Before the onset of winter our dear elephant-God arrives .The beginningless God presides over every worldly beginning ,rising from the mud-peelings of his Magnificent Mother.
He laughs at annoying asymmetry of the imperfect world .The moon mocks at his enormous belly that rocks with food and laughter.
The crowds cheer their clay-God painted in kitschy acrylic colors and national pride is restored amidst cacophonous filmy music.
In Bishnupur our horses do not fly like the horses to our Sun-God’s chariot .Their long decorated necks look pretty but break soon and dissolve into the earth
Our divine Mother’s head broke in splinters , in her father’s uninvited house .Our crumbling terra cotta temples are Godless .Our temple ponds are now washer women’s ghats. Our gods no longer adorn the Dance Hall to witness the divine dance.
We have potato cold storages everywhere and our listless young men are playing cards under the shade of the ancient banyan tree.
Our horses do not fly these days.
In people photography , people are mere extensions of nature ,a part of the soul of nature contributing to it and merging into its ambiance. To me their faces do not matter because they do not exist in my photo-space independently as themselves but exist as part of nature.They form part of my spatial consciousness and in their movements further the dynamics of nature .They merge effortlessly into nature reacting to it like any other objects in nature through the ambient light that falls on them .
Groups of people sitting in corners or huddled together in closed spaces contribute to the spirit as though they are integral part of the surrounding environment.
We look at their shadows ,their silhouettes ,the way they sit huddled in groups,heir body languages complementing each other. They are part of the history of the time-space ,a cosmic event chronicled in a photograph.
Especially people on the river banks. As they become part of the river,bathing ,waddling,boating in groups,washing clothes,washing buffaloes etc. People sitting before the temples , pilgrims walking in groups in the orange hues of sunrise.
We hear a body’s fall ,steeped in melody .The eyes fell in broken strings , their music lost in the winter of its time, in its nightfall.
The glass spread quickly in its stringing eyes.The big black eyes were strung to a fine song,the song of a lifetime, the flow of a generation.
The light grew less in his eyes.
The sound is now ashes, the eyes beads one counted for prayer.
(Tribute to Sitar maestro Ravi Shankar)
At dusk glass broke and turned back to its original form.Glass is now a series of shadows broken in colors without a scheme,pure kitsch with no conscience. Its colors violently disagree, a breaking sound like a girl’s bangles,as pure circles of light,broken while slipping on her forearm.
Glass is a love child of the earth and sun.Glass would break in shadows that are colors not falling in a scheme. Glass is random, a shadow play by an evening sun.
We do not open our lips nor watch other lips move or see other eyes.We close eyes on sound, on sight. Our feet are,ghost-like, on each other, so that the ants in them crawl against all motion.
Lips shall make a circular sound on the flat earth of ears. The ants are busy feet finding their destination which is just the circle of sound.
Lips will form ellipsis to let pass sound like wind under the door.We now hear the ants crawling,the silence of their sounds in us.
As the sun climbed the temple banyan the tortoise would carry the world on back as in apocalyptic times, a flood coming and a kind earth quaking with disaster.
We offer our eyes closed and in prayer ,our palms joined in a tortoise gesture. We then go forward to the sun in silver, the sun god on chariot of seven horses behind temple tank of immersed bodies torsos in prayerful baths, eyes closed.
We offer prayers to the sun in whiskers lighting our eyes with camphor flames. Our silver eyes are for his safe keeping.