Yes, I am He
Anahite Contractor, the noted art critic and writer makes a poetic detour through the works of Thotta Vaikuntam and sketches out her observations in this dramatic monologue
Among all the bizarre rulings of the universe, it is at times, the phlegmatic principles which transmogrify into the most dynamic, most
magical of all. In art, as in life itself, it is not only the perennial discovery of "the new" which is pertinent; what makes it worthwhile is, in fact,the stratospheric unravelling of the same image, the same icon, and as in the Indian narrative tradition, the same story, over and over again with miniscule variation. And each time, the source remains constant even as it incarnates newly.
Gods emulate men. The pattachitra of Bengal, the bhawai of Gujarat,
the Ramlila of mid and northern parts of India, are all incantations of
gods who fiercely protect their manhood. Gods who sin. Gods who laugh. Gods who make war and make love. But through our floundering
faith for these wizened men-god, we have stumbled across the threshold
of our shrines and discovered that in the final analysis, it is our own image which we attribute to the poor, helpless gods. Our eyes,foreheads, lips and breasts constitute and crystallise that idea
of godhood within our vision and our intrinsic image of ourselves.
Do the gods too, then, think of themselves as men?
Do the gods base their assumption about us, mere mortals, as per their
own standards?
Are gods and men, really, the same?
Or is One the nalappu (Black) and the Other, the telappu (White)?
Thota Vaikuntam's world of men and women (or who knows, gods and
goddesses) is described in his robust, earthbound, voluptuous lines.
Colour is his language. And this language is left virginal, in its
primary state --- unmixed and innocent of copulative formulae.
Colours --- red, blue, yellow, black --- are all primary and pristine.
The various colours are his energies as the gopikas were once,
Krishna's. They fill and outline, narrate and obfuscate forms as we
know them. Lines, both supple and descriptive, fluidly run around the
protagonists who hail from Telangana. We, the rasikas, try
relentlessly to grasp their whispering in their awed, hushed tones but
the only thing we may decipher is the unspoken cry, "Krishna!
Krishna!"
**
'Of secret things, I am Silence, o Arjun!'
Nalupu : Black
Long long ago when time was still-born and the cadences of desire had
crystallised into splattered shards (cold, remote, withering), I
decided to chance upon your world and I strode in with my emissaries,
Pride and Passion.
I entered on a dark night, stealthily black. Black as the new-born
lover. Black as the iridescent hush over sleeping trees. Blacker
than the black night. Like a thief from Vaikunth, the land of the
gods, I stole across to your world of men and women.
Your world of song and colour.
Of yes and no.
Of black and white.
Of desire and fulfilment.
Gods emulate men and so I sought you out with all these passions of my palette.
I, too, incantated your name (and you have but one).
In this ethereal game, I turned into the seeker and I turned you, the sought.
From up above, I stroked your hair into rows and rows of line and
colour as though it were the furrowed field of your village.
I hopped down from my pyramid of lucid lines after stealing the
butter, never once leaving behind any evidence of thieving. From
plane to plane and from pyramid to pyramid, I breezed my
man-emulating godhood.
And then, one day, as I was tiring of monotony, I leaped off a tall
cliff and landed near your feet.
At first, I could not even turn to look up at you, my muse, my Other.
With spontaneous gestures, wordlessly, you took my hand and you took
my godhood away.
At first, we were overwhelmed by the noisy silence that suffused us
and then, one by one, the notes fell from my flute, unabated. Some
fell into your palm, some in your lap and a truant note or two found a
more adventurous abode.
At first, one face appeared, then another and another until my canvas
could hold them all no longer. I begged you to release me of those
illusions so that I could focus on you alone. But you smiled and
willed a hundred more to appear.
Then, one day, a curious thing happened. It was the day of reprieve
when the lustrous black night wore her silver kumkum and oozed
wantonly through every crevice of this world, preening. All around us
was festivity and shringar. All the women in the village had been
wooed into a dizzying dance.
You were radiant with something that you knew. And I? I was merely a
hapless god, wielding a flute with a sluggish flow of one image after
another.
I yearned to abandon everything and to dance with you alone but those
million faces would not let me be!
Finally, you took pity on my godliness, and laughing merrily, you sat
down within glassy prismatic walls.
'Who am i, o Man from the Land of the gods?' asked you.
'I know you. You are she', I replied unhesitatingly.
'And how many images of myself do you see?' you ask, glancing at me
from side to side.
Suddenly, the puzzle was solved! Yes, I did see infinite images of
your piquant form in that prism. Those mirrors standing across from
one another like a bride and her groom, yielded countless replicas of
your image but the source was only you!
You alone were the epicentre.
You, the axis on which my entire kingdom flourished.
You were the Black, and you, the White.
You were the illusion and you, reality.
'So you see!' you say with a wicked smile, stepping out of those glass
walls, 'although you believe there are so many, i am merely one.
i profess no godhood.
i am content with just a singular name, not a thousand.
But hear me today, all who can, my name will be chanted with yours,
each time, o god of gods!' And you laugh, throwing back your head.
Since then, I have danced and dallied only with you, not with your
cheating, thieving reflections.
**
Invocation:
I am god but before you, I am powerless.
I am Prajapati but all my kingdoms and universes of colour, paint and
pigment, pale before you.
I am Shiromani but I extract the blue of your sari to enrich my
feather. Yes, I am fertile with The Miracle but does anyone really
know where it lay its seed?
I am the ultimate craftsman, Vishwakarma. I paint the cosmos at my
will but a singular yellow smear of sandal-paste on your face
outshines the entire spectrum. I tried stealing into the night, but
your radiance dissipated the darkness.
I am god, omnifarious, but before you, I am powerless.
I am also the god of love, the progenitor of passion, the omnipresent,
the omniscient and the omnipotent. But in your presence, Radhe, I
transmogrify into a disciple!
Sixteen thousand colours are matchless before you, o colour of water!
Take me, shirk me, absolve and commit me to you because I am He, the
most enigmatic one.
In your hands, I am clay: mould me.
In your eyes, I see my multifarious forms: look at me.
In your heart alone, I reside, o stone-hearted one: melt and dissolve in me.
Take my colours, blue and black, and twist them as you wish in the
endless coils of your hair.
Wrench that last syllable from my soul so that the indestructible,
pristine gong of the cosmos may mate with silence.
Pretend if you must, but eventually, surrender to me, proud and
petrified one! There you have no option. I may be god and you, my
guru but there is something higher hovering above both of us.
It has no colour, or it has many.
No shape, angle, direction, or it has all these.
It has a thousand names in order to fulfil a thousand desires.
And in the end, it is all that remains. All that is supreme.
I create and procreate.
I give form to millions of men and women.
They grow from seed to fruit, from line to image.
My men and women possess the same eyes, lips and hair, and yet each
one is distinct like each leaf on a lush tree.
Men and women, squatting, farming, copulating, conjecturing,
confounding --- each gesture, universal. Each action, unique to the
one enacting it.
I sprinkle colour with a tacit flick of my wrist and each drop settles
appropriately on each of my creations. The colours of kohl and of
kumkum. The colours of her sari and those of her blushing.
The lines which describe her countless, fickle moods, all of which are
umblical with the notes of my flute.
The gaze of the lover --- unabashed and overflowing, the glance of the
beloved --- filtered through her imprisoned parrot.
The-sit, the-stand, the-squat and the-stretch of each one is described
by my flute.
All these men and women of my kingdom might seem the same to you but
in reality, each one has a different story to live out and eventually,
a different tale to narrate. Iti.
So saying, my lord, the Blue One, shut his eyes and looked into me,
once again, silent.
**
Telupu : White
With hurrying steps, i return from the temple after appeasing
Bhatakamma, the goddess who is often pandered to, by nubile girls. i
fast and do penance in the hope that some day, my Blue One may look at
me, paint me as he paints innumerable others with his colours.
O Gauri! O Katyayini! Listen to your foolish worshipper. This is
the night of the full moon, the night when every evil eye is upon me,
especially the wretched luminous one in the sky. Protect me. Wrap me
in all the colours of your boons. Drop me a singular golden flower, a
tangadipu, from your garland so that it might rest in my hair when i
am wih Hari.
Cast a glance in our direction, goddess! In this village, nobody plays
holi! Sizzle these sterile, feckless forms and infuse us with colour.
Wake up that so-called Sarvaantarayami, and bear him my message.
'O Madanasundara!' replied Bhaktamma, 'why do you waste your penance
on me? I am worshipped either by unmarried or newly married girls and
you are neither. You have merged with your lord since light years.
Your worship to me is redundant. Drop your pride and go to that
watchful Krishna who waits for you under a dark spell. And do not
believe yourself to be the stark opposite of the dark one. Black and
White are mere ends of a continuum. When all pigments merge, it is
One and when all paints come together, it is The Other. Go, now!'
**
Incantation:
As i approach my Blue God with soundless, halting steps, i wonder at
my own beauty and quickly add a yellow spot on my cheek!
Along the way, i peer into the mirror and i realise that you are the
unseen half of all that i am and all the halves of those they can see.
**
i ask my tell-tale parrot to chant some holy names but all he can
chirp are my endearments for you! Where did he hear those? i wonder,
abashed, pleading him to remain quiet.
**
Enough of your masquerading, lover! Strip your face of that aloofness
and watch the colours of my song for you. Cast your glance on me; if
i am swooning, i shall be resurrected and if i am alert, i shall lapse
into a trance!
**
Krishna! Krishna!
You have so many forms and even within each form, you hide a form.
Do you proliferate and multiply from your own self?
Are you, in fact, just one, whereas i see you everywhere?
Are you a mirage? A mirror-reflection? A magician? What, who are you?
And if you are so many, how is it that you are also unique? i, fool,
who know no other man but you, Black One, i who know nothing about
form and image, reflection and multiplicity, i see you everywhere but
never ever confuse you with another.
Yours is a distinct flavour, Bahurupiya! You can easily fool the
greatest pundits and yes, even other gods, o Shiromani. But you
cannot fool me, a fool.
At my dusty feet you genuflect and in my faith, you melt. i never pay
mind to ritual, i am innocent of religion. i never once made a god of
you. Ours is the most primal relationship of this universe, as you
told me once. It is the most complex and the most lucid love of all
time.
So natural, it is like the fluid note from the koel's first melody.
So pure, it is ambrosia.
So poisonous, it can kill.
So wicked, it is like the pearly drop of dew on that enormous blue
lotus over which we lay making love...that drop which turned blue with
your colour staining my ruby lips, black lover!
Our love is without definition, without word, without a name. It is
filled with passions which are still unravelled, even to gods.
And yes, our love is fraught with something like pain.
Krishna! Krishna!
No one,(not even that blue lotus) knows of our trepidation and
courage, our arrogance and surrender, our love.
They talk of reality --- they, poor souls, who will believe in you
only if they can see and touch you.
They laugh at my madness because i am subsumed by your many smells.
And yes, i see you the way you are.
Go Bahurupiya! Go cast your spell on some intelligent, believing
soul. Why do you waste your charms on me?
i, lover, have my own ways of seeing. Go!
**
One sakhi to another:
She is crazed now. Before this, she was simple. Yesterday, when we
went to the mela, a strange foreigner with a strange blue skin sold
her some glass bangles. She, who never allows another man to touch
her, held out her fair arms and told him to slip the bangles over her
wrist.
Krishna was nowhere to be seen. He would be shocked at this
spectacle. Some said that the bangle-seller was from other lands,
some said he was from our own and some even said that he was a
Bahurupiya!
She did not seem to care. She behaved as though she knew him and
smiled shyly, each time a bangle went over her wrist and tinkled its
presence there. As he slipped one red bangle after another,
alternately on each wrist, suddenly her sari fell from her head and
her bare golden skin shimmered with sweat.
That strange man must be a magician! He looked at her, undaunted, and
offered her a giant peacock feather to conceal herself from prying
eyes. She was breathless and snatching first her hands and then the
feather from him and pulling my arm, ran away, laughing. Bawri!
'Then?' asked the girl who was listening. 'What happened next?'
Then, it just went on and on. I have never seen our friend like this
before, except with her lord, and that too is only hearsay...
Then we went to the next stall where another strange one sat with his
wares. A halwai. I have never ever seen all these strange
blue-skinned men. Do you know of any?
This one was even more dazzling than the bangle-seller. He was
selling hot, steamy, fragrant food. Suddenly our friend felt hungry
and dragged me there. I had no money to buy the saffron rice and
almond kheer but I ended up buying some, anyway. Our hungry friend
only looked down at her bangles and her feather and refused to eat
anything.
The blue man's assistant asked her if she would fancy the rice. No,
said she. The bundi? No, no. The ripe green chillies with their
lethal shiny skins? No, no, no, never, said she. And then that
strange, dazzling man who had no name and definitely no shame, took
one glossy, green chilly and offered it to our friend. Startled, she
looked up and mesmerised, she began to reach out for it.
His eyes twinkling, that strange creature dodged the mirchi from her
extended hand and without any further thought, fed it to her!
She was sucked into his mesmeric zone. She opened her mouth and
before I could protect her, bit into the green fruit, looking straight
at him. For a moment, nothing happened. Then the fire flew in her
mouth and her fair face turned many colours. Her eyes watered and her
mouth quivered. The assistant and I shouted for water, for bundi, for
divine intervention but that bawri was transfixed.
'And the blue creature?'
He? He, shameless one, continued to eat the rest of the mirchi, not
changing colour, without eyes watering or mouth quivering. He ate it
gazing at her indignant, perspiring face.
'Tar por? Then?'
Then, every bit of help had reached her and she, without unlocking her
gaze from that dangerous magician, pushed aside the bundi and fed the
water to the parched earth beneath her feet. Finally, the magician's
eyes smiled and he asked her, 'some more? Only once you allow it to
flow, will it not bother you, o fair one.'
Glaring and perspiring, she once again, pulled my hand and fled.
This time we went to the man who wielded the games. Wanting to bring
back her smile, I offered her a coin to try and throw the bamboo ring
on one of the far-off objects so that it could be hers. Everything
was laid out in categorical rows, the most precious ones being
furthest from us.
She took her ring and bawri, shut her eyes. Without a chant, she
flung it in the air and it went cascading all through the suns and the
stars. When she opened her eyes, she saw that a man with a turban was
handing her something. He was so dazzling that I could not see him but
our friend did.
She had tears in her eyes and saw that the bamboo ring had dropped
around his neck and he opened her palm and placed an enormous purple
quill in her uneducated hands. I could still not see but I think I
heard him whisper, 'this is what you have won. I have always written
with this, so in a way it was always yours.' And he vanished.
This time our friend was speechless. She did not seem surprised by
the sudden appearance or disappearance of that magical man. I urged
her to come away home with me. No, she said, we have to see much
more. I cursed Krishna under my breath. When we needed him the most,
he was never present, I told her. She only smiled and kissed my
cheek.
'Then?' the girl who was listening drew a deep breath. 'Then?'
Are you also mad, you foolish girl? Our friend then walked on, and I
trudged behind her, grumbling. That vile Krishna! May his bansi get
lost! May his feather fly away! May his enchanting magic fail with
one girl at least! And may she see him for what he is, a sham, a
magician, a maverick, a seducer. And may he, after his sixteen
thousand karmas, find his destiny in the most unexpected, unusual
presence in his life. Villain! I was muttering away uncontrolled.
Our friend hugged me and pulled me to yet another stall.
On the way, she said, I am delirious today and I want to give you
something. I sulked but asked what it was that she wanted to give me.
I had no use for her foolish feathers and bamboo rings, I told her.
No, no, for you i have words which i must sprinkle from his precious
quill. Do you know, the world thinks of him as a philanderer but i
think he is the only man in the universe who is the most constant one.
He, in a strange strange way belongs only to me.
Who? That vile Krishna? I asked in disgust. We know of his constant
ways. And today I have seen your colours too! What is wrong with
you? How could you let all those strange men be intimate with you? I
asked in horror. She had no answer, only a gentle smile. Come, she
said, let us discover more.
This one was a tattoo-maker. Strange one. What was that mela? And
who were all those strange men? And why did she attach herself to
each one of them so intimately?
'...the tattoo-maker, the tattoo-maker...'
Yes, yes. Him. He was having a merry time inflicting all the
beautiful women of our village with his craft. Even the most nubile
and the most bashful succumbed to his designs because he was the
master of his craft and no one else, he boasted, was quite like him.
I was very angry and pulled her hand to make her leave. But she, once
more, waited.
She who never raises her eyes to acknowledge other men, found
recognition in all these strangers.
'A tattoo for you, my gorgeous?' asked that vile villain.
She smiled, covered her face with that foolish feather and said,
search me, Bahurupiya! There is not an iota in my being which is left
untilled. There is no spot left for your tantalizing tattoos! And so
saying, she covered her entire self with that feather, peering at him
from within.
He smiled as he gazed at her. Although he looked only into her eyes,
it seemed as though he was scanning her entire face, her back, her
breasts, her thighs, even the centres of her palms. Finally, he had
tears in his magic eyes and murmured, 'truly, there is nothing I can
do. My life is magical and most peculiar. But the most peculiar of
all is you.
'Yes, you are the most peculiar and therefore the most unusual
presence in my life.'
**
There are many many ways of loving you. Surrounded by your harem of
kindly, cool, formed women who are starkly different from myself, i
sit naive and alert. My heart races as they, handsome women, appraise
me with genteel looks and i clutch at my dusty, red cloth-sari,
wishing i too had all that sparkling finery to don.
i sat, eyes darting from one to the other of the sixteen thousand.
They smiled feline smiles. They could hardly contain an unexplainable
fondness for me and did not quite know what to make of me. Pity they
could not and admire they must not.
There was a murmuring equilibrium, a rustle of precious tones, a hush,
an apposition of sound and silence. An ominous circle of
RedGreenYellowPurple. And i, a mere blueblack dot warding off the
evil from my unmarked territory --- the epicentre.
Swirling all around me, The Black, they wondered who i really was.
And how my rusticity could be so grave and so garrulous at the same time.
So calm, so passionate.
So pristine, so wild.
'How,' asked one, 'can she be both, white and black, at once?'
i smiled, remembering that day at the lotus pond when you gazed at me
and said, 'you are colour. I love you for the red of your muladhar
and the brilliant orange of your swadhishthan, the yellow of your
manipur and the blue of your vishuddhi. For the indigo of your agnya
and the violet of your sahasrar, my thousand-petalled lotus!'
'But what about the green of the anahat? That is the seat of Vishnu.
That is the seat of love!' i had cried.
'That spot is so dazzling that it is all colours and none. It is
both, White and Black, for how could I be anywhere without you at my
side?'
And that is how i came to be both, white as well as black, simultaneously.
'Have you ever dallied with his music in the green forests of
Vaikunth?' asked another. 'Has he played the flute for you?'
'No', i stammered. 'He once surrendered his flute to me and since
then, i am filled with music.'
'Has he sung praise to you?' asked a third.
'i cannot say because he once wrung a syllable from his shining chest
and placed it quivering in my palm. And since then, Word is mine.'
'You may have syllables of your own to keep,' said yet another, 'but
have you ever glanced into his eyes? Do you even know what magic lies
there?' asked a very wise one.
By now, i was about to burst into tears. 'How, how would i know?' i
ask, trembling. 'Each time i gaze into his eyes, all i see there is
myself.'
**
This, what i am about to narrate to you, gentle reader, is not
something i have ever given word to. This, i share with you in deep
intimacy and in a rather reckless vein.
Once, you floated a strange dark feather-like leaf in my direction as
we sat by the lotus-pond, i, twining my hair, you, gazing at me.
The feather-like leaf bore no inscription as my eager eyes searched,
but a heap of gleaming, red pebbles, somewhat like pomegranate seeds.
i emptied them on my lap and played with their aloof, crystalline
forms.
'What are these strange seeds, Madhava?' i asked, flinging up one in
the air as though it were a part of a child's puzzle.
'They are known as rubies', you replied with a smile.
'Should i sow them? Will they sprout into large wide-armed trees with
red leaves and red flowers and red fruit?'
'They may not', you replied. 'But I could string them in your lush
hair, and they will form a tiara.'
'Of what use will that be?' i asked, foolishly. 'Even though you once
named me "Stone-Hearted", i am a creature of the soil and i do not
fancy cold stones in my hair. i like the earth, her organic rhythms
and fecund beans which sprout, helplessly fertile.
What should i do with these sterile stones?
They will not suffice in etching your thousand names in my courtyard
when i set out to draw secret designs in my white muggu-rangoli each
morning.
They will not grow red trees if i sow them in the tilled fields.
They may even impede other seeds from fertilising; they are stones.
They will not dissolve with my beads of perspiration when you are with
me nor will they mingle with my tears when you are away.
'Oh, these bewitching red drops of blood may only befit a queen. Give
them to one of your sixteen thousand. To me, Krishna, give dust which
may procreate gently, namelessly,' i said, dissolving in the tears
which swam in your eyes.
And then, coming closer, you scooped the red rubies from my lap, and
raising your arm, you said, 'dust it shall be then.'
As you said so, a strange thing happened. They rubies changed form
and through your fist which was poised over my head, fell a stream of
vermillion.
The shape of dust.
The colour of rubies.
The worth of your invaluable Song.
It flowed and flowed, this ruby red.
My hair parted to receive it.
My palms opened like pink lotuses and i was submerged in red.
It was a moment or light years, i could not tell which. Finally, i
said 'stop! O god of love, stop! You cannot drench me like this with
colour. What will they say? Holi is far far away!'
You smiled then and clenching your fist, you turned me White, once
more. You kissed my eyes, filling them with the kohl of your Black.
And you whispered, 'Radhe, you are all the colours of the rainbow. A
rainbow which rises in the dark night, seen only by you and me. In
order to protect you from prying eyes, i shall turn this storm of red
dust invisible to human eyes.
However, I am indebted deeply to the vermillion on your fair forehead.
You wore it each time we met.
And each time, later, the grains remained disturbed.
Today, I infuse you with this red of passion, wrath, desire and
fulfilment. The dust of this ruby which I wear in my ear shall sit
forever between your brows. It will be for all to see and none to
decipher. Take it. It can only be yours.
I am the god of love.
Yes, I am He.
And you, you are the one.
The only one.
|
