan and Sridevi. Balu was a cinematographer who turned Director; and we are fortunate that he did, because the precision of his camera was only matched by the simplicity , intensity and relevance of the magic that he created on screen. I still remember a Tamil film that still resonates in me as a path breaking venture on Indian screen titled - "Moodu Pani" , roughly translated as " Intense fog". It explored the sexual deviations of a man with an abused childhood, who grows up to dislike the concept of femininity and ends up murdering them in a fit of

The strange alienation of man in society is a theme that has been explored many times in various art forms, especially in literature. To capture the essence of this deep human void on screen is an art that requires the confluence of many fa cets of film making. A proper setting, great actors, a subtle story line and above all, a director who can visualize frames and sequences that touch the undercurrent of sadness and non-fulfillment in life. Sophia Coppola, the daughter of legendary Francis ford Coppola has managed to get it all right in this wonderfully sensitive and meaningful 2003 movie “Lost in translation”. The film revolves around an aging and successful actor and a lonely and intellectually alive housewife, running into each other in a Hotel in Tokyo. Each trying to find a sense and purpose in life and its relationships, but unable to touch the spot of solace within. Set in the mechanized, fast paced environs of Tokyo, the movie beautifully explores the creeping uneasines

One of the authors I have enjoyed immensely over the years is Gita Mehta. I remember reading her first book “Karma cola” sometime in the late nineties. Curiously, I had picked that book off the shelf not so much for the title but for the pi cture of Gita on the Flap cover of the hard bound edition. It was a stunning Black and white photograph of her, leaning against a wall relaxed and demurely poised, a charming smile and ever so gracefully draped in a flowing Saree. To be frank, I had a curious disregard for female Indian authors at that time, and the only one that I had read were Shobha de’s attempts at writing Hollywood fiction in Indian context. But “Karma cola” was a revelation. Here was a writer, who not only could write beautifully but also understood the deep moral and spiritual fibers that run through this large and divided nation. It was an attempt to redefine the relevance of Modern India to western eyes, not so much as a justification, but as a testimony to its depth a