It was an era of Mughal emperors, she curled her hair unconsciously while waiting on a river side for her lover - who is escaping the orthodoxes of village rebuking his love for a non-islamic girl.
The far away sounds gain intensity with each thud-applause of the horses' hooves. She takes a refuge behind thick woods, and stares into the sandy clearing with river flowing behind her and the crows fleeing above. Two veiled men are following her man, both on dusty stallions while he rode a black mare.
In a sweeping move, that brought an 'aahh!' on her face, that fanned his robe, he turns around, whips his sword and a bleeding head rolls behind as the stallion races ahead with the torso still hanging on saddle. While the other villain still carries on with ferocity, red eyes, coarse scream, following her man and she's shedding tear brooks without a sob, without a blink in her eyes. Her feeble feminine mind absorbed the scene like the unwilling clouds glowing with sun behind them. Her heart had hardly clotted the blood from the first visual wound and another bloody head topples off the dusty stallions running in opposite directions with hanging bodies drawing a bloody trail behind.
The scene remained paused for a while, for the while it took for the dust to settle down, for the while it took for her to succumb to ground with silent stomach retractions, for the while he took to breathe out fire in roars and tears. The scene remained paused till sun descended from zenith to horizon, till birds settled back on trees, till crows and dogs made a ruckus over scavenging supper. The scene remained paused.
Recently, I have taken to jumping into unknown waters after a long period of lame,
uninspiring and adventure free decisions. One such jump I took today was to go for the Violin Concert by
Prof. T. N. Krishnan due to my friend Chaithra's insistence. The institute which hosted the concert, National Chemical Laboratory, Pune was an old building given a fresh spring touch with so many flowering plants arranged in and out of building. Somewhere I could 'dream' of my Care4Nature office with clay walls and flowers spreading a fire of colours. The step back into the arena of dreams made the visit a bliss to me even before I actually experienced the enthralling Violin.
I was to loose all the sense of chemical smells emanating from laboratories soon with growth of thick woods around me, canopies eclipsing the glowing Sun, a river flowing with rhythm of 'Mrudangam' and giggling over rocks with trebles of 'Ghatam' . I was to receive a gift of another medium of expression, another medium of empathizing expressions. When T. N. Krishna started playing, the sound of violin overwhelmed me so much that my senses floated above the notes. The music spilled stories inside my closed eyelids, spilled emotions, induced contemplation, induced aroma. The piece of fiction I have written above, I witnessed it with vigour that almost splashed the blood-spill on my face.
Hats off to the master of Violin & thanks to Chaithra. Though I doubt she will accept this violent foreground to Carnatic Raaga of Hamswadhvani's background.