Meeting of Minds

I read this poem of Herman Hesse today. It reminded me of Bharatiyar's poem titled , Nirpaduve Nadappaduve.. He asks if all that stands, moves and flies is but an illusion. And a mere illusion..

Sometimes one gets tired of philosophy or spirituality or even rational deconstruction and dry reductionism. A beautiful morning, the sun and a lovely breeze. The philosopher and the spiritualist deconstructs it as the world , a canvas painted by a benign creator.And the rationalist deconstructs it as the power of elements combining in all its glory. At this point, the aesthete is lost.The power and the ability to just be - to live the moment is missed. I am reminded of J.Krishnamurthy's words - to look at a leaf without thinking of it as a leaf, just drinking it with your eye and not let the mind interefere with your vision. It is spring going into summer and every bright day brings a million questions.At the end of it all, one feels tired. exhausted. One wishes to command the mind to just shut up and drink it in. Just be.And do nothing else.

This is Hesse's poem.Today I might not identify much with a lot of Hesse's writings in terms of its inherent soft-spirituality but there is him in an old world aesthete, a certain characteristic at once German and still unGerman that still appeals to me.

Is this everything now,
the quick delusions of flowers,
And the down colors of the bright summer meadow,
The soft blue spread of heaven, the bees' song,
Is this everything
only a god'sGroaning dream,
The cry of unconscious powers for deliverance?
The distant line of the mountain,
That beautifully and courageously rests in the blue,
Is this too only a convulsion,
Only the wild strain of fermenting nature,
Only grief, only agony,only meaningless fumbling,
Never resting, never a blessed movement?
No! Leave me alone, you impure dream
Of the world in suffering!
The dance of tiny insects cradles you in an evening radiance,
The bird's cry cradles you,
A breath of wind cools my forehead
With consolation.
Leave me alone, you unendurably old human grief!
Let it all be pain.
Let it all be suffering, let it be wretched-

But not this one sweet hour in the summer,
And not the fragrance of the red clover,
And not the deep tender pleasure
In my soul.

A Worker Reads History

I don't particularly feel like writing or blogging, so here is a digg from the past. In 2002, I went on a historical tour of some of the remote Southern temples. That was a time when I was quite high on a diet of indology, indic research institutions and indigenous scholars and save-the-palm-leaf-manuscript type of thing. Among these temples wase Dharasuram a small tranquil spot near Kumbakonam. Like all other places the board proudly proclaimed that Rajaraja II built this temple. On one hand I was awestruck by the artistry and the architectural marvel, on the other I could not but wonder about the dynamics of temple construction. I do understand that it provided some kind of livelihood.

But Who were the thousands of workers who were commissioned for this? How did they agree to it? Were they compensated enough? Were they slaves and refugees of war who did not have an option but to pander to the ego of a king? A million questions raged in my mind as scenes from The Ten Commandments and Egypts Pharoahs played over and over in the background. I did try to dig up some references but did not get enough answers and then abandoned the cause. And then I found this poem of Bertold Brecht and it reminded me again of those questions on those marvels of timeless art crafted by nameless faceless workers. Yes, the anarchist feels very red today!!

A Worker Reads History

Who built the seven gates of Thebes?
The books are filled with names of kings.
Was it the kings who hauled the craggy blocks of stone?
And Babylon, so many times destroyed.
Who built the city up each time? In which of Lima's houses,
That city glittering with gold, lived those who built it?
In the evening when the Chinese wall was finished
Where did the masons go? Imperial Rome
Is full of arcs of triumph. Who reared them up? Over whom
Did the Caesars triumph? Byzantium lives in song.
Were all her dwellings palaces? And even in Atlantis of the legend
The night the seas rushed in,
The drowning men still bellowed for their slaves.
Young Alexander conquered India.
He alone?
Caesar beat the Gauls.
Was there not even a cook in his army?
Phillip of Spain wept as his fleet
was sunk and destroyed. Were there no other tears?
Frederick the Greek triumphed in the Seven Years War.
Who triumphed with him?
Each page a victory
At whose expense the victory ball?
Every ten years a great man,
Who paid the piper?
So many particulars.
So many questions.

--Bertold Brecht.