Wednesday, March 12, 2014

The thrilled Black Redstart


 Black Redstart (Phoenicurus ochruros) is a very common bird during winter, and tends to flicker its tail a lot. They are just thrilled! Spotted this one in the interior of Bharatpur Bird Sanctuary.  

D.R.Bendre: Singing bird is throat of the tree

‘Tis but a likeness of the Dream Divine
Envisaged by the Peace of Buddha when
It sat in penance on the Everest
Of Buddha’s Grief and glimpsed it in the cave
Of contemplation deep; the only blossom
That ever the tree of joy bore on its blossom.

I was at Dharwad and within the city is located DR Bendre National Trust next to his home. The Trust also has a sort of a museum of Bendre that has collections of pictures and lines from his poems. What put me off was indication of him being ritual driven that too in the fag end of his life, it surely is not sign of enlightened soul. I have read about Bendre sometime back and recall that he carried the reputation of spiritually inclined and mystical in his expressions. Influenced by Tagore and Aurobindo, as also Emerson so on I was looking forward to know him better. But these references cautioned me. 
Lines on Tagore…

With war of words we are weary:
Our cheerless life was dreary.
Master! You gave us light
And songs of deep delight.
Such grand, prophetic utterances
And song of deep deliverance
Are God’s gift to you.
Your peers there are but few.

I had bought a book The Spider and the Web (GS Amur) –lots of typos (errors are crime). Two others book I went through were DR Bendre: The Poet and Poetry (Kirtinath Kurtkoti) and Bendre: Poet and Seer (VK Gokak). The latter can be considered a definitive reference since Gokak had over the years become, from a disciple to close friend and confidante (“Bendre was a very near phenomenon to me”), further Gokak too like Bendre has been awarded the highest literary award of the country: the Jnanpith. His writings are lucid and gave insight into Bendre. I must add, most blogs take me about a maximum of four days, in rare instance a week (travelling and taking pictures of birds not included), but Bendre had me in deep quandary. I was troubled and confused, on the one side he is compelling while on the other he seems to be carrying the burden of tradition, indeed an enlightened soul would have seen through it but Bendre seemed hopelessly enmeshed and increasingly intellectual in his deal, but remarkably he does reflect universality and hint at Upanishadic excellence. When Bendre saw Ganges he exclaims standing on bank “How can ever one compose a song comprehending the river which Siva’s head could not compose?” Gokak mentions this in context to Bendre “overwhelmed with the sight of sublimity of nature”. I find this quite confusing why sublimity of nature has to be through religious myths? Why the river cannot be seen as a river? But then I realise Ganges hold on Hindus and poet’s burden of ancient tradition, one need to add that through this he does bring out overwhelming difficulty in putting words to wonders of nature. (I guess you need to be too much entombed in temple squatter’s worldview to understand these subtleties, which Gokak could, insignificant me cannot and will not, liberal Karnad can. I am wondering what is common here!! I am also wondering why Dalits or Tribes don’t find mention in Jnanpith award list. Some narrations are difficult to plug in, that difficulty is also a choice!).   

Dattatreya Ramachandra Bendre (1896-1981) is one of the most prominent Kannada literary figures and for many years was instrumental in determining the course of history of Kannada literature. He wrote under the pen name Ambikatanayadatta, and was arguably the foremost inheritor of great poetic traditions originating with Pampa –the adikavi. Bendre was in a way renaissance figure of sort in the resurgence of Kannada literature, ‘a mix of passion of folk and sophistication of tradition’, he united the bhakti and gyana, lokik and alokik. He initiated many publications and even started a group of literary friend (Geleyara Gampu, popularly Gampuians) that expanded to include young talents, their intent being commune. VK Gokak was a student when he got attracted to this group and maintained  a lifelong association. Here he narrates his first meeting with Bendre, he had taken his poems for his reaction. Bendre listened with patience, even approval. It was after giving me a full hearing that he began to speak. The discourse lasted for more than three hours. Mrs Bendre was impatient with long waiting since it was high time for dinner. But Bendre’s imagination had soared, in his characteristic way, past the kitchen right up to the stars. My soul was suspended in the web of his philosophic talk. And when we rose to depart, I was a changed man. I feel my soul will remember that talk long after it has ceased to be a denizen of earth.  
Bendre was driven by passion that found expression through religious symbolism and deep insight into nature of things. His poems very immediately moves from apparent to profound, the dexterity is breath taking, though my awareness is based on translations but the commentaries by eminent scholars gives an insight into ‘peculiar genius’ that was Bendre. For Bendre conflict between good and evil is a human conflict based on ethical values but from divine point of view the problem of good and evil doesn’t exist. The problem of being and non being, on the other hand can be solved on the divine plane. There is Nietzsche here, this is where greatness of Indian thoughts finds expressions. Bendre says “be a seeker then come forth with your songs”.

In one poem Shravana Monday he brings out images that have metaphorical relation with each other. ‘The devotees singing the praise of God, and caught in rhythmic pattern of their song, are like the fish and koel, trying desperately trying to reach another order of reality through faith which is instinctive and natural. Their sorrow is not personal grief but existential anguish. What they have is simple faith which is irrational, and they are simply waiting for the breaking up of the pattern so that a new pattern of reality may emerge’. Some of Bendre’s poems are difficult to comprehend and needs further study, the nuances takes time to reveal. Poetry, according to Bendre, escapes or should escape the tyranny of meaning which is commodity of market place. That culture which insists on verbal meaning and is intolerant of any other value is decadent. In moments of creative ecstasy, he finds words can only profane his meaning “These tremulous strains hit beyond the heights and find the windpipe to be too small to pipe them. How can I ever utter the words that the tongue can never reach?”

Something strange rose
On an unknown horizon
And crept into sight.
It took form as creation
In the pupils of the seeing eyes.

Words build the theatre
With emotions playing the role
Of actor. They reach
The hearts of people
Giving them strength and joy.

On each bough and each
Twig, a different kind
Of flower. The origin is one
But the names are many.
You and I are the source.

Names must name something
To have the stamp of the real.  
(Seeing and Creating)

 In another instance he mentions poetry as place of violence in creative endeavour, violence here means ‘the power to destroy in order to purify’. Purify? I haven’t really got that one!! He does however strive to show the need for objectivity in art. “Leave my suffering and my delights to me. But I will give you the poetry of my pain, the melody of my mirth. And if your heart melts at the strains like sugar-crystals, will you not permit me to taste its sweetness?” That surely is quite a charming take. 

Some of his poems translated from Kannada…

The Evening

The face of the sky was bitten pink by the queen of colours,
Then it was evening.
Near the edge of land, the cloak of mist had fallen
carelessly, And was now and then rising with the wind.

The quarter moon, like a chogachi flower, ha slowly
opened. There was silver above.
The stars like jasmine flowers
Were scattered in the hair of the night.

The round, big eyed girl with a big belly
Was returning home with her pot of water.
The path to the well, like a small kitten
Was following her, tangling her feet and falling behind.

The cool rain wind was stealthily playing with her saree
And out of fear, often, would let it go.
A parrot from a heart was following in the shadow,
And was unaware of what it was doing.

This poem The Bird of Time has become my favourite…

The Bird of Time

The Bird of Time is winging, winging.
Above, around, below,
By leagues and leagues, with leaps and bounds,
In the twinkle of an eye,
The Bird of Time is winging.

Dark and grey are its tailward ends,
Bright and flashing, feather on feather
Ruby, gold and colour on colour
Beat its wings on either side.
The Bird of Time is winging.

Its body is of rain burdened sapphire clouds,
As if the skies had taken wings.
Hooded with a diadem of stars,
The very sun and moon are its eyes.
The Bird of Time is winging.

Threshing thrones like ears of corn,
It makes a meal of empires, princedoms.
The mainlands drift and continents succumb
As it pecks at the world’s imperial crowns.
The Bird of Time is winging.

Dusting the writ forehead of ages past
And opening fated eras wide,
It brings to birth with its flaps of wings
The children of a new seed time.
The Bird of Time is winging.

Flying past Venus as by a village
And past Mars, sucking him dry,
It soars and sings in the very courtyards
Of benignant Mercury.
The Bird of Time is winging.

It touches the fringe of the very quarters
And stretches its beak beyond their line
To hatch or hew its egged universes:
Who can know its dark intent?
The Bird of Time is winging.

The butterfly

The wings of a butterfly,
Have you seen them, sister?
Poked with beautiful green spots,
Smeared with turmeric;
Bathed in pure gold,
With silver rice scattered all over;
A circle of vermilion
Running round a brilliant spot;
Its wings are of the cream of the wind
Not one, but so many,
Who made them all?
What colours!
Suggesting the bright feathers of a peacock!
Nicer than silk are the delicate wings,
So nice, I am afraid to touch.
They dance all day to a mad tune,
And fly away, with the wind.
Fly away –wither?
Perhaps to the enchanting gardens of paradise.

The Sunflower

What haughtiness! What audacity!
It stares into our eyes.
It drinks the liquid heat of the eye
Of the sky and creates

Thirst for light. Look how the sunflower
Stands! Like the world illuminating
Sight of the Girnar top or Kailasa summit,
Like a lion with pericarp face
And petal mane, looking imperiously
And saying; this is divine
Initiation. Like the meru pillar
In the flower it stands

The heart always looks up
When it aspires for the great. 

Wise saying

Lines of friendship on the foreheads of parrots.

Different forests, different houses
Different kinds, different sounds.

When they see wings
They come together
And claim friendship

They take to wing suddenly
And suddenly they descend.
They spend their days where they can
Would I ever see such people?  

In the last days of his life he was immersed in numbers, numerology. No doubt Bendre was a compelling poet but I am sorry these interests cannot be supported. Numerology is absolute nonsense and occupies attention of wasted mind. These mumbo jumbos have become quite popular these days, only reflecting resurgence of market supported nonsense feeding on insecurities of people, there is a feverish race to reach the lowest denominator. Numbers are facts, a convenient representation for calculation, there is nothing sacred here (even Ramanujam’s number is explanation of fact that his brilliant mind was able to conceive). And therefore there is nothing to intuit knowledge into it; Bendre even attempts A Theory of Immortality through numbers!! I reckon when one is immersed in traditional way of things, while social reality of discrimination is conveniently bypassed, these superior bearings find outlet in these speculations, this too is ancient tradition. Bendre just lost it, nothing much. But then in Indian traditions these are philosophical speculations, they are quite adept in fitting these craps into narrations of greatness.

I was reading The Open Eyes –A Journey through Karnataka by Dom Moraes (some brilliant illustration by Mario Miranda). There is a passage on his meeting with Bendre, quite hilarious one that. Dr Bendre is a small, bespectacled man, frail, but, despite his years, incurably active and incurably talkative. As soon as we arrived, he deposited me in a chair and pointed triumphantly at a blackboard. ‘19’, he said, ‘is your number. Look. It is also mine.’ Chalked on the blackboard was a series of dates, the first of which was 1919, ‘That’, he said, ‘was the year of my marriage.’ The next date was 1938….and 57 is 19 multiplied by three.’ The date under this was 1976. ‘In this year we met,’ he said triumphantly. ‘And 76 is 19 multiplied by four.’
He therefore clearly supposed our meeting to be one of the most important points in my life. The next date was 1995. ‘This,’ said Dr Bendre, ‘is multiplied by five, and this will be the acme of your career.’ By this time I was feeling extremely bemused. ‘I come from an old Vedic family,’ said Dr Bendre, ‘and for 60 years have pursued the science of numerology.’ He added, ‘Apart from the number 19, I was born with number four. That is why the English translation of my poems is called Four Strings.’ He pointed to German isotope chart on his wall. ‘The letter C,’ he told me ‘is 6. The letter N is really 7. The letter O is 8. O is nonsense: 8 is sense. C is nonsense. 6 is sense. 7 is sense. Nitrogen is nonsense.’ I sat and looked at him in utter incomprehension, nodding my head politely from time to time. He asked me if I understood him.
Since, had I said I did not understand him, I would have perpetuated another waterfall of words, I said I did. He then took me around his library, which is immense. There are thousands of books stacked in wooden shelves: books in all languages. While we inspected them he told me, ‘Pythagoras said 50 minus is 3 square + 4 square, and this makes 5 square. Three squared is the child, five squared is woman: 25 is man.’ I said ‘Ah.’ Dr Bendre continued, ‘We are in Milky Way. The truth of the seasons is not in the solar but in the polar centre. We have to shift our minds to the Pole star which has 28,000 cycles. It is in front of my house sometimes. I know it is there; I know I am here. Men may come and men may go.’ I said ‘Ah’, once more…
Though I had had little opportunity to read his poems, apart from the small English translation…I no longer had any doubt that he was a great poet. Only great poets have such interests and ideas as Dr Bendre has. 

And that, I believe, is sarcasm not a compliment.
I have been confused about Bendre, clearly our man ‘from an old Vedic family’ just couldn’t come out of his little mesh, despite grandness of his poems, it is the arrogance and legacy of surety of one’s place, as prescribed and entitled by his tradition, that led him to the path of ‘numerological’ degradation. Some writers point that these need to be further studied!! Sure in the meanwhile I did some check, Bendre and Moraes died in the year and date that has nothing to do with number 19, well I guess nothing can be more important than death in a person’s life!! The tragedy is India has tradition of tolerating nonsense and they tend to intellectualise these with inputs from science, and then create some kind of philosophy few centuries later it becomes tradition. It doesn’t even stand basic scrutiny but still they cling on to it. Few cursory flips will tell that most of Vedas are crap; it is Upanishad that touches the subtle. Great people like Buddha, Kabir, Guru Nanak…saints and seers could see this, they weren’t part of any miracle nor claimed any entitlement. Gokak assertion of Bendre being a seer is questioned on this very ground.          
Simple living is no big deal, it can be a habit. It is the mind that needs be sophisticatedly simple, effortlessly connects to realities of surroundings, hence compassion, hence creativity. There is no claim to grandness here. I was confused about Bendre, now I know the reason.  

From my scribble pad…

Morning Mandala
The eastern clouds assumes pattern of its choice
A pause.
A meditative silence.
Little hues of orange, some tentative red, lots of golden yellow
is slid in photon by photon onto the blue canvas.
It grows in splendour
Builds up gilded palaces and choicest conceptions
magnificent citadels of imaginations
and perfecting ideas.    
The blinding brightness of realisation.
An invisible hand wipes away
the moment’s glory
in a snap restores the fragile
back into the frame.