Skip to main content

Some Tributes..Jagjit Singh, Steve Jobs

Death carries a strange ring with it, a ring of cruel truth, like a plain, transparent glass, cold and cutting at the same time. What makes a death particularly painful to look at is that is in someway represents an hourglass, with sand smoothly shifting down to the lower cell, irrespective of all the intent in the world screaming to hold the moment. The moment never holds back, time passes, and people who we assume were to never grow old, tired and out of our lives, do end up doing precisely that, getting old, getting tired and getting out of our ( and in process, their own) lives.

Art manifests in many forms. Sometime it is a piece of literature, a ravishing or disturbing painting, a technological masterpiece or a sound of velvety texture which wraps itself around out painful existence, in the divine embrace of which we go to sleep and we sleepwalk across the fire stewn paths of life, intoxicated by the art. I have included technological masterpiece into art here, as one most recent loss refers to is. Anything, whether music or art or any activity undertaken by human being can leap forth into a realm on unreal tranquility which can transform it into Art. Any act, initiated by the needs of lifes in its basic form is nothing but work, when one puts little more love into those basic acts of survival and the work and functions become skill, a little more indulgence and it becomes Art. This is the path of a function, it is the love and indulgence of a does that transform some work into skill and then into Art. It is by this very virtue Apple, became a work of art. The indulgence which worked on the skills of a masterful engineer, to transform a typical technical device into a work of art, is what separated him from a huge, human force which calls itself a technological force, merely because it is commercially feasible categorization. Steve Jobs brought technology to a point where it merged itself to Art, just as Da Vinci did. That is the simple reason as to why a master painter was also an inventor of airplanes (or at least the first designer). The innert calm with which Jobs left the world, leaving the office two months before the final act, and spending time with the family in the end shows the immense strength of character of the man that Jobs was.
Next, blow came with passing away of Jagjit Singh, legendary Ghazal singer, couple of days back. As the tributes run on the television, one can not but feel amused at the youngishness of the man, not only in his early days but even in the last days. Such cheerful boyishness comes from the love for one's skills and ones commitment to it. The silky, soothing voice had been companion to many nights of incomparable beauty and unbearable pain, on the window shelves of hostel, in the days of youthful bewilderness. It was always there, when relationships would come crushing down like the unforgiving waves of the ocean hitting on an unrepentent shore, to comfort and to embrace like an old, childhood friend; it was always there like a bountiful, mountain-rivulet coming down, happiness brimming on its boundaries, at the advent of every new relation. It was unimaginable to think of a world before and after that. It was eternal, and to think that the voice has not halted, and will not play with any new set of words any longer is such a haunting thought. As I today, sit, allowing this sinking feeling sail through my being, I look at the void which looks into my eyes. And, Indiana Jones and The Kingdom of Crystal Skull comes to and end with a profound statement, as the character shakes his head dismissively and says," How much of human life is lost in waiting." Going to kiss my daughter's forehead enoughtimes before it starts become embarassing to her, and eventually turning unbearable to her, for life's ways are unyielding and unforgiving.
Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

Bahubali 2- The Conclusion- Movie Review

We are living in an extremely cause-heavy world where causes - real and imagined cloud our minds. I saw this in the case of the movie - Beauty and The Beast. There the quarrel of the social commentators was that it explored the gay angle of one of the characters only briefly, only fleetingly. There can be nothing more absurd than that. You are demanding more from an artist than possibly he can offer. Art is a profession of lonely persuasion, and it serves the purpose its creator desires it to serve. Nothing more and nothing less. It is sad and unfortunates that the liberals, which in Indian context largely translates to Leftists, insists that art is nothing but a vehicle that should be provided to them for their political agendas and narratives to ride on. It is like insisting that the reference to the Negroes in the "The Great Gatsby" should have been expanded to cover racism in detail. The brief episode was merely to substantiate the character and nothing more. Just as cre…

Resurrecting Hinduism- Without Embarrassment

I have been pondering about the sense of despondency, the sense of shame which has been imposed on the Hindu thoughts in Indian society. Every act of faith has to be explained, justified. When partition happened, Muslims fought and obtained an independent Nation, while the other large chunk of population, which, in spite of numerical supremacy, was subjugated for centuries, got India. In line with inherent openness and flexibility of Hinduism, India became a secular nation. This is a matter of pride, since it acknowledged the basic secular nature of Sanatan Dharm. However, as things would evolve, vested political interests considered India as unfinished agenda standing in the path of a religious empire being built world-wide. Through a well-calculated intellectual conspiracy of neglect and vilification, it came to a stage that modern Hindus where embarrassed of their religion and apologetic of their faith. This neglect also resulted in the religion being left to the guardianship of un…

The Unbearable Agony of Unwritten Words

The weather has changed. Skies are clear once again, fog lifted. Azure, cloudless skies; trees bare. The dawn descends with the shy, blush of a fair, newly-wed woman. The days are not yet jaundiced with the pale, bright yellowness of the summers. There is a distinct hint of red in the yellow. 
Writing is sporadic, very less. A few intermittent blog post. Unwritten words sit heavily on the soul of a writer. To accept oneself as a writer is to embark on a dangerous path. It is a solitary profession and a hard one at that. 
I read to prepare to write. I tell myself. Be at some point, even reading has to make way for writing. Writing is not a quick job. It takes time, time and sitting all agitated inside and all peaceful outside, the incongruous internal and external world pulling one apart, in diverse directions. Writing takes time. One needs to tie that heavy stone to the neck of a reckless, wandering mind and allow it to sink to the depths. Bubbles of air escaping to the surface, a brief…