There is no beauty without death. How beautiful the transience of a seasonal flower, of fleeting glances and short lived love, of passing friends and of brief moments in the sun, of wasted talent and failed promises, the ephemeral joys of life and our vanity that crumbles to dust; They come and they go.
There is no beauty without death. How beautiful the boundless sea and the timeless mountains, the grace and wisdom of wrinkled skin and gnarled trees, fond memories and crushing sorrow, the strength of kindness and the warmth of love and sacrifice that stand up to time; They must go too.
This painting is inspired by the cold winter mornings of Kanha National Park. Kanha is well known for its tigers, but its real ecological value is as the last refuge of the hard-ground Barasingha or Swamp Deer (Cervus duvaucelli branderi). This large, handsome deer with magnificent antlers (often twelve-tined, which gives it its Indian name) is at home on the grasslands bordering the woodlands. This magical landscape often swirls with mist on wintry mornings, adding vivid and unreal colours to its denizens. The stag in the picture is based on the photograph of a real Barasingha.
My experience with a deer on such a morning was penned down as a poem and is part of my book, What Goes into a Butterfly?:
“Still as the morning he stood in the gloom; Slivers of mist drooped over his haunch, A glint of dew in his spreading crown, Warm breath puffing from his cold wet nose; Crack went a twig beneath my feet – I looked up and the stag was gone.”
On the mountain burns a fire, a fire! While they sleep in the dark, the dark! From beneath their thrones he stole, he stole! From home to home he ran, he ran! Till in every hearth burnt a fire, a fire! Before they woke and found it gone, gone! Before they woke and saw it was light, light!
They painted us a dream of a little red house by a clear deep river with lush green grass and red fruit trees below twin peaked hills topped with an orange sun playing hide and seek with twiggly birds roaming in the blue sky above;
But dreams are not true, they are just meant to make you paint another one;
We painted them a dream of fancy gated villas and shiny flats facing open green parks shaded with shapely trees and neat mown lawns, happy children and dogs in the sun, running free in the wind;
But what you get is not what you should, and never what you ever were told;
We gave them a world grey as our minds, We stole their sun and killed their trees, We bled their rivers black and built them concrete cages like those we built for the birds we got, We gave them a sight of the hell waiting to come;
But they will paint a dream too, for those yet to come, like those before them; our world is made of what we paint.
I met two pie dogs on the smog obscured platform no.2 of the New Delhi railway station and wrote this small poem on them:
Station Dogs
There’s poop on the floor so the dogs are on a trolley yellow and rusted, waiting; They are two pie dogs one black and white with a black tipped tail, one white and black with a white tipped tail, both on a trolley, waiting. With a toot and a floot the train comes tootling and the dogs run hopeful to greet their guest, a wag for every door flashing past; With a squeak and a screech the train is at halt and the dogs are back curled on their trolley.
Watching the dogs and the goings on at the station while I waited for my train, led my mind on a random ride. It think that a railway station is a good analogy for life. There is a lot happening. People coming and going all the time. Yet, the station is just there. It is a just a point, one of many in an endless network of possibilities, where many journeys begin and many end.
Parts of the station are renovated, shiny. The rest is usually grimy, slimy or just inconspicuous. So are most of the people there too.
Everyone at the station is waiting. Some, expectantly for a loved one to arrive. Some, full of hope and looking forward to a new destination in life. Or a new journey. Some, disappointed to see another leave. Some, filled with trepidation about what lies ahead. Some are there to help another leave. Some are there to help others reach. Some are there to make a living out of everyone else coming and going. Some are there because the canteen serves good cutlets.
And some are there like the station itself. They are just there, because there is nowhere else to go. They are waiting too. They all wait for trains to come. It is the only time a station seems to live. When a train comes and when a train goes.
Follow the Lodestar 