The whole is greater than the sum of the parts...

We used to have a garden. Technically the garden is still there next to my mother's house but somehow it does not resemble anymore that space that I used to like so much as a child.
The garden of my childhood was a mixture of wilderness of uncut grass and broken pieces of bricks and pavement that marked the alleys. There were some old trees, that did not give many fruits, but still I loved them. I don't remember climbing them, I guess I was too scared that they might break under my load. But I do remember climbing numerous trees in a park that was there in front of my house. It was so much of fun to be playing with other kids, running around, playing football. Sometimes the games were not that nice and I can feel how my body suddenly shrinks at the very memory of it. I'm always amazed at how the body responds to memories, touch, even words.
There were two trees in my garden where a hammock would be hung in the summer and I loved spending my time there. I think I even insisted on being allowed to sleep outside a couple of nights.
There was everything one needed - sunflowers, gooseberries, blackberries, grapes, cherries, apples, peach, plums, wild strawberries, my favourite lily of the valley...  Oh... I could die for a bunch of my favourite flowers... I haven't seen them for years! They are not there next to the house anymore...  I used to buy small bunches of them in the street. It felt so beautiful to be walking down the street with a small bunch of those flowers.
My mother loved gardening. She would spend hours watering the plants, planning what new flowers to bring, cutting the roses before the arrival of winter. I remember seeing a rainbow in a rain of her garden hose. I think I do admire her for her gardening skills, for the patience she had and thousands of little almost invisible sacrifices that she made for her plants. It was women in my family who knew how to take care of various plants in and around the house.
Men prefered spending long hours in front of TV screens. They don't even realise this but it was this common inclination towards certain sports channels that unites them despite the miles of cold waters in between them. I never liked sports channels and till today can not understand the point of discussing the assets of one sportsperson or the other in public. Sports programmes and driving cars... these two things unite them a lot.

Books are much different. One can read them over and over again and each time your eye catches some hidden meanings that you could not see before. The puzzles of words... The pieces of a puzzle that you slowly put together until they become a whole. It feels like translating Sanskrit verses again... I used to love those late night hours spent with a dictionary. And words and grammar that you had to combine into one meaningful sentence.'The whole is greater than the sum of the parts.' Sometimes you would know all the words and the grammar, but still have problems with deciphering the meaning. And then one would run to the teacher and ask if the translation was correct or not. I had this amazing teacher of Sanskrit who spoke so many languages of this world... Polish, English, Sanskrit, Hindi, French, German, Latin, Greek, Lithuanian, Russian... I miss him a lot. He died few years back. I love visiting his grave with prof S. whenever I am there. Speaking of teachers... I do get angry now for when I was trying to learn another language few months back and thought I'm progressing with my knowledge of vocabulary and grammar then the teacher confused me with his defensive answers and I got lost in the spirals of syntax of thoughts. Had the proper guidance been given at the proper time then the process of learning might have been less tearful and painful. But well... What could one expect from those who were trained at some foreign universities in prehistoric times? Sometimes a revision of  teaching methodology is desperately needed. And anyways... Dravidian languages seem to be more complicated than others... but well... so is Polish grammar...

Hm... I seem to be loosing a track of thoughts rather easily these days...

I can't tell exactly when and how, was it a slow change or a sudden one but the garden did not seem the same anymore... The sunflowers, strawberries and all other wild additions were gone, and a layer of socially acceptable grass of a certain social status was sown. And I can't but wonder if this is a natural order of things of family life, or a result of sudden discovery of capitalist society's value system? But then... how come I still dream of having a disheveled garden around my house? Why?

I woke up in the morning right next to a purring ball of fur and it amazed me how the feline animals have this incredible capacity to fill up the negative spaces our bodies create. My cat always knows how to lie down next to me with his head on my arm or waist, he always seems to find those sublime positions that fit perfectly into the curves of my body and purr into my ear. I keep him close to me and scratch his ears and the place on his neck which makes him close his eyes and purr even more... And then I forget if it is actually he who is trying to fit his body into mine, or is it the other way round? Who is a cat now and who is a human? Two beings drifting lazily somewhere between sleep and being awake. The whole is greater than the sum of the parts.

I don't enjoy the world of adults. It is too concrete, the shapes are too defined and there is no space for ambiguity of emotions, colours of memories and the touch of sunlight. I am happy being a child and I don't think I want to grow up, even though so many wise and experienced experts around me wish I would finally leave my childhood playground I call life and live according to their wishes, orders and expectations. Funny... They don't even realise that in reality they were just programmed to see life as a straightforward process of climbing up the social ladder. I think I am enjoying my space at the bottom. It often feels lonely here too, but I think that the world might be full of children who look outside windows, float helplessly in high waters, decide to spend endless hours in a jungle or walk across deserts in their hope to find teachers who would be willing to become students and who would have this amazing capacity of filling up the negative spaces of their minds, bodies and souls. The whole is greater than the sum of the parts.

Advertising stint

I was told that my writing is gaining in popularity and some of the fancy advertising companies would like to put their banners on my site... but I guess I am slightly weak at the marketing front and they wanted to advertise some adult sites here... But erotic paintings of women in disheveled saris, half sleeve-blouses and their hair open, and those Greek heroes trembling in their fear of what the Faith would bring them appeal to me much more than some gym exercises advertised by those websites... Anyways... I never planned any career in advertising, but still they asked for a line... but the only one I could come up with was:
Thank you O Lord for hearing devices and cat food for they save the earth from deaf bus drivers and hungry cats.
I don't think they were satisfied with my creative side. Shame.

Rule and divide

A good thing about being partially unemployed is having a lot of time to catch up on videos that I wanted to see for a long time - Jerome Bel, Wim Vandekeybus, Akram Khan. The not so good side of it is having too much time to think and interact with those whom we have not met for a long time.
Somebody showed me an article that spoke about how white women who engage in belly dancing engage themselves in the process of cultural appropriation and how they should not be engaging in those forms of dance that originated in different ethnic set-up.
It felt so bad to have read that... It felt so bad because if one would change this one little word "belly dancing" into "bharatanatyam" or "chhau" then this article could be speaking about me and last, I don't know how many, years of my life...  And do I feel like I did something wrong by having studied/performed/taught these dance forms?????  NO. I don't.
I don't for many reasons.
One of them is the amazing education I received at The Department of Indology at Warsaw University. One of the first books that I was made to read was Orientalism by Edward Said. I have obviously met various types of teachers there but and I was lucky enough have met a few who did not believe in "cultural prejudices that are derived from a long tradition of romanticized images of Asia and of the Middle East, and which, in practice, functioned as implicit justifications for the colonial and the imperial ambitions of the European powers and the U.S."  (Wikipedia, article on Orientalism, Edward Said).
I was lucky to have met prof S. who was one of the greatest teachers of my life. It was with her that I would sit in a classroom and watch videos of Teyyam, Kutiyattam, Kathakali, Yakshagana, Terukuttu. It was with her that I have been through a year of reading Natyashastra (She would have killed me for spelling it like this without proper diacritic signs) and translating parts of Mattavilasaprahasana, Mahabharata, Shoorpanakha anka of Ashcharyachudamani. It is thanks to her that I will always remember that it was in 1912/13 that Ganapati Shastri discovered the manuscripts of Bhasa's works in a house belonging to one of the Chakyars. It was she with whom I could sit in the Kutambalam of Vadakumnathan temple in Thrissur and watch performances of Nangyar Kuttu and Kutiyattam in 2002. It was she he would rent a car to take me to the field where Staal attempted at reconstruction of fire ritual. It is because of her that I am the person I am today.
Do I know about the critique of Peter Brook's project of Mahabharata as taken away from it's cultural context? Critique of Stall for providing multicultural context to the fire ritual? I do. But are the Teyyams organised by IGNCA in Delhi less taken out of their cultural context than Brook's Mahabharata? Is a Mohiniyattam production of a Swan Lake less taken out of it's cultural context than Staal's fire ritual?  Is my professor less culturally connected to the performing arts that she studies and writes about than an urban Indian 40-year-old working in an IT sector?
I was also lucky to have studied Comparative Indian Literature at The Department of Modern Indian Languages and Literary Studies at Delhi University. When I first decided to pursue my studies in that Department the University Authorities told me that the course in Comparative Indian Literature does not exist, and that if I think it does then I am not intelligent enough to pursue studies at the university level. But the course did exist and I did fight my way through to get the admission. And I am happy I did. Thank you for making me read Badal Sircar, Chandrashekhar Kambar, BV Karanth, Jibanada Das, Jaywant Dalvi, Bibhutibhushan Bandopadhyay. Thank you for discussions on women position in India, on cast identity, on problematics of religion in various regional literatures! Thank you for  adjusting the timetable in such a way so that being the only student of the course I could pursue both my MA and M.phil and my Bharatanatyam studies at the same time. Thank you for making me "me" and giving me a sense of connection through literature with the place where I live. You did not teach me to read "Five point someone", but you gave me a sense of connection with the land I step on.
Thank you also for teaching me that modern theatre in urban India started from translations and adaptations of Shakespeare. Did the theatre personalities of that time think of the concept of cultural appropriation? (And yes, I do know that I'm writing in a simplistic way now).
Few years back I was working in a village in Rajasthan with a group of theatre artists from Kolkata. I was the only "foreign" person in the group. The moment I arrived I was told how dangerous the place can be for me, and how much time it took the villagers to accept that the director's wife can wear capri trousers and roam around the place. I was told not to wear my black sari because the villagers might think that I am a ghost. (You know - "those stupid village people who still live in XIX century conditions"). So I did wear my black sari and I did roam around the village meeting children and women, visiting the colony of the pottery makers, eating roti at a house of the neighbours. We were working on a play and I invited the women and children to come and watch our final rehearsal at that place. Around 50 people came... and it made me so happy...  People I worked with looked at me as if I was a mad person, and I looked at them in the same way when they busied themselves with complaints about the lack of entertainment, lack of TV, heat, need to have drinks more often.  I don't know who was more "foreign or Orientalist" amongst us - me or the rest of the group.
Being a non-Indian person working with Indian culture is not easy. Few years back somebody close to me said that people want to watch my performances only because I have fair skin; that the quality of my dance does not matter. It hurt a lot. Few months back when I was working for my own project at artist residency another person said that I was given the residency only because it looks cool to have a foreign name printed in a programme brochure. It hurt badly again. It hurts when each time I start teaching in a new institute I have to convince the head that I do know Bharatanatyam as well as my Indian colleagues do. That parents of the students can always come and talk to me if they are scared that their children may not be given proper education in this classical Indian dance form because of me being a non-Indian teacher. (And yes, I do suck at two major points - I don't speak Tamil, Telugu, Kannada or Malayalam, and I don't know how to sing, I'm out of key most of the time).
Being a non-Indian Bharatanatyam dancer also means limited access to resources and performances. Well... it's actually more complicated than that...  There are some festivals that want to present performances by foreign artists and I did perform at some such festivals. They are usually nicely organised, and the performers are a mixture of both Indian and foreign artists but at the same time this question is always there - why the need of showcasing artists as "foreign"? Am I really a white monkey that is to be displayed on stage for the people to watch and the festival organisers to have a higher turnout? It is below my dignity as an artist to be treated like that, at the same time these are the only festivals that are accessible for me, and in most cases the only ones that openly call for applications to apply. I recently rejected 3 such performances, and I guess the politics around the performance is one of the reasons why I feel less and less connected with Bharatanatyam these days... Funny... It used to be the only life I knew...
I recently worked in a project that rejected me as an artist because they wanted to work with "native Indian women" and I was a foreign national for them. They ended up working in a close collaboration with a "native Indian woman" who spend last few years of her life living and studying in Germany. I fought badly, and finally was accepted into the project, but my skin was not brown enough to be treated seriously. It was a bad experience to work with a group of white faces who came to civilise natives of this country in their ways of living. It was a true experience in Orientalism, and I hope never to repeat this experience again.
I am not an Indian national, at the same time I have never studied in a fancy dance institute abroad and do not have a tag of "foreign educated" artist, so i am not exotic enough at the market. 
Too white to be brown, too brown to be white. It's a tough place to be in. Believe me.
Why am I writing all these?
It started from this idea of appropriation of traditional arts. Well, in my naive little mind I always thought that art is something that is supposed to unite people rather than divide. If a white woman is not supposed to learn/perform belly dancing, Bharatanatyam, Mohiniyattam or any other dance form, that why should a Japanese or Indian woman learn classical ballet? Isn't it a form of appropriation? Why shouldn't we say - hey, you Malayalis - don't try to dance Kathak. You Poles - do only your Krakowiak dance. You, Akram Khan - don't try to be contemporary. And if we apply this to arts, then won't we soon apply the same principles to our lives? Poland only for Poles! Maharashtra for Maharashtrians! Haven't we heard it somewhere before? Really... do we artists want to repeat the politics of division rather than unity?????

Silly little dream.

When I was younger I was taught that our dreams and ambitions are to be kept secret from the world, as if speaking about them would make them dissolve among the heavy particles of reality and they would evaporate forever.
But then shouldn't our dreams become reality? Shouldn't we finally learn how to speak about them, scream about them, cry about them so that maybe somewhere far beyond the horizon somebody would listen and understand.
I have this silly little dream of mine that started many years back over a cup of tea shared in one of those tea stall by the side of the road. That tea stall was located under the tree and just like that tree the dream has also grew bigger by now and I wish one day it could become reality...

There is a village with thousands of trees not very far from the city. I wake up in the morning and the brown cat begins to purr right into my ear. He has many new companions to chase - other cats, dogs, squirrels, donkeys, even an elephant that looks bemused whenever he sees this miniature of a tiger roaming around the fields. (The grey cat started meowing- he also wants to be present in this dream).
I can hear a murmur coming from the building next door. It is a school that gives free education to village children. But it is not an ordinary school where children are forced to memorize and reproduce all those meaningless formulas and rules prescribed by the text books. They are taught to explore the world around them, to touch the trees, to write letters to kids in a school thousand kilometers away. They are taught that humans are to be valued for who they are and not for what they look like or how much they have. They know who Irom Sharmila is, and what 'deforestation estation due to mining means'. They know that negro and chinki are offensive words and that they have to be grateful to the cobbler because if it hadn't been for him who else would have repaired their shoes? They learn how to create things and speak about things that touch them. They dance and act, sing and paint.
There is a small rehearsal space in the other building. Nothing fancy. Colourful walls, pictures, photos, cane chairs. People rehearse there. Some people stay in few houses around that space. The houses are painted in various colours. The marks of palms dipped in paint create design on the walls.
One wall is white and once a week people gather to watch films screened from a cheap second hand projector that somebody found at a flea market.
The chirping of birds in the morning and the smell of flowers at night.
I'm standing facing the lake. It has this strange pale blue colour. I can feel somebody's eyes looking at me as I turn...
"Sounds good" he said. I think I'd rather have him say "let's try to make it together".

Corner of the room.

A corner of a room is that place where it is so difficult to sweep the floor. Space where two walls touch each other with a visible crack. Vertical line from sky to earth. From the unknown to that very tangible material space under the feet.  Diffraction of the sound waves. Mumbling. Distortion. Interference of the sound waves when the language you speak in is not the same as the one you used for so many years of you life. Thoughts galloping like black horses. Hundred and two degrees fever. Curvature of the spine. Sound waves. Ocean. Thoughts. Paint. White canvas. The wall. Corner of the room. Even a circle reaches a corner today.
Corner of the room where two realities meet. The orange wall of desires and ambitions and a pale wall of reality. Had the budget been bigger the walls might have been painted with more sophisticated colours. But it wasn't, so they painted them with what was available at a cheaper price. Anyway, it took them 3 nights of standing in the queue to grasp the tiles of tales they used for decorating the kitchen. The heart of hearth where they would light the fire every evening to heat the sparks of words neatly tied with the shoelace that he hung from that high ceiling fan to fly away through the window.
Blood on the fingers in the corner of the room when they decided to turn it into the sky but their courage ended with the red colour under the nails while scratching that dreadful white paint off the walls.
Corner of the room where you sit breathless in the middle of the  night while all the thoughts dart like sun-rays and you no longer know where you are.
That corner of the room where your face is covered with the layers of dust but sometimes the wind blows through the open window and the uncompleted puzzles of that strangely familiar face stare at the vastness of the room. Where did I loose the picture from their box's cover?
She sat at the centre of the room and all the eyes turned towards that spot.
Corner of the room where I...
That damn corner of the room. They should start building houses with circular walls and spiral staircases.
Nobody likes sitting in the corner.

The age of fairy tales is over.

There is an old Arabic tale that the wind carries through the desert...
There once was a boy who had nothing; only the innocence of a child was inscribed in his soul. His face was dark from the sun, his dry hair dishevelled by the wind,  his lips were dry of thirst... But it was the eyes that were the mirror of his soul that made the people stop whenever he was passing by.
He was a friend to everybody... But nobody was a friend to him...

I am lying. He did not exist. He was just one of those who speak so much without meaning anything while examining the prices of the diet food at a local mall.

The age of fairy tales is over.
Move on.
Verbalize... market... produce... advertise...titillating pleasure...

Welcome to the age of cement tombs and plasma TVs.

Ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls...
Welcome aboard.
This plane has only 2 exits. One at birth, the other with your last breath. The duration of the flight is unknown.

The captain wishes you a pleasant journey...
And try not to choke on that imported mind of yours. The airlines do not take responsibility for fatal ramifications.

Stairway to heaven...

The house had the power to crush anybody who was careless enough to cross the threshold ignoring the warning words of the wise man who spent a moment there centuries back.  Every moment spent inside the rooms made me shrink more and more until after some days I would become the invisible ghost roaming around the cold chambers of this dilapidated place.
The inhabitants of the house were already accustomed to its coldness, they became blind and numb with their pointless pride centuries ago. Pride that allowed them to raise their voice at people around whenever they wanted to parade with the magnificence of their lineage displayed in their high pitched voices, oblivious of the fact that each day made them sink more and more into a pile of slimy trash that was omnipresent around the house.
They spoke with words devoid of meaning. Why did they speak at all? They spoke using nouns, verbs, pronouns and adjectives but they spoke of nothing and each minute made me fly away towards those green lands of my imagination. But the house kept waiting to catch me in its claws and turn me into a machine that would politely serve the society without questioning its confusing values, hypocritical ways and carnivorous desires. The rooms were eager to see me as their prey and I knew that I need to run away like I used to do in a recurring nightmare of my childhood dreams. I was thin like a single strand of hair and had to run away from that huge military boot with sharp nails that tried to snap at me with every step.
I run... and I saw staircase leading me up towards the roof, towards the sky, towards the air...
It was the whole different world up there... A tiny room with hundreds of words scattered on pages of books that nobody opened for decades. The words describing all those amazing worlds so remote from flat tablets with pictures dancing at the touch of a thumb. The words that smelt of rain and fire, the words that had the colour of sweat of those who once worked with those huge printing machines pouring out entire universes out of their clenched jaws.
There was the sky and the orange of the sunset on the horizon and I could feel how my shoulders began to unwind...
And then they started coming one by one, or in groups or pairs. Two tiny birds with heads more black than coal, a flock of pigeons flying above my head, squirrels racing on the branch of the tree in a near by garden, and then... when I was about to turn a pair of parrots flew in front of me. They made a nest in an empty building opposite. They were there.... and it was their presence that made me smile. They were me and I was them... A green parrot...

Writings from a dead house...

The face of the house was as depressing as the ghosts of people who pretended to be living inside. Even the bushes that were to decorate the gate had withered many years back, the fact that had never been noticed by the inhabitants of the mansion.
They themselves were more like objects placed in various corners of the house and I wondered if they ever truly managed to acknowledge each other's presence. They were like plastic chairs with a rope attached to one of the legs to prevent anybody from taking them away from the long hall that was used as a dining room. But who would take any of them, since their souls were heavy as stones which made them immobile, frozen cold stones that knew how to eat, how to count, how to speak in lofty words, but did not know how to light the fire in the heart of that house. The only sparks of warm touch could be felt when sitting next to an old woman trapped in her own incapacitated body. A prisoner of old age.
There was something sinister about this house and their inhabitants, something that made me cautious and restless. The fear of being tied up with a long piece of rope and tied to one of the tables and never be able to see the sun again.
They did not need the sun. They did not need the sky, and they did not need green trees. Did they know about the words that the trees tell if only you want to listen? Did they know about the touch of the wind? Did they know about all those magic worlds that existed inside the bodies of all living creatures?
Every minute spent here made me realise that I do not belong to this place. And never will.  Every moment made me think about that other house that I see every day in my imagination.
A house with hundreds palm trees around. Parrots, squirrels, cats, and butterflies. It is not a big house. It has 3 steps and a threshold from which you can see the stars and the moon while drinking tea in the evening. The windows are open and sometimes you meet an unexpected visitor that greets you with a friendly meow or flies above your head. The smell of the flowers at night. The chirping of the birds in the morning. A mattress in one corner on the floor. A desk by the window. A cat in my lap. Colourful walls. Books and words. Warmth of human touch. And tea.
A decision has been made. I felt the wind on my face... That same wind that spoke to me when I stood on a bare mountain top with only skeletons of animals as my companions. It whispered in my ears the words of generations that lived in the valley. And I gave it the scream of my fears, guilt and desires. The wind that spoke to me at night when I slept in Chabutra and my soul was born again to become a bird. The wind that spoke to me now... The call of the wind that whispers into my ear...
I am coming. Green parrot. I am the child of the wind... I belong to the land of green. I belong to life. And I will live.

Go away I say...

I saw your concrete towers of silence stretch their blind hands to pierce the blue sea of the sky. A scratch of greed on the face of infinity. The touch of your hands that burns my body as you embrace me at a juncture of false affection.
I despise your stomach bulging with the squashed pieces of colourful papers that you stuff so neatly into your  leather wallet.
I despise your gigantic tv screen that blinds your eyes and deafens your senses so that you could become a puppet with strings attached to those white gloves of corporate hands. Nod your head as they tell you... tink tonk, tink tonk, tink tonk...
I despise her plastic body that she puts on sale for those blind eyes with saliva rolling down the cheeks since they lost the last tears while  repaying credit for those shiny slim galaxy phones held in their numb hands. Fingers dancing on cold plastic screens in a futile attempt to find warmth of a human body that they buried under the layers of plastic bags distributed by the food companies selling food devoid of any spice to cater for the foreign tastes.
I despise your walls and borders dividing my body into mine and theirs, self and other, white and black, black and brown, brown and yellow, yellow and white.
I despise you for selling your priceless dream for a penny so that you could fit into the perfect picture on the cover of a magazine with hundreds of blank pages inside.

Go away I say... Go away from my green dreams of flying high in the sky. I want the sky and not your cement uniforms of perfect greyness which you use to paint the horizon.
Go away... or else one day when your stomach fills up with the air of your pride and lifts you up towards the sky I will pierce it with an arrow of my rage. And I will laugh... And that laughter will kill you.
Go away with your false promises of comfort and progress. My comfort is the bruised face of the soil under my feet and even if I am to remain the last tree in this universe I will remain one... I will be, I will survive, and I will live and one day I will find what you stopped searching for long time back... The mystery of being alive...
 You would have gone long time dead by then...
I do not have the capacity to resurrect,and  neither does he.

Present moment.

It used to be a land of green memories that I wanted to keep in a locket. Fingers playing with time. Past around my neck.
As I travel through these lands of green I think of you there on the other side of the horizon. Can you hear me now? Can you feel my breath so alive travelling towards your feet and whispering that I understand. Your patchwork face turns towards me with every step I take. The skin of brown soil and your bare feet so connected to this land that sometimes I wonder if it is you who stamps on it or is it the earth that chose to support you in every step you take so that you could walk for thousand miles until you become one with the ground beneath your feet. I bath in the depth of your eyes that do not see me. Those eyes that look so far away across time... To win with time or to lose with it. You cannot win from it eternity, you can only prolong the anticipation of loss, and once you loose I will stand on the threshold night after night to light a lamp so that you could find your way back in the dark.
I thought I could keep those moments forever. I would collect green leaves to enjoy them secretly when you would walk across the desert searching for life. I would run towards you to give you the touch of their green... but they turned brown with time...  Green lives only in the present. It can not be stored for future generations.
Love exists only in the present moment. Not before, not later... only now....
Can you feel my voice? Can you touch the wind of my wings? Can you see the parrot sitting silently by the window as you busy yourself with words that brought me here. It is now. It is green.