chaotic order

Umberto Eco - a literary giant passes away. The Sforza’s led the renaissance in Italy: Francesco and Ludovico - Father and son not only consolidated the military ambitions of Milan, but also led a cultural and intellectual efflorescence that was to dazzle and provide momentum for a thousand other works of art conceived during that brilliant age. Their castle at Milan , fondly called the Sforza palace, was their artistic apogee. Adorned and embellished by DaVinci, Fortified by Bramante, it has held court to some of the greatest intellectuals, poets, dramatists of that age, and it was fitting in modern times, that the body of the one of the accomplished writers of its soil was laid in state within those spacious walls on 20th of February 2016. Umberto Eco, the Italian thinker, philosopher, novelist, essayist, symbolist, critic and a fit successor to the literary genius of Dante died peacefully in bed earlier this month, giving up his two year tryst with Pancreatic cancer. Like Dante,

“A little chaos” - a loving liaison between fact and fiction. Artistic license is a privilege granted to every artist. It gives them the freedom to imagine, conceive, expand, infiltrate, offend, beautify, and create a world of imaginary certitude ,transporting the beholder from their gross addiction to day to day affairs , into the realm of potentiality and harmonious blending of fact with fiction; infusing a drab and juiceless life with passion, clarity and emotional fulfillment - and above all, allowing one to see the world with fresh eyes without the restricting limitation of causation. Man has always loved his stories; for million of years it is in these steamy, vaporous and often dreamy world of stories he has had his sustenance. It has filled every human event with a sense of extraordinary, and every act blessed with a hoary myth. And It is from these beginnings we have evolved into our modern selves; not by casting away out our primeval attraction to fiction, but by merely s

Misty Copeland - éloges pour une ballerine On a pleasant June evening in New York, the year is 2012, Hundreds of classical music and Dance connoisseurs congregated at the Metropolitan Opera ( lovingly called the MET) with a subdued sense of apprehension. The imposing entrance of the MET displayed a huge banner ,gently flapping in the light breeze, announcing the performance of “Firebird” - one of the renowned, artistically sublime and mesmerizing Ballet ever composed. All that the banner had on it was a flaming girl in red bending in a classic ballet position, with effulgent shades of crimson and violet emanating from her body. And in between those profusion of dark colors, one could make out the focused, chiseled face and structure of Misty Copeland – the African- American ballet dancer, who was to play the lead role of Firebird in Igor Stravinsky’s Russian folk tale adaption. It was in 1910, that the world of art, chanced to bring together three genius in their respective fields

"In fear" - an intense study of psychological collapse One of the greatest, most intense fear of Man is the thought of getting lost: physically, psychologically or spiritually. Self-consciousness and rational thought, our twin vehicles of success on this planet, is definitely a boon considering whatever we have achieved as Humans. But the flip side is the perpetual, persistent goal driven life that such self-conscious thought projects and sustains. Other species don't face this problem. They live with an intensity in the moment, and die as naturally as they live. I wonder if they even know what a "goal" or an "end" means? Curiously, our fear is not about total annihilation per se (unfortunately we all know that we have to die), but this nagging existential feeling of not knowing what would happen after that. We assiduously cultivate our moral, intellectual, social, ethical and spiritual walls in such a way that we are, at the very least, lulled int

Donatien Alphonse François de Sade - Known to us as Marquis de Sade. ( P.S : It is amazing how these essays are born. Yesterday evening, over dinner, a friend casually used the word "sadist" referring to someone of his acquaintance over a very trivial affair. Though I acknowledged his judgment, somehow at the back of my mind, I was uncomfortable with his use of that word. Marquis De Sade was a significant writer, thinker and trail blazer in his own right. And it didn't seem right that a word coined around his name should be bandied about so frivolously. So I woke up in the middle of the night to pen this short essay, almost without a break. The subject may not be to everyone's liking, but life is such. Though Sade remains a controversial figure after 300 years, there is no taking away from the fact that his life opened a new leaf in understanding Human freedom and the limits to which he one can go to achieve an end.. Read on....) It is considered a matter of pri

August: Osage county - a riveting drama. There are moments in a Movie when all elements of genius – acting, screenplay, context and setting– gather together making it almost impossible to define or evoke in words that feeling of awe and transcendence such a cinematic frame could bring. And more so when on the same screen we have the intensity of Meryl Streep and overwhelming presence of an aging Julia Roberts enacting some of the finest pages of a Pulitzer winning play written by Tracy letts - August: Osage county. Let me try and recreate a pivotal scene of this film in words. A daunting task, but challenging as a writer and worth trying. Picture a large Dining room dimly lighted and furnished in dark wood. Three families have gathered together for a funeral dinner. Matriarch Streep (plays the role of Violet), her three daughters and their families wish to settle down for a quiet dinner reminiscing about the dead father. Streep’s husband (a brief role played by Sam Shepard) was f

A close encounter.. In these ephemeral pages of Facebook, I have recounted, relived and reminisced about many conversations and chance happenings over the last few years, but the one I am about to recount is perhaps unique, and I pray that I may never may the occasion to meet such a situation again. But then one never knows. The beauty and horror of life lies in its utter insecurity. At around 8.00 Pm today, walking back home from my Swim, there is dark stretch of road I need to traverse (unfortunately no street lights worth the name there) that bends towards an intersection that leads to my Apartment. It has been rainy day in Atlanta. Incessant drizzling and water soaked roads everywhere. With an umbrella over my head, tired and quite exhausted after a good hard workout, I was lost in contemplation over a podcast I was listening to in the Sauna. All of sudden, I felt someone tap my back. Turning around, I stood facing three hulks, Black-Americans, blood shot eyes, reeking of alc