opening meandering

An empty canvass contains many paintings while my hand gropes in pain to seek that one elusive composition, which is unformed in my mind.

My paintings are signed off before they are finished. My music always ends on a false note. My dreams are never long enough to be captured by my memory. My projections are reversed, my thoughtscape is deserted. I wait.

I keep waiting for that elusive word that would enlighten itself into a meaningful sentence. While waiting I just browse through the years that I have lived and wasted. None of them are real as experiences. All of them are faded memories. Like an outdated radio searching for a signal, I keep wandering inside myself to catch that one phrase which would transform my discomfiting silence into a soundless emptiness or a soulful music.

There is no sadness or bitterness in these words. They are just trying to reproduce fading photographs of a getting-forgotten past. I cannot be my own mirror, nor can I soar above myself to look at myself. I am inside myself, trying to paint the world from a room with closed windows. I am shrinking.

The world around me is expanding. The city is changing. The words that I used are no longer in circulation. The landmarks that guided me have all been erased and replaced. I am an alien in my native land.

In the beginning it must have been easy with just that one word, but now with a million choices which is the word that I should choose to write my story. I know only one story and that is mine. I shall try to narrate my story with as much honesty as possible. My prejudices and personal fantasies may percolate down these words to give a different tone and color to my image, but then, that is my image of myself; and that is what I can show. This maybe just the way I have seen my life.

I do not remember the cradle though I have seen it in my later years. I have many photographs in which I do not recognize myself. The most vivid opening scene in my narration to self is set on a beach on the sands of Marina.

It was an evening in graying tones of blue- not the depressing hue but one with a provocative calmness. One filled with pregnancy’s final moments. The one moment that anticipates a new-born baby’s sound with a fearful hope like the big pause of the clock’s second hand. It was also one of those many wonderful moments when I was doing nothing in particular.

Doing nothing is how a painting starts. You don’t even think or plan. The canvass is there, the palette clean and the brush yet to be picked up. From that emptiness shall come everything that is going to be filled in that frame. Some deliberations would come alongside spontaneity, the expected would intermingle with the unexpected, and the picture would come to present what the artist wishes than what it really is.

I shall begin now, on the sands of Marina, about thirty five years ago. That was not the moment when I was born, but the moment from when I started to live, started to think, and dream that I can dream. It was when words really became meaningful. This is a story but not  fiction.


Explore posts in the same categories: life book, rudhran, the book in progress, Uncategorized

5 Comments on “opening meandering”

  1. It seems dense a bit if it is to be published as book, since your audience not necessarily be the ardent ,keen followers of what you present in various avenues like writing,TV , stages etc.,
    Well anyway you are the author and no one can interfere in your presentation and thought process and the way these things explained in perspective and contexts which you thing suitable to be read.
    Best wishes to see the new book emerging and see physically in stands of Book sellers.

  2. Dear Friend, here are few lines for you!

    A writer’s mind is a clear slate
    like the child who began to write
    The painter’s brush is a little mouse
    that runs as it finds its ruins unknown
    We stumble upon our past and ponder abt future
    disdain in one’s preludes of the present
    In the depths of silence, we find our words
    in the midst of grumbling crowds, we find intimate silence
    Only an artist in you can discover the fathoms
    the fathoms of the inner oceans that divulge
    towards an incresant thoughts and unwinding tears
    The tear is not of a sadness in mind
    but of the heart that runs behind
    the past, that is never on my own task
    yet, I know I can run behind years of my life
    in solitude and grace that I admire of myself
    as thoughscapes find no new mantles of peace
    the landscapes around look like nothing but deserts
    the deserts of sand flown in life of thoughts
    the feelings of inner self that never found
    yet, in the rejoicing of being a nurturing mind
    there is an essence of having being born
    just like the little child out of mother’s womb
    You write your memoir just for yourself
    and not for the worlds to debate on
    for its the passionate web of your life’s events
    that rekindle the fantasies of your innerself
    Moments that soar from no where to all around
    that make you feel elated and regreat all
    yet it is just between you and your past
    that the gamble of lives travelling again in thoughts
    there is no pregorative that drives to rest
    for in it, you discover yourself in a quest
    The quest is to find the meaning of life
    just yours, by all means, just your thoughts!!!

    Dr…This is a Poet’s tribute to a friend, as I read through your post…. am sure it reflects lot less than you described…but as a fan of yours, this little effort may still hold good


  3. Rajesh Says:

    Hi Dr,

    Have u been to Richmond,VA? I think I saw u once in a hair salon there and exchanged a few words.

    • rudhran Says:

      yes i remember the day

      • S S Brahma "American Jihadi" Says:

        The Doc goes to Hairsaloon? But I thought… he who shrinks heads…. but again his overall hairstyle is… what? … needs visits to a saloon? 🙂 G’day Doctor! I’m the one who looked up at the ceiling fan in your office when you said you don’t want any fan who don’t kinda work but squirt from a milk sachet kind… I know you remember me though you wouldn’t admit. btw, I am coming back someday soon, this time for a loved one to be guided back on track, your impeccable and unique way of treatment. Btw again, I am successful now, doing something and earning my bread that way, and though I have paid you for your services, I think you helped me beyond that few hundreds of rupees. When most of the world goes following heroes of the silver-screen, you Sir, are one of my idols, great and worthy of following and becoming successful at my own life, to face anything thrown at me, here and now, then and anywhere.

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