Life is a song...

On Music by Thomas Moore

When through life unblest we rove,
Losing all that made life dear,
Should some notes we used to love,
In days of boyhood, meet our ear,
Oh! how welcome breathes the strain!
Wakening thoughts that long have slept,
Kindling former smiles again
In faded eyes that long have wept.

Like the gale, that sighs along
Beds of oriental flowers,
Is the grateful breath of song,
That once was heard in happier hours.
Fill'd with balm the gale sighs on,
Though the flowers have sunk in death;
So, when pleasure's dream is gone,
Its memory lives in Music's breath.

Music, oh, how faint, how weak,
Language fades before thy spell!
Why should Feeling ever speak,
When thou canst breathe her soul so well?
Friendship's balmy words may feign,
Love's are even more false than they;
Oh! 'tis only music's strain
Can sweetly soothe, and not betray.

Desert places...

Desert Places Snow falling and night falling fast, oh,
fast In a field I looked into going past,
And the ground almost covered smooth in snow,
But a few weeds and stubble showing last.

 The woods around it have it - it is theirs.
All animals are smothered in their lairs.
I am too absent-spirited to count;
The loneliness includes me unawares.

And lonely as it is, that loneliness
Will be more lonely ere it will be less -
A blanker whiteness of benighted snow
With no expression, nothing to express.

They cannot scare me with their empty spaces
Between stars - on stars where no human race is.
I have it in me so much nearer home
To scare myself with my own desert places.


 Robert Frost

I cannot dance upon my Toes

I cannot dance upon my Toes --
No Man instructed me --
But oftentimes, among my mind,
A Glee possesseth me,

That had I Ballet knowledge --
Would put itself abroad
In Pirouette to blanch a Troupe --
Or lay a Prima, mad,

And though I had no Gown of Gauze --
No Ringlet, to my Hair,
Nor hopped to Audiences -- like Birds,
One Claw upon the Air,

Nor tossed my shape in Eider Balls,
Nor rolled on wheels of snow
Till I was out of sight, in sound,
The House encore me so --

Nor any know I know the Art
I mention -- easy -- Here --
Nor any Placard boast me --
It's full as Opera --

by Emily Dickinson

The swan lake...

ACT I

Prince Siegfried arrives at his 21st birthday celebration on the palace courtyards to find all of the royal families and townspeople dancing and celebrating, while the young girls are anxiously seeking his attention. During the exquisite celebration, his mother gives him crossbow and informs him that because he is of age now, his marriage will be quickly arranged. Hit with the sudden realization of his future responsibilities, he takes his crossbow and makes haste to the woods with his hunting buddies.

ACT II

Getting ahead of the group, Prince Siegfried finds himself alone in a peaceful spot by an enchanted lake where swans gently float across its surface. While Siegfried watches, he spots the most beautiful swan with a crown on its head. His buddies soon catch up, but he orders them to leave so he can be by himself. As dusk falls, the swan with the crown turns into the most beautiful young woman he has ever seen. Her name is Odette, the Swan Queen. She informs the young prince that an evil sorcerer, Von Rothbart, who so happens to be disguised as Prince Siegfried’s mentor, has turned her and the other girls into swans and that the lake was formed by the tears of their parents' weeping. She tells him that the only way the spell could be broken is if a man, pure in heart, pledges his love to her. The Prince, about to confess his love for her, is quickly interrupted by the evil sorcerer. He takes Odette from Prince Siegfried’s embrace and commands all of the swan maidens to dance upon the lake and its shore so that the prince cannot chase them. Prince Siegfried is left all alone on the shore of Swan Lake.

 ACT III

The next day at the formal celebration in the Royal Hall, Prince Siegfried is presented with many prospective princesses. Although the princesses are worthy of his attention, he cannot stop thinking about Odette. His mother commands him to choose a bride, but he cannot. For the time being, he satisfies his mother's request by dancing with them. While the prince dances, trumpets announce the arrival of Von Rothbart. He brings his daughter, Odile, on whom he has cast a spell to appear as Odette. The prince is captivated by her beauty and he dances with the imposter. Unbeknownst to Prince Siegfried, the true Odette is watching him from a window. The prince soon confesses his love to Odile, thinking that she is Odette. To Odette’s horror, she flees into the night. Prince Siegfried sees the real Odette fleeing from the window and realizes his mistake. Upon his discovery, Von Rothbart reveals to the prince the true appearance of his daughter Odile. Prince Siegfried quickly leaves the party and chases after Odette.

 ACT IV

Odette has fled back to the lake and joined the rest of the girls in sadness. Prince Siegfried finds them gathered at the shore consoling each other. He explains to Odette the trickery of Von Rothbart and she grants him her forgiveness. It isn’t long before when Von Rothbart appears in his evil, un-human, somewhat bird like, form. Von Rothbart tells the prince that he must stick to his word and marry his daughter. A fight quickly ensues. Prince Siegfried tells Von Rothbart that he would rather die with Odette than to marry Odile. In the fight that ensues, Von Rothbart dies and Sigfried is united with Odette for the happy ending.

Carousel...

Riding on a carousel, face towards the wind
going 'round in circles, coming back again. 
Grabbing for the brass ring, just when it's in sight
lights are shining all around...maybe some too bright. 
Sometimes as you feel in life, going 'round and 'round
for like this happy carousel it has its ups and downs. 
The music plays so gaily, sometimes its way too loud
enjoying the excitement... you're caught up in the crowd. 
You've come again a full circle, you think you have returned
now in search another ticket... more lessons to be learned. 
You hope this ride will last forever, you know it never will
too soon your time is over...the motion ever still. 
The music quickly ceases, so silent as the night
your vision slowly dims... the lights are not so bright. 
You look within your pocket, not ticket to be found
with sadness, slowly walk away...as quiet as it's sound.
In life just like the carousel... there's not another ride
never is in black and white, real life and dreams collide. 
You turn to take, just one last look... to ride it one last time
the lights are on for others now...you understand this rhyme?
You had your fun, you rode it well... you know now its their turn
the music comes alive again... the lights now brightly burn
You thought you had the brass ring....held tightly in your hand
but it no longer glimmers... will never shine again
It now is realized what you've learned... the lessons you have found
in life there's many ups and downs...but only one go round.

- by a poet whose name we lost to history

Quirky wall art... true nonetheless...

The road less traveled...

TWO roads diverged in a yellow wood,

And sorry I could not travel both

And be one traveler, long I stood

And looked down one as far as I could

To where it bent in the undergrowth;

       Then took the other, as just as fair,

And having perhaps the better claim,

Because it was grassy and wanted wear;

Though as for that the passing there

Had worn them really about the same,

        And both that morning equally lay

In leaves no step had trodden black.

Oh, I kept the first for another day!

Yet knowing how way leads on to way,

I doubted if I should ever come back.

        I shall be telling this with a sigh

Somewhere ages and ages hence:

Two roads diverged in a wood, and I—

I took the one less traveled by,

And that has made all the difference.

                                                                              ---- Robert Frost

The journey goes on...

Oh me! Oh life!

By Walt Whitman

Oh me! Oh life! of the questions of these recurring,

Of the endless trains of the faithless, of cities fill’d with the foolish,

Of myself forever reproaching myself, (for who more foolish than I, and who more faithless?)

Of eyes that vainly crave the light, of the objects mean, of the struggle ever renew’d,

Of the poor results of all, of the plodding and sordid crowds I see around me,

Of the empty and useless years of the rest, with the rest me intertwined,

The question, O me! so sad, recurring—What good amid these, O me, O life?

                                       Answer.

That you are here—that life exists and identity,

That the powerful play goes on, and you may contribute a verse.

And so I forge ahead - one step at a time.

And so I spread my wings and fly - through good weather and bad, through night skies and day. 

Because there is a journey I must make, to find the words that make my verse.

Cities and their identities...

Cities like people have identities. 

They have stories of the past and hopes for the future. They define its people, their outlooks, opportunities and lives. In my very limited travels, I have rarely seen a city with an identity as strong as that of London. 

Steeped in history, London has successfully managed to carry its past into the future as an asset and not as a baggage. It has held on to the best and the worst of the years gone by and forged a new identity using the same. 

Walking through the streets of London is often like walking through a warped time capsule with its victorian and gothic style buildings juxtaposed with modern amenities and technology.  

I love the fact during the course of one day in this city, one can travel through thousands of years of world history in the museums and at the same time stay fully connected to the present. One can witness the beginnings of humanity and at the same time stay rooted in the present. I love the fact that one can watch Shakespeare in the afternoon and Spielberg at night - all within a single day.  I love the fact that the city is so comfortable in its own skin. 

Unlike London, most cities I see are constantly trying to forge a new identity. To either become more modern, industrialized and advanced or to establish their legacy and their ancient roots. 

Woods are lovely, dark, and deep...

The woods are lovely, dark, and deep,
But I have promises to keep,
And miles to go before I sleep,
And miles to go before I sleep.

 --- Robert Frost

Stories in a snapshot

As some one who loves photography, I am often trying to capture more than an object or a person. The challenge is to capture a great shot technically and at the same time to present a thought, a vision, a story, a question, an ideology - something that makes the photograph more than the sum of all its parts. More than the sum of f stops, exposures, saturation and the composition. That in my mind is what makes great photography an art form - something that speaks to people at their different levels. Something lets the viewer bring his own experience and interpretation as he views your subject.  

One normally tries to do this by altering the composition, exposure, focus etc by engineering the photograph to show what you want. But sometimes, things happen and you just happen to be in the right place at the right time. 

This was one of those shots. 

Those rare ones where the moment you press the "Click", you know that you have a great shot. Where you hate to do any post-processing, where you want to actually just admire your luck. 

I managed to capture this moment at the Hemis monastery in Ladhakh and when I first saw this through my camera lens, I was actually speechless for a couple of minutes - ecstatic with joy. I knew I had a great shot. 

This photograph speaks to me at so many levels but I was always unsure of what it meant to people who were not there in that moment. And then a few days back, I was talking to a friend about my travelogue to Leh and then the subject of this photograph came up. 

She too instantly liked this photograph. And I knew that I was successful is capturing the essence of the place and of the moment, without being clouded by my perceptions. 

This monk standing at the edge of human civilization - stoic, reflective and modest as he faces the magnificence of nature. The power of the human race in inhabiting such harsh conditions. The slightly crooked mud-dwellings providing refuge against the elements of nature. The quiet admiration and contemplation in his visage after a morning prayer as he looks at the mountains in front. The drama in the clouds suggesting the tempestuousness of the elements and the persistence of mankind. 

I have loved this photograph since that moment just after the click to this very day, almost a year later. And I wish that the element of luck that helped me make this photograph stays with me as I stay on the look out for those "stories in a snapshot" moments. 

When home beckons...

Lines written from home

by Anne Bronte

Though bleak these woods, and damp the ground
With fallen leaves so thickly strown,
And cold the wind that wanders round
With wild and melancholy moan;
There is a friendly roof, I know,
Might shield me from the wintry blast;
There is a fire, whose ruddy glow
Will cheer me for my wanderings past.

And so, though still, where'er I go,
Cold stranger-glances meet my eye;
Though, when my spirit sinks in woe,
Unheeded swells the unbidden sigh;

Though solitude, endured too long,
Bids youthful joys too soon decay,
Makes mirth a stranger to my tongue,
And overclouds my noon of day;

When kindly thoughts, that would have way,
Flow back discouraged to my breast; --
I know there is, though far away,
A home where heart and soul may rest.

Warm hands are there, that, clasped in mine,
The warmer heart will not belie;
While mirth, and truth, and friendship shine
In smiling lip and earnest eye.

The ice that gathers round my heart
May there be thawed; and sweetly, then,
The joys of youth, that now depart,
Will come to cheer my soul again.

Though far I roam, that thought shall be
My hope, my comfort, everywhere;
While such a home remains to me,
My heart shall never know despair!

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These images remind me of everything that I hold dear about India - a place I still call home. The colors, the motion and the suspended animation. The foods, the spices, the smells and the tastes. The changing seasons but the ever present the street vendors, the colors and the celebrations. It is a place that still stands out for me from the rest of the world. It is a country that is being transformed faster than it can realize. It is a country whose fate lies in the cauldron of development, technology and progress. I hope that even as it moves ahead in time - it manages to hold on to all that makes it special - its art, its history, its culture and its people.

And even as I miss home and all about it, I long to see the world - the world that is fast shrinking and becoming more and more homogeneous. I want to see it all before all the diversity is wiped clean.

And that is when the eternal Tagore comes to rescue

"and one has to wander through all the outer worlds to reach the innermost shrine at the end. 
My eyes strayed far and wide before I shut them and said `Here art thou! 
The question and the cry `Oh, where?' 
melt into tears of a thousand streams and 
deluge the world with the flood of the assurance `I am!'"

PS - Anne Bronte, the youngest of the Bronte sisters is a fascinating personality in herself. Although least renowned of the three, she was a great writer and a revolutionary for her times. Her second novel, "The tenant of Wildefill Hall" is a true and multilayered depiction of the position of women in the english society. The struggles of her character against such a male dominated society was the focal point of the novel making it one of the first truly feminist novels. The repercussions of the novel were so many that the elder sisters prevent a republication of the novel. Although I know very little about Anne (came to know of her very recently in a discussion with a friend about Jane Eyre and Jane Austen), I am fascinated by her and her story and look forward to reading her sometime soon.