Hope Is Like A Road in the Country: Amrita Sharma

(Image Courtsey: IMDB)

Amrita Sharma writes on her latest date with art, Hope and Kirsten Sheridan's August Rush (2007).

Hope is a beautiful word. Once we choose to hope, anything is possible. Hope is to desire as listening is to hearing. And I hope to be excused for trying to put Paulo Coelho's view in another way, that ,if one truly hopes for something the whole of nature conspires in order for him to get the thing. The late sequence of events has strengthened my belief in the word hope. My talks apart, for today I am here to tell the story of a kid whose life was nothing but hope itself. The Hope to follow the music that was concealed deep within but was yearning to be let out. And the Hope to see his Mommy and Papa. Or was it the one and the same thing??...It was this kid who could better understand the magic that those four alphabets come together to create...When he was big enough to open his eyes in an orphanage and to the world ,for which he had not more than little wisdom to tackle, and could just understand what the word mommy and papa means ,he hoped to see them. He hoped that he will be with them sometime...What more? He hoped to find music. He listened to music and played from within his soul and without an instrument to play!! The instinctive inclination wasn’t a wonder having been born to musician parents.......

......But the amazing part of the story lies in the way he finds hope and the way he finds music in every sound of nature. Then be it the rustle of the wind, the tinkling of wind chimes ,the whistling sound let out of a sigh, the blowing of horn, the tapping of feet, the swaying of trees, he found music every where, leave aside those created by a musical instrument!! Ask him how can he hear music, and this it what he has to say, its everywhere. Its in the wind, its in the air, its in the light, all you need to do is to open yourself out. All you need to do is to listen .He was too free form within to be put in a confinement and so expectedly one fine day he broke away from the orphanage to search for his parents and for the music out there which he was bereaved of Music seems to be overwhelming the word hope. But it has not. No sooner did he break free that he got in touch with conventional music. When he first placed his fingers on the strings of a guitar he left his guide spell bound with the astounding command of an eleven year old. When asked how he knew about music, pat came the reply, 'It’s the moon who told me to follow it and that is all I know...but I can listen to it all around me and within me'....Life has to be a combination of both ups and downs and this was no exception. Though he got in touch with music it wasn’t the place where he ought to be. Because here his love was being sold...but as I said, Hope can work wonders. It brought him to the place he belonged...to a church. Where music was not thought of as an object of sale but a revered art? If you are thinking by now that the child's second quest is abandoned, you are mistaken! In fact the whole nature was conspiring to get him to get his parents. Both of his unmarried and unfortunately separated parents who were still unaware of the existence of their son, accelerated their hope to be together. Yes, it was hope indeed which finally made the kid's mother aware that the inexplicable loss she felt all the way through was not out of no reason. Her son was still there and was alive ! And she had to find him. Though the mother had no clue , where she would find her child, she hoped to see him...

......Music was an indispensable part of the life of the three. Father, Mother and the kid. At one point of time the separation from each other, started separating them from their second love also: music. But that was not something they were destined for. So, destiny took a merry turn and they found their way back to music only to find one another and their beloved son performing in the music concert 'The August Rush' . One may call it a fairy tale as the sequence of events seems to be too much of mere coincidences, but I prefer to call it the miracle of HOPE. True...Hope is like a road in the country; there never was a road, but when many people walk on it …it comes into existence!!

My Latest Date With Art: A New Feature

(Photo: Shilparamam, Hyderabad by GK)

Have you seen a movie recently, or read a book or gazed at a painting or a photograph? If yes, share it with all - your latest date/encounter with art. No word limits, photographs and pictures most welcome and no deadlines! No pressure - write as you wish and when you wish.

Tare Zameen Par: All is Never Lost by Sandhya

(For Sandy and Lucy)

Mind is its own place
But
Some hells/heavens are far too real to be mere perceptions


Last evening I watched T.Z.P. with M. M’s friends had already seen the film. They did not find it much good , I did. Were they wrong? I don’t know but I think I am not. T.Z.P. is very good.

I was reminded of the days when I was made to feel very low because I was not found as smart as the girls around were taken to be. But it also reminded me that I was never very unhappy for not being ‘this’ or ‘that’ much smart. I’d be sad only when I did not make my papa happy with my achievements or, under-achievements. Ishaan (Darsheel) in the movie is lucky to have a teacher telling him that it was not important to be a racing horse but to do what he loved most. Was I unlucky, then? In a way, yes, but,in many other ways, no. Lets come back to it later, first the film itself.

T.Z.P. is issue-based, problem-solving, a bit charisma-seeking, occasionally preachy, frequently imbalanced and yet profoundly touching. It has no great messages (thats one of the good things). It just reminds that there are always children who’d simply love and enjoy not doing the fruitful and the result-oriented. They might love to watch young birdies in their nest or the train of ants carrying food or a bee struggling out of water or the little kitten trying to climb the tree and falling every time or a rainbow in the little water supplies meandring in the backyard-garden. Ishaan doesn’t do most of these things, except the first one. I did all of them. But he does hundred other similar things. I should not forget though that there is also a BIG difference between two of us. He is a dyslexic kid. And one more difference, a BIGGER one: Ishaan paints what he likes. I drew and painted what would fetch appreciation of my papa=what was in the syllabus. In that sense, I am still a bit of my former self. Now, I either don’t paint or don’t know what to paint?

He doesn’t ‘want’ to paint, it comes from within as his only communication with the world. I have developed a thousand other silly ways of communicating with the world. I still ‘want’ to paint. I type ‘want’and the word starts playing…has it become a want?

But lets not be swayed by the heavy pathos or nostalgia of an unlived past. As I said earlier, T.Z.P. also reminded that I wasn’t very unhappy not being this/that smart; I wasn’t very unhappy not painting! Yes! Its in retrospect, after studying and competing for so long that I have started missing it ; after finding my thousand silly ways I have started missing one way that I didn’t tread.

But there was music too. More than painting and much closer. And there were animals! The lost dogs of my childhood - Sandy and Lucy, the rabbits, the parrots, and the paradise itself – ‘raj vihar’. My childhood was torn into two me-s, the papa-side me and the mumma-side me. Papa side - all very punctuated, and year long, round the clock, round the calendar, round the school sessions. mumma side – irregular, wild, and holidayish and,alas, brief. I grew on my papa-side and I un-grew on mumma-side. I learned at home/school and I unlearned at a ‘vihar’. But papa-side took over! Or did it really? I would be into one course and out of another. I’d quickly master a subject only to forget it happily and even quicker. I would have an ‘enviable’ score sheet which would make everybody, papa first and most of all, proud of me but not me; it would leave me more empty and dry inside. And again, lets not be swayed by this increasingly heavier pathos. I found thousand, ‘other’, ‘silly’ ways and I love(d) many of them! (I love teaching and I love being effective as a teacher. I am ready to learn, even study, more of this art.)

I ended up studying four languages, literature, computer programming, journalism and mass communication, interior decoration, foreign trade, economics and am also a proud management drop-out - my MBA lasted one month and a few happier days (it was like Ishaan’s boarding school, just that I was 20 then). Two masters, one bachelors (just one!), one diploma, four certificate courses and a presently pursuing doctoral (the tail of the devil, if hopefully it’s the tail finally). And I must say there were odd times when I enjoyed doing some of these things. And more than that, through all these, I intensified my love of all that I couldn’t or didn’t do. I am grateful to all my academics for mostly remaining the exact opposite of what I missed. Had it been equally or at least compensatorily exciting and luring, I’d have forgotten all that was behind.

But what now? Is all that lost forever? All my long years have surely made me more understanding of what I am made of or not made of. Or am I still not very sure? Maybe, may be not. What is sure is : I am definitely not what my profile says I am.