I can never say which is more poignant: the sun breaking into colours from the darkness of the night sea, or the bright sun sinking over the darkening horizon. When I was there in the east coast each day was a miracle. Each day began with the birth of new light, like a new and newer horizon being discovered. Like any eager soul who has without regret or remorse, un-reluctantly left the warmth of the bed and sought the sea shore in the early dawn in the east coast I too have known the touch of the sun. Pondicherry was for me like a warm tin-can placed squarely under the glowing sun; all it does is to go from warm to extreme hot and then rework from where it left off throughout the year. The birth of the sun was the beginning of a blistering hot day the year around. But the sweetness and silence of a glorious sun emerging from the deeps of the sea was always a sight that brought tears from the deeps of myself. I recall murmuring to myself: hiranmayena patrena, satyasyapihitam mukham/ tat tvam pushann apavrinu, satya-dharmaya drishtaye | (The face of truth is covered with a golden disc. O Pushan, Sun, unveil it so I who love the truth may behold it!)
There is certainly light behind light behind light. What blinds us at the beginning need not be the true light. Do I search within myself again and again?
The Mother of the Sri Aurobindo Ashram, in one of her conversations, speaks about the idea of beauty thus:
. ..At first your sense of beauty is instinctive, impulsive, infrarational, lacking light, wanting reason, simply without any true understanding, and so, because the origin of the aesthetic sense is infrarational, it is understood, one always says this: “There’s no disputing tastes and colours.” You know, there are all kinds of popular proverbs which say that the appreciation of the beautiful is not a matter of reasoning, everyone likes a particular thing he doesn’t know why, he takes pleasure in looking at a thing, and this pleasure cannot be discussed.
(WRITINGS BY THE MOTHER, Aesthetic consciousness, 1 June 1955)
One just looks upon sun rising like this with awe like a child, infrarational. It is full of mystery full of meaning. Although at the back of our rational mind we “know” that it is the earth that goes round the sun and not the other way round. But like the wise scientist Galileo Galilei we also murmur to ourselves: nevertheless it moves! It moves alright it “moves” our minds too!
But the mind of man is never satiated: the artist and poet are condemned to wander forth forever never tied to one place or time. As I left Pondicherry the sun had begun its descent. Of course it resurfaces even in the west coast. From among the mountain ranges I see the quiet dawn breaking free once again. Now when the sun goes down I see the magnificence of another secret. There is no light without darkness as there is no darkness without light.
Does the intellect realise this or does the heart feel it? What can we say after the touch of God in the glorious dawn? Sri Aurobindo has written:
[…] Whoever has once felt the glory of God within him can never again believe that the intellect is supreme. There is a higher voice, there is a more unfailing oracle. It is in the heart where God resides. He works through the brain, but the brain is only one of His instruments. Whatever the brain may plan, the heart knows first and whoever can go beyond the brain to the heart, will hear the voice of the Eternal.
(Sri Aurobindo on the Glory of God in Man, January 1, 1908)
To feel at one with the universe is to touch the deeper self of all being. This is a realization that just dawns on one or need I write “in “one? Have I felt that the glory of the dawn is profounder or more poignant than the serenity of the sun setting over the Arabian sea? What can I say?
There is no secret in life: everything is free for the taking, open and approachable. As one walks towards the rising sun one feels this truth in one’s veins. It is the similar state of being one arrives at as one walks toward the setting sun. East is East and West is West. There is little difference.
The sun is a miracle. Dawn. Silent and serene. Evening. Silent and serene. We are such tiny creatures that we cling to the edge of all being and refuse to let go. The night is broken and dawn is free. The day is ended and the sun is set. Our heart is hushed. Silenced. If we are willing to turn inwards our hearts will learn to sense much more that what our brains later reason with us. Pondicherry or Trivandrum.
In this west coast I feel the rush of the centuries as the sun disappears round the bend in the silent horizon. It is with a suddenness that my heart is overtaken by the sweeping sadness of emptiness. Have I lost the sun? Which is more poignant? The sun breaking into colours from the darkness of the night sea, or the bright sun sinking over the darkening horizon? Do I know?
This is the empty nest syndrome they speak about. When the children have grown up and left for the wide world seeking spaces for themselves the parents who stay at home feel the pang. My father used to say, I recall: “Leave the front door always open!” Now I know. The sun rise and sun set are never separate. The question that remains large is just this: Is it the same sun that comes round? Silence and solitude are deep within the seeking self. To touch silence is to awaken the whir of the reasoning mind. To realize solitude is to awaken the ever questing mind. The poet and artist are condemned to wander in silence and solitude. Only the sun follows him.
Murali Sivaramakrishnan belongs to that rare breed of the vanishing (rather vanished) tribe of English teachers who are well-equipped with a strong foundation in the Indic spiritual tradition. Sturdily armed with a Sanskrit orientation, he approaches the territory of Indian aesthetics that angels dare not tread. It is common knowledge that the primary source of this discipline is thevedas and the upanisads. All great creations of art are the supreme emanation from the heart filled with rasanubhava. We do have a hoary tradition of aestheticians extending from Bharata of the fifth century BC down to Panditharaja Jagannatha of the 17th century who have thought long and thought deeply on what constitutes the nature and mode of existence of a work of art. The western critical tradition cannot pride itself of such unbroken continuity. There is a yawning unbridgeable gap of 10 centuries between the decline and fall of the Roman empire in the fourth century A.D. and the European renaissance of the 14th century, the interim medieval age relegating arts as unwanted baggage in its over-insistence on religion.
This book is an attempt, in the words of the author, “to reread the contribution of the mystic in the light of contemporary scholarship,” with an approach that is “holistic and integral, methodology not derivative but comparative, and poetically sensitive.” The work, a collection of articles previously published during 1993-2011 in various journals, is divided into four major sections in 11 chapters with an addition of two personal, contemplative musings — for me the best of the lot — and a select bibliography. Of these, the section ‘Aesthetics’ is of immediate concern to us. Murali is quick to realise the distinction between the aesthetics of the West and the East. Indian aesthetics centres on supra-sensual values since it is impossible to comprehend the finite without extending it to the infinite.
For Sri Aurobindo, the object of human existence is brahmananda, the delight of being and hence progress in life lies not in rejecting beauty and delight or practising a life of denial but in rising from a lower to a higher plane in the realisation of the experience of beauty and delight. The aesthetic process lies in the soul becoming conscious of its pilgrimage towards God. He envisions the possibility of the human to enlarge his awareness to the ultimate stage of Divine Supraconsciousness.
Murali maintains that Sri Aurobindo’s aesthetics is integral in nature and spiritual in its conception. Life is viewed in its entirety and in its all-inclusiveness. He steers clear of two attitudes: the materialist’s rejection of anything behind the phenomenal appearance and the ascetic’s refusal to accept the material reality of the world. These two stand as the major obstacles to a comprehensive awareness which is possible only through an integration of Life and Spirit into a cosmic continuum. “To become complete in being, in consciousness of being, in force of being, in delight of being and to live in this integrated completeness is the divine living” says Sri Aurobindo in his The Life Divine. Murali coins the phrase ‘the aesthetics of transformation’ to denote this stage in the evolutionary process, in the Arnoldian sense of ‘a growing and a becoming, and not a being and a resting.’
Murali advises us that while approaching the works of Sri Aurobindo we should bear in mind the following: “his distinction of the subtler levels of spirituality from overt religion and its discourses; his foregrounding of the intensity and necessity of experiential yoga…; his constant involvement with poetry and the power of the Word — the mantra”. His concept of the efficacy of the mantra, the poetic expression of the deepest spiritual reality, which he formulates at great length in his magnum opus The Future Poetry is vital to the Aurobindonian spiritual aesthetics which is all about the wholesale transformation of the inner-self (body, mind and spirit) and not, not at all, of the tawdry fripperies of external existence.
Most of these essays deal with Sri Aurobindo’s search for enlightenment, his recovery of the significant principles of ancient aesthetics embedded in our scriptures. Ideas and illustrations get repeated time and again; hence there is a noticeable lack of progression in the elucidation of Sri Aurobindo’s aesthetics. It is none too easy to guide the reader through the labyrinth of the works of the great mystic. Murali draws heavily from the abundant source available in our scriptures. However there remain some nagging questions which an uninitiated reader is bound to raise. How does an aesthetic experience get immediately intuited? What is the locus of such an experience? Does it offer a terminal value? What is aesthetic judgment? Or aesthetic bliss? Probably such overt pragmatism is irrelevant and unwarranted in the context of Aurobindo’s synthetic vision. One searches for the ‘New Directions’ promised in the title of the book. Whither are they?
Book Review by MS Nagarajan in The Hindu July 1st 2014
Partitions Post-Amnesias books and literature— Book Review in the Hindu, 4th February 2014 by Murali Sivaramakrishnan
A backward glance at the intertwined Partition-impacted history of India, Pakistan and Bangladesh
A people without history, as the poet TS Eliot wrote, are not redeemed in time; for history is a pattern of timeless moments. And as historians very well know, beneath the surface texture of regions forced into existence as separate nations there are these deep traces of extreme traumatic events marked by violence, displacement, and multiple alienations. In the context of celebrating India’s 65th Republic day the time and temperament are equally well set for us to cast a backward glance at the intertwined history of the three nations of India, Pakistan and Bangladesh.
Weaving through personal memory, family history, lesser known texts, and narratives of the regions of South Asia that were historically constituted into these three nations, Ananya Jahanara Kabir has documented a text of post-traumatic recollections cutting across regions, communities and languages. Partition’s Post-Amnesias, as her title implicates, locates itself within the frames of 1947 and 1971 (when Bangladesh came into being dislocating itself from Pakistan), and endeavours to trace the dialectic of memory and forgetting. It is a narrative that seeks to retrace the fragile webs of kinship and memory in which individuals remain suspended long after the political and personal events have sent them in different directions across, as the Bengali rhyme goes, “seven oceans and thirteen rivers.” The author now located away from her original home in Cambridge listens to the voice of a Pakistani singer: “Traveller, wipe your tears; return with yourself intact…” Those post-partition’s resonances ferry her across generations and regions, when displacements and dislocations mix into memory, hope and enchantment. The book reads like a memoir, despite its rich texture of quotations and erudite commentaries.
Jahanara Kabir dedicates the book to her grandfather born in 1910, Faridpur, East Bengal, who died in 1981 in Calcutta, West Bengal; to her father, Zugul Kabir, born in 1941, Faridpur, East Bengal, who died in Calcutta, West Bengal; to her nephew born in Wales, 2011… “Imbued with the perfume of lime blossoms!” (Kazi Nazrul Islam) The core of the book divided into two parts — with a Prologue and a theoretically dense Introduction leading up to it, and a Conclusion entitled “Darjeeling Tea” endeavouring to provide a connectivity to the forever messy map of a region and people — reveals the heart of two nations which later became three whose histories and destinies were shared. As Jahanara Kabir notes: what my generation share — lie in East Bengal, we do not know; and what we know — life in Pakistan, Bangladesh and India — we do not share.
There are among many things that we in present-day India hold as dear to us as part of our memory of a collective past — the great heritage of Mohenjo-Daro and Harappa, the fabled learning centre of Taxila (Takaœilâ) and the now destroyed monumental Buddhas of the Bamiyan territory; the list of such treasures of our national memory could be rather long. But these are but the remnants that are tattered and disinherited amidst the vicissitudes of political events which are beyond us. They belong to us and at the same time do not belong to us. In a similar way as Jahanara Kabir shows, thrice partitioned Bengal, together with the partition of Assam, has given rise to a most peculiar kind of cartographic irresolution, and “othered the space” of memory. She wades through Kamila Shamsie’s Kartography, Moni Mohsin‘s The End of Innocence (Pakistani novels in English) and Point of Return by Siddhartha Deb (located in East Pakistan) attempting to piece together a phantom map of regions now cast in different points of history. Partition, as the author claims, was experienced as the wound of the mind for those who experienced it and also for those who escaped it. The breach occurred in the mind’s experience of time, self and the world.
Whether it is through the politics of memory or the poetic of space, on the map or out of place, the narratives of these regions albeit intact are fragmentary just as the author’s own affective energies are dispelled and displaced from her map of three nations. “Through this book I enact my conviction that the boundary between investigation and imagination, between research and creative writing, and between objectivity and subjectivity is as blurred as that fuzzy boundary, now widely acknowledged, between historiography and fiction.” Violence, rape and destruction of entire ways of living are truths that bind the three nations together—the epistemological burdens of narrative memories also trace the broken curve of this spectrum.
In the chapter “Terracotta Memories,” Jahanara unearths the palpable evocations transferred through the variations of red clay as it moves from solid earth through memories and desires. Her contextual references are to MF Husain and KG Subramanyan. The strange and nameless uneasiness that the south-India born Subramanyan (who lived long in Bengal) feels at the sight of monsoon clouds or the song of the koel or the smell of the mango blossoms returns us to a viraha-inflected Fruedian uncanny, as much as when Husain signifies that the earthen pot is an oracular survivor of the destruction of tradition. The struggle of the modern to enervate narrative traditions seizes the vernacular and the seasonal, and terracotta, also a part of this sensorium, as both Husain and Subramanyan recognises, stands out as ephemeral and eternal, resilient and responsive.
The chapter “Archaeography” signals that forgetting is a crucial factor in the creation of a nation but reminds us that regions are contained in remembering. The chapter “The Enchanted Delta” is an excellent reading of Ritwik Ghatak and the fragmented traces of East Bengal.
Throughout her book, Jahanara Kabir, sustains the reader’s interest through her erudition by knitting together insights drawn from a wealth of creative scholarship. The text that she weaves opens up new terrains for the work of memory and narrative. She ends: Darjeeling, Faridpur, Calcutta, Karachi, and Dhaka, will remain forever places on another messy map: that of memories, forgettings, post-memories and post-amnesias. Logically her book does not end there. Because memory believes before knowing remembers! An excellent reading of modern South Asiatic heritage and its traumatic underpinnings.