Stories at evening

The end is not just one time phenomenon. I experience it every evening, when I sit with myself, thoughts and images of past and future lingering around me and there is nothing but a thin membrane of something unknown between me and melancholy of fading day present in everything around.
I have a book in my hand, last few pages left. It is difficult to read stories which pull you inside them and make yourself appear in not just one but many characters of them. You see yourself torn not just this great pull, but by shake of your image you held with yourself, being one, not scattered and repetition of many. I am soaked into floods and storms of the story. I am feeling increasingly tired as story is nearing the climax. And, stories, for they are not like or much alike life, do not have ends, but plethora of nods, each leading to end which you sketch. I will not experience my end. I will experience all the ‘ends’ which hare not mine, but connected to me. Like this day, like this story, like this phase of time, like these words, like this evening, I will be nothing but an observer, helpless and left with some withered expressions.
A strange anaz is in the surrounding. I remember evenings when I used to sit on the shore of creek and similar pale voice used to fill the air from nearby mosque. City has not penetrated all islands of silence then. The sun used to hide into other ends of the water, reminiscence of losses spread over the calm surface of water, boats carrying tired sailors anchored in near-midstream and I, a boy with nothing as guilt or burden of time evidencing this. It was not like this. I never felt evening like this when I was actually there. I am fooling my mind by covering it in nostalgia.
Stories end, but somewhere near the end of one story, other one begins its journey. There is no perfect end or destruction as there is no perfect creation. Everything resembles something previous. That’s how I am able to connect, wit stories happening in space and time unknown to me, with space and time which is never in those stories.
The spell is ending, of the story, of the evening. Now, what I will do? My limbs are weak. I am feeling drained. I will see this story everywhere for few days, until a new story will grip me. it is just crust and troughs of stories, dreams and memories, guilt and prides woven in strange pattern, but with astonishing consistency and appearance which eludes every time and then disappears one day, and then everything is just same, dull and boring as it is for last so many days.
Now poems are rippling on the skin, evening has sunk deep into time and I am watching these lines, passing away, somewhere, nowhere….

The last lesson

Every story generates its listener when that story comes into being, into the mind of somebody or into the surroundings of the one who ultimately tells it. And, stories do not exist without listeners. Even when it is not told to anybody, it is repeated into the mind and heard by the one who tells it too.
It is difficult to live anybody in mid of fiction or reality. Encounters should be without any anticipatory images formed in the mind or anticipations and imaginations should not culminate into anything real and approximate.
I do not know how I will be in the future. I want to submerge into pool of people living continuously around me. I want to watch formations and interactions of personalities. I want to see how people come together, cross initial mud of disbeliefs, form mutual trust and then how uncertainties rolling over them wither all what have been achieved, even with careful and delicate balance of human actions and diverging intentions. It is not I am sadist. But, I am not really ‘optimistic preacher’ which will sooner or later proclaim about some ultimate truth, happy and eternal.
Or I wish I should be just away from them. But, these questions are engrossing. Once one start thinking about them, it is difficult to leave them completely. They haunt, they elude and they keep you in their mystery, almost forever.
The every end generates new possibilities. This is what we hear right from childhood or adolescences when we first experience some end, in family or in school or in relations with people or animal or things with which we live. Soon we forget and jumps into honkey dorey state and feel like ‘life is just happiness’. Then again it goes back to ultimatum, again we console ourselves with age old wisdoms, but we do not really live it. I am writing it, am I living it?
So about the story.

They all have gathered into vast roads of the city. They were not shouting, not crying, and not seeking any familiarities with people of the city. They have brought many creatures with them. They have animals, some of them were declared ‘extinct’ by city scholars with statistical significance, some plants which were not yet listed into piles of Ph.D.s and some smells, voices, touches, none of which are listed into giga or tera storages of information. They are not having any identity cards and they were not filling any applications. They were just standing, chatting with each other in friendly murmur, hugging each other, caressing animals and birds and plants, listening to voices, experiencing touches and just keeping themselves away and yet into shadows of familiarities from city.
News has spread in the city about empty villages and empty fields and empty sanctuaries, museums and empty conservated areas. But, since nobody is elected from empty lands, nobody has asked news channels to cover such ‘emptiness’. The worries have reduced about resources with such vacancies. In the night, some librarians have reported that few books have turned blank. Some of them are travelogues of jungles, fictions about land where people lived with their mystics and symbiosis with something called ‘nature’ and voyages into hitherto unknown then. Since, there is nothing new and unknown left now, nobody is worried about such disappearance. After all, past leaves its relevance quickly these days.
They formed some sort of arrangements, not like marching forces. It is gregarious flock of friends, going for beloved destination. They started walking, towards boundaries of city, near the sea. They walked, in the afternoon gaze of sun, in reflections of them into mirrors of sky-scrapers and through roads full with wonders of automation. They walked, barefoot, bare skin and with tidy nakedness of their unnoticed existence. Soon, some songs flew in the air, whistles of woods, calls of birds and animals and conversations of man with another man.
They reached the shore. Now sea waves are running among their feet. Sun is about to set, but paused momentarily with bemusement. One of them came in front of them. He has rugged smile and enriched years on his face. He said, in soft, unwaving voice,” this is it my friends. This far and no further. Our friends living in the city are in trouble. Their ideas are blocked by our innocent but foolish amalgamations with the land, water and time in which we live. They see much further than what we see. They listen much sharply than we can and more than all this, they cannot come back to us, even though we remember that once they were part of us, we bidded them farewell since they promised to bring back us our dreams in real life. Now space which we have occupied, not on earth but in their conscious and trouble which we are causing, not of adjusting our retarded lifestyle into their, but of making sense of our irrationalities into their perfect system of meaning, let’s give them what we deserve. It is not outrage, anger but simple act of accepting that we do not belong here. See, this huge canvas before our eyes, sea and the beautiful blue limits in which we soon depart.” He smiled, few tears rolled on his otherwise calm face. Others stood metamorphosed for few moments, and then they looked at whatever surrounded them, filled all their senses with memories but no dreams and started walking into depths of sea.
Soon, with last few rays of sun left, they all are peacefully assimilated into sea. Part which cannot be separated from it, part of sea from what once first living being crawled out. They completed the circle.
………. In the night, one child, as child often does what it is not supposed to do, hurriedly wake up mother. “What?” mother said. “I am not seeing any dreams” child said with touch of loss. Mother looked at child, may be helplessly, as answers have submerged and cannot be traced now.

Before and After

http://www.guardian.co.uk/society/gallery/2008/mar/31/lifebeforedeath?picture=333325401

Got this link with some random search. Google is awesome!!

People with happy faces are dying with sad ones and vice versa for complaining people.
One woman looks like my granny and my granny is still alive...
Does somebody looks familier to anybody known and alive to you? Don't try really!

Precautions

I can’t listen to silence. Silence falls. It doesn’t come or cannot be invited.
The problem in attempt of living stories and poems is simple. They are hardly real. Especially you try to live stories of others; it ends up in misplaced notions about yourself. Either have your own story or just live. No story is needed to live. Life exists and flourishes with itself. This is not i intend to write, but carry on...
From childhood I have been introduced to harmful things. Language and past are most hazardous among them. Language ruined me as I started believing it as cornerstone of interactions. Today only I realized it is the best tool of selfish achievements. Even freeing your own sorrows, tiny or gigantic, are selfish! Past has many burdens. It makes me to have identity. Identity cannot be searched. The more it is searched, the more lost it is. Some people have identity and they are homogeneously tied with it. They are lucky!
One should not learn probability. It doesn’t allow answering in ‘yes’ and ‘no’. Most of the problems do not remain problems if they are put in yes/no framework.
Silence is very illusive. It deceives you very cleverly. It gives you the feeling that you are experiencing a silence. It is just a ploy for next turmoil. Practical way of reducing pains is curtail the happiness which starts them. As example, it means have abortion; it will avoid pains of death for that child in future. But future is again tricky phenomenon. Information is fluid essential for any movement through time or space or people. More information, easy the movement. Future is state for which information can be of many type. Somehow, information is more than required for past sometimes.
Balance is with us from childhood. We get it in our walking by making mistakes, and most of us loose it until they die. This is cycle as every other thing.
This writing is sarcastic and unfortunately, it is or will or was true. Truth is useless if it is time and space independent.
There are always alternate definitions and sometimes more appropriate.
You can listen to songs, birds, vehicles, leaves, yells, tunes, murmurs, whispers, shouts, machines, clouds, animals, yourself, someone else, god, speech, death and many more...
What cannot be listened is silence... what cannot be contradicted is contradiction....
Poems are hazardous. They can cause emotional cancer. It grows and occupies rapidly. There are medicines with simple side-effect- death.

Dance! Dance!!

Its music penetrating every spot of the skin. whole body is thirsty to get more and more. as every beat hits the skin, it passes through veins and converts into movement of body. I don't know what the song is, I don't who is dancing with me, I don't know what will be after, I don't know what will be before. It is close, close to madness, but not madness as I am able to recall it and write this dance of words. My fingers dancing on keyboard, voices and yells yet loud in ears and asking me, Dance! Dance!!
Brain is confused for the escatacy. It doesn't know it is alcohol ruling it or it is sheer joy of putting all body, all existence to one and one coherent rhythm that makes it go wild. It demands every pleasure that it can have. It demands every wild passion it can experience. It demands this state to be continued forever. Dance! Dance!!
And it is just not me. There are people around me dancing. Walls are dancing. Air is dancing and so the everything that my senses can sense. And above all, past and future are just sublimating into joy of being my own this moment. I feel myself. I feel every action of mine. I feel myself, close to everybody, yet defined uniquely by my own. Dance! Dance!!
You should have been here. No, it's better you are not here dancing around me. It's nice that dream is yet accomplished. Wounds of loss are fresh. They are crying to conquer, to roar a loud and massive cry of victory. And, yet, I am passing quickly to a rapture which will be away from every such counting. It's music, it's that wild thunder-beat which would have made my primitive ancestors dance. It is lightening, it is first rain touching thirsty earth, it is passion which brings a man to a woman and it is bell which tolls for everybody who dreams. It is tolling now, it is calling now, it is asking to submerge into pool of waves of music, music that accompanies us right from our birth and ends into silence forever. Before such silence grips and everything falls into endless peace, Dance! Dance!!

To Myself

To myself

Dear,
This is the only time I am using ‘dear’ as you are the only existence which I love most and at the same time, as I am feeling now, I feel bored of and wish to end. There is no great loss, but series of tiny but acute failures which is pushing inch and inch forward, either to break every connection with ‘others’ or on the verge of explode and vanish. It is time, as it was before on many occasions, to put the head down and accept that you are limited, nothing special or gifted but a wayward dreamer and most important, without a useful thing called ‘luck’. Life is nothing but continued boredom when there is no central, burning passion that keeps you restless every moment. You don’t have one. Dear, understand. There is nothing wrong being like everybody else. Remember, you used to run faster among others once. You used to hate and compete everybody who seems to cross you. Where are you now? Looser, you haven’t left the race and you are dreaming to win it when you have been thrown out. Tick, tock, tick, tock, listen, madman, your time is finishing soon. Do you see a laugh on all those faces watching you sunk? Don’t you see pains that you are putting on those who put hopes on you? Your shoulders are down with continued failures to keep yourself on track. You messed up every role, kept running away, faked everybody with ephemeral promises and now, you don’t even recognize yourself.
Looser! Looser!! Down! Down!!

Thoughts of a passerby

I am walking and I am feeling this road very diferently. I walk here everyday, but right now I feel the soft and subtle sound of falling leaves, nascent murmur of birds yet hidden in darkness and silent sleeping in all the homes around. It is early morning. I have some sense of satisfaction for rare chain of hours engrossed in work. I am thinking, restless to create my own models of reality and venture into intricasies of human actions as an observer. And, I feel time around me, passing slowly, slower than it usually goes and I see a small window to look into future.
In 50 years, population of earth will be doubled. Currently it is 6000 million. Earth's radius is 6400 Km. So it gives 2 X 3.14 X 6400 X 6400 area which comes as 257228800 square Km. Out of this only 1/4th is available as land. So it becomes 64307200 square kilometers. And, not all this area is available for cultivation or building houses. I can go along to sketch the doom. But thats not the point.
May be we will manage such a doubling. But then what will be this city which is currently overflowing? It will skyscrapers, subways and many things which I am not able to visualise now. But then will there be morning which i feel right now? Will there be a huge tree which is home for birds, shade for passerby and a simple symbol of life which can outweigh all efforts of uprooting? Will there be a place near to home where evening breeze can fly you in nostalgic memories and then moon light will sooth you?
My problem with crowd is of lack of beauty. Silence has many seeds of uncertainities. You cover yourself in the silence and then some seed reaches to flower of creation. Where will it be such silence? Will it become exotic and can be purchased at hoilday destinations? And, with millions of riches travelling around the globe, will we have enough silence hot spots?
the speed takes toll on us. It makes us aggresive. We seek for age old and rubbish identities to secure ourselves in dwindling pace of life. The more life accelerates, the more primitive we are becoming. I do not see any way if we do not seek soome silence in such dynamism.
Aha, I am again getting into philosophy and this beautiful dawn is ageing into yet another reguler morning in this city.
My words, I will sow you inside.
The happiness of being bourn,
pains and gains of being alive
and end, so certain, which is away from everything....

some leaves are falling, and silence is rapidly becoming unknown into dense forests of humans. Do you hear silence?

by death of a person who was poet

Death of a poet is not exactly death of poem. Poem hardly dies synchronously with poet. Its existence is not exactly harmonious with poet. According to its form, it becomes part of poet’s life as a person or encapsulates poet’s life as its larger sphere of manifestation.
Poet expressing delicate and intriguing emotions often find death of his poem in culmination of his youth. Poem, being a very primitive expression, fails to capture dynamics of these human emotions, feelings and desires, and displays ephemeral but memorable play. It has peaks and troughs, each replacing previous rapidly, vividly and in unanticipated manner. It has temporal features and it undergoes evolution speedily. It is inseparable from poet’s surroundings and imbibes history and geography of poet into expressions. Love poems are essentially of these sorts. There are many other expressions, which poet makes as an experiencing individual, which eventually die when poet cease to be the person which he or she was while formation of that poem.
There is other and stronger form of poem and poet, which is collective expression of poet and people around him. This is larger than life form which poet doesn’t create, but finds somewhere in continuous struggle to converge life as an free spirited individual and deeply concerned social member. This form to have local historical and geographical features, but poem grasps them and relates to global references. This poem is joyous expression of extraordinary collective deeds, let out of frustration of declining moralities which poet perceives, call to fight against exploitations forced on some deprived group and a constant urge to see out of our self towards bigger and challenging understanding of humanity. Poet as a person ends, but such poem is passed like a baton to next generation. A thundering call of such vibrant expression, tiring through vagaries of time, keeps igniting consciences to enjoy life in irregular frameworks and put it to hard but unavoidable test of meaning.
Why such philosophical description of lively form of poem and poet? Yesterday, one famous Marathi poet died. He was versatile and epoch making poet. It is not about awards and acclaims he received, but sort of change he brought in perception of people towards contemporary issues and changing form of urban life. There were articles and photographs of him, memories fitted in nostalgic and legendary tones and many expressions of vacuums. Is it so? Who died yesterday? Poet or person who was poet once?
Being poet is not lifelong activity. Poems are those rare moments when one sees something beyond regular and normal happening of life. It is touch to a world which is limit to beauty that we can bring to life. We say ‘picturesque’, but hardly ‘poemesque’. This rare gift comes as dreams that one sees. Dreams change as we go on living. From kissing uncertainties, dreams come to some bare truths as we move in life. Can poem be found in such limited edition?
Poem is short but intense life form. It dies much sooner that person who puts it into existence dies. What remains thereafter is some contradictory effort of that person to establish school of his ‘poetic’ philosophy. Poem laughs silently at such in vain efforts and comes to life through some other mind which starts journey of madness and walks roads not yet formed. Poem is companion of such journeys, not of holiday trip with family and friends.

Aha, poem...

Drift

you are drifting away, and I am too, either away or down.
I cannot see your face,
I cannot hear what you are saying,
are you smiling? are you crying?
Is your face wearing a silence, deeply hurt inside?
each current of time, is making us older, killing the forces which dreamed to mend the world
you love sea? you love a sky, friend of the sea? you know they meet at horizon which is just the earthly illusion?
the night went mad in partial construction of dreams, day starts berserk with this words...

लिहू का नको असं किती वेळ गोंधळ चाल्लय. आणि आता लिहिण्याशिवायाचा पर्याय नाही.

एखाद्या कागदावर चित्र काढायला सुरुवात करावी आणि अनेकदा चित्र बनता बनता काहीतरी चुकून खोडायला लागावा आणि सारं शुभ्र स्वच्छ कागद काळसर, खराब व्हावा आणि नवीन चित्राच्या प्रत्येक प्रयत्नाला अगोदरच एक मळभलाभावं असं झालाय.

का व्हावा असं संवादांच? संवादाला शांत, स्थिर आणि आश्वस्त रूप येईल असं वाटतानाच एकदम असे भोवरे का यावेत? आणि मग त्या न जमणार्या संवादासाठी बाकी सारं सूर हरवल्यागत का वाटावं मला? मी माझाच आहे न, मग हे न उलगडणारा गणित का? हा प्रश्न नाहीये तुला, ऐक फक्त.

खूप काही घडलंय ना अगोदर आणि म्हणून तू आता या क्षणी जाणवत नाहीयेस ह्यानेही तुटून जायला होत नाहीये. एक समतोल साधणारा निर्विकारपणा यायला लागलाय, ज्यात सगळंच हळूहळू समान आपलं आणि समान तटस्थ वाटतं. मला आवडत नाही हा असला शांत समतोल, तोल असावा ज्यात परस्पर विरोधी ताण आहे म्हणूनच आयुष्य स्थिर व्हावा.

पण असं होणारच होतं न. मग शांत राहू? तुझ्यापर्यंत हे काहीही पोचू न देता? तुलाही जे समजतंय त्यावर परस्पर संमतीच्या मौनाचं पांघरूण घालू?

आवेग अजूनही इतका आहे माझ्यात कि तू अशी अबोल, अस्पष्ट झालीस तर समोरच येईन तुझ्या आणि शब्दाने नाही तर त्यापलीकडच्या शरीराच्या आणि सोबत जाणवणाऱ्या एकमेकांच्या निखळ अस्तित्वाच्या संवादानेच सांगेन तुला, कि पोचलीस आहेस तू आता माझ्या शब्दात एवढी, तू त्यातून बाहेर जाण म्हणजे माझ्या शब्दांना अस्ताच्या तीराशी ठेवणं. का जातीयेस?

काहीही म्हण ह्याला... insecurity म्हण किंवा स्वार्थीपणा म्हण. गृहीतच धरतो आहे तुला, आणि सांग तुलाही हवंच होतं न हे कुठेतरी?

तरीही सांगू, बरोबरच असेल हे , ह्यातूनच परत केव्हातरी संवादाच्या नव्या आणि अजून गहिर्या आयामाशी येऊन पोचू. तुझ्यापाशी माझा संवादाची सोबत शोधायचा प्रवास संपलाय. आता एकटा असलो तरी त्यालाही किती समृद्ध केलयस तू.

आता शांतता आहे एक, ह्या शब्दांना माझ्यातून बाहेर ठेवून पाहतोय त्यांच्याकडे. थोड्या वेळाने ते माझे नसतील आणि ते तुला केव्हा समजतील कुणास ठाऊक

माझा आवेग, माझी शांततेची तितकीच गहिरी ओढ आणि त्यातून माझाच माझ्याशी दुरावा , आणि तूही तशीच, आलीस, एकांताच्या आवर्तात दूरच पण माझं चांदणं झालीस, चाललीयेस, तेही अनिश्चिततेच्या आवर्ताचे संकेत जिवंत ठेवून...

अशीच राहा, अशीच तहान राहो, ज्यानं तुझ्या येण्याचा बहर गात्रागात्राने भोगता येईल आणि ह्या एकांतालाही एक मृदू पालवी राहील....

Roots of Insomania

I am missing you this time. Means I know that there are mediums by which I can make you talk with me. But then that’s not what I wish this moment. I wish you to be here, giving these amalgamations of thoughts, memories and dreams an existence.
I had planned to sleep sooner than my norm these days. I wanted to have early, workable morning. I like to sleep with calm mind where no scratching questions. I am uncomfortable with questions, since they don’t usually have answers and I or somebody else wants them to have one. So I can’t be peaceful if I have question in mind. Usually I cheat myself and run away from question by either cooking up a dreamy, rhythmic world with no uncomfortable details or generating some uncomfortable but invincible and trivial solution. But even such runaway keeps scars and I can’t sleep peacefully. So I avoid conversations when I want new next day, without any signs of yesterday. Somehow my plan failed. I got into the conversation and that too philosophical one.
My roommate is a composed and thinking person. He hardly puts any statement without giving a thought. He has his priors and some strong justifications of these priors. Somehow we got into argument about Amartya Sen’s contribution and Human Development philosophy. I was in my usual iconoclastic role. He defended his argument, I counter argued evoking my favourite ‘limited cognition’ and ‘decision making’ principles. With lot of heat and no real light, argument ended in difficult silence. And, I have lost my sleep.
So I am awake. I know that I will wake up late now. So I will be laggard in this perfectly timed world. I will be following, running after trend setters and will be questioning myself, why the hell I am running like this. I will find myself at undesired places in undesired times. I will wish that I should have slept early. Everything is just cycling.
And, you must be wondering what is really going on. I wouldn’t have been chasing these mirages if I would have defined you uniquely.
Are you listening? Or have you left and I am just feeling your shadow, touches, voice, and words and assuming your existence to keep pieces of my identification together?
Now it is calmness. No untimely cries of crows, nor a cry from a fearful kitten. It’s silence. You are somewhere, sleeping, working, dreaming or thinking. I am here, with these words, with lots of lines extending in pasts and futures, collage of meanings of myself and you....

Thanks for the listening!

Morning Raga....

Good morning! Yea, yea, I am still little bit bored, but you know new things have some fresh effects. So this morning, which already became old till I got up, making me new, enthusiastic and asking me to do something. So many mornings were like this….
After few tomorrows, somebody won’t be here around. Not in a distance which can be zeroed in few hours. And, it is not just distance between places. What is the probability that we will be meeting again? We will be talking as we are today? Oh, we are or we were? So the morning is turning into some blackening and thickening cloud cover. I don’t have tears and I am choked…
Want a poem? ‘I hate boredom, I will have freedom’ or some free, vibrant expression, which will fade itself soon.
Where? When? What? why? I have questions and you have questions. I have dry, self circulating philosophy too.
Yet, this is new day. There is still hope. There are still ignited interests. And, there are you, yet, waiting, albeit more and more passively, to see me live, not just vegetate.

Wack....!

I am just thinking of dam angry shit to girl sitting few steps away from me. I will just tell her that you are fat, you are talkative and what you are talking is in some sort of sharp, ugly voice. Should I wish she should shout back at me? What is the point if she starts observing silence once I shout at her? Victory, even a smallest one should have some bloodshed, some wounds. What else will generate songs of glory?
What if she starts crying? Will I enjoy it or will I feel bad about hurting her weak heart hidden under layers and layers of McD fats? She should apologize, humbly recognizing her mistake. Some people, when one shows them their mistake, shrugs shoulder and start doing new mistakes. Nobody points your mistake to improve you, the one with such intention will keep mum till the point you ask him to point out the mistake, but to get some satisfaction of humble apologies. And, some people deny such a pleasure. I wish they should encounter greatest mess in the next task and nobody should be there to show them that they are messing up.
Do you ever feel that you need to have some automatic gun while walking on crowded road? And, then you need to reduce burden of people on that road to certain extent and let the buildings, plants and even road have some breath? No? Don’t you feel that even vehicles are much more breathless these days and keep drinking fuel more and more? Shouldn’t there be some trees left surrounding roads so that our next generations can have pleasure of uprooting trees and having wider roads leading to nowhere? Don’t you feel that you need to have some solution in your hand which you can pour over girls, erode all the colors over their faces and make them realize that colors are beautiful, not they? Don’t feel ashamed, if you search deep down you will find that hatred has been living as neighbor of humanity since long.
You must be thinking what weird writing is this. So what do you need? Sunsets, sunrises, nature unfolding it’s mysteries in some lyrical rhymes, moons and moon lights, Mozart and Beethoven, dreamy travelogues of cities and catchy conversations with people, tales of love and friendship, determinations and challenges and all that which you and me both desire but have in very little quantity. You want that? Then this is not the place right now….
Right now I am in hate mood. Hating myself and everything that is around and not in the way I love to be tight now. Silent….

Primary opinion about arts

So last two days I had encounters with ‘culture’. These definitions are tricky. If you probe deep, you can understand that they are trying to portray some dynamic thing into static form. There are so many examples, like culture, society, nation where we feel that there are certain fix, eternal elements in these definitions, but on second and deeper examination, we can find that they are dynamic and hence they need evolutionary definitions. Enough for barren semantics!
Arts are interesting. On inner end of artist, they are means of earning livelihood, passion, devotion or best possible form of expression. All these are not separable. But, from artist to artist, priorities to arts characteristics are different. On outer end of receptors, they are entertainment and expression to convey some patterns in fabric of life. The first role is essential. It acts like a glue and complete in itself. There can be mere entertainment, but there is no exchange of feelings without having elements of entertainment. Do not try to see conversations and philosophy as exceptions. They convey feelings and patterns of life, but we do not seek entertainment in them.
Arts get birth, they grow and die. This can be observed for any creation of humanity. But dying is painful. Folk arts are dying. And, they are dying because life is transforming. Basics of life are not like that of folk life. Our myths are changing, values undergoing transition, beliefs are shaken and reformed and more than all these, the pace with which interact with our environment is accelerating. So change is happening in forms of entertainment we seek and patterns of life we need to convey. The standard portrays of battle of good and bad are no longer appealing. Thinking mind has understood that world is gray. Feelings of love and ultra-human devotions and rivalry are no longer assumed, though they are used strategically. But modern human, who is product of loads of information, automation and inquisitiveness needs entertainment and patterns evolving with time. Folk arts are enjoyable as exotic products or vintage cars, but they cannot live by themselves in these times. Either they will die with their purity or they have to evolve in their basics.
There are arts who have kept alive their traditions. But, artist has undergone change. Bhaaratnatyam might have been same as it was 200 years back, but artist values are market driven. Indian classical still has ragas mentioned in Vedic literature, but singer now eyes the shows, not any moksha. And, why should we strive something prisoned in form which it was few years back? Changes brought by time might kill many art forms, make them extinct. But it is as natural as their evolution was. They are product of human beings. Human beings change, so as their creations.
I do not say that past has no useful things for us. It might be treasure. But our mind which has evolved throughout these years of human existence, certainly and surely contain wisdoms of ancients. The dip into these waters of past is refreshing. But trying to hold the flow and trying to revert it is foolishness.
Art is expression when it starts. It becomes business or profession much later. Expressions are not constants. They are very product of time, space and people. They have imprints of these forces on their existence. That’s why western music differs from Indian, salsa differs from tribal dance, paintings has continuum over time and space. Such difference and cycles of births and deaths are what keep beauty in all of these alive and rhythm of life ever flowing.

I read about farmers, their lives and their difficulties.
I read hike in petrol prices.
I read stampede killed 60.
i heard somebody got admission at good place.
I heard somebody claiming that their art is the only one, others are nothing.
I heard somebody saying somebody is just not doing anything. He is fired.
I have home, mother, father and some more relations, by default.
I have few people, I don't know what they are exactly to me. I know myself through them. They serve as connections to me.
And, then I have these thoughts, a future about which I hardly know, fears, insecurities, puzzles, philosophical traumas, failed days, disturbed nights, crash down of own system, recovery for new crash, so much for one brain.
I put in front of some listener, either I imagine or I get one. Listener just listens. Listener is like a large jar in which muddy water is kept. Jar doesn't clean water, it gets nothing on that water or of that mud, it just allows water to calm down, it allows water to reflect in itself and see mud separate from water.Listener does this. I feel settled, not solved. Questions stay away, at bottom, I feel clear, calm, till I try to reach the listener. I cannot. I should not. Listening needs a distance. Listening needs a continuous tension, uncertain but interesting time which will keep current flowing. Move closer, everything turns into nothing.
Sometimes I encounter to strange thing called 'truth'. It is really a funny thing. It exists in contradictions, which is it's twin brother. Inseparable twin.
I told one friend that taking life in thoughts, sketching some definitions and then evaluating own actions with them is not real. Reality is indefinite. What I am doing then? If these words are not sketches of what I dream, what are they? mere fun? Why I end up contradicting even a simplest statement of mine about reality? Is reality not simple at all?
Eternal is something strongly felt at a particular moment. Try feeling a time, many eternals seem ephemerals. Try feeling a space, even own existence seems illusive. Don't try it frequently though.
Writing is putting your turmoils into fictional ones. It is real difficult. Once turmoils are realized, they tend to hide themselves. Story teller must fool himself ( Sorry to feminists, But I am man, can't help, I will use him) while taking those turmoils out and putting them into fictionals. Even a word is recited in mind, fiction seems fiction. Writer has strange sort of disconnection with inner core, cheating that makes writing real. It is not a simple cost. To keep your characters real, exclusion of very real people is needed.
Was it truth? The one I above wrote above? It mostly be illusion. Words often fail to carry burden of meaning. Beautiful words turn into uglier memories.
I have few simple questions for myself:
1. Is there a place where I can sleep with peace?
2. What exactly I do in least boring manner to myself?
3. To what extent I need people and people need me?
There is one hope, one day I will reach where I supposed to be. This is not my finding, I borrowed it from one movie.