Qawwali

Saanson ki maalaa pe simruun main pii ka naam
apne mann ki main jaanuun aur pii ke mann ki Ram.....
[On the rosary beads of every breath, I chant the name of my beloved
I know of my heart, and God knows the heart of my beloved]

Ek tha saajan mandir mein aur ek tha pritam masjid mein
prem ke rang mein aisii dubii bun gayaa ek hi roop
prem ki maalaa japte japte aap bani main Shyam
[One lover stood in a temple, the other in a mosque
I, drowning deep in the colour of love; emerged as one soul.
Chanting on the rosary beads of love, I myself became Shyam]

It's a mystery to me why the beauty of qawwali is so understated. For one to employ the human voice as an actual instrument is beyond comprehension; it surpasses what we commonly know as singing, it becomes an elevated form of expression. Someone once said that qawwali, with all it's Sufi poetical substance, is almost an intrusion by the listener onto a man's one-to-one conversation with his God. The mere fact that we are allowed to eavesdrop on such an intimate, personal communication is where the beauty lies in this art form; it stresses a commonality, a unity between us all. Yet, here lies the basic contradiction; this circle of elevated unity can only be experienced by one who understands the poetry, the language. I find myself constantly frustrated when I am unable to conjure up adequate words in the English language to translate Urdu poetry in a way that still communicates its magnificent substance to all my friends who I want to share this wondrous art form with. Unfortunately, I often fall short. Yet I wonder, is translation itself an art form?

Language in itself is an art. Art is universal, but language is not. In all its raw beauty, it is very much a barrier as much as it is common ground, as Virginia Woolf once professed. In this common ground of expression, we are stripped of all pretence, agenda, ego or anything which may prevent the overpowering surge of emotion from manifesting in the human spirit. We are left completely vulnerable by the experience of something as inspiring and moving as qawwali. There is something altogether profound in that susceptibility of being overpowered that one experiences... the birth of tears from a single word which weaves its thread around a heart vessel immersed with memories, tightening its noose only to tear through the surface and wound the seal; prompting an onslaught of consciousness to ooze and trickle down an endless stream of thought is something so incomprehensible, even the creator of the word is left stunned.

We move from word, to melody. In Javed Akhtar's 'Afreen Afreen', which Nusrat Fateh Ali Khan inevitably gives an earth-shattering birth to, he writes Jism jaise machaltee huwe raghnee. Again, word for word translation fails epically in this instance. But he is communicating the essence of beauty; his mind sculpts a body which is as seductive as the curvaceous, dancing notes of the alluring melody. And the hypnotic and quite often seductive beat of the tablaa is all too intoxicating; heightening the experience to a magnificently cataclysmic one.

At the height of this creativity, the qawwal introduces sargam to his astounded audience. Sargam is essentially singing the names of the notes which make up the composition; varying the pitch, tempo, volume, pronunciation, tune and order. Though as a mere observer, the technicalities of the art are unknown to us; we identify with it simply through effect. And the effect is, quite naturally, otherworldly.

The beauty of qawwali exists in its chameleon-like nature; for one verse to soothe the soul gently to sleep and another so passionate and intense, that it shatters the senses into a million shards of emotion. Agreeably, there are many art forms which achieve a similar sensation. For me they include the undeniably authentic portrayal of characters by Meryl Streep, a canvas of literary perfection in the name of Virginia Woolf, the flawless symphonic composition of Mozart's 'Moonlight Sonata' and the impeccable demonstration of vocal range and agility as demonstrated by the magnificent qawwali of Nusrat Fateh Ali Khan.

For the record, favourite version - http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hqjiXYemMlw&feature=channel> bar the obviously drunk, savage Pakistani men who have absolutely NO idea about the greatness they are witnessing!

To Overcome

On the shores of this consistency,

no battle cries emerge.

In the ferocity of these callous waves,

none too merciful stand guard.

My lighthouse is no shelter,

for he belongs to no one and none to him.

His reserve is a necessity

the depths of the ocean command.

Brutality in them is innate-

survival otherwise unfathomable.

Endless is the stormy peril from

streams all too conscious to really exist.

Gluttonous consumption

replaces a desire all too familiar

for satisfaction.

The wave cannot hear the waverer-

he floats amidst the illusion of fear.

Unbeknown to the fact

that immortality awaits at the

foothills of His rescue boat....

Broken Hearts

It isn’t human not to feel lonely and it isn’t human not to be afraid…

...screams Francesca Johnson at the man who, she tries to convince herself, is void of all human emotion and integral complexities. A man who she has fallen passionately in love with; a man who is the sole embodiment of a destiny she imagined and a desire long suppressed; a man who is consequently not her husband. A man who she has fallen in love with…in four days.

I wonder whether it's a personally profound interpretation or some unexplainable, other-worldly connection to a character, when you turn away from the screen and realise that you are the only one in the living room that feels anything but contempt for this adulterous woman.

The Bridges of Madison County follows the story of Francesca Johnson, an Italian war bride living in Iowa whose glasshouse of compromised reality is shattered by the mysterious, world-renowned photographer, Robert Kincaid.
Francesca is essentially an extraordinarily exotic spirit, tamed by her surroundings and the stark contrast between her imagination and reality. She envisions an America that is greater than mankind; a place not only inhabiting opportunity and luxury, but the essence of true love - where free spirits, immersed in the many different colours of human emotion, caress each other with the soft tenderness of Yeats, profound, fulfilling conversation and experience beautifully intense physical desires towards that perfect entity - signaling a complete union.
Her reality, however, condones a rather less glamorous lifestyle. That is until Robert Kincaid...

"How [a room full of my cousins & two sisters, ask] can you fall so in love with someone in four days?! It's impossible."
"It's not love, it's lust!"
"She's so desperate - the bitch! She practically throws herself on top of him."
"It is essentially all about sex. That's all she wants from him".
"How can she do that to her husband?! Her kids! She's just selfish", they profess in outrage.

I, either in my obvious naivety or in my blind faith that they would appreciate a character as being three-dimensional considering she is after all HUMAN, raved about how wonderfully tragic this film was and how they'd all be in tears by the end of it. Quite the contrary!
It did, instead, spark a magnificent debate, which undoubtedly illustrates just how powerful the story is.

Love, says Francesca, does not obey our expectations. "Its mystery is pure and absolute". And so you ask yourself, does one ever really ‘love’ or does one simply love the idea of ‘being in love’ – essentially, falling in love with love itself. Is there a time frame; can you fall in love with someone in four days? Does one fall in love with another, or with the ‘idea’ of this other – or what he or she represents?
Undoubtedly, Robert for Francesca signifies the unknown – the unpredictable, untamable, adventurous ‘outsider’ – essentially, the life she had envisioned in her dreams. He appears as a saviour, rescuing her from the mundane “details” her life has become involuntarily infested with.
Yet, the reality still stands. Francesca made a choice; to marry, to have children, to leave Italy. The foundations upon which those choices were made are irrelevant on account of her adultery…right?
She professes, “When a woman makes the choice to marry, to have children; in one way her life begins but in another way it stops. You build a life of details. You become a mother, a wife and you stop and stay steady so that your children can move. And when they leave they take your life of details with them. And then you're expected to move again only you don't remember what moves you because no-one has asked in so long. Not even yourself”.

Meryl Streep, unsurprisingly, plays Francesca Johnson with such great precision that one cannot help but become mercilessly consumed with the internal construct of this character. Despise her or pity her; Francesca’s impact is unavoidable.
So, we move on. Does Francesca strike a chord because she embodies multiple realities of women we all know? Or perhaps she possesses characteristics that secretly fester within each and every one of us.
Francesca declares, “You never think a love like this can happen to you”. Does she mean the love she feels towards Robert or the feeling of love itself? Perhaps she’s referring to the union between them, or maybe the love he bestows upon her. How does she reach this conclusion if a love like this has indeed, never ‘happened’ to her before? Where does the comparison stand?
If you’ve never experienced an emotion – any emotion – with such intensity before, is it right to give that experience a new name? Or even maybe a new platform of comparison?

For example, I know I’ve never felt this way before and I know I only felt this way upon his arrival. He fucks up and leaves. I experience a new emotion, with great intensity.
Categorically, I fell in love without knowing it, then had my heart broken and then realized I was either close to being in love or was, in fact, in love with the man who fucked up, prior to him doing so. Yet this person, who you supposedly fell in love with or were in the processing of falling in love with, broke your heart. In which case, does he not then become somebody else – and not, essentially, the individual you had perceived him to be? In which case, you couldn’t possibly have loved him – but instead, the ‘idea of him’ – an idea you constructed from perception and not from reality. Thus suggestively, you fell in love with the perceived idea of ‘being in love’.

Bitter, consequential reassurances? Maybe.

Or maybe, the truth about a truth that exists only in the subjective mind. One might even, then, fall in love with the morbid reality itself – a broken heart is incurable, after all. In every silence it looms...lingers; threatening to emerge from its dark slumber from within that consciously abandoned yet subconsciously occupied corner in your mind. It is, undeniably, as attached to me as [dare I say it] I am to it.
After all, what does one have left of the person who broke your heart but the broken heart itself?

Confrontations.

In the current circumstances of the world, 'subtlety' is merely a form of cowardice.

This desperate desire for 'political correctness' that has plagued the planet only serves to vanquish individuality and will soon lead us into developing a completely Utopian society.

http://www.cherwell.org/content/8291

This article is realistic, insightful and empowered; take heed, people everywhere.

Hours

Belief, in all its fragility, can never be as concrete as I need it to be. Especially when it is you who stands on the other side of Forever.

Grant me this one illusion, when my eyes search for a familiar vessel
of which you once inhabited.

Necessity commands very little from me. It is, instead, the urgency of my temperament that knowingly murders tranquility.

Completion; an empty promise, born from the most disloyal of hearts. Choice is unreasonable in its demands for answers that I am simply not permitted to give.

Hours, of which there are so few – Still, convince me this will last and last until the extinction of time.

But beauty resonates through the silence of your eyes, which deny me the acceptance of truth altogether.

I ask only that you let me Believe and with that, realise the extent of this selfishness. I ask too much, I realise.

Speculation will get you no further into what remains, of that I am sure but I dare not stop you in this futile pursuit of lost time.

Minutes pass, yet the skies from beyond the window pane paint pictures all too familiar to associate with change.

The turning screws of the cyclical realm never seem to rust yet inches and inches of dust circulate in between the cracks.

I mean not to isolate. Simply to achieve a monumental hour on this ground, whilst the faint echoes of life still fall softly upon my head.

Wonders of the World

It is simply not enough to listen. Listening, despite its lonesome significance, is somehow incomplete unless followed through with thought. Sound must evoke thought – no matter how absurd or disillusioned. In truth, most things in life are ‘supposed’ to evoke thought, yet somehow this masterful experience is left undervalued. This process, to me, is the only natural element left within the individual – the provocation of thought. Feeling can often be tainted by expectation or guilt or a host of different things, but thought is private. And in this very privacy, gains ultimate significance and does wondrous things to the soul; the birth of Music, for example.

Hypnotically mellow, savagely beautiful, expressions of wounded truth; Henry Wolfe has one of those melodically soulful voices that transport one to unimaginable realms of thought. An essence of vulnerability, together with a surreal kind of realism coats every track – making this album entirely addictive.
The Blue House, Wolfe’s first official album is available for download on iTunes and is definitely worth the investment. £3.95 for undertones of acoustic perfection is almost morally damaging.

To listen, to think, to feel… the unappreciated wonders of the world.

New Beginnings

"What we call the beginning is often the end. And to make an end is to make a beginning. The end is where we start from" - T.S.Eliot

Embrace the beginning of the end; be happy, be well, be limitless.
Fly well and far.