The Rains of Childhood

*We change but the rain is always the same as. Sometimes the rains bring back memories. Sometimes they bring out the children in men.Sometimes it takes us back to the cocoon we shed.*

Dripping, dropping in a steady beat,

Piterring patering upon roofs of tin.

Raining in a steady beat,

Such is nature’s greatest feat.

I have played as a child in the rain,

But now the summer has brought its pain.

Droplets pour from the sky and soak into my soul,

And I spin in madness pitter patter,pitter patter.

After the rain, summer has to come again,

And I may not be the same child spinning in the rain.

The rain from my eyes , my heart ,my brain,

Will only be drowned by the falling rain .

But the rain is my only muse,

The rain and I have no ulterior use.

Whether the same child or not,

After every summer, the rain falls just the same.

Tears fall from the sky, silent words cross my mind,

I try to speak, but there is not one note.

If you speak and no one listens, have you spoken?

Can the spinning child’s words be understood by men?

Innocence is Bliss

“For I had expected always

Some brightness to hold in trust,

Some final innocence

To save me from dust.”

Remember that time something got your eye? When you really felt something? When you truly loved something in all its purity? Was it the colourful kite you saw at the fair as a child? Or were they the stories you father would tell you at bedtime? Was it that song you heard on the radio that makes you smile a wry smile every time you hear it? Was it that time you were out playing with your friends in the first monsoon of the year? If you have experienced something like this you probably know what innocence means.

I don’t think I am capable enough to describe that wondrous state. After all it is a feeling, not an equation or a medical condition to be defined and then laid to rest in the yellow forlorn pages of a dictionary in a quiet library. It is a living, breathing state of mind, or rather a state of heart. It is that time you let go of all judgements of all preconceived notions and you think from that softened part of your mind and heart untouched by the crafty and hard world. When you see beauty in anything without any filters or distortions or suspicions, exactly like a child would.

But as I said the world is by and large judgemental, exacting, cunning and many more of the adjectives that your favourite poets and artists love using. And this is the world we have to live in. So we adapt, we change, we stop being children and grow up to being men and women of the world. And in this metamorphosis innocence becomes the discarded cocoon.

People lose their innocence trying to deal with the world. Some end their innocence themselves thinking it is too childish, thinking they need to grow up, to prove a point. From personal experience I can say that not a day passes that this category does not wish to go back to that place of childish purity.

You see, sensitivity is very much associated with innocence. And sensitive people find it very hard to survive in this insensitive world. And so we learn to hide our sensitivity as we grow up , lest we get hurt. We are too afraid of being hurt. So we view the world through the filters of our defence mechanisms. It may be vices for some, art for some, some in their charm. It is exactly as Edith Wharton says in the age of innocence ‘He simply felt that if he could carry away the vision of the spot of earth he walked on , and the sky that enclosed it, the rest of the world might seem less empty.’ So we hurt beings walk on to safer places , when we cannot find a safe place for our innocence , we choose to shroud it.

There is a very sensitive version of ourselves that we conceal within ourselves because we think that the whole world is insensitive. But what we do not realize is that everyone who has grown up also has some concealed sensitivity within themselves. You see innocence requires a place of safety, a safe home if you will. Somewhere free from judgement free from malice, free from greed and manipulation. This is where I think art is just the most wonderful safe home. Why can we still relate to poems and songs and paintings and novels so very well? Be it Mansfield or Mozart or Munch or Metallica<insert the unforgiven trilogy here > it is because these artists let their sensitive side onto the strings or canvas or paper and it resonated with that sensitivity that you have. That is why teenagers literally worship their rock gods( I know I did and do) why artists defend their masters so much

It’s actually comedic. We hide our innocent and sensitive side in fear of being judged and secretly wish other people would show us that side to themselves. A lot of the times, it comes down to who opens up first. You always (and surprisingly may I add) find people who you can show this side too. That’s when the other person finds out that he or she isn’t the only one with that shrouded innocence. To understand someone means to be able to understand their sensitivities and not judge i.e to look at it with innocence. Now I’ve not been on the side that speaks first a lot , but I know how good it feels when you connect at the level of shrouded innocence. It may be taking a huge risk. You may be putting yourself at great risk. And that is why you have to be sure on whether or not you have found a safe home. Otherwise, the world can always use more artists. And yes it does hurt when someone hits you where your sensitivities lie. It hurts incredibly badly.

I guess you have to lose innocence to know its value. Every kid wants to grow up too fast and every grown up wants to be a child again. Maybe that is the best test to know who is a child and who is an adult. All I can say is let that innocence remain somewhere in your heart. Not so deep that it suffocates and can’t ever come out and not so much on the surface for every passerby to twist at their whim and fancy..There is a difference between innocence and naivete . You might be loved for your innocence and you will be punished for your naivete. Knowing to differentiate between the two is what growing up is all about and not hiding away your sensitivities.Ultimately all I can say is never put the keys to your innocence in someone else's pocket. It’s the key to that special place where you let yourself in and where you let your guitars and pianos in, where you let your notebook and diary in and where you let your palate and paintbrush in. 

And most importantly it is where you have to learn to let people in. 

After all innocence is bliss .And happiness and bliss love company. 

Waves

**
“You know what your problem is ?” Andy screamed into my face
“ The hell if I know.” I said in the most I-couldn’t-care-less voice.
“You’re a wimp. You are scared and you’re too scared to admit it. That’s your problem.”Andy was one of the nicer guys I knew, but he was acting like such a pain today. I guess success does that to people. He sold a bunch of his paintings to this big time art house. Guy had been bragging about it all evening. I just wish he’d shut up. That’s what success and this bad world does to you. They give you this misplaced sense of ego. And that is the negation of all true art.
“ You think you’re some kinda rebel. You come here every evening , meet with the pavement artistes everyday and bring this new painting of yours. But you never have the gumption to sell it do you? Talk as much as you want about the satisfaction it is that you get and call me a traitor as much as you want. Fact is you are far too scared to let the world see your art. I don’t know what it is that you’re scared of. All you do is give it the name of protecting your art. Like the entire world is out to corrupt your soul. Like if you made a buck out of a picture , you’d never be able to paint again.”By now I knew Andy was beyond saving. Materialistic society had claimed yet another victim.
“Hey man. You used to be all about integrity, all about expressing yourself through your art.  So now you go and stoop low. Look at your older pictures man. They had soul. And then look at that bunch you’ve whored out. They’re just pretty colours on the canvas .Sure they’re pretty you didn’t become a painter for the pretty colours did you?”
“Well I’m not the one who makes these so called paintings with soul and never lets them out in the market. Every artist needs an audience and artists love their audience, they live off it. What do you have to be scared of?”Andy shot into my face. He had a funny way of talking when he was angry, but never did he talk like this. But then again he wasn’t really himself now.
“You damn well know why I’m not a sell-out like you.”I shot out in anger.” People don’t think and I don’t make dumb paintings. You have the people, who think, then the people who think that they think and then those who’d rather die than think. I’d rather keep my ideas to myself than sell it out to an audience who can’t appreciate them.”
“Whatever man, I’m out of this place. Good luck to you but take my advice man. Showing your art’s a part of the process. If I had your talent I’d never sleep hungry. Good luck and good bye.” Andy finally said and then walked out into the horizon.I just walked on till I reached the beach .The sun was almost setting and I was alone. Just how I like it. With nothing but the sound of the waves hypnotising me, drowning me. I watched the sun set and never felt like leaving. Damn Andy got paid and lost it. He was not better a painter than I was .True, he did have soul until he decided to sell it all away. But art was way too personal for me. The cool sea breeze hit me and the sun had almost set. Just a few shafts of elegant orange and pink beams in the sky fighting the approaching darkness of night. Maybe that’s just who I was. I was fighting the good fight. Trying to maintain my voice as the vast darkness tried to encroach upon it. The waves were like my paintings to me .The only cooling for my thoughts. The only thing vast enough to encapsulate within itself the storms within my mind. And sometimes these stormy seas produced my greatest paintings. This sea was where I belonged. I wanted to drown in it. The sea , the waves , they were my reward. No money, no recognition could ever come close to the calmness ,grace and elegance of these waves.                                                                       
                                                                            **
The day job was done. And I was alone at my apartment to drown in those waves again. That crazy sell-out Andy’s words were still in my head from yesterday. Maybe he was right. Maybe I was scared. To tell you the truth, the problem’s that I cannot do anything halfway. And everything that I’ve ever painted has been has been about my feelings. Sometimes it is so easy to paint and sometimes I have to search so hard to feel anything inside me ,to find any concept worth drawing. And sometimes these feelings of love, anger, angst, depression, pathos and sapience just fill me to the brim. Mostly angst and depression. I guess the world tends to do that to you. But it’s like I cannot function if I don’t put it out on canvas. I have no idea what a painting’s going to look like when I start. I just have an idea almost a feeling and I let myself float into those waves. I go in with my heart full of pain and drown in these waves and I come out healed. I feel I can function until the next time my heart’s all filled up again. And that canvas captures a piece of me. That is who I am at my most vulnerable position. I guess this type of catharsis makes me a better artist but it is too much of me to let the whole world see
.I have this box in which I put in all my paintings after I show it to the people I know will appreciate the depth of it. Sometimes it was just Andy and I who could get it…… Andy damn, he just had to go and get me all wrapped up in all this self loathing…. Why couldn’t he just gloat about selling his identity and get it over with?......I’ve never opened this box except to put a new painting , a new piece of me into it. I’ve never had the courage to see my own paintings. I don’t know what memories it might just bring up again. All of them were like pictures of me at those times I was under those waves….. Maybe the only time I was truly myself. I don’t know why but I felt like looking at those paintings. They were exactly what make me and that little chat with Andy was probably making me want to see those frames in order.
For the first time I opened up that box, and laid out the canvases. There was my first painting, and perhaps my most honest. It was just this kid playing on the edge of this cliff.  What I meant out of it was that the kid was going to grow up soon and turn into a hypocrite, consumed by the big bad world. He was about to fall of that cliff on which he was just playing like any innocent child. I just wanted to capture that one moment of innocence in that painting. I remember that day clearly. The first time I had sailed those waves. I remember how relieved I was when the painting was done. It was almost like the canvas was speaking to me. And it continued too till this day. Every happiness every joy was in that box , almost like a diary of sorts. I looked at every one of paintings and recalled the storm that caused that picture.

All this retrospection was making me feel the waves rise again. I was way too attached to that box , that diary of mine to let it go into that big bad world. It only belonged with those waves.I picked up my brush and dipped it into my pallet hoping the canvas would yet again be my muse. But it refused to talk to me.                                                                       
                                                                              **
There I was after a month in the same juxtaposition. Brush in had like every night for the last month. But the storm never burst, and I never drowned in those waves. My muse still wouldn’t talk to me. I guess some storms aren’t even enough for the waves to withstand. I was too tenacious. The fact that I put myself into my art made it better. The only way a storm would really subside, the only way I would get closure from any of the situations in that boxed diary of mine was if I let it free. I would overcome my feelings only when I let the world in rather than push it away. Most people wouldn’t get it at all. But those people were not the point. The point was that I felt that I was strong enough to face the world rather than hide behind my waves.                                                                      
                                                                              **
I reached the beach and where the pavement artists put up some of their paintings. I too brought a painting , my first nonetheless . The one with the kid about to jump the ledge. I saw Andy’s silhouette approach in the fading sunlight of the sea line.
So ? ready to sell your soul to the big bad world?” he asked.
“No ready to fight it.” I answered.

The sun set and I drowned in those waves again.

The storm had subsided.




This post is written for adviceadda.com, for which I am contributing as a writer.You can log on to the website@ http://www.adviceadda.com

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Beauty in Black

There she was. Her hair fell in her face as though hiding the pain that lay beneath her beauty, the pain that all of her except her eyes so very well concealed. Once locks of flowing hair revealing her facial features, almost accentuating them, now looked as though they were made for but one task. That was to cover as much of her face without seeming too obvious. Her body was draped in black against the white of her skin. Somehow in that state of hidden pain was not beauty but grace- the grand vestige of the past.

She looked on at the charades of the world around her. There were the imbeciles, in groups of two or five, in the utter tomfoolery of their youth imagining the universe to be concentrated in their little circles.

“ I am above these circles. “, she thought.” We all are but meaningless. How does it matter if I’m happy or sad if none of the pieces fit?”

But there was a time when the pieces fit. When she was young, pure and free. When her hair flowed down her back and not her face. When there was no burden of hiding the key to her mind’s secrets. But that was a different time. Logic and reason, slow to penetrate had robbed her of her illusions. She had lost faith. Then there was a time of crisis of faith. But now, there was no faith to lose.

But the only remaining vestige of these memories that mattered to her was freedom. When she was without a care as a child or in the most troubled times of her teenage when she felt she had nothing to lose-she had felt free. Sometimes in the most unpleasant situations, as the vanquished and not as the victor – she had felt free. It was just a feeling that she had had a taste of, but never was she able to define it. It was the feeling that would make her want to scream in ecstasy the feeling that would make these little Dante’s circles bearable.

Her mind went back to the days of the open hair, to when the pieces fit as the imbeciles continued on their  futile jests.

“Innocence “, she thought,” what a word! I wish I could go back to it! But here I am without freedom! My once prized possession ! And now I am tied down to society’s whims.”

There she was in college. Making her career- her bright future. But what was the point of this future as long as it was not free? She was told by voices with faces day in and day out – “Don’t think too much! Art! Freedom! They’re just the passions of youth! Do your math and read your science. Stand on your feet, become someone and only then will the world listen.”

“But what good is any money, any fancy degree without that feeling of innocence?”

And as this anger against her fate rose, as the poet within her, as the artist within her died, her hair grew to cover her face. The more did the key seem to become heavier.

“I must rebel this cannot be my fate! I am a free thinking woman! My fate cannot be spending days behind a desk and earning money! Money! What a shame! Money and success! That is all the world thinks of! That is how it will measure me! But I will show them something else to remember me!”

The increasing black in her clothing with the occasional graffiti of and  her face obscuring hair were , but translations of her thoughts. In all of this she thought she looked much better without her innocence. She wanted to be darker, more obscure, to defend herself against the judgements of the world. Her visage was her defence against the world. Nobody could look inside.

She had long thought of herself dressed in black, walking down a dark street with a cigarette in her hand! Alas she would have to wake up the next day and attend classes that would make her fit for an unfit society. So much so, to be fit enough to succeed in it.

She rose from her chair. One can only sit alone in a public place alone without feeling awkward. But then again, she exuded awkwardness.  Angst was her crown, anger her beauty, all concealed with one tuft of black hair.

But what was it that she could do to assert that she was not just a number with a percentage sign after it? How could she prove that she was not like the others, just another number and not a name?  The ghosts of the dead poet and dead artist in her played havoc with her mind. She had to rebel against her own inhibition she had to exercise her own freedom!

Then came to her the idea she had toyed with for some time now. Narcotics! Drugs! Nobody expected a prudent medical student to be on drugs ! That would change the way she was perceived. She would no longer be the nice girl with straight hair anymore. She would be the mystery lady in black holding so many secrets in those curls over her face. Yes that was who she wanted to be!- the black magic voodoo woman- bathed in the sensuousness of her mysteries-so deliciously degenerate – so well concealed.

She decided to gradually ascend the scales of her degeneracy .Tonight she was going to get drunk! Her steps traced the pathway to the liquor store. But there was something fighting the ghost of the dead artist. It was the little girl with straight hair. As she walked , this war increased in ferocity. This was a war between what she wanted to be and who she was and the casualty was her present.

“No I can’t give in to these feelings. You have to be bad to deal with this world.”At this point the alcohol would probably serve to drown the pain more than stating any point.

“ It must be done.”, she said to herself.” I must exercise my freedom”.

And her freedom did her in as good a stead as did her money. In a few minutes, she was carrying a bottle of cheap vodka covered in brown paper to her room. Whether it would drown her angst or set her free, she just didn’t know.

As she returned that evening, she saw yet another young girl, with all her sweetness and innocence and hair clear of her face. “Memories cannot weigh me down.” But the war of ghosts still raged in her mind.

She returned to her room, concealing the liquid of her emancipation. She sat down at her dressing table, in front of her mirror. The ghostly war was raging now. And the image of the little girl with her straight hair kept haunting her.

This was too much for her. Too much angst for one day. She had to drown it all away in cheap vodka. There, she had her first sip , straight from the bottle. Her throat burned from her miscalculation. But the ghosts in her head kept fighting.

And then she looked at herself in the mirror. Beauty in black. The better part of her face covered by her long hair. Now she could let her guard down, when the world was not looking down at her , judging her.  She gently lifted her hair and pushed it behind her shoulders – revealing her face in the faint glow of the lamp nearby. Her face still retained some features of when she was ‘free’. The same lips and the same smile. But her eyes told a different tale. They had seen faces, but her face was seen and judged by the eyes . Maybe it was the vodka, maybe it was the effect of the dim lamp, that it struck her.

Somehow, she again had a feeling, something she thought herself incapable of now. She understood that her hair looked better drawn back ,her face looked better without hiding in her lush black hair. That was the end of the war. The little girl had won. The innocence that she shunned , seemed to be giving her the same ‘feeling’ of freedom again. She drained away the remaining vodka. And in that semi-tipsy state she drew her hair back, behind her shoulders and her eyes again had that singular look of innocence.

It did not matter where she hid the key anymore. She now hides in plain sight , for all to mock , but for her to relish…..