The Heroic Mundane

Before I start, I must thank my friend whom I will not name, for inspiring me to write this one. He has till date an entry on his own blog, which upholds the importance of rhyme in a poem. In a qawwali style fight with a fellow poet, he defends poesy and her charms; the lilt of her melody and the curve of her bodily virtues, while the fellow poet says something to the effect of:

Poesy will be poesy, irrespective of whether she rhymes,
A lover is a lover, no matter if she’s black or white.

I do not wish to intrude this friendly banter with my own point of view, but while reading the blog, a different and far wider perspective hit me in the face, compelling me to post a second article on my infant.

As I read the camaraderie on-line, I inadvertently recalled many of the poets I had read in my M.A years- Shakespeare, Shelly, Browning, Coleridge and many others whose words transported me to a different world of fantasy and pleasure-pain-pleasure. I recalled those unbelievable stars- Clark Gable, Taylor, Dev Anand, Madhubala. And then I recalled those magical words; Gone with the Wind, Anna Karenina. Many a lives sped through my eyes and many a tales unfolded. Then I asked myself, why not any more? Why does today’s world feel satisfied with the God of small things? Why do we feel privileged having John Abraham and Rahul Bose? Why does anyone- even me -write a blog, a book, and find audience a plenty.

I thought for a moment that maybe, desires change with times and today’s desire is Akshay Kumar and not Rock Hudson. But in that case, I should not remember Hudson! Then what is the reason for my complacency, that I should feel gratified with the next door writer, actor, poet, artist. Has the mundane become so heroic that there is no more use for the heroes. Or, has the heroic become so mundane that there is a desire for something really mundane. Or is it just that the world has turned into a small place and there is no more anything elusive enough to be heroic for. This last thought holds with me. One of the side effects of progression is the loss of mystery. As nothing remains impossible, nothing remains desirable.

Gone are the days when Sindbad went through oceans and mountains to the ends of the world. The ends of the world are now accessible via Air India, and Sinbad’s sword has been outdone by a Visa-stamp. There is no treasure hunt out there. Consequently the hunt has turned inwards. Each person wants to read his own book because that is the only book he/she has to achieve- every other is available over the counter. The rarity of a Michael Angelo or a Picasso is long forgotten. The only collectibles today are one’s own bedroom photos- Picassa for Picasso; the only biography worth reading, one’s own. And this feeling of our own worth gives us the perfect reason to share our heroic lives with all the world- through orkut, blogger and other labyrinthine channels for fellow Sindbads to sail through!

The reason? The fact that there are not enough reasons or that everything these days has a reason- which ever you like. Fantastic rhymes are no longer needed, because there are no longer fantasy lands to talk of. ‘Want’ has moved out of our lives. The era of civil wars and world wars, iron curtains and black deaths are long past, and so is the heroism needed in the face of such trials. Life is easy, abstract, and so are its artists and their art. So is it a good thing or bad? Reasons! We want reasons for everything. Now why should we know whether it is good or bad. It is none, or maybe it is both.

Life moves in a circle and so does the world. So does history and so does evolution. We started from Adam and Eve, and came full circle when Paradise was lost. Since then, many times we have destroyed and as many times raised from the dead. Now, we are looking for reasons- in Mumbai blasts, gay rights, opposition of gay rights, constitutional changes, IPL so on and so forth. Soon we will find them and grow sick of them. Then the old world charm of fantasy will revisit our till then logical lives. And if during this logical period we are drawn to our own minds and hearts; why, it is not so bad. After all, the greatest unsolved mystery is the human being.

Through reality shows and talent hunts, every one lives the dream of conquering a difficult situation. Since the Big Boss’s resignation, we have appointed our own. The age old Freudian ‘Other’ has moved beyond horror films and sexual voyeurism. The desire to spy is no longer relegated to the dark subconscious. It is out in the open. Every one rightfully lives his/her dream through the pain-pleasure-pain of others. And for those who can’t find a carrier of their dreams, they can write a book, take a picture or start a brand… anything. The desire is for poetry- beautiful, fantastic poetry- poetry that overcomes pain, struggle and war. And for that, what is first needed is pain, struggle and war- inspiration. Some make war, miss-orienting their ultimate motives for poetry, while others make poetry of their own internal war. And thank God they do. Look inwards, says Krishna, and you will find me.