And so the tale continues...

This post is dedicated to my loving cousin, because she made a big deal.
I must confess, a reason i did not want to spread the word of this blog is because, like most other extracurricular activities, i was providing myself with a loophole that would allow me to stop writing and abandon my current dream at any point. I guess that won't be possible anymore :)
On that note, I respectfully ask you to keep me honest and faithful and never let me rest if i let a few days go by without updating the story of our very own heroine.

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Our heroine was not the only one nurturing the seed that had sprouted deep within her heart. Her mother would tell her how the man of her dreams used to play when he was just a young’un. She would tell of spring curls that crowned an impish rascal and tinkling bells and a mischievous look that disarmed the hardest heart. Of a face covered in butter and a mouth full of sand. Of the little fingers that held such might. In particular, of the littlest finger, that had within it the power to hold up a mountain and lend succor to a trembling village. And most dear to her heart, of a glorious peacock feather, soft as down, with colors that melted from golden purple into a deep, dark red.
These stories that her mother told could not but encourage the crush – but still, not enough. Sometimes a mother is too close for her words to be taken seriously, after all. Sometimes her words of wisdom seem biased and unfounded. So, enter Jiva Goswami and his bardic band. The moment he indeed entered the palace, our heroine felt a thrumming in her heart and her feet, not even consciously, led her bounding down the stairway to the hall, where she saw…
Not the band of bards…
Not her parents the courtiers and the many people paying their respects to a great soul…
Not the beautiful wares the traders brought…
Her eyes were captured.
Everything around her seemed to swirl around and converge into a single small figure held reverently by the Goswami. The entire universe seemed to circle the figure. Faster and faster till it was all a blur. For a moment, nothing seemed to matter, life itself seemed to will itself to end so that she could be one with her love. To an onlooker, it would only have seemed like the little child had tripped and fallen as she was flying down the stairs. But no. She had fallen down in a faint; her spirit had left her body to join with the whole it had somehow parted from.
So she met her true love, one hand on his graceful hip and the other held high above his peacock-feather-adorned head, high above the cows he herded, the gopikas he enchanted and the villagers he protected. His arm, so delicate and small, tapering to a delicate wrist encircled by a golden bangle. His skin the color of the darkest night, a smile that would light up emotions within that could spark a supernova. His gentle, wise eyes, that would bring you back from bliss and make you realize your purpose was not to end, but to give.
And so his eyes told our heroine to come back to her senses, for she had so very much to give the world.

Stay tuned.

Our Heroine part 4

They say we should love God not as a friend or even worship Him/Her as a divine being. Both encourage an ‘otherness’ that just is not true. The love between an individual atma and the paramatma, instead, should be that of a mother and child. It does not matter which is which, just that they are of the same substance. There is a unity that isn’t present in the relationship between friends or master-servants. A mother loves her child not because of duty, dharma or because the shastras exhort her to do so. She does so from the deepest part of her. The navavidha bhakthi are mentioned in the Bhagavata, 7:5:23,

Shravanam Kirtanam Vishnu: smaranam Pada-sevanam
Archanam Vandanam, Dasyam, Sakyam and Atma-nivedanam

(listening, singing, contemplation, service, oblation, reverence, obedience, friendship and surrender)

It could be said that all of these are possible in the relationship between a mother and child. This is because the relationship between a mother and child is not merely physical, and occurs even before they are face to face, looking upon one another. The tie is not just umbilical, for a time their thoughts and needs are one.

This all begs the question – the relationship between a mother and child is so because they are mother and child. How can you love God, who is a concept more than he is a person we encounter day-in and day-out – how can you love God the way you love your mother, who is or was physically present?

One day in the future, our heroine will compose a song, ‘Pancharang chola pehni rahi hai.’ In this song, she says that all of us have 5 guises, 5 clothes, 5 masks – composed of the 5 elements. The significance of the song – the punch line, if you will – is that no matter how we safeguard this ‘shirt’ it will one day perish. Every incarnation will inevitably give way to another based on our karma. Every incarnation is a shirt to be thrown away.

To tie the song in with the question of how to love God – the capacity we have to love the mother of our physical presence, even knowing that one day this will end – that capacity is indicative of our ability to love God. They are commensurate.

Disclaimer:
I’d like to pause a moment and ask that you do not assume I am saying that there is no love in the world outside of the love between a mother and child. Nor am I belittling any other form of love. I am pointing out the one aspect of love that is beyond anything else – the one where there is no question, no doubt that the lover and the loved are one. This is not unpresent in any other relationship, it is just very present between a mother and child.

Now. I know I promised the encounter between our heroine and her crush. Be patient, grasshoppers. I will get there.
Stay tuned.

Our Heroine part 3

The crush that takes deep root within our little heroine is not something she is in control of. She didn’t originate it. It sprang within one day when the tiniest peacock feather dropped from the sky to tickle her toes even when she was within her mother’s womb. Just as a seeker long, long ago caught a glimpse of the big toe of a maheeyan, our baby girl felt the touch of a peacock feather, so soft and sweet, she could not escape its call.
As she grew physically – my they grow fast when they are that small! – so too did the plant within her, nurtured by the artistic expression of an artistic soul. She was, after all, an incarnation of love, and an artist filled with love cannot be quelled. The expressions manifest in mud sculptures, powder paintings and ohhh! Her sweet music! Perhaps it is not necessary for one to pronounce or intone words correctly if the feeling behind those words is capable of obliterating the dam that holds back a mighty ocean. Only innocent children are capable of immersing themselves in that ocean of love. Children need never hold back from being overwhelmed by love. They are without any requirements; they needn’t factor in pain or problems, nor think maturely nor be responsible. There is no embarrassment at expressing that love in a laugh or a kiss or a generous hug. There is no coyness or fake modesty. There is only an outpouring of that emotion that makes us closer to the divine.
But I digress, lost in her music. Her crush is still just a crush, she is not yet enamoured.

We will see how she catches a glimpse of her love and will possess him, regardless of what the adult word thinks or says next post.
Stay tuned.

Our Heroine continues.

If my first post did not already reveal the identity of our heroine, I am sure this post will give a more significant clue :)


In the 11th Century CE, a clan of Karnata-Kshatriyas, South Indian warriors, migrated to Bengal to explore new horizons. The Sena clan eventually took over the region and began ruling under the name of ‘rajaputraveera.’ The rajaputraveras were staunch Hindus and though they were divided into multiple states, they were united under the banner of defiance. They refused to pay taxes to the Islamic rule and wanted a Hindu Raj. Towards the end of the Delhi sultanate, i.e. the period between 1206-1526, there is much mention about the Ranas of the Rajputs. Mewar arose as the prominent defiant kingdom, beginning with the reign of Rana Kumbha and ending with Rana Sanga, who challenged Babur, but was defeated. Nonetheless, the campaigns of the Rajputs dented the power of Muslim sultanates and preserved a dominant and united Hindu kingdom for nearly a century.
As the Rajputs grew in power, so they grew in civilian population and thus they began to flourish commercially as well. They built several temples and forts in Pali, Merta, Udaipur and Bhilwara as well as in the capital cities of Bikaner, Jodhpur, and Jaipur. History lends to itself, and just as the military origin resulted in a civilized state, so to, temples and towns required a militarily strong state to protect them from being looted and from foreign occupancy, thus the military grew.
Of particular interest to our tale is the role of the bard, since our story is about a bard and can only be conveyed by the bardly function of story-telling. Every Rajput army had a bard, or bhat. The bard was essential to keep up the morale of the troops, singing to the warriors of their ancestors and heroes. Also, the poetry written by the bards and passed down from generation to generation is our historical evidence and often succeeds in transporting us to the times of Mewar and the Rajput states.


stay tuned...

Our Heroine

I shall try and keep this updated. Wish me luck.
Without further ado, i present to you:
Our heroine.


Our heroine begins with a silver spoon in her mouth and a twinkle in her eye. Endearing little brat who knows what she wants and if you won't bow to reason you'll find your favorite possession in her hoard of toys, all decorated and loved more than you could ever have loved it yourself. Her bouncing locks reflect her exuberance as she sways – no waddles! – about dancing sooner than she walks.
Her baby kolams are to the viewer random splotches of rice powder strewn in the sand in front of her ‘altar,’ indeed she has one before she has her first front tooth. This little rowdy duckling rules her fellow companions, her mazhalai pattalam, wrapping them around her little fingers, convincing them of her reality. Her reality? This rambunctious one is lost in the reality of a crush. It starts as a crush, just as soon as she can call "amma." It will one day be so much more than a crush, though, of that we are assured.


stay tuned.

Nirvignam kuru me deva...

Dedicated to pyl, who is teaching me without even knowing it, to be less dark and wordy.

Our little heffalump wakes bright and early and saunters leisurely to the stairs. His little brother, younger by about ten years, is still fast asleep (or pretending to be, at any rate).
He makes a bee-line for the kitchen. First things first, cater to the belly and all the rest will sort itself out. Storing some extra snacks in his trunk, he steps out of the house and spies the peacock he got for his brother last Christmas. Now, he's no Indian giver - although he is Indian and he is very, very giving - but his brother won't notice a thing and he'll be back in a flash!
He doesn't need to look both ways before riding into traffic - his two wide eyes do the work of 40 billion. Besides, he need but blink and the blockage will disappear. Listening carefully to the thoughts of all around him, he waves his fan-like ears and ponders.
His pondering is simple. It's 2 + 2 = 4 to him. It all sounds intricately complex from a human's point of view, but our hero is not a human. To him, the enormity of information that has just entered his ears and that must be now be processed is a light, comforting breeze. He knows the outcomes, and he just need arrange the pieces so the grandest of chess tournaments can grind to a sweet checkmate. The end. finito.
But the best part is... the end is just the beginning. And we all know he's in charge of beginnings.

So relax. When Master Heffalump is above us, around us, among us, within us - when he's there... we're safe. He's making sure we're doing whatever needs to be done.
He's doing it Himself like he's always done.
Sarvakaryeshu sarvada.

Hiedi ho. well i have no way of knowing if she really was or not, but that's as the saying goes.

I am not a blogger. i do not blog. i write lengthy pieces of editorials that are basically pointless and full of words that normal people don't use and inevitably get bored and stop abruptly, mid-concept.
pb and madartist practically forced me into participating in blogs, and i guess since they're not around right now and i'm completely bored at work (i'm too hyper to wait for people, blame it on coffee) i post.

i guess that's it for my initial post. i shall have to start transferring my writing here rather than derailing other people's posts in other blogs. maybe if they are desperate enough, they will come visit.

the end.

whatever whatever and a little whatever too.