Archive for the ‘Uncategorized’ category

sushruta two months’ toil

August 19, 2015
sushruta by rudhran

sushruta by rudhran

it took me two months to paint and every day the couple of hours i spent on it were not exactly pleasant. i had all along been comfortable in speedy stokes and fast painting techniques.

this time the theme dictated that i take the old style of painting. it was not meant for the roving eyes of a critic or the raving eyes of a connoisseur it was meant to be on a wall of a medical college.

what made me suffer with performance anxiety was the fact that the college was my almamater- the great MMC, Madras Medical College.

i had dropped this style of painting nearly 40 years ago, and to push myself back in time and alter my style was not at all easy.

here is how the journey happened

IMG_3465-tile

IMG_3501-tile

IMG_3528-tile

IMG_3580-tile

the picture now hangs in the new building in the new premises of MMC

IMG_3606

2014 in review

December 30, 2014

The WordPress.com stats helper monkeys prepared a 2014 annual report for this blog.

Here’s an excerpt:

The concert hall at the Sydney Opera House holds 2,700 people. This blog was viewed about 11,000 times in 2014. If it were a concert at Sydney Opera House, it would take about 4 sold-out performances for that many people to see it.

Click here to see the complete report.

beginning to begin writing

October 27, 2013

To begin, I presumed was easy, you just have to start with, “once upon a time”. And, that peek into the past is flooding the mind with memories that slip away from words. So where does one begin, and of course, the metaphysical musing that is the pastime of postponing laziness, `why begin`, is irrelevant having begun. This is going to be a narration – of all the good, bad and confused moments of my life. Not that it matters in any significant way to the reader, I still pursue this rendering, as any bathroom singer would attempt at the right pitch and scales, just to soothe myself. Do I need a soothing? Does it mean I have a wound? Well, I have indeed been wounded many times, and I know that scars are not painful anymore…but memories are.

It was a fully moonlit night, as even calendars affirm, when I wailed for the first time. I whimper still, I wail too…but in the learnt shyness of solitude.

The moon has aged too, and became no more the romantic muse of adolescent attempts at poetry. My hair turns whiter every day, while my mind delves into days and dreams that I lived in my younger and younger days. As is common in all nostalgic musings my Madras seems to be more beautiful in the sepia memories of untaken photographs.

I have always known how to get up once I had fallen, but waking up while slipping was never possible. Can one awaken while slipping? And, what if there is nothing to reach out and hold on? Life kept teaching me everything except itself. Well, then, this is how it all had been till the moment I type this word. As I write time will move on, and while it drags me on, I just wonder what my new perspectives would be!

One day I will…. is the distant dream of everyone. Does the day arrive unnoticed? Is it actually being designed by me?  I have a vague arrogant notion that I have designed my destiny, and, WHAT indeed is my DESTINY? Is it the desire to reach the destination that I dream or have been programmed for?  Have I missed that magic clock that keeps the past fresh and forever, consoling the ageing mind that time is still there and in plenty?

The city grows and the citizen ages. Nostalgia is a cynical contempt at the fresh growth of permanent youthfulness, a bitterness that is the necessary nausea of reduced capacity and neglect,  a sigh at the clock that does not wind back; it makes the city move on and the citizen blink  in a daze at the speed of time.  The city will outlive the citizen, but will never ever be the city of the citizen.  Metamorphosis is not necessarily evolution, nor compulsorily beautiful by yesteryear’s standards, as definitions and measurements of the mind keep changing with every generation.  My grandfather, who scrawled poetry, would never have imagined me tapping on this machine without a pen and a paper, as my great-generations would wonder how I could sit and type on a machine. Time moves, city grows..The citizen gets frozen at one point. He cannot accept changes as he cannot cope with the challenges; in his best defence he suppresses his insight and projects a pseudo-wise appraisal at the degeneration of values as that is what he wants it to be, a frozen ice cream that can even be a picture on the mind’s wall.

and i presume i would finish writing  the book that is already bound and shelved in my mind….

to write, and not write…

October 29, 2012

An empty page on the screen is akin to an empty canvass without a sketch, albeit in mind.

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.

And weeks later as I read all that has been written on this page, just to write that next line, a silent grief engulfs me. Why do I write at all?

Perhaps an understated aggression pervades my alleged allegiance to all art forms, perhaps it is the unending love of deliberate self-harm.

And in the same note, does a stroke of pencil or brush destroy the inviting emptiness of a canvass? Is it a total destruction or a tsunami that leaves patches of life intact?

Where do I go from emptiness when I cannot attain everything? Why the woe of wondering in self-pity’s imposed solitude gratifying, even if temporarily?  Why do I have the compulsion to get obsessed about sadness and anger, the black and red instead of the ambiguous blue which contains the spectrum of emotive hues?

and, why do i keep starting so many pages only to discard them the next hour?

and, and, and why are questions that answer themselves never so easy to answer?

The Anna hazard

August 17, 2011

Hazards are all allegedly incidental, but here is one that is manufactured and marketed with malice towards all.

Anna Hazare is undoubtedly a hero (not just in the making, but already-made). I do not subscribe to the short sighted congress allegation on his credibility regarding corrupt practices, but, I do have serious doubts about his septuagenarian zeal to set the country right.
He may even rightly be righteously indignant but is he ‘the man’ and are his concepts ‘the formula’?

Where the government is adamantly aggressive about a nuke deal and astute enough to buy the opposition to ‘not oppose’, where a government usurps farmers’ lands for an industrialist’s benefit and beats up its own people who dare to oppose the move, where tribals are thrown out of hillocks that are sold for private mining, where water resources are given away almost free for multinational manufacturers, into that country is delivered the media-made savior. Into this country is imposed a righteousness that ends with a candle lit (not exactly) party.

And where the country has people who unflinchingly push currency into the greasy hands of a traffic cop, where time dictates that they pay to get what actually is ought to be done, where education is bought by the rich and where paying extra is a social flamboyance, into that country does a hero descend from up above through satellites. People need an excuse to be angry about dishonesty!
Anna Hazare therefore, is the need of the hour –for the media!

What has happened to India? Corruption prevails rampantly and at all levels. Gandhi is a name to be uttered irreverently and a picture to be collected assiduously. Public interest is the last item in politicians’ agenda, and no one cares. But these are not sudden tsunamis; they have been slowly cancerous for decades if not generations. Globalized industrialization and its natural element, aggressive marketing have always been clandestinely corrupt in their wooing of the newspaper-reading common folk. Licenses and favors, sponsorships and ‘sops’ are all elementary words in the current socio-political dictionary. Things have to be done, and have to be done fast. Profits cannot wait. Purses cannot be empty for the powerful and full for the public. If anyone murmurs a protest he becomes a cartoon, the cynic’s cynosure. The common man, wants things done quickly, his market manufactured dreams are racing against time. In this scenario there is always a need for mass entertainment that does not eat one’s own time and fortune. When there is no cricket telecast, histrionic anchors need to hit non-existent balls for sixers in the air. And here comes the need for a ‘anna hazare’!

I see the likes of ramdev and sirisiri flocking to flaunt themselves alongside this caricature for photo-ops, but then marketing is always a must for the money-motivated- self styled spiritualists; this is not my primary worry. I worry about the middle class who chose not to cocoon themselves in their couches and dare to spend some of their spare time in social activism.

The ‘middle-class’ always aspires to become the upper class. This is an inherent trait. When they see their erstwhile fellowmen who spiral to dizzying financial heights just by joining politics, they become angry. They want to vent their anger. They have to camouflage their anger born out of jealousy and envy. They have to when time permits voice their indignation at social evils. They find media-generated heroes easy to accept, for after all have not millions read about the exaggerated valor of these ‘discovered’ saviors!

What is wrong if people do wake up? Is it not time for the common man to voice his displeasure over disreputable governance? Do the public not need a focal person to rally around to raise slogans? And why not, if not, if why not… go on shrill TV anchors and aptly made-up opinionators on their ‘elite’ panels. The nation is fighting for its second independence shout headlines. Independence? From what? Who are the corrupt? Who gives the corrupt politicians the moral arrogance other than the uncaring public? Who does  care in voting the right person? How many care to pause after reading the screaming headlines? who cares how much for honesty anyway?

The middle class is an inevitable and a considerably large part of the society. For any true revolution they need to unite and rise. If their angst is exhausted on publicity oriented, media orchestrated causes; they will not even bother to blink when there is a larger urgent need to revolt.
Anna Hazare may even be a good man, but right now he is bad for the country -simply because he is wasting the middle class angst and youth’s natural flair to fight for the right, because he is posing sufficiently for the media to hail him as a hero, because he hobnobs with malignant spiritual-merchants, because he is short sighted, because he is adamant and because he is not the projected image.
God save my country.

understated apperception

July 25, 2011

An empty page on the screen is akin to an empty canvass without a sketch, albeit in mind.
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.
And weeks later as I read all that has been written on this page, just to write that next line, a silent grief engulfs me. Why do I write at all?
Perhaps an understated aggression pervades my alleged allegiance to all art forms, perhaps it is the unending love of deliberate self-harm.
And in the same note, does a stroke of pencil or brush destroy the inviting emptiness of a canvass? Is it a total destruction or a tsunami that leaves patches of life intact?
Where do I go from emptiness when I cannot attain everything? Why the woe of wondering in self-pity’s imposed solitude gratifying, even if temporarily? Why do I have the compulsion to get obsessed about sadness and anger, the black and red instead of the ambiguous blue which contains the spectrum of emotive hues?
Why do weaving words become more important than what they purport to impart? Why is design and form more attractive than concept and packaging, even when the mind is aware of the games it plays with itself?
What is the purpose of expressing? If catharsis is the prime motive then why do these expressions come over to public domain? Have I finished gazing at my mind’s mirror?

2010 in review

January 5, 2011

The stats helper monkeys at WordPress.com mulled over how this blog did in 2010, and here’s a high level summary of its overall blog health:

Healthy blog!

The Blog-Health-o-Meter™ reads Wow.

Crunchy numbers

Featured image

The average container ship can carry about 4,500 containers. This blog was viewed about 21,000 times in 2010. If each view were a shipping container, your blog would have filled about 5 fully loaded ships.

 

In 2010, there were 6 new posts, growing the total archive of this blog to 65 posts.

The busiest day of the year was May 23rd with 247 views. The most popular post that day was psychology of blogging.

Where did they come from?

The top referring sites in 2010 were rudhrantamil.blogspot.com, facebook.com, vinavu.com, blogger.com, and supperlinks.blogspot.com.

Some visitors came searching, mostly for dr rudran, vikravandi ravichandran, rudran blog, dr.rudran, and rudhran.

Attractions in 2010

These are the posts and pages that got the most views in 2010.

1

psychology of blogging September 2008
8 comments

2

On Osho ? March 2009
50 comments

3

தமிழில் March 2009
6 comments

4

பழைய காகிதக்கற்றைகளிலிருந்து March 2009
17 comments

5

About Rudhran September 2006
56 comments