After so many days, I feel like writing something beautiful. Since my writing does not permit me to venture beyond my own limitations, I shall try to compensate my shortcomings by writing about something beautiful.
Deep down, I somehow feel that beauty does not differentiate between the agent through which it is expressed. In its purest form you cannot compartmentalize its domains. Neither can you objectively analyze its effects nor can you explain human susceptibleness to it. It stands there on its own, totally unaware of the thousand entranced gazes probing it, entirely ignorant of the million senses soaking it. Pure beauty has a sense of timelesness to it. An infinity constrained in the limitations of the border of a photograph if you will. It refuses to die of age and it haunts and enchants at the same time.
The beauty I am talking about does not concern an intricate piece of art or an elaborately ornate model. Its simpler. Much simpler. Its the allure of the smell of wet earth after the first monsoon rains. Its the enchantment of hearing Vande Mataram on a lazy morning. Its the seductiveness of a pair of especially beautiful eyes brimming with innocence and helplesness. It breathes in the magnetism of a foggy evening walk along the Mall road of a hillstation or a beautiful piece of music or even a breathtaking display of nearly superhuman atheletic ability. It reaches to you from the bichromic depths of a black and white photograph depicting an old dilapidated house and cries for your embrace in the hollow expressions of a mother whose child is dying of malnutrition. Its the nostalgia you feel when you walk on the familiar campus of the school you went to 8 years ago. Its the pain which the searing heat of a summer afternoon on the deserted roads of a sleepy town brings. Its the satisfaction which a starry, full moon night provides when you sleep out in the deafening silence of the rustic embrace of your village. Its in the myriad colours of a dew drop and the pointlesness and innocence of the stolen glances with you loved one. Its in the tones of a familiar tune, in the crescendo of a brilliant opera, in the consummation of love, in the commencement of estrangement, in the glory of nature, in the infinite human creativity, in the small details which we miss often, in the celebration we call life and the final parting of death.
Deep down, I somehow feel that beauty does not differentiate between the agent through which it is expressed. In its purest form you cannot compartmentalize its domains. Neither can you objectively analyze its effects nor can you explain human susceptibleness to it. It stands there on its own, totally unaware of the thousand entranced gazes probing it, entirely ignorant of the million senses soaking it. Pure beauty has a sense of timelesness to it. An infinity constrained in the limitations of the border of a photograph if you will. It refuses to die of age and it haunts and enchants at the same time.
The beauty I am talking about does not concern an intricate piece of art or an elaborately ornate model. Its simpler. Much simpler. Its the allure of the smell of wet earth after the first monsoon rains. Its the enchantment of hearing Vande Mataram on a lazy morning. Its the seductiveness of a pair of especially beautiful eyes brimming with innocence and helplesness. It breathes in the magnetism of a foggy evening walk along the Mall road of a hillstation or a beautiful piece of music or even a breathtaking display of nearly superhuman atheletic ability. It reaches to you from the bichromic depths of a black and white photograph depicting an old dilapidated house and cries for your embrace in the hollow expressions of a mother whose child is dying of malnutrition. Its the nostalgia you feel when you walk on the familiar campus of the school you went to 8 years ago. Its the pain which the searing heat of a summer afternoon on the deserted roads of a sleepy town brings. Its the satisfaction which a starry, full moon night provides when you sleep out in the deafening silence of the rustic embrace of your village. Its in the myriad colours of a dew drop and the pointlesness and innocence of the stolen glances with you loved one. Its in the tones of a familiar tune, in the crescendo of a brilliant opera, in the consummation of love, in the commencement of estrangement, in the glory of nature, in the infinite human creativity, in the small details which we miss often, in the celebration we call life and the final parting of death.
10 comments:
Now this is the kind of blog that we all appreciate you for. Goes to show that behind that veil of sarcasm and contempt lies a heart that does appreciate and not just finds flaws in the contours of life.
The blog left me smiling and light....
Words of approval from such a strong critic !!! :)... My day is made...
I tend to agree with Anurup on this!
chalo bhaiyya kuch to pasand aaya tumhe :)
To add... I had send tis piece to a frnd who in turn send it to someone else...So this is the comment of that person:
"......and for sure its in remembering such beautiful moments which we have experienced time and again and yet forgotten them somewhere sometime..it fills the heart yet again to read them over :)"
A beautifuly comment on a even more beautiful blog...
To add... I had send tis piece to a frnd who in turn send it to someone else...So this is the comment of that person:
"......and for sure its in remembering such beautiful moments which we have experienced time and again and yet forgotten them somewhere sometime..it fills the heart yet again to read them over :)"
A beautifuly comment on a even more beautiful blog...
wah... meri taraf se shukriya-ada kar dena...
On one occasion, similarly overwhelmed, I had attempted to write something on beauty too. It felt so futile to express it in words ... this is not something that one might be able to read and appreciate. We have to experience it to know, and once we have, all this would make so much sense. This one did :)
Your post reminded me of nice things that, in retrospect, made me sad. I wonder if I am the only one here who derived sadness out of beauty.
Do you remember the plastic-bag video in "American Beauty"?
@Parul: It does seem pointless trying to say anything on something as subjective and subtle as beauty. I agree that in its pure form it can only be felt at a very personal level. Anything more public is probably corrupted by baser instincts and does not qualify as pure beauty.
@Gunti: Sadness probably is the most potent way of realizing true beauty I feel. Look at all those ghazals and poetries and music. Upbeat environment makes you happy but nostalgic sadness makes you crave which I think has that much more emotional content I guess...
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