Thursday, May 13, 2010

Tango ~ To Love In Dance..




South America is one of the most fascinating continents on Earth. It is the land of the Mayan and the Incan civilisations - two of the greatest epochs in the history of mankind. The face of this glorious land was transfigured beyond recognition by the end of the 15th Century, due to the voyages of Christopher Columbus which were funded by Queen Isabella I of Spain. It paved way for the invasion of the New World by the Spanish conquistadores and their subsequent colonisation, having far-reaching implications in the multi-faceted culture of this beautiful continent. The arrogance, the madness and the folly of the Spanish colonisers have been meticulously captured in the epic movie Aguirre, the Wrath of God by Werner Herzog, with Herzog's fiend Klaus Kinski giving an immortal performance. The Spanish conquest of indigenous peoples of the Americas resulted in exploitation of the natives who were converted into forced labour. Along with the colonisers came their dreadful diseases, most importantly small pox. It wiped out a vast majority of the natives leading to a massive labour shortage for the colonisers to cultivate their plantations. Consequently, the Spanish colonisers got involved in the Trans-Atlantic Slave Trade.    


The innocent villagers from the West and Central Africa were violently captured, kidnapped and shipped to the New World, comprising of both the North and South Americas. Out there in the wilderness of both the Americas, the African villagers, who had by then become slaves, were sold as forced labourers to work in the plantations and mines of the European colonisers. Alex Haley's captivating novel Roots : The Saga of an American Family gives a profound glimpse on the history of Blacks in America. Alex Haley has colourfully fictionalised his journey to discover his genealogical roots upto his seventh generation ancestor Kunta Kinte, who was captured in Gambia and shipped to America in 1767. The slave trade flourished from the 16th to the 19th centuries, during which about 1.2 crores of Africans arrived in the New World, excluding the substantial number of people who died onboard the ships due to varied fatalities that happened during enslavement. Maafa is the term given by the Black scholars to denote the slave trade primarily of African people. In Swahili, it means the African Holocaust or the Holocaust of Enslavement.


The history of the last five centuries of both North and South Americas is a blood-soaked palimpsest. It is drenched with the blood and sweat of two different streams of highly respectable and culturally sophisticated human beings. On the one side, it comprised of the millions of native Americans of various indigenous origins including the Aztecs, the Mayans and the Incans. And on the other side, it constituted more than 12 million Africans of varied ethnicities originating from Western and Central Africa. When these diverse communities started communicating with each other, with the mediation of European Modernity, newer forms of artistic expressions emerged on the horizon. From the turn of the 19th century, there was a creative effulgence across South and North Americas in all the domains of art : music, dance and literature. And one such creative zenith was accomplished by modern civilisation with the emergence of a dance form called Tango.


Tango is a modern dance form which originated in the middle of the 19th century in Argentina, Uruguay and Brazil. It is said to have been shaped by the dance rituals of Candomble cult, which emerged from the synthesis of some of the native Brazilian religions with the Yoruba religion of the African diaspora from Nigeria. During the Candomble ceremony, the Supreme Being called as Olorun sends the venerated spirit of the ancestors called Orixa, embedded in the anima or the soul of Nature. The Orixa would possess those who participate in the dance ritual, make them go into a trance and heal their souls. During the 19th century, the Candomble was banned by the Catholic Church and was even criminalised by some governments. No wonder, artistic creativity has always been an anathema for any organised religion and the modern nation-state.


Tango is a social dance which has its roots in the working-class slums of Buenos Aires. The music of Tango is derived from the fusion of various genres of music from Europe. To Tango is to walk with a partner in music. Tango is essentially to dance with one's partner with a rhythm in the body movement from head to toe. It is a silent conversation between the two bodies in unison. Tango happens when the eyes and the bodies speak to each other. Without any word or sound. The basic elements of Tango are : the embrace, the walk and the music. The styles of the Tango are varied from place to place. But the underlying themes of any good Tango are its playfulness and musicality. The axes of two bodies merge into one another as they dance in love. It is the most intimate artistic expression which depicts the yearning for communion between two bodies, mind and soul. When two beings who are intimately in love starts to Tango, the ancestors would appear on the sky to watch it with joy. The spirit of the  Orixa would be beckoned by the God Olorun to bless the loving souls to confluence with each other..






(You Tube shared above : A Tango composition from one of the greatest 100 movies of 20th Century, as per my rating : Tango, directed by the Spanish director Carlos Saura in 1998. The cinematography is by Vittorio Storaro, a master in the art of capturing shadow and light.)


Sunday, May 9, 2010

Rabindranath Tagore : Fruit~Gathering


______________________________


I woke and found his letter with the morning.

I do not know what it says, for I cannot read.


I shall leave the wise man alone with his books, I shall not trouble him, for who knows if he can read what the letter says.


Let me hold it to my forehead and press it to my heart.


When the night grows still and stars come out one by one I will spread it on my lap and stay silent.


The rustling leaves will read it aloud to me, the rushing stream will chant it, and the seven wise stars will sing it to me from the sky.


I cannot find what I seek, I cannot understand what I would learn; but this unread letter has lightened my burdens and turned my thoughts into songs.

______________________________


You took my hand and drew me to your side, made me sit on the high seat before all men, till I became timid, unable to stir and walk my own way; doubting and debating at every step lest I should tread upon any thorn of their disfavour.


I am freed at last!


The blow has come, the drum of insult sounded, my seat is laid low in the dust.


My paths are open before me.


My wings are full of the desire of the sky.


I go to join the shooting stars of midnight, to plunge into the profound shadow.


I am like the storm-driven cloud of summer that, having cast off its crown of gold, hangs as a sword the thunderbolt upon a chain of lightning.


In desperate joy I run upon the dusty path of the despised; I draw near to your final welcome.


The child finds its mother when it leaves her womb.


When I am parted from you, thrown out from your household, I am free to see your face.

______________________________


My portion of the best in this world will come from your hands : such was your promise.


Therefore your light glistens in my tears.


I fear to be led by others lest I miss you waiting in some road corner to be my guide.


I walk my own wilful way till my very folly tempts you to my door.


For I have your promise that my portion of the best in this world will come from your hands.

______________________________


This autumn morning is tired with excess of light, and if your songs grow fitful and languid give me your flute awhile.


I shall but play with it as the whim takes me - now take it on my lap, now touch it with my lips, now keep it by my side on the grass.


But in the solemn evening stillness I shall gather flowers, to deck it with wreaths, I shall fill it with fragrance; I shall worship it with the lighted lamp.


Then at night I shall come to you and give you back your flute.


You will play on it the music of midnight when the lonely crescent moon wanders among the stars.

______________________________


I found a few old letters of mine carefully hidden in her box - a few small toys for her memory to play with.


With a timorous heart she tried to steal these trifles from time's turbulent stream, and said, "These are mine only!"


Ah, there is no one now to claim them, who can pay their price with loving care, yet here they are still.


Surely there is love in this world to save her from utter loss, even like this love of hers that saved these letters with such fond care.

______________________________


I have kissed this world with my eyes and my limbs; I have wrapt it within my heart in numberless folds; I have flooded its days and nights with thoughts till the world and my life have grown one, - and I love my life because I love the light of the sky so enwoven with me.


If to leave this world be as real as to love it - then there must be a meaning in the meeting and the parting of life.


If that love were deceived in death, then the canker of this deceit would eat into all things, and the stars would shrivel and grow black.

______________________________


Not for me is the love that knows no restraint, but like the foaming wine that having burst its vessel in a moment would run to waste.


Send me the love which is cool and pure like your rain that blesses the thirsty earth and fills the homely earthen jars.


Send me the love that would soak down into the centre of being, and from there would spread like the unseen sap through the branching tree of life, giving birth to fruits and flowers.

Send me the love that keeps the heart still with the fulness of peace.

______________________________


~ FRUIT GATHERING ~

~ Rabindranath Tagore (May 1861 ~ August 1941)

[Translated from Bengali to English by Rabindranath Tagore]

Published in 1916

______________________________

Friday, May 7, 2010

Capital Punishment : Is Killing For Killing Ethical?


(Photo Mumbaikars including Muslims celebrating the verdict on Ajmal Kasab)


This much I can say : I have never felt any hatred or anger towards any of the killers, not even for a moment. And personally, I don't want the surviving terrorist to be given a death sentence. I would like to see him incarcerated for life and made to work for humanity.

If I were to sit with the killer, I would ask him to tell me about his family, about his childhood. I believe he came from a very poor background and the leaders of the terrorist group used him.

I was in Florida when I heard the news that my husband and my daughter were also killed in the Mumbai terror attacks. I collapsed on the floor. After weeping for a long long time, I went into myself and began to pray..

~ Kia Scherr, who lost both her husband Alan, aged 58, and her only daughter Naomi, aged 13, in the November 2008 terrorist attacks at Mumbai.


Capital Punishment is a lawful infliction of death as a punishment. It is an extreme form of retributive justice sentenced by the governing jurisprudence. As modern civilisational values grew over the last two centuries, this form of punishment began to be increasingly viewed as a barbaric form of cruelty and the efficacy of it as a deterrent measure became questionable. 
 
 
Countries like Venezuela and Portugal were the first nations to abolish the death penalty altogether as early as the 1850s. Today, it is virtually abolished in all of Western Europe and most of Latin America. Britain effectively abolished capital punishment in 1965. It is still not abolished in India, many states in the USA, China, Japan and many Asian, especially West Asian and African nations.


Ajmal Kasab is just a pawn, who was picked up from an impoverished family in Pakistan. He was trained and brain-washed to perpetrate such a heinous violence on the innocent denizens of Mumbai. By hanging Ajmal Kasab in India, what do we achieve? Next time, when the Taliban slits the throat of an innocent Muslim in Afghanistan and hangs him in public, how are we going to react? How do we understand the sentiments of Kia Scherr, who is another victim of Mumbai terror attacks? Though Ajmal Kasab is also a victim of terror, won't complete life imprisonment do much greater justice? Can't he be made to repent and wail till he dies? Won't those echoes reverberate on and on? And keep haunting the public memory?


It is time to ask profound questions : What are the factors which made an innocent Ajmal Kasab turn into a dreaded terrorist? Who are all responsible? How can real justice be done to all those complex issues that would crop up, if we start asking the real questions? Will terrorism of all kinds stop until we address the root-causes of it?


Since we do not want to get disturbed deeply and want to continue with our petty ways of living, we feel happy that the fool is finally hung and the files would shortly be closed.
And we call it as justice!


Mool Bandh Mudra : A Post-Modern Yogic Therapy!




Hi Folks,


Don't you think, its high time, that we relax a wee bit?
Too much of Zen will have such unanticipated fallouts.
We should keep reminding ourselves that such excesses are not good for our bellied bodies, already afflicted with mid-life crises.
Let us forget our fractured souls for the time-being.
Let it rest in peace for a while.



Let us now start practicing this new-age yogic therapy, which I've termed as Mool Bandh Mudra.
You are welcome to suggest newer names and finer modifications in the postures and methodologies of this post-modern yogic practice.
Especially the climax!
Apart from immensely helping to ward off the work-place and blog-space boredom, this yoga is supposed to be having innumerable therapeutic benefits.
Both visible and invisible.
You are requested to share your profound experiences after undergoing this therapy.


Let us rejoice!

Friday, April 30, 2010

Hokku, Koan & Zen Buddhism

Falling leaves
lie on one another;
rain beats on rain

~ Gyōdai


It is a Hokku by Gyōdai. Hokku is the pre-modern form of Haiku.


Daisetsu Teitaro Suzuki (1870 - 1966) and Reginald Horace Blyth (1898 - 1964) are the two important pioneers who studied Japanese philosophy, literature and culture. Their works on Zen and Shin Buddhism and the Hokku and Haiku forms of Japanese poetry are considered to be the authoritative introductions on the subject. It would be interesting to note that the Japanese Professor D.T.Suzuki mentored the English gentleman R.H.Blyth, who was almost three decades younger to him. Both of them became close friends and later they were buried next to each other in the Tōkei-ji Zen Temple (The Divorce Temple) which was built in the 13th century. While the works of D.T.Suzuki had a profound impact on C.G.Jung, the works of R.H.Blyth influenced the interesting Beats like Jack Kerouac and Allen Ginsberg. Out of their enormous body of work, I could read only the two works of D.T.Suzuki, An Introduction to Zen Buddhism (with a foreword by Carl Gustav Jung) and Studies in Zen; and only one work of R.H.Blyth, A History of Haiku (in two volumes - one from the beginnings to Issa and the other, from Issa to the middle of 20th century). The two books of D.T.Suzuki are indebted to the Jean Genet Project and the book of R.H.Blyth was a great discovery in the archaic shelves of The Asiatic Society of Mumbai some time ago. We shall dwell into the mysterious Jean Genet Project at some other opportune moment. Therefore, let us leave it that and get back to the Hokku and the Koan, as contemplated by our dear Anonymous.


What is Hokku?

R.H.Blyth explains it lucidly. It is not a poem and it is not literature! It is a way of returning to our moon nature, our cherry blossom nature, our falling leaf nature, in short, to our Buddha nature.

In Hokku, it is crucial to distinguish between what we see in Nature, and, out thoughts and ideas about what we see in Nature. Hokku stresses that our thoughts and words should not obscure the truth and the suchness of the thing we see in Nature. Things in nature should speak so loudly that we should not hear what the poets have said of them.


That is the fundamental distinction between a Hokku and a Haiku. In modern Haiku, the Poet, with a Capital P, is the most important thing, the inviolable sanctity of the will of the poet, the individual ego as embedded in the name of the poet is the pivot. Whereas in Hokku, Nature is the pivot. In Hokku, there are no poets. The writer is simply a mirror which reflects Nature. It is the duty of the writer to keep on cleaning the mirror from the dust of thoughts, words and self-will. The writer of Hokku should therefore reach a maturity and realisation of the dynamic of the Self, the words and the thoughts. Modern Haiku has never been able to achieve this because it is too much attached to the name, the will and the ego of the poet and to the writing of poetry. The pre-modern Hokku is then a remarkably humble and simple form of verse, where the writer disppears and the reader becomes one with the Nature and the thing which he experiences by reading about. It was Masaoka Shiki (1867 - 1902) who renamed the traditional Hokku which have started to incorporate the modern elements of the poet and the poet's individualised will in the process of writing, as Haiku. Theoretically then, we can say that there are elements of Hokku in the works of the Haiku masters Basho, Buson and Issa. Hokku predates these three Masters and the tradition continued through them, till it got fossilised into an opening stanza of the Japanese orthodox poetry, at the turn of the 19th century. There is no need to get confused between the theoretical distinctions between Hokku and Haiku, and suffice it to understand that though there are finer distinctions between the two, both the terms are being used interchangeably. As my beloved Tamil poet Achutan Aduka's beautiful poem says, The flowers keep blossoming and we keep naming them, it would be a rewarding exercise to experience the poetry than to get caught in the naming of it.


The very idea of the disappearance of the writer in Hokku, would be something totally incomprehensible to the rational, modern mind. This is radically different from the concept of automatic writing as espoused by the Surrealist Movement of the 1920s, from the post-structuralist concept of the Death of the Author as enunciated by Roland Barthes in 1967 based on the deconstructionist philosophy of Jacques Derrida and from the riposte of Michel Foucault in his essay What is an Author? published in 1969. They are a far cry from what Hokku calls for.


Hokku signifies the art of putting sensory experiences of various seasons of Nature and making the reader to experience it without the interference or the interpretation of the writer. It is also not a way to make a name for one's individual self as a poet. It is a way of life, a profound spiritual path in which all the clutter and dust of the mind gradually disappears. And the writing and the living becomes unified and holistic without any difference the two. Hokku and Haiku are both actually the processes of a lifetime and cannot be extricated out of its historic and cultural moorings, to be aped at one's own whim and will.


Descending geese -
their cries pile on one another;
The cold of night
~ Kyoroku

Falling leaves
lie on one another;
rain beats on rain

~ Gyōdai


These two Hokku by Kyoroku (1655 - 1715) and Gyōdai (1732 - 1793) are similar in their tonality though they are different in their tenor. By their very nature, a Hokku or Haiku, would demand each reader to be a poet. Without cultivating the art of evocation, it would be difficult to decipher out what gets succintly recorded in poetry from an observation of nature, in which certain truths and beauty of life gets subtly revealed.


Let me restrict myself to muse on Gyōdai's poem alone.

In autumn, the leaves would keep falling from the trees. The season of autumn and the withering of leaves are associated with the feelings of loneliness and melancholy. The falling of leaves from a tree symbolises the withering away of life. The following lines from Rainer Maria Rilke's poem Autumn Day would sum up the experience of such an autumn:

Who now is alone, will remain so for long,
will wake, and read, and write long letters
and back and forth on the boulevards
will restlessly wander, while the leaves blow.

That is autumn and that is falling leaves.

The feelings and emotions that are evoked while observing the falling of leaves would be at stark contrast to what happens when one looks at the falling of flowers from a tree. In this poetry of Gyōdai, it does not stop with the falling of the leaves. Instead, the falling leaves then lie on one another, bringing a totally new dimension to it. At this juncture, two important elements get embedded to the poetic experience : a companionship and an ancestry. The newly falling leaves lie on the already fallen leaves which is a movement in the temporality of life. In Zen Buddhism, it is called the being-time amidst the flow of change. This bestows a deeper meaning of continuity and a wider sense of time to the whole phenomenon. The poem then ends with a metaphorical reference to the rainy season, when the rain drops beat on rain to merge into unison. Rather it expresses a longing for such a confluence in time and space.



What is the sound of one hand clapping?

~ A Zen Koan


A Koan is a riddle or a perplexing question, a dialogue or a statement, or just a story which can never be comprehended by the rational or logical mind. It gets unravelled only by intuition and wisdom. In Zen Buddhism, Koans are used as a meditative tool for the awakening of the inner self. The Zen Masters use Koans to probe the students in order to validate the authenticity of their insights (Kensho and Sartori) and fathom the depth of their realisation. The Koan, What Is The Sound Of One Hand Clapping?, propounds the fundamental question as to whether the object and the subject of relentless seeking are one and the same. It is a way of Zen meditation to realise that the self seeks the self not directly but under the guise of the Koan itself. When this realisation is achieved, the two hands become one and that is the sound of one hand clapping!


Does it sound too weird?! Some of us might dismiss Koan as a simplistic bit of cleverness or a sheer waste of time in mental gymnastics. It does not seem to be so. Am yet to read the famous 13th century book The Gateless Gate which is supposed to be having a compilation of important Koans along with their commentaries. I've been searching for this book everywhere and not yet found one. But the fundamental issue is not about reading this or that book.
It is about meditation..


Let me conclude, with my favourite poem of Naojo, a female poet of medievel Japan and a beautiful Huna Koan, which is based on the ancient Hawaiian system of metaphysics :



Naojo ~

A shame to pick it -
A shame not to pick it -
The violet flower


A Huna Koan ~

What is the sound of one person loving?