Saleha.alias.New-Age Whirling Dervish
“………light…light…light….fire…fire…red….yellow….pink…fire....orange flame….dancing…..dancing…an orange flame….pink….blue-yellow lights….yellow lights…..blue lights….ribbons of a dark pink…..strips of smoke streaking dazedly across the air…..voices bouncing off the marble walls….voices echoing across the beams on the high, arched ceiling…..a man crying out somewhere outside, urging somebody to buy something….the shuffling of feet on the ground….footsteps….another man in sunglasses…..a man in sunglasses with another man in a checkered shirt…..a young couple holding hands, a little girl sucking at her thumb, a large family with a myriad of wailing babies, a slightly frumpish woman, her head covered by a scarf, holding two children by the hand, an old man with a long grey beard, carrying a book in his hand. Groups of people, dressed in Turkish robes, enter barefoot into the mosque. Swallows gather together, and circle the turrets in a final farewell to the day, before flying away into the distance. The tall brick turrets of the old mosque start to turn faintly yellow in the sunset and it is as if, an alchemist is at work, turning them into gold. The sun has dimmed and its burning ferocity eases into a faded red sky as it begins its descent into the sea. A crowd is gathering. Tangible.”
He looks around and very quietly gathers the white froth of his robes in his hands. Placing the palm of a hand deftly on his “topi”*, he steps lightly down the few steps that lead away from the raised platform out into the backyard of the mosque. Between the movement of those around him, and the sounds of the gathering crowd, he knows it is very improbable that he will be noticed. Just before he steps out into the receding sun he bends down to lift his rubber slippers from the rack he had placed them on, and at that very instant, he notices a small boy of about eight years of age, standing on the far end of the hall. The boy is skinny, but his eyes are surprisingly bright. And he realizes with a start that the boy is watching him. For some reason, he quickly looks down and purposefully exits the hall. He finds being watched like this, extremely uncomfortable. And the discomfort hits him like a blast of icy air every time he steps off that platform.
***********************************
He enters his house quietly, unobtrusively, not because he wants to hide, he realizes, but because he wants to surprise his sisters with his sudden entrance into the living room. He loves to see their reactions, to see them come alive in their sudden surprise. His sits down with them and they have hot “chaai” together, and he feels a warm, rosy feeling rising like a cloud of steamy air somewhere inside his stomach. He feels good. Sitting around with his family, chaai, the air of warm familiarity—he feels good.
The phone rings, and he reaches for it. It’s the Bank calling. Today was supposed to be his day off but he knows he is largely indispensable at his workplace. He heads the entire accounting department and he is almost never sitting at his desk. He keeps moving from one office to the next because he is constantly needed for something or the other. And he realizes with a start that he likes that. He likes being busy, he likes being around the people at his office, he likes working, he likes staying involved.
He likes moving, he realizes with a start. He likes to move.
*************************************************
He gets up and walks from the living room to his bedroom upstairs. His room is quite like a studio. He paints when he gets the time, and the faint, searing smell of turpentine prances around the room. He walks in and stands in the middle of that smell(or what he perceives as the middle), and looks around at his rolls of canvas, half finished paintings, charcoal smudges on completed drawings and his fully varnished oil paintings hanging on the walls. Who does he paint for, he wonders. He observes that his paintings do not interact. Their form, their structure, and their composition—each one of them is different from the other. He’s painted the ship harbor, the sunset, people walking down Old Cathedral Street, abstract images of color and light, dead people, alive people, people in the space between sleep and awaking, dogs, horses, even candle light. He’s painted every mood and state of emotion that he has experienced and for some reason that he finds inexplicable, he realizes they have nothing in common with each other.
What DOES he paint? He asks himself again. Himself? His emotions? The world? Are each of them separate wholes, or is there a pattern somewhere?
He is certain of just one thing. Every time he paints, he “feels”. Or maybe it’s the other way around, as Descartes would have liked to put it. Every time he “feels”, he paints.
**********************************************
He has a job. A family. He paints. He loves football. He loves his work at the bank. He loves sitting with his sisters and joking around over “chaai”. But he is also dead sure, and make no mistake about it, that there is nothing there that he would die with. He “feels”. Just not deeply enough. He runs around like a vagrant(he likes to move), like the wind, throwing hooks into everything but never quite holding on long enough for the net to be pulled in. Consequently, he never gets caught in it.
None of those who try to pull him in know that he wants desperately to be caught.
He’s tired. But the search has only just begun.
*************************************************
Meet Omar Kahlil. Who has a job. And a family. Who loves to paint. Who loves his football. Who loves the Bank. Who likes people.
Meet Kahlil Omar. He is a dervish who whirls.
Omar..Kahlil...Omar…Kahlil…Omar…Kahlil…Omar…Kahlil…Omar…Kahlil….
Say the names out fast together, and they become one.
He moves in his life, and he moves when he whirls.
The movement is his bridge between points that he does not consider separate “points” anymore.
HE just whirls.
******************************************
“Tangible.A crowd is gathering. The sun has dimmed and its burning ferocity eases into a faded red sky as it begins its descent into the sea. The tall brick turrets of the old mosque start to turn faintly yellow in the sunset and it is as if, an alchemist is at work, turning them into gold. Swallows gather together, and circle the turrets in a final farewell to the day, before flying away into the distance. Groups of people, dressed in Turkish robes, enter barefoot into the mosque. An old man with a long grey beard, carrying a book in his hand, a slightly frumpish woman, her head covered by a scarf, holding two children by the hand, a large family with a myriad of wailing babies, a little girl sucking at her thumb, a young couple holding hands… a man in sunglasses with another man in a checkered shirt… another man in sunglasses….footsteps..the shuffling of feet on the ground…a man crying out somewhere, urging somebody to buy something….voices echoing across the beams on the high, arched ceiling….voices bouncing off the marble walls….strips of smoke streaking dazedly across the air……ribbons of a dark pink…blue lights…yellow lights…blue-yellow lights.....pink….an orange flame….dancing….dancing..orangeflame...fire….pink…yellow…red…fire…fire….light…. light….light…………….”
He looks around and very quietly gathers the white froth of his robes in his hands. Placing the palm of a hand deftly on his “topi”*, he steps lightly down the few steps that lead away from the raised platform out into the backyard of the mosque. Between the movement of those around him, and the sounds of the gathering crowd, he knows it is very improbable that he will be noticed. Just before he steps out into the receding sun he bends down to lift his rubber slippers from the rack he had placed them on, and at that very instant, he notices a small boy of about eight years of age, standing on the far end of the hall. The boy is skinny, but his eyes are surprisingly bright. And he realizes with a start that the boy is watching him. For some reason, he quickly looks down and purposefully exits the hall. He finds being watched like this, extremely uncomfortable. And the discomfort hits him like a blast of icy air every time he steps off that platform.
***********************************
He enters his house quietly, unobtrusively, not because he wants to hide, he realizes, but because he wants to surprise his sisters with his sudden entrance into the living room. He loves to see their reactions, to see them come alive in their sudden surprise. His sits down with them and they have hot “chaai” together, and he feels a warm, rosy feeling rising like a cloud of steamy air somewhere inside his stomach. He feels good. Sitting around with his family, chaai, the air of warm familiarity—he feels good.
The phone rings, and he reaches for it. It’s the Bank calling. Today was supposed to be his day off but he knows he is largely indispensable at his workplace. He heads the entire accounting department and he is almost never sitting at his desk. He keeps moving from one office to the next because he is constantly needed for something or the other. And he realizes with a start that he likes that. He likes being busy, he likes being around the people at his office, he likes working, he likes staying involved.
He likes moving, he realizes with a start. He likes to move.
*************************************************
He gets up and walks from the living room to his bedroom upstairs. His room is quite like a studio. He paints when he gets the time, and the faint, searing smell of turpentine prances around the room. He walks in and stands in the middle of that smell(or what he perceives as the middle), and looks around at his rolls of canvas, half finished paintings, charcoal smudges on completed drawings and his fully varnished oil paintings hanging on the walls. Who does he paint for, he wonders. He observes that his paintings do not interact. Their form, their structure, and their composition—each one of them is different from the other. He’s painted the ship harbor, the sunset, people walking down Old Cathedral Street, abstract images of color and light, dead people, alive people, people in the space between sleep and awaking, dogs, horses, even candle light. He’s painted every mood and state of emotion that he has experienced and for some reason that he finds inexplicable, he realizes they have nothing in common with each other.
What DOES he paint? He asks himself again. Himself? His emotions? The world? Are each of them separate wholes, or is there a pattern somewhere?
He is certain of just one thing. Every time he paints, he “feels”. Or maybe it’s the other way around, as Descartes would have liked to put it. Every time he “feels”, he paints.
**********************************************
He has a job. A family. He paints. He loves football. He loves his work at the bank. He loves sitting with his sisters and joking around over “chaai”. But he is also dead sure, and make no mistake about it, that there is nothing there that he would die with. He “feels”. Just not deeply enough. He runs around like a vagrant(he likes to move), like the wind, throwing hooks into everything but never quite holding on long enough for the net to be pulled in. Consequently, he never gets caught in it.
None of those who try to pull him in know that he wants desperately to be caught.
He’s tired. But the search has only just begun.
*************************************************
Meet Omar Kahlil. Who has a job. And a family. Who loves to paint. Who loves his football. Who loves the Bank. Who likes people.
Meet Kahlil Omar. He is a dervish who whirls.
Omar..Kahlil...Omar…Kahlil…Omar…Kahlil…Omar…Kahlil…Omar…Kahlil….
Say the names out fast together, and they become one.
He moves in his life, and he moves when he whirls.
The movement is his bridge between points that he does not consider separate “points” anymore.
HE just whirls.
******************************************
“Tangible.A crowd is gathering. The sun has dimmed and its burning ferocity eases into a faded red sky as it begins its descent into the sea. The tall brick turrets of the old mosque start to turn faintly yellow in the sunset and it is as if, an alchemist is at work, turning them into gold. Swallows gather together, and circle the turrets in a final farewell to the day, before flying away into the distance. Groups of people, dressed in Turkish robes, enter barefoot into the mosque. An old man with a long grey beard, carrying a book in his hand, a slightly frumpish woman, her head covered by a scarf, holding two children by the hand, a large family with a myriad of wailing babies, a little girl sucking at her thumb, a young couple holding hands… a man in sunglasses with another man in a checkered shirt… another man in sunglasses….footsteps..the shuffling of feet on the ground…a man crying out somewhere, urging somebody to buy something….voices echoing across the beams on the high, arched ceiling….voices bouncing off the marble walls….strips of smoke streaking dazedly across the air……ribbons of a dark pink…blue lights…yellow lights…blue-yellow lights.....pink….an orange flame….dancing….dancing..orangeflame...fire….pink…yellow…red…fire…fire….light…. light….light…………….”
posted by Shekure Darashikoh at 10:43 PM
1 Comments:
glad you're back and active on the blog roll.
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