Imagination-Chariot

Peacocks at Maguelone

2011-12-26T23:54:00.000+01:00

Happy Christmas to you all! I spent my afternoon yesterday running along a beach next to the deserted cathédrale de Maguelone. Well, some running and some sitting down and resting. The sky was pale blue, the sea emerald green and generally it was a bit like those movies where the hero or heroine has died but doesn't yet realise it and is busy wading through a field of poppies to a gate at the other side over which can be seen an expanse of golden light...

When I say the cathedral is deserted I mean it was once deserted because of viking raids. The diocese (along with the wealth it had presumably accumulated) was moved to Montpellier, which being inland gave the vikings a bit of a chance to reconsider just how much they wanted to loot and pillage. You can imagine whining teenage vikings getting back in the boat when faced with a long march; "You said it would be right there on the beach! I want to go to Marseille instead..."

St. Peter and St. Paul face each other on the cathedral entrance, looking not unlike vikings themselves.

I'm not sure what kind of stone everything is made out of here, but it is very soothing. The whole cathedral has a very calm and elevated vibe, and this time it seemed joyful and youthful as well.

There are masses of different carvings on the interior walls, some completely indistinct with time, but you can still see traces of a design on a lot of them; I'm pretty sure this is a lion, for instance.

The shrine itself is very simple; a beautiful golden cross on a worn stone altar. The first time I visited I was surprised to see peacock feathers in front of the altar, after all, it is not what one has come to expect in England, but the reason for this was obvious once we'd climbed to the top of the cathedral and looked out into the surrounding woodland. I saw five peacocks and figured there were probably more lurking nearby. They were reticent though, for peacocks; they didn't spontaneously strike their most attractive pose or step into sudden shafts of sunlight to illuminate their plumage or anything like that.

Despite my best efforts, the photos I took with my zoom on that day are a bit like those charmless paparazzi shots you get of celebrities coming out of a gym. The peacocks are obviously trying to get on with their lives, buy their groceries or whatever, keeping their heads down and doing their best to ignore the camera. When I tried to get into the peacock enclosure for some close-ups I found it was barred to the public, so I had to admit defeat...

Until today! As I was running along the beach I came across a large iron gate with fencing all around it and a large sign with the word "interdit" on it. Now, I have encountered that word before, but I put aside the knowledge and reasoned that somebody trying to take a short cut back to the cathedral might not realise that the fence was meant to keep them out. After all, what could be more natural than to clamber down the rocks at one side of the fence, hanging perilously over the water to swing oneself around and then climb back up the other side. Obviously guests were intended to enter this way! So that's what I did, and I was rewarded for my crime by not being caught and getting right up close to all the peacocks I could possibly want.

The first peacock I saw looked at me quizzically and then ignored me completely. It was as though I had stumbled into some kind of peacock social event and was being given not exactly the cold shoulder, but perhaps the lukewarm elbow.

This is Padmasini's photo. These two could easily be a couple of card-playing debutantes in a period drama, pausing, in the middle of an indiscreet confidence, to check out an intruder.

Most of the action was centred around a young male peacock who was hassling the young peahens, not very successfully, I have to say. The young females ran away into the thicket and I couldn't resist this backstage shot.

It took a few minutes of constant exclamations about the magnificence of his plumage before he deigned to notice my voice, and then another half a minute for him to totter around on his little legs to face me.

Tadaahhh! Hm. Once he had finished turning, the slightly bemused look in his eye told me he had registered the wrongness of my size, colour and species.

He didn't waste time trying to impress me but lowered his tail, rather apologetically I thought.

And then you could see the inspiration enter his peacock mind...

..."Is this thing somehow associated with food???!"

Magisterial distain from a white dowager peacock.

These two remind me of Miss Haversham in Great Expectations, but I can't really say why. Okay, I can; it's the coronets, the bridal attire and the slightly seedy look, as though they've been waiting several decades to get married and the lace has got frayed at the edges. It's even spookier because they are identical twins. Are there any identical jilted twins in literature? I'm sure there are, somewhere, and that someone will tell me.

Two more senior Miss Havershams; this photo looks like one of those Pre-Raphaelite pictures where the artist has patently used the same model for all six adoring nymphs, if you know what I mean. It seems to be the same peacock, only turned around a few degrees.

Here a family is having their yearly photograph taken and everything is in limbo while the cameraman fiddles about with the camera.

Holding the pose for a perfect portrait.

Then the moment they all hear the chattering of noisy tourists who must have ignored the "interdit" notice too.

And off they go! They're surprisingly quick; a tiny bit reminiscent of a Tyranasaurus Rex running in a tutu, but only in the nicest possible way.

Tried to follow the peacocks to their secret hideaway, but they were too quick and I was left behind with a few stragglers...

...who were so well camouflaged that they soon faded back into the leafy world they came from.

Midwinter with the Vedic Seers

2011-12-23T01:21:00.001+01:00

At this time of year, when the shortest day meets the longest night, I am inspired to revisit the truths of the Vedic seers of even-more-than-usually-ancient India. If they had a midwinter festival it was not, as far as I know, particularly distinct from other cultural celebrations of the turning back towards the sun, but I am reminded of them because at this time of year the concept of "light" seems especially relevant, and the worship of light is expressed powerfully, wholeheartedly and single-mindedly in the many mantras derived from their divine contemplations. And that is not necessarily worship of the sun, although of course the sun is our planet's ultimate physical reference point for light, but the yearning to return to the source, that inner Light which is unwavering and unceasing, which the sun represents but is in no way equal to. As the great Indian exponent of Vedanta in the late 19th Century, Vivekananda, said so eloquently in his slightly old-fashioned but absolutely perfect English:

"Take me, O Mother, to those shores

Where strifes forever cease;

Beyond all sorrows, beyond tears,

Beyond e'en earthly bliss;

Whose glory neither sun nor moon,

Nor stars that twinkle bright

Nor flash of lightning can express.

They but reflect its light."

Swami Vivekananda

The Vedas themselves are the contemplative truths uncovered by the seers of that time. Nobody can be sure exactly how long ago the Vedas came into being, or how many millennia later they passed from the spoken to the written word but I think it's safe to say that it was when the world's intelligence was in its infancy and way before the wheel was being used in Europe. (I have heard some theories claiming the wheel is where we all went wrong, but as the owner of a chariot I have to disagree!) These sages were on their own in history, forging a way through the darkness of the night with only their souls to keep them company. They had no spiritual masters of the highest height to guide them, they just meditated on the nature of the universe and immortalised their discoveries in the form of mantras that are even today being chanted all along the banks of the Ganges by the ascetics living there.

"The Vedic seers saw the truth with their souls, in their heavenly visions and in their earthly actions. In the case of an ordinary poet, his poems are quite often based upon imagination. Imagination gives birth to his poetry. In the case of the Vedic poets, it was intuition that gave birth to their poems. This intuition is the direct knowledge of Truth. As regards the prophet, very often we see that an ordinary prophet's prophecy is based on a kind of unknown mystery. But in the case of the Vedic prophets, it was not so. Their prophecies were based on their full and conscious awareness of direct and immediate Truth. They just brought to the fore this dynamic Truth to operate in the cosmic manifestation. When we say that the Vedas are eternal, we do not mean that the four scriptures have no beginning and no end. What we mean is that the real meaning of the Vedas, which is the Knowledge of God, has neither beginning nor end. The Vedas are the direct experiences and revelations of the Rishis of the hoary past. These experiences may be had by any sincere seeker of the Truth, in any time and in any place."

Sri Chinmoy

The Vedic sages were not necessarily ascetics; some of them were householders, returning home to teach their families what they had discovered. Their collective philosophies formed the foundations of Hinduism, along with the Upanishadic texts, that came after and had their roots in the Vedas. Some of these mantras are very famous in their entirety in the western world, like the Gayatri Mantra from the Rigveda, and some are known vaguely by everybody because the philosophy they embody is so distinct and unique that they have wormed their way into thousands of western texts, from philosophy to fantasy to comedy, mutating as they go; "It moves and it moves not" from the Upanishads seems to be a good example. This one is more straightforward and less prone to being used in comedic sketches:

"Lead me from the unreal to the Real.

Lead me from darkness to Light.

Lead me from death to Immortality."

The Yajurveda

This Sunday we got together to sing my Guru's musical interpretation of some of these Vedic mantras, and that was originally why I was making a little book of them, with the cover you see at the top of this page, so that we would have something nice to sing from. Guru wrote thousands upon thousands of songs and usually the words and melody were both his own. But sometimes he took an inspiring utterance by somebody else and put it to music. Beloved spiritual masters of yore, poets dead or alive, humanitarian figures, politicians, anyone he was inspired by at the time; on one occasion he sang to Princess Diana a few songs he had composed based on her own words! Now that I remember it, I think one of them was:

"Everyone needs to be valued. Everyone has the potential to give something back if only they had the chance."

Princess Diana

I have sung many of these songs in public, as part of a group of singers, often to the author of the original statement, which is great fun. The recipients were usually incredibly tickled to hear their own words coming back to them. Guru lived in music. Whenever I was in New York I was in a group that was constantly on hand to sing his creations back to him, and because he didn't like sheet music we learnt everything from him in the traditional Indian way of singing back each line as soon as he had composed it. It could go on for hours and then we would have to perform them a few hours later or in the evening. Golden moments, golden days and golden years of my life! I would never have been so immersed in music had I not studied with him all that time. Of course, he was not teaching us music, but how to live a full life, an inspired life. I once heard him say very quietly to a visitor that he gave us hundreds and thousands of songs to keep us occupied and out of trouble!

One of the other benefits of meditative music is that it confers the benefits of the meditative state it was composed in on the singer, if they are in a receptive state. He often said that meditation was not like instant coffee, but if anything could claim to be instant meditation, his songs were. They spanned every possible stage of the spiritual journey, from the sublime to the ridiculous and back again. The vast majority were devotional prayers and soulful invocations, but some of them had earthly themes. There was a song for eating icecream and a song for dieting; songs for different sports and songs for different days of the week; congratulations songs, thankyou songs, welcome songs; short songs, long songs, longer than the longest songs that took twenty minutes to sing. And then there was a special song he composed way in advance, that nobody knew about until we found it after his death and sang it at his funeral. Lover of songs, master of songs, father to over 22,000 songs. We were all part of his composition process; we were like the notes on his keyboard, although not always so accurate!

Of course, as a songwriter, he was also a poet with thousands of poems to his name. On the night before his death, his latest book of poetry was on sale. He left the meditation function early with the instruction to his students to continue meditating and to stay awake. That Guru died the next morning without drawing attention to his death beforehand was entirely in keeping with his style. He had not approved of miracles and things that distracted spiritual seekers from the main business of the spiritual life, and although many masters have chosen to name the day of their death to their disciples he did not mention anything to us. Only to one person did he say, a month or so in advance, that October 11th was going to be a special day in the inner worlds. When later we read the last poem in that last book he published the night before his death we discovered it was, by coincidence or not, a consolation for us:

"My physical death

Is not the end of my life -

I am an eternal journey."

Sri Chinmoy

So anyway, the Vedic chants have been set to music many, many times in India over the years and Guru added his own contribution to the list. In my free time this week, in honour of the winter solstice, I have been preparing a book with sixteen of them, along with illustrations and translations in English of the original Sanskrit text, to be downloaded free from this site, when they are ready. This is what the front cover will look like:

I am only halfway through, as it has involved learning to use a new piece of software to type out the music itself and it is quite an involved process. Also it all has to be checked against the originals in New York to make sure what I am sending out is exactly correct, and that could take a while as lots of my colleagues are out of the country at this time! So I am going to display them here bit by bit and then put them all together at the end in one blog in the proper order to print out double-sided. This is what the back cover will look like:

Although I have the feeling that I will, at some point, do this in colour, for now I have kept it to quite a simple format and in black and white because I want them to be able to be photocopied cheaply. There will be no restriction on downloading and reproducing them, only I want the copyright statement to be kept intact and I specifically wish that no money is taken for them, ever, even if the money is going to be used for something charitable, divine or otherwise deserving. All the sheet music on Guru's official website can be downloaded free, so I think his wishes are clear on the subject of the dissemination of his music. If a book is printed up by one of our own publishing houses on good paper with a thick, beautifully illustrated cover and all that, of course it is a different matter. But the songs on this website will be free to whoever wants them and they are not available as yet on the official website. They will be very good for impromptu musical evenings, such as we have been enjoying here, as they are A5 size in a landscape format; perfect for hurriedly stuffing into one's bag as one rushes out the door!

I have to let Vivekananda have the last say, because in so many ways he is just like a Vedic sage. Guru told this story about him, that deep in one of the inmost planes of the higher worlds, a great sage was meditating on the infinity of space, when a little child appeared before him. The child asked him to take birth on the earth plane as he was going to need his help. The sage wanted to ignore the child, but he found he could not, as the child was crying and begging him. So the sage consented to take birth in India and find the child in his hour of need. Vivekananda was born on January 12th in 1863 and was a brilliant student, excelling at everything and finally settling on law. He claimed he was an atheist, but repeatedly asked holy men if they had talked to God face to face. He found no-one who could make that claim until he met the spiritual giant and avatar Sri Ramakrishna, who told Vivekananda that yes, of course he had but never mind about that, he had been waiting and crying for Vivekananda for a very long time! Vivekananda carried Ramakrishna's message all over the world, founding many Ramakrishna missions and inspiring everyone he met. This stanza is from a larger poem of his, "The Song of the Free", written in New York.

"Before the sun, the moon, the earth,

Before the stars or comets free,

Before e'en Time has had its birth

I was, I am, and I will be!"

Swami Vivekananda

Cacti and cave-paintings on the way to Marseille

2011-11-18T18:29:00.000+01:00

On the way to a meditation workshop in Marseille we stopped off to do a bit of hiking in the Calanques, which are the inlets and caves to be found along that stretch of the coast. The hills were full of a smokey blue light and the air was very clear and fresh, making everything seem much closer than it really was, as though you might be able to reach out and touch it.

It's amazing how quickly the French countryside changes; one moment you're driving along beside sandy golden stone laced with iron deposits and the next you're looking at limestone stuff like this. I would be interested to know what happened however many millions of years ago that concertinaed the landscape in such a way, or whether, like Douglas Adams' award winning fjord-designer, Slartibartfast, somebody amused themselves putting down all their artistic flourishes too close together to be really believable. I seem to remember the science fiction epic Saga of the Exiles by Julian May was set in this neck of the woods, though in the Pliocene Era. For anyone who hasn't read it I won't spoil the premise, but I think one of the plot-lines involves the landscape being rearranged by some cataclysmic event. If I can't remember properly then it's time to read it again!

We were also very close to the Cosquer Cave, on whose walls can be seen these paintings dated at about 20,000 years ago, during the Paleolithic Age; some even older. The entrance to the cave is 37 metres below sea level, so I think we can be forgiven for not visiting it this time. These photographs are by one of the scientists supervising the site, Jean Clottes. You can see the layout of the cave by clicking here. There seem to be a lot of prehistoric cave paintings in France; it's anybody's guess why that's so. For a truly stunning virtual visit to a decorated cave, you might also like to take a look at the official website of the cave paintings at Lascaux in south-western France; I found them very moving.

So, back to our hike; here you can see my companions; from the top, Keyarie, Mukunja and Padmasini. Of course I am at the end of the procession, cooing appreciatively over the plants and rocks. This whole area is quite arid, but the variety of plant-life is still remarkable.

Cacti next to pine trees. A strange mix, but alluring. A few years ago I saw something similar in a Sicilian lemon grove where the cacti were growing much taller than this and bearing fruit a bit like papaya but covered with mildly poisonous spikes. We put gloves on, filled the boot of the car with them and drove them all the way back to Milan, where I then found the same thing in a market. Ours tasted better, of course!

Keyarie and Padamasini waiting on the other side of a hairpin bend for me to catch up as I stop yet again for photographs.

Some of the bushes had blossom and fruits at the same time, which is a bit unsettling but you see it everywhere now; others, like this, were doing their best to pretend we had bypassed winter and headed straight into spring.

Rounding a corner, I saw a very young cat staring meditatively into the distance and a little boy about to throw a stone at it, probably just to see it do something exciting rather than with any particularly malicious motive. My French was sufficient to prevent this happening and the cat turned around and fixed me with a dreamy but penetrating gaze.

This is what the cat was contemplating; no wonder it was so calm! And no, I didn't alter the colour of the sea in Photoshop, it really is turquoise. Or "azure", if you happen to be Shelley or Keats. The darker blue areas are banks of seaweed.

Dali trees.

Mukunja trying to get a portrait of herself with the sea behind her.

Usually it is best not to suddenly loom over people when you are all trying to keep your balance on the side of a steep hill in a strong wind, but you get the best smiles when they don't expect the photo, right? It will not surprise any of my Italian friends to know that I did actually lose my balance on the way down this hill and slid over in such a way that I haven't been able to sit down comfortably since! When I was living in Milan I was so completely accident-prone that after a month or so they reckoned I was well enough known at the hospitals to leave my identity papers at home... I injured my knee, had a very amusing allergic reaction to strawberries in which my face swelled up (I'm not even allergic to strawberries so I don't quite know what happened), broke my foot stepping over a roll of linoleum, and also managed to be so ill flying from the UK to Milan that I had to be carried off the plane and into the airport hospital. I also had a few accidents navigating their public transport system on my crutches, but the one that springs most easily to mind is a tram door closing on my plaster cast and the other passengers having to pull me free. Embarrassing! But you get used to that kind of thing when you're me.

Here in France I have been lucky so far; only the minor cuts, burns, bruises and scaldings that you get for the first couple of months at any restaurant. I now have some golden rules: "*Do not attempt to do anything complicated with one hand whilst holding a sharp knife in the other (sounds almost Biblical, doesn't it?) *Do not use knives whilst hands are buttery *Do not put sharp knives in washing up water with other cutlery" etc etc. The only good thing about cutting yourself before a three hour washing-up shift is that hot water seems to stop the bleeding more quickly.

More cactussy things. They looked edible so I ate a bit and it tasted nice. Salads here are so much more exciting! Especially when bloodstained...

Here you can see Marseille in all it's glory! I know it looks a bit rough but it's a fascinating city; the second largest in France and a Greek colony originally, I think. Money is being pumped into it now and lots of it's dodgier areas are being stylishly revamped. I like it, and I'll be back at some point to investigate further; especially the business bit of the waterfront, which has really huge ships and forbidding-looking dockyards full of things in crates to be carried onboard. Very exciting.

And, of course, the best thing after a day of hiking is an icecream, on this occasion courtesy of "Le Glacier de Roi" in Marseille. I am not very adventurous with icecream flavours so I had a scoop of caramel and chocolate, but we have a whole list of places with advanced flavours to visit as soon as it gets warm again.

The Versatile Blogger

2011-11-07T01:08:00.000+01:00

I have been nominated for the "Versatile Blogger's Award" by Annie at Moving On; her blog documents her and her family's new life after moving from England to Spain and it's really charming. I'm not sure I actually deserve this award, but if versatile means you never know what I'll write about next then maybe I'll do.

The rules are that I display the award's logo, which I have done, list five quirky facts about myself and then pass the baton on to five other bloggers. It's as difficult to pick outstanding quirks as it would be for a house to pick outstanding bricks, but here are five things that not a lot of people know:

*I have a cartoon alter ego, a very small Italian kitten called Mia, who you will be hearing more from later, I'm sure. She likes milk, tortellini, icecream, her cushion, balconies, taking a little bite out of everything, sleeping in shoes, riding on the back of a moped and she doesn't like cat-food, baths, rain or any kind of exercise. She will, one day soon, be the subject of a bestselling children's book called "Mia and the Icecream Robbery," which I have been trying to write for a while now...!

*I'm not sure this is a quirk, but I do not own a TV and never have done. This is not due to any natural austerity on my part, far from it, but to my complete lack of discipline with regard to keeping viewing minimal. There are some things you just know are not going to help you do all the stuff you want to do, and for me TV is top of the list.

*My friends have often teased me because I can't stand the ticking of clocks. I think this is fairly normal, but they say it is not. I like to be able to experience time in my own way, stretching it or compressing it as I want, but when I hear the tick tick tick I am forced to experience it at that certain pace and I feel imprisoned in the physicality of the sound.

*I don't like small, steep staircases. I think this is because we had a small and creaky staircase, enclosed at both ends by doors, in a very old house we lived in when I was about ten, which had no electricity for a while and so we had to use candles. I didn't like going up or down it! On the other hand I love sitting at the top of an open staircase and looking down at what is going on below, like you see cats doing when they're not busy.

*My PR advisor is telling me not to disclose this, but I have a black panther soft toy called Panther. He travels with me everywhere. Most of my friends love him, a few are horribly embarrassed by his presence, but he takes it all with equanimity. My mother, who is a reasonable person on all subjects other than Panther, and always looks at him with something like loathing, grudgingly demonstrated goodwill towards him the other day by buying him a small toy monkey; to eat or to make friends with, I'm not sure. One of my Czech friends, Sunanda, has given him the name, "Black Cloud" as she thought it was time for a proper name, but he is still called Panther; he is keeping her name for special occasions, like T.S. Eliot's cats do. And I am sure he also has his own, completely secret name known only to him and his maker.

Okay; five quirks that otherwise you might never have known, except for Mia, who will be making herself felt soon anyway.

And as for nominations... I have to admit that I am quite new in the blogging world and don't know that many people who blog, so I am letting myself off lightly and only nominating three people that I know in the real world, not just online. All three are versatile bloggers and if anyone deserves this kind of award, they do. However, they are all extremely busy being creative geniuses, so I am nominating them unconditionally, knowing that they might not have time to do a whole blog about their quirks and so on : )

The Hermitage, fantastically popular blog of Rima Staines; dedicated artist supreme of irresistible, dreamlike paintings, and the nicest and most interesting person you could possibly wish to meet. I am glad beyond words that I met her! She is always receiving accolades and awards, but I'm sure another one won't go amiss. Rima also does commission work, creating beautiful, unique clocks, and you can find them at Once Upon O'Clock.

Coyopa, or Tom Hirons, as he is still known in a few circles, is my brother and a revered source of inspiration. He is versatility incarnate. Wonderful writer, complete comedian, innovative artist, bewitching storyteller, ardent clarinet player, compassionate friend, spiritual being and dangerous trickster! The photo shows him in one of the masks he makes for his online shop, Smickelgrim's Masqueradium, so we can add that to his skills, too.

Sumangali is the website of Sumangali Morhall; fellow student of Sri Chinmoy, super-talented creator of Pure Web Designs, possessor of an angelic singing voice, costume designer, champion blogger on subjects both secular and sacred, whose website is dedicated to highlighting auspicious events and examples of serendipity, and my very good friend. Here you can see Sumangali in Iceland, enjoying the sounds in a music shop that she designed the website for, Sangitamaya.

So, there you have it. Thanks again Annie; hope you enjoyed that!

The Ramayana, in a nutshell

2011-11-03T19:43:00.000+01:00

The Ramayana is a very long story, so for those of you who have never heard it, this is a potted version, you might even say an egg-cupped version. The illustrations are close-ups from the tiny wedge shaped originals (4cm-7cmx10cm) I painted many years ago for the Ramayana clock described in my previous blog. I have missed out the stuff about Rama growing up and jumped to the place at which most western fairytales begin; when all the trouble starts.

The ruler of Ayodhya, King Dasaratha, decides to name one of his sons, Rama, crown prince. Rama is virtuous, skilled in battle, devastatingly good looking and everyone loves him. He’s also the son of Dasaratha’s first wife, Kaushalya, so he’s got everything going for him. But fate intervenes in the form of evil handmaiden Manthara. She reminds her mistress Kaikeyi, who is one of the King’s younger wives, how difficult Kaushalya is going to be with Rama on the throne, and urges Kaikeyi to act before it’s too late. Kaikeyi once nursed Dasaratha through what should have been a fatal wound on the battlefield, so she has his eternal gratitude. She also has a promise from him that when the time comes, she can have one boon, without reservation, no matter what it is.

Kaikeyi now fakes a fit of depression and says she wants her boon. Dasaratha, blinded by his concern for her, promises she can have anything she likes. No sooner has Dasaratha spoken than Kaikeyi asks him to banish Rama to the forest for fourteen years and appoint her own son, Bharata, crown prince.

You can imagine how Dasaratha wishes he had thought more carefully before making such a promise but there’s nothing he can do about it and so he summons Rama.

Dasaratha explains the problem, bitterly regretting his boon, but Rama only says that of course the king must honour his promise and he’ll start packing at once. He also thanks his stepmother Kaikeyi for allowing him to prove a king can still be true to his word and says he hopes she will enjoy being the Queen Mother. Dasaratha blesses Rama one last time and then falls into a coma from which nothing will waken him. When Bharata hears the news he is furious; not only because Rama is his favourite brother but because the whole affair has cast a terrible slur on his name. He kills Manthara and vows never to speak to his mother again.

Meanwhile, Rama’s wife, Sita, and another of Rama’s brothers, Lakshmana, insist on joining in the banishment, and nothing Rama says can put them off. Laksmana bids his wife, Urmila, farewell and promises to be back in fourteen years. They leave Ayodhya for the forest and the entire city lines the streets to see them go. The country plunges into mourning. While the palace is going through the motions of Bharata’s coronation Dasaratha quietly dies of a broken heart.

Bharata places Rama’s sandals on the throne and takes an oath that even though he is now king he will rule only as Rama’s deputy until his safe return.

The brothers build a little hut for themselves and life in the Panchavati forest begins. The years pass quickly; good company, simple food and lots of fresh air being the best medicine for all kinds of problems. Life in a palace drags on, with its endless rituals and duties, but the forest is full of variety. The simple life of subsistence teaches them patience, endurance and peace.

Unfortunately, dark things also enjoy the outdoor life. Prowling the forest one day, a demon called Ravana chances upon the clearing with its little hermitage. He catches sight of Sita at her everyday tasks and instantly falls in love with her. Now, Ravana is no ordinary demon, but a powerful king-demon, and his chief vice is pride. The more his subjects warn him not to interfere with Rama and Lakshmana, and to forget Sita, the more he cannot think of anything else. All his palaces, gardens and endless wealth seem as nothing compared to the beauty of the thing he cannot have. Ravana is extremely good looking for a demon, and he convinces himself that once Sita is parted from Rama she will consent to be his own wife. He has watched Rama practising martial arts so he knows that brute force is not going to work; he will have to do something really underhand to separate the two of them.

Showing his extreme cunning and understanding of princessy psychology, Ravana disguises one of his henchmen as a beautiful golden deer and orders it to prance about enticingly in front of their hut before taking off into the forest.

Sita immediately wants the deer as a pet and sends Rama out after it. The deer manages to evade capture and mimics Rama’s voice, calling out in pain. Laksmana warns Sita that it is a trick, but Sita insists that he goes to his brother’s aid.

Laksmana draws a magical protective circle around Sita and instructs her not to step outside it under any circumstance. Whilst the two brothers are looking for each other in the forest, Ravana approaches Sita in the form of a holy man. He tells her he has not eaten for days, and because Sita is well brought up she steps out of the circle to make him some food.

No sooner does she step outside the circle than Ravana assumes his everyday form, snatches her up into the air and speeds away towards his far-off lair. When Rama returns and discovers she is gone the two brothers have the first argument of their lives and then set out to find her.

Rama and Lakshmana soon chance upon a great and kingly bird called Jayatu, who is dying from one of Ravana’s arrows. He attempted to rescue Sita but the demon was too stong for him and he warns the brothers not to underestimate the job in hand. Rama vows to avenge Jayatu and the bird dies satisfied.

As Sita was being carried through the air she managed to let fall a scarf in the hope that someone would find it. Two talking monkeys come across the scarf and bring it to Rama. They and all their relatives swear their allegiance to the brothers, so Rama now has an army. They introduce Rama to Hanuman, who is a real hero in the monkey world, and will also, in the fullness of time, become his greatest devotee.

Hanuman takes Rama’s ring for Sita and follows her trail. When he reaches the sea he never pauses but throws himself into the air and leaps across the waves to Sri Lanka, the land that plays host to Ravana’s palace and vast armies.

Magically disguising himself, Hanuman sets off in search of Sita but begins to fear the worst. The streets are full of gossip about the endless temptations Ravana has conjured up for Sita in the hope she will become his latest wife. The denizens of Lanka are all laying bets on when she will succumb. On the one hand she’s already married; on the other, Ravana is handsome, rich, sophisticated and he’s never going to release her anyway. Only the demonic bookies are certain of a win...

He finds Sita in one of the palace gardens. She is thrilled to see the ring and desperate to get off the island as Ravana is fast coming to the end of his patience. The dastardly demon has given her an ultimatum and soon she will face an unenviable choice; marriage to him, or being served up as his evening meal.

Hanuman shows her the ring and promises she will be rescued, once they’ve solved the problem of getting an army over the sea without a boat. At this point he comes up with the obvious solution, that he can carry her back over the sea and out of harm's way, but Sita insists that it is Rama who should come to rescue her. Opinion is divided on the subject of her motive; after all, why hang around? Some think it was her adoration of Rama and her wish for him to glorify himself in battle, some say she wanted Ravana to suffer for her abduction. Whatever the reason, she refuses Hanuman's offer and he leaves empty-handed, although not before torching a large portion of the capital city.

When Hanuman gets back to the camp his story causes an uproar. The army marches straight toward Lanka until they reach the sea. Rama paces up and down the shore thinking of Sita waiting for him in the garden. He is completely at a loss, for although he has studied the magical arts of war he never thought he would have to walk on water.

Seeing his predicament, the local monkeys, bears and squirrels get on the case and in no time at all they have built a bridge over to Lanka. It is said that Rama blessed the squirrels especially because they were so tiny and that the blessing left its mark in the black stripes Indian squirrels have on their heads to this day.

Rama’s army marches over to Lanka and an epic battle begins (which I didn’t have space to depict.) During the course of the battle, in which demons are falling like ninepins, Laksmana takes a mortal wound and Rama sends Hanuman off to find a cure.

After many days of patiently searching the Himalayas, Hanuman discovers a herb that will do the trick but is not sure of the correct dose so brings the whole mountain back. Laksmana is cured and continues to cause havoc amongst Ravana’s army.

The battle rages for many days and nights. After killing Ravana's sons, commanders and his special guard of honour, Rama finally comes up against Ravana himself. The demon performs many marvellous feats but his time is up. Rama fits an unbeatable arrow to his bow and looses it straight into Ravana’s heart.

Ravana takes a long time to die (we all know the type) but it is said that Rama’s arrow is fulfilling a certain Rakshasic prophecy and so the demon is not too gutted; at least he is being sent to the other world by a great hero.

When they reach the palace and rescue Sita there is much rejoicing, until Rama makes an announcement. He feels that the people of his kingdom will never believe she stayed true to him whilst living in the handsome Ravana’s palace, and being a king he must consider the will of his people. Therefore, he does not wish to keep her as his wife; he has rescued her out of a sense of duty, and not for any personal reason. When Sita hears this quite extraordinary accusation she calls out to the gods to witness her purity and causes a fierce fire to be built. Casting herself onto the fire, she declares her faithfulness will protect her (don’t try this at home.) It does, and Rama publically apologises. He says he knew he would have to goad her into establishing her innocence once and for all and now nobody in Ayodhya will doubt her fidelity. The happy couple are reunited.

Everyone returns to Ayodhya as by now the time span of the banishment has elapsed. Bharata gives Rama’s sandals back and Sita rewards Hanuman with a beautiful necklace.

Many happy years pass and then, somehow, the question of Sita’s supposed infidelity raises its head again. Bowing to public opinion, or to the threat of public opinion, Rama banishes the pregnant Sita from his kingdom.

She takes shelter in the hermitage of Valmiki, and in secret bears Rama two sons, Kusa and Lava. Many years later, Rama happens to be passing through the forest and hears two boys singing a song describing his life's story. When they get to the bit about her banishment, Rama starts to cry and to ask himself how he could have sent her away.

Sita appears before him, asks that very same question and when he has no answer, instead of repeating herself with another fire, causes the ground to open up and swallow her. At this point it is revealed that she is an incarnation of the goddess Lakshmi and her disappearance into the earth is symbolic of her re-assimilation into the higher worlds she originally came from. Rama, completely distraught, wanders his kingdom for a few years before leaving the crown to his sons and following Sita to the other world.

Look, I didn't promise you a happy ending, did I? Please note that I have made no comments about Rama's treatment of Sita; you can draw your own conclusions about how to balance kingship with marriage. Anyone sympathising with Sita might enjoy Nina Paley's amazing animation, "Sita Sings the Blues." It is funny and sad and has some unforgettable scenes of dancing monkeys.

Some of the full images of these pictures are already on sale at ETSY, the rest will join them in a few days.

That's all!

The Ramayana Clock

2011-10-27T02:44:00.002+02:00

Valmiki the Sage ©HareKrsna.com 2010

Valmiki the Sage is the author of the epic Indian adventure, "The Ramayana." His name literally means, "Born out of an anthill" and begs an obvious question! The answer is that his original name was Ratnakar, and he was a successful and murderous highwayman before he made the mistake of trying to rob the celestial sage, Narada. When Narada curiously asks him why he is stealing and killing people, Ratnakar replies that he needs money to take care of his family. Narada then challenges him to ask them if they will, in return for his care, share in the bad kharma he is building up for himself; he offers Ratnakar untold wealth if he can return with the news that his family is prepared to share the penalty for his actions. Ratnakar is confident they will, but it never pays to bet against a sage...

Following is an excerpt from Sri Chinmoy's play, "Why should I be responsible?" from his book of plays, "My Rama is My All."

"WHY SHOULD I BE RESPONSIBLE?" SCENE 3.

(In the forest again. Ratnakar has returned to Narada.)

NARADA: So, you have come here to take your money? Take as much as you want. Why are you so sad? Tell me, what is the news? What is your news?

RATNAKAR: My news is that I have given up my family. I will not be responsible for them since they do not feel responsible for me. They are a bunch of ungrateful creatures: my son, my wife, my parents. I do not want them. I do not need them. Right here, tell me what I should do. I will listen to you.

NARADA: My only advice to you is this: repeat only one name - Rama, Rama, Rama. He will forgive you. He will give you salvation. And it is you who will immortalise him on earth. Long, long before he is born, before he comes into this earthly existence, you will write his biography. You will tell about his immortal life, his life of dedication, his life of glory, his life of fulfilment. All this you will write down in his biography. From now on repeat his name: Rama, Rama, Rama. Just repeat it and let me hear.

RATNAKAR: Mara, Mara, Mara.

NARADA: Can't you say his name?

RATNAKAR: I can't.

(To read the whole play, click here.)

Ratnakar has done so many bad things that he is unable to even say Rama's name, but Narada encourages him to just say what he can, "Mara, Mara, Mara," knowing that if you say "Ma-ra" (which means "death") it will eventually turn into "Ra-ma." A lesson for us all! The story goes that Ratnakar sits down and says the name for so many years that anthills grow up all around him, and when he comes out of his trance he takes his new name, Valmiki, and sets about writing the Ramayana.

Here you can see the story of the Ramayana carved into stone at the caves of Ellora, in India. The current academic consensus is that the oldest documented version of the Ramayana was written in either 5th or 4th century BC, but most spiritual masters refer to the story as though it happened a very long time before that. "Ramayana" means "Rama's Journey." It chronicles the exciting life of Prince Rama, his wife Sita and brother Lakshmana, and is one of the most famous of all Indian stories, along with the Mahabharata. I'm surprised Disney has never animated it, comprising as it does treacherous relatives, an unjust banishment, a wicked demon kidnapping the Princess Sita, an arduous journey and an all-out battle involving magic, widespread personal sacrifice and at least one resurrection. Plus endless talking monkeys, bears and squirrels.

The Hindu festival of Divali, a real festival of lights, which started yesterday and lasts for five days, celebrates Rama and Sita returning to their rightful kingdom; exhausted, I'm sure. We would call it a fairy-tale, but in India it is spoken of as history, and in such a country, who knows? It was supposed to take place not in the golden age but in the time that followed it, when society had fallen considerably; though not as considerably as today. At that time, magical powers were commonplace and weird beasts lurked round every corner; even the air was different. To the Hindus, the Rama of the Ramayana is not just a prince, but a spiritual master, the first of the Indian Avatars; a word that means "descent"; in this case the descent of a very special soul from the highest inner worlds, with a particular mission to fulfil on earth. His life demonstrates the concept of morality and duty above all other considerations, and millions of Hindus pray to him for protection and illumination. His faithful companion, Hanuman, the monkey hero, embodies the ideal devotee who is completely devoted and dedicated to his master's wishes. Or they are a great warrior and a friendly talking monkey, depending on your point of view! The main thing is that it's a completely great story, on every level.

The Ramayana Clock, designed by Brookbrae, illustrated by Hita Hirons.

The Ramayana Clock was born about ten years ago when my friends, Tirthika and Suruchi, who own a company called Brookbrae, phoned me up and said they had something interesting for me to illustrate. They design, produce, and fit fountains, sculptures, sun dials, giant clocks; lots of different things. Sometimes their clients are big businesses and sometimes it is a private commission, but everything they do is interesting and unusual. On this occasion, an Indian gentleman in Leicester had asked them to create an heirloom for his family. He wanted it to reflect the land of his birth and to instruct, but also delight, his children. He remembered the clock-tower in his home village in India where everyone would gather to tell stories, and that gave him the idea for this storytelling clock. On brass inlaid on a smooth wooden surface was to be etched the immortal message of the Gayatri mantra, and a little window was left through which another face, turned by the same mechanism as the hour hand, could be seen telling the story of the Ramayana in miniature. The little window was just 10cmx4cmx7cm; each wedge-shaped picture had to measure the same and be painted onto the metal disc that rotated behind the clockface.

Here you can see the metal plate before they fixed it into the clock.

Sita in Ravana's Garden, Building the Bridge, Over the Bridge to Lanka

These are some of my favourite images from the clock. When I accepted the commission I had no idea what style I would work in. At that time planning was not part of my process, so I just slapped some metalwork undercoat around the edge of the wheel, divided it into seventeen windows (the maximum I felt I could squeeze out of the space allotted me, as well as being a prime number) and started on the first picture with oil paint, as I thought it would be more durable than acrylic.

The Golden Deer, The Abduction, The Handkerchief

I didn't draw any roughs or outlines in pencil, I just painted straight onto the metal; my illustration tutors would have despaired! I didn't want the pictures to be completely separate, but to run into each other, so that at all times something interesting could be seen, and I decided to start and finish the story using the device of a pillar. It was hard to squash everything into such a tiny space but somehow it came together. The colours came out of nowhere; I had never done anything remotely like it before. Working so small I wanted everything to jump out with a lot of energy and maybe that is where the vivid colours came from.

The Handkerchief, Hanuman Leaps to Lanka, Sita in Ravana's Garden

My favourite picture is Hanuman jumping across the sea to Sri Lanka, but the pictures work well as a set and I am happy to have them in an A4 format (well, 8"x12") for the first time, on sale at Etsy. I have some more plans for them; for instance I will be printing them as greetings cards soon, and I would also like to make a Ramayana colouring book so that younger readers can make their own decisions on important matters, like exactly what colour Sita's dress is etc.

So, anyway, that's the story; a very Happy Divali to all lovers of Indian things, everywhere!

Further evidence of Autumn

2011-10-23T09:27:00.000+02:00

We drove to the Canal du Midi to do some serious biking together, but I knew I would never keep up. Padmasini's manic enthusiasm and Celena's otherworldly energy make them perfect biking partners and it is my special role to trail behind as their happy but hopeless side-kick. I watched them speed into the distance in a cloud of dust and then got down to business taking photos of all things autumny. I knew I was being rewarded for my lethargy when I saw these huge fungi, each bigger than a serving dish.

I was trying not to keep stopping; when you are posing as a proper biker you cannot have a family with small children on their first bikes repeatedly overtaking you, as was happening to me, but in the end I decided that getting these photos was worth the humiliation. The habit of jumping on and off my bike can probably be blamed on Royal Mail, Cambridge; I did one year sorting letters on night shift and another doing deliveries in the morning. Posties have to jump on and off their bikes hundreds of times each day, and what is a real effort at first soon becomes second nature, as does wearing shorts in the snow and cornering passers-by to lecture them on any topic that occurs to you. You can get really fit as a postie, and in fact many of them are ex-army, ex-navy guys or serious runners who want to be paid for getting several hours exercise a day. The level of machismo there can be a bit wearing and you have to filter out 90% of their conversation if you are female, but they are a cheerful lot, by and large, especially the older guys on night shift who have lots of stories and can be very entertaining. Sadly, I don't remember many of their stories as night-work doesn't suit me and I was barely awake for most of it. The only thing I vaguely recollect concerns a nice quiet guy nearing retirement age who decides that what other posties only dream about, he will accomplish; once a week he goes home ridiculously early for no apparent reason. After a time, complaints about lost letters on his walk filter through to head office, reach a critical mass and Royal Mail is forced to investigate. Somehow they are inspired to dig up his garden and they find all his undelivered letters buried there. The guy pleads depression, completely gets away with it and the story passes into legend. I wondered whether Management realised how easily the idea could occur to anyone and invented the story themselves as a preventative measure, "It's already been done, don't bother."

This is the Canal du Midi, constructed in the 17th Century, which along with the Canal de Garonne links the Atlantic to the Mediterranean, and is called the Canal des Deux Mers, or the Canal of Two Seas. The previous trading route had to go all the way around Spain, so although it took nearly fifteen years to build it spared each voyager the perils of shipwreck, Spanish pirates, and seasickness. The hydraulics involved in such a long canal were way beyond the engineers of the time, who had honed their craft on fortresses, and there is an unusual story associated with the construction. Some peasant women from the Roman Baths in the Pyrenees had been hired to shift dirt from one of the canals, but their supervisors soon realised that because of the long hydraulic tradition in the Pyrenees, the women's knowledge of water-work far surpassed their own. These women then designed the canal through the mountains near Bezier, using very few locks, and built the eight-lock staircase at Fonserannes. I was really surprised to hear that their supervisors gave them the credit for this; they could easily have claimed it for themselves, as was often the case at that time.

I will never get tired of seeing so many horses everywhere. I particularly love the skewbald ones that the Americans call "pinto"; that is, a horse of any colour other than black, with white patches on it, in some cases nearly all white. My father liked to play the guitar, and I can remember him singing me this American song about a famous skewbald horse:

"Stewball was a good horse

He wore a high head

And the mane on his foretop

Was as fine as silk thread.

I rode him in England

I rode him in Spain

He never did lose, boys,

He always did gain."

I haven't heard it for thirty years or so! I suspect he got it from this Joan Baez songbook as I remember it kicking about for a bit.

Other favourites were, "Where have all the flowers gone?" and "Last night I had the strangest dream." And of course, "How many roads must a man walk down?" My parents were both complete hippies at heart, though the healthy kind rather than the other. More about them at some other point... Now is not the time to go into the upbringing that created Tom Hirons and I. A blog-entry would not suffice. An autobiographical novel would not suffice. Possibly a mini-series would suffice, if you could find a demographic that enjoyed equally Days of Our Lives and The Good Life. Let me just say that because of the wholesome nature of our household, one of my most dearly cherished dreams as a child was to persuade my mother to buy a soda-stream. For those of you who didn't grow up in Seventies England, a soda-stream is a machine with which you can make poisonous, phosphorescent fizzy drinks. You would no more have found one in our house than you would find, say, a slice of white bread, a TV or anything with sugar in it. It was actually my own fault; my mother was trying to find things that I wasn't allergic to and sugar really didn't seem to help. Strangely enough, now, after years of eating badly due to my complete lack of interest in food preparation, I am eating so well at the restaurant I work in, Tripti Kulai, that the craving for sugar has reduced and my diet is very close to what it was when I was little. The girls here are good at passing on their enthusiasm and I have been initiated, once and for all, into the noble art of cooking. They even praise my pastry! I am not worthy... Although we do deal with creme fraiche and sugar, we make sure to offer a lot of things that are without gluten, dairy or sugar, and these taste delicious too.

This vegetable patch by the cycle path reminded me of one of the gardens we had when I was little; the sea of cauliflowers and apple tree, especially. Although this looks much neater.

I realised the seasons really had changed the other night when I was woken by the sound of the wind breaking the glass in a neighbour's window. It was the Mistral, howling like an an untalented teenage band or a ferocious beast, but apparently it was only a little taster session of what we're in for later on. The custodian of my apartment treated me to a lengthy description of the upcoming weather, in French that I could barely understand but supplemented with lots of gestures. "Three hundred days of sunshine," he warned me, "but nobody tells you about the other sixty." It is going to be merely horrible, apparently, for December, but come January we will really see the Mistral kick in, with weeks of unrelenting, brain numbing and freezing wind. The only silver lining is that the Mistral blows away clouds and the sky is very clear at that time. In Provence, just next to us, the Mistral allows you to see mountains 150 kilometres away that are not normally visible at that distance. To offset this good news, there also exists a 'Mistral Noir' that brings clouds and rain... My friends tell me he is exaggerating and that Provence gets the worst of it, so now I don't know who to believe.

Here you can see a junior Mistral ruffling the plumage of a bush. I noticed that when the wind occasionally stopped, the trees and plants stayed in nearly the same position, as though they were still compelled by it's force, so they must grow up wincing in anticipation of it's arrival each year. One of my favourite books, "A Year in Provence", has this to say about the Mistral:

"We drove home, warm and well-fed, making bets on how soon we could take the first swim of the year, and feeling a smug sympathy for those poor souls in harsher climates who had to suffer real winters.

"Meanwhile, a thousand miles to the north, the wind that had started in Siberia was picking up speed for the final part of its journey. We had heard stories about the Mistral. It drove people, and animals, mad. It was an extenuating circumstance in crimes of violence. It blew for fifteen days on end, uprooting trees, overturning cars, smashing windows, tossing old ladies into the gutter, splintering telegraph poles, moaning through houses like a cold and baleful ghost, causing la grippe, domestic squabbles, absenteeism from work, toothache, migraine - every problem in Provence that couldn't be blamed on the politicians was the fault of the sacre vent which the Provencaux spoke about with a kind of masochistic pride.

"Typical Gallic exaggeration, we thought. If they had to put up with the gales that come off the English Channel and bend the rain so that it hits you in the face almost horizontally, then they might know what a real winter was like. We listened to their stories and, to humour the tellers, pretended to be impressed.

"And so we were poorly prepared when the first Mistral of the year came howling down the Rhone valley, turned left and smacked into the west side of the house with enough force to skim roof tiles into the swimming pool and rip a window that had carelessly been left open off its hinges. The temperature dropped 20 degrees in twenty-four hours. It went to zero, then six below. Readings taken in Marseilles showed a wind speed of 180 kilometres an hour. My wife was cooking in an overcoat. I was trying to type in gloves. We stopped talking about our first swim and thought wistfully about central heating."

January, A Year in Provence by Peter Mayle 1989

As I sped past this little glen it seemed to glitter with promise; the kind of place you might fall asleep and get kidnapped by fairies. They would probably be of a cheerful disposition though, and would send you on your way with nourishing food and a map to guide you; not like the 'Little Folk' (I think 'Supernatural Mafia' would be a more appropriate euphemism here) that frequent lonely Scottish moors specifically to lure unwary travellers into their own world. Imagine the trauma of breaking out of fairyland only to discover that your credit card expired a hundred years ago...

This is the road home on which I nearly caught up with Padmasini and Celana.

Extremely tempted to stop and lie down in this stuff.

Effortlessly elegant scenes like this flashed past my eyes at every moment as I breathlessly hurtled past.

Shady, wind-shaken pine trees; and as many pine cones as you could possibly want.

And the final, incontrovertible evidence of autumn; bales of hay. In Suffolk, my English home county, they make huge wheels of it, but these look a bit more manageable. Summer must have gone now... As it says in one of the Harvest Festival hymms at school:

"Roses sweet petals shed

Apples are turning red.

Summer goodbye, Summer goodbye."

In praise of chariots

2011-10-22T01:22:00.001+02:00

Queen Jadis rides a London cab with style. Illustration
by Pauline Baynes from "The Magician's Nephew" by C.S. Lewis

A chariot is a vehicle travelling fast and light, often over unknown terrain; a lone traveller who may be on a scouting mission or just revelling in the joy of speed. A chariot is full of the spirit of adventure; it's wheels turn always toward the unknown. I originally wanted a flying carpet, but my friends tell me I need to be more grounded, so a chariot it is.

You can accessorise a chariot; for instance, an Indian chariot has a large parasol to shelter a passenger from the elements; making it possible to be both indoors and outdoors at the same time. If you want, you can fly a flag above the parasol. In the Mahabharata, Arjuna’s flag hosted the spirit of Hanuman, the monkey hero; when the chariot speeded up you could hear the flag screaming in the wind to frighten his enemies. I don’t think I need to do that, but it’s a nice idea. Boadicea had viciously long knives strapped to her wheels, all the better to mow down Romans with; again, not strictly necessary. My own chariot will have many little bells on it so you will hear my approach from a distance, like a shimmering mist. Then anyone who wants to run away and hide will have ample warning!

Chariots can also be used for exercise. On campaign, Alexander the Great would ride alongside his men, jumping on and off his chariot constantly, like a hyperactive six year old. He did it to keep himself fit, but I imagine it also cheered up his weary troops to see someone working harder than them. On one occasion when they had been marching through a desert for days, water had nearly run out and morale was at an all time low. The thirsty men collected together what was left of their water ration and presented it to Alexander in a helmet, but he poured it onto the sand in front of them, saying he would not drink when his men could not. They did find water fairly soon so it all worked out okay, and he became even more of a legend. Who knows whether his behaviour displayed clever management skills or a genuine concern for his men? Maybe both. My own chariot will be able to fly through the air or speed across the surface of the ocean, so it will not support that “one of the lads” image but Alexander would still have liked it for the ostentatiously embossed metal armouring I intend to clutter the bodywork with.

Such a chariot will need the right kind of horses, possibly the kind you could steal from a Russian fairytale. For instance, in "The Firebird", a hunter called Ivan is trying to discover what is eating all the Tzar's best apples when he finds a brightly shining tail feather, ringed with flames. His horse, the kind you really need if you are to survive a story like that, warns him not to pick it up, but having no sense of self-preservation, he does. The horse then gets him out of every sticky situation he insists on getting himself into and upstages him completely, but Ivan is the one who gets all the credit.

Another useful mount would be the fire breathing chestnut coloured horse whose left ear you can climb into and right ear you can climb out of to be completely improved in looks, strength and personality. A poor boy (called Ivan again, I think) captured the heart of a princess and made his fortune by having this makeover. Such a horse could be a constant source of revenue at fairs, or in a booth at Covent Garden, perhaps.

Or, while I was in Russia, I could lie in wait for the three horses that herald the changing times of day. If you happen to be in the right place, and if you stay very still, you can see them pass; the white horse of dawn, the red horse of midday and the black horse of darkest midnight. Of course, they are already ridden by silent but rather grim looking horsemen so you would have your work cut out pilfering one.

I have considered Scheherazade’s one-of-a-kind mechanical flying horse that made off with an Arabian prince on a test run and then landed him in enemy territory facing a three month hike home, but you could never really trust such a thing. It did redeem itself later on and his journey was the cause of great good fortune in the end, but still…

In Greece, Helios and Selene used good old horses to draw the chariots of the sun and moon across the sky. Those horses sound perfect but their absence would be quickly noted and who wants the Greek gods on their tail? Helios and Selene sound fairly easygoing but they were later identified with Apollo and Artemis; enough said.

Other options present themselves. Why horses? Well, because anybody harnessing cats to their chariot would be very disappointed. I wondered briefly how many kittens you would have to use, as they are infinitely more loveable, but imagine parking a thousand kitten power chariot and feeding them and all that; it’s just not doable. To think nothing of the furballs. Griffins, winged lions as depicted in the Book of Kells, wolves or wild boar; the list is endless. A chariot pulled by a phoenix? Think of the health and safety implications. Flamingos? Too showy. And there’s no point looking to the Indian deities for guidance; they have even less discrimination than the western ones. The goddess Durga has four lions pulling her chariot, the goddess Saraswati, swans, and Lakshmi lies on the back of a gigantic cobra called Shesha. I even saw a picture of the goddess Ganga on a crocodile. I ask you!

Dogs; now, that is a distinct possibility. On the road into Cambridge from Trumpington I once saw a kind of bicycle-rickshaw thing pulled by two dogs. They were straining at the leash, their faces quivering with joy. The women riding the contraption was not even pedaling; she smiled at me as she thundered past, certain in the knowledge she had the city’s coolest ride. It made me want a dog, just so I could take it for runs tied to my bike. It’s not cruel to ask a dog to pull something; it gives it a chance to be important and elevates its status to the indispensability that all dogs long for. I suggested to my brother that he make a little cart for his dog Macha, so she can help him when he goes shopping, but he said she would run away with it and catching her could take hours. I think if he put heavy enough items in the cart or attached little brakes to the wheels like on the bottom of a large wheelie bin so she could be parked on the pavement outside, practising her resentful look, the problem would be solved, but he remains unconvinced.

And what about Huskies? Hardier than horses in a cold climate, more intelligent than reindeer; should I wish to ride my chariot across the desolate wastes of Antarctica (with sledge attachments over its wheels, of course) a husky or eight would be just the thing.

There is much to consider. Perhaps our choice of steed gives some indication of our inner nature. If so, I suspect that my chariot will be pulled by a selection of creatures in a kind of voluntary relay. It would be really exciting not to know what was going to pull you each day! I could probably handle the kittens for a short while, for example, or the wild boar, but not for too long. This way, each day could be a pleasant surprise. So I am starting my journey with whatever presents itself, fair or foul, heavy-duty or lightweight.

Forward, upward, inward! The imagination-chariot must be trusted to know how best to proceed; only then we can gallop (or slither or wing) toward our goal at full speed.

Of storks and snails

2011-10-14T19:49:00.000+02:00

It is called the Park of of Birds, but it should really be the Park of Snails. They were everywhere, congregating in clumps and attaching themselves to inhospitable looking plants. This strange, in-between place, where fresh water meets the sea, is definitely poised between two worlds; humidly marshy, as though you might disappear into quicksand if you ventured off the track, but with sudden blasts of fresh sea air. When it started to rain we heard frog voices all around, ribetting appreciatively, and because of the swampy feeling I couldn't help thinking of gumbo stews and what would go in them here! I am told that there are also eels, which are very nutritious and delicious I'm sure; I'm vegetarian so I don't really know...

As we ran along a path of wooden slats with bamboo grass on either side, gekko lizards scurried out of our way and the local mosquitoes welcomed us as only they know how. Crossing one stream I saw many groups of fish gathered together, all pointing in the same direction, not swimming at all, as if they were queuing or assembled for some purpose other than that of daily life. A mystery, like many others, that will never be answered.

You may not immediately recognise these for what they are; manmade stork nests! I know that from the scale of the photo they could easily be mushrooms, but they seemed to be about a metre by a metre on top. They look a bit deserted at the moment, though. From far back people all around the world used to build nests for storks in their roofs to encourage them to hang around, as they were supposed to bring good luck. In some cultures they were even credited with possessing human souls! Whether that is true or not I couldn't say, but they seem to enjoy an excellent reputation everywhere. I would really like to see a stork chick, which is bound to be less elegant than it's parents, but is even more sweet I'm sure. Because of the good weather here I think they can probably have their chicks at many different times of the year, so maybe I will be lucky sooner rather than later.

You are not allowed to get very close to the birds because it is a conservation area. My camera's zoom is not brilliant but you can just see some of the many storks, egrets and herons we found here, cavorting about in this little lake. I asked the girls if these storks brought babies to worthy French couples and they assured me that it still happens! Clever things.

More storks, happily perched. There are few predators to harass them here; maybe foxes? In other parts of France, the Alps for instance, there are wolves, but I don't think there are any near Montpellier.

White horses; after all, we are very near to the Petit Camargue. My brother suggested that it is called the Petit Camargue because everything is small; little white horses and little black bulls, dwarfed trees and so on, but strangely enough everything seems to be the right size. Nice idea though. I will come back again to see the storks and snails, but I might need to go further afield to find something that is one of the symbols of this region but I haven't seen yet, although I am told they are everywhere; flamingoes.

On the edge of the seasons

2011-10-02T00:42:00.000+02:00

A couple of weeks ago the sea here was unusually active, gushing frothily enthusiastic onto the beach like a pot boiling over or a few million tons of champagne. The locals blamed the upcoming equinox for this change and maybe rightly, as there was no wind at all and it returned to it's trademark glassy stillness the very next day, leaving no clue as to what had inspired the anomaly. Someone suggested that the moon was closer to the earth than normal and that was what was causing all the commotion, but actually, the moon was at it's farthest yearly point from the earth so that couldn't have been the case. Whatever the cause of it, something was up. There seemed to be a different attitude in the water itself, an extra mischievous joy. Each wave was topped by meringue-like foam that dispersed into what closely resembled a bubble-bath. I floated about in it for hours, re-living watery memories of my childhood holidays, many of which were in France. I made a big mermaid sculpture out of sand, with masses of flowing hair, like I used to, rolled backwards and forwards in the tide, like I used to, and realised that if I wanted to be on holiday permanently, I could do it here.

* * *

The very next morning, the temperature dropped like a stone and the sunny hiking trip I had committed to when I thought we were still in the middle of summer looked set to be a game of icy wind and rain. The few people I saw outside on the streets had the haunted look the French always adopt when rain appears, sort of betrayed by nature, like in Day of the Triffids when everyone's gone blind and giant carnivorous plants are stalking humanity; that level of trauma. So what? I hear you cry. Well, I was determined to find out how a mediterranean Autumn differed from an English one, preferably with lots of photos of me overcome by the heat to irritate my friends and family back home, whereas it was the exact replica of a late-October day in Cambridge and not at all the kind of evidence I was looking for.

On the way to the pine forest we had decided to hike through I was told that because it was now Autumn and the hunting season was starting we might have a problem with drunken hunters. Hunters are supposed to aim upwards into the trees, but sometimes they are not so discerning after a liquid lunch. My friends said it was probably okay because one of us had a red t-shirt on; that would lessen the chance of our movements being mistaken for those of game, at least. Funnily enough, I had admired some bulletproof vests in the Montpellier branch of Decathlon a few days before, but not realising I would soon have a genuine need for one I had overcome the temptation and bought a swimsuit instead. It just goes to show that you should always listen to your intuition...

Clustering around our red t-shirted colleague, we entered the pine forest. After walking for some time we passed through a little settlement and encountered this insanely friendly cat guarding a church there. I thought it might be part indigenous wild-cat, but it turned out to be English.

The forest floor was covered with pine cones that were so springy to walk on I fantasised about covering my sitting room floor with earth and bringing back a few hundred of them to create an interior forest look. I reasoned that I would soon be doing woodwork in there anyway, so having a lot of wood and earth around would create the right ambience, but I suppose that it is going to start raining at some point and that could get quite unpleasant. Still, I am thinking about it!

Amazing wavy pine trees worthy of a Chinese movie. Expected to see a couple of sword fighters wafting about on them, gently bending the top branches with their exertions, but didn't. Near to Montpellier there is a famous bamboo forest, so they are probably all there.

These trees were actually growing out of the rock; I really don't know how they do that.

Rosehips, the aftermath of wild roses; used to make herb tea and syrup out of, just like in England.

Nice dried flowers, no idea what they are. We left the pine forest and made our way through the surrounding countryside, stopping to gather fruit and herbs wherever possible.

Fennel! I'm sure it must grow in England somewhere but I've never seen it in the wild. One of my favourite herbs, and something we use a lot in Tripti Kulai, the restaurant I work in, where they insist on calling it 'fenouil'. I took some of this home and I've been eating it each day as it is completely delicious. Hopefully it really is fennel and not some hallucinogenic local delicacy.

Beautiful village called Saint-Privat (I think).

I've noticed that vegetation here has a faintly tough look, as though it is ready for whatever life throws at it, in contrast to the Italian landscape that always looks like butter wouldn't melt in it's mouth.

Lovely olives! I can't be the only person who thought that olive trees yielded either black or green olives, can I? My friends had a good laugh about this, in their tactful gallic way, and then explained that it is the treatment of the olive that determines it's colour. On the way home, we interrupted a householder's siesta to buy fresh olives, and some were given to me in order to educate my palate. They were fruity, delicious and superior; predictably.

My landlady in England grows very good figs. She says figs like arid conditions, which means I have been wrong all this time and Cambridge is not the rainy place I thought it was. These figs were quite little in comparison to some I have seen, but very potent, and both fruit and leaves carried the scent of aniseed.

The Priory of Grammont peeping up through the trees.

A goat we found in the grounds of the Priory that I liked very much.

Although it could be a kind of guinea pig, I'm not sure...

There were grapes in abundance along the road, and these were very sweet and strong. Apparently there is a first yield and then there is a second, smaller wave that most farmers don't bother with because there are not enough grapes to justify the labour, and these just hang around waiting for people to pick them. I think that these must have been from the first, forbidden harvest, which made them even better!

* * *

The day was not as cold as it had threatened and we were only moderately chilled when we headed back to Montpellier. I actually only heard one rifle shot the whole day, and that was as we were leaving the pine forest; I think the hunting season may be just starting now.

Perhaps I will go back to Decathlon for the bulletproof vest before our next hike.

I have not said enough of moonlight

2011-09-30T23:59:00.000+02:00

"Sixty-six times have these eyes of mine perceived

The changing scenes of autumn.

I have said enough of moonlight, ask me no more;

Only listen to the voice of pines and cedars when no wind stirs."

Ryonen, Zen nun in 1863

I have actually only seen the changing scenes of autumn forty-one times so far but I, like millions before me, see the world with Ryonen's own eyes through this, one of her last poems. I read this translation, I have no idea in what book, when I was eighteen and had just started practicing spiritual discipline. It seemed to me then that I still had a lot to say about moonlight, but I mentally reserved the right to have said enough of it at some point as well, especially if I could commemorate the transition with a poem like that.

Her words came back to me this morning as I was thinking about my brother's latest blog (Black Mountain River - poem by Tom Hirons at coyopa.blogspot.com) and considering the various different merits of expressing a moment in words, pictures or silent meditation. There is something very meditative about the flow of his poem, (I actually couldn't resist trying to put it to music) and it made me consider the many millions of moments of inspiration that occur during meditation; some progressing on to be manifested in a further act of art and some to be lovingly stored, pristine, in the great silence itself. I imagine a giant pile of blissfully inspirational moments and myself lying, Smaug-like, on top of them. I can never consider them wasted moments, as they are still part of me and constitute a large part of my current consciousness, but they are an invisible hoard, and so cannot be enjoyed by others in the same way as a poem, a piece of art or a song. We often have to choose between adding to that silent treasure and the actual expression of an idea. I once waited a long time for a friend to finish a race just so that I could take a photo, and then when I saw the look on their face as they crossed the finish line I had to see it and remember it rather than separating myself from it with the lens of a camera. I still have the image in my memory; it's probably not the same image, as we tend to elaborate and then we end up invoking the memory of a memory of a memory, but when I feel it with my heart I get the same smiling experience I did in those original seconds. I have some photographs that meant a lot to me at the time I took them but that I have grown away from over the years; this image has grown with me as I change and so it is still good for me.

"I step into the water, leaving Summer's gold and laughter, like a man baptised into a luminous darkness."

He describes the change of pace from one state to another, and suggests that the dark river of autumn is a blessed place of stillness, introspection and regeneration, rather than a slippery slope towards the end of days, as it often seems to me. I have to admit that instead of using it as a time for reflection on and celebration of the fruits of Mother Nature, I usually experience it in it's aspect of penultimateness (if there is such a word) and it's promise that ice, oblivion and death will be coming soon.

Now that I am living in a mediterranean climate, however, (yes, yes, I promise not to go on about it) I may have to revise my seasonal uneasiness. As I was splashing about in the sea the other day and watching children playing with kites on the beach, I thought I might be able to get to grips with Autumn here. The perimeter is smaller, the sense of martyrdom and suffering pretty much nil, and if you are lucky, and a little bit brave, you can still be in the sea until the end of November.

Is Autumn in the south of France the ushering in of the next Ice Age and the beginning of the end? Or simply an extension of the icecream season and a reminder to don shorts and t-shirt instead of swimwear... In the next few weeks I will be endeavouring to answer this question.

Homeland

2011-07-14T01:51:00.000+02:00

   "Before the world, there was only the sea, and the high, bright sky arched above it like an overturned bowl.
   "For as many years as anyone can imagine, the people in the stars looked down at the ocean’s glittering face without giving a thought to what it was, or what might lie beneath it. They had their own concerns. But as more time passed, as is natural, they began to grow curious. Eventually it was the waterbug who volunteered to go exploring. She flew down and landed on top of the water, which was beautiful, but not firm as it had appeared. She skated in every direction but could not find a place to stop and rest, so she dived underneath.
   "She was gone for days and the star people thought she must have drowned, but she hadn’t. When she joyfully broke the surface again she had the answer: on the bottom of the sea, there was mud. She had brought a piece of it back with her, and she held up her sodden bit of proof to the bright light.
   "There, before the crowd of sceptical star eyes, the ball of mud began to grow, and dry up, and grow some more, and out of it came all the voices and life that now dwell on this island that is the earth. The star people fastened it to the sky with four long grape vines so it wouldn’t be lost again."

from Homeland by Barbara Kingsolver

I don’t know how my artwork got into the offices of Faber and Faber; I suppose that in a fit of mysterious efficiency I must have actually sent out a few business cards. They wanted a cover for their publication of Homeland and for some reason they thought I was the right person to do it.

The commission was completely blessed. It came without any effort on my part and I had no difficulty creating the roughs and then a finished piece; I have rarely had a project run so smoothly. Maybe it was because the subject matter was inspiring and suited to my own kind of imagery, or maybe it was because I knew I had to do it all properly; roughs on time, finished piece on time, invoice in on time. All the stuff that was anathema to me had to be done promptly because it was for real people who would notice if I didn’t.

I made three roughs – one of a circle of animal spirits including the waterbug dancing in the sky, one of a rocking chair and Indian smoking pipe that the grandmother in the story might have liked to smoke, and one of the waterbug climbing back into the sky, dripping wet, with the earth clasped in her claws, as flowers fell upon her from the heavens. The publishers chose the waterbug in the sky, which was my favourite one, so I was happy.

I did the finished piece in my favourite medium at the time; chalk pastels. A tortuous process, but worth it for the unique powdery texture. When I use oil paints now I find I am in some way trying to recreate the softness I used to get with pastels; the pastel surface is vulnerable but has a lot of life. Chalks are made of tiny crystals that reflect the light and if you look carefully you can see them glittering in direct sunlight. I have never used oil pastels as I don’t much like the feel of them.

When I had finished the final piece it was only a short time before I received a proof from the publishers and then saw the book in the shops. I was so proud of it and went into many different bookshops to see my name on the back cover.

When I got paid I also got a message from the publishers saying that Barbara Kingsolver wanted to buy the original and how much was it? I had no idea how to price originals in those days so I gave them a figure out of the air and then didn’t follow it up. Useless! I was too shy to phone Faber and Faber and ask them what an appropriate price would be, so I just never got back to them. Sad, but there you go. The picture now adorns one of my mother’s walls and is much admired by all so I’m sure it’s happy where it is.

Homeland by Barbara Kingsolver at Amazon
Barbara Kingsolver at Wikipedia
Homeland New York Times review

Kurukshetra Krishna

2011-07-13T05:28:00.000+02:00

When Immortality's Flame-Waves, an all-female troupe specialising in Sri Chinmoy’s plays, decided to put on “The Singer of the Eternal Beyond", they recorded the music and some of the soundtrack and made a tape of it, asking me to supply a cover. I gladly accepted, as I had been looking for a good excuse to draw Lord Krishna.

The medium I was using at that time was longwinded, but satisfying. I would take a piece of smooth thick cartridge paper and cover it with a dense and creamy layer of black chalk pastel. I tried many different brands and tones of black, but only ever found one that gave the right kind of finish. Once the paper was completely covered with pastel marks, I would rub it into the paper with my fingers until everything was smooth and not a speck of white remained. I would stare at the page and try to imagine where the character was. Eventually I would use a putty rubber to reveal the white paper under the pastel; just a few strokes first of all to indicate light hitting the object, then use that like a kind of anchor; taking away more and more pastel to reveal an image described entirely in tone, like the picture below. This started out as a portrait of a friend of the family, Gaetan, but I couldn't resist Gormenghasting it a bit to complement the character and atmosphere.

I would then fix this black and white layer with what should have been fixative, but always ended up being cheap hairspray, before adding a layer of colour. Of course, that was before we knew how harmful those kind of sprays were; I don't use that technique anymore. People have pointed out that you can buy a hand pumped spray, but they are never as fine as spray cans and always leave lots of tiny marks all over the surface. If I did not fix the black and white image to make the pastel stick to the page, it would not support the next layer of coloured chalk. Coloured chalk pastels are very delicate, so when the colour layer is finished it cannot be protected by a fixative because if it got wet in any way, it would then disappear into the black pastel layer. This was my favourite technique for a few years; combining a maximum of hassle with a minimum of durability! That is a theme it has taken me a long time to grow out of. I used to delight in the temporary nature of my creations; now I go for something that lasts a bit longer. I prefer to use oil paints, and then charcoal if I am doing something black and white. By the way, I am sure that Lord Krishna is not actually blue, but it is traditional for him to be this colour as it represents something higher and deeper. The yellow dhoti is also traditional, and you will hardly ever see a picture of Krishna without a flower garland or a peacock feather. The shell in his hand is a conch; conches were blown like trumpets, at the start of a battle, probably in much the same manner as Celtic battle harps; part invocation of a higher force, part intimidation.

Anyway, the play is set around the time that the Mahabharata, that epic Indian story, focuses on the lives of five princes trying to regain their kingdom, and on the battle that results, "Kurukshetra." It raged for eighteen days; at first obeying proscribed rules of combat, the fighting even stopping at sundown, but then, because of the enormous issues at stake and the personal weaknesses of some of the generals, descending into a complete and utter free for all. The Mahabharata also concerns Lord Krishna, who is a king and general but has taken an oath not to fight in the war. He agrees to act as charioteer for one of the princes, Arjuna, because he is his best friend. I was given a completely free rein with the design of the cover and so I chose a favourite scene of mine; the moment before Krishna blows his conch to start the battle.

This long moment of contemplation has been immortalised in India's most beloved holy book, the Bhagavad Gita, which means "Song of the Lord." Arjuna has drawn up his chariot to face the opposing army and he is wondering aloud how it has all come to this. Krishna's answer constitutes the text of the Gita; seven hundred verses in length. The title of our play, "The Singer of the Eternal Beyond", refers to Krishna himself who, although he has agreed to be Arjuna's charioteer, is during the course of the Gita revealed to be a great spiritual master; participating in the drama but at the same time detached from it all. This play largely concentrates on Lord Krishna's friendship with Arjuna but many other eccentric admirers of Krishna, present and future, also appear. There is a mad ascetic who plans to kill all Krishna's friends out of love for him; a tearful Brahmin who sees him on every page of his copy of the Gita; a sage who wants to punish him for his part in the fighting, only to be granted a vision of his universal form; the dastardly Duryodhana, who wants his help to kill Arjuna in the upcoming war, and so on.

From left to right you can see Nurari Merry as Arjuna, Suruchi Gero as the mad ascetic and Shankara Smith as Krishna. I designed and made the costumes for this production. I also wanted to make armour and weapons but after a bit we agreed it would be hard for them to wear it day in, day out. I was having visions of lovely complicated metal-work but we were not going to have time to do anything too special. These things take so long. Nowadays, we have seen so many movies with beautiful, authentic looking armour that it's difficult to remember how carelessly it often used to be depicted, not just for theatre but also for film. Of course, then along came The Lord of the Rings to gladden the heart of costume designers everywhere. I smiled so much watching a making-of documentary; legions of workers distressing metal and cloth for weeks on end... In an alternative universe I am definitely one of them. I salute their perfection and flair!

Our comic strip poster - we had lots of performances just for children!

Anyway, the play opened in London and then toured Europe, Canada and parts of the US. I was in it for one week in London when a member of the cast could not be there, and I played two separate roles. I had to sing a solo as the brahmin, which was quite stressful as I had to cry and sing simultaneously. I hate crying in public, which I think is pretty normal, but somehow I always ended up having characters that cried. I was Mary Magdalene in one play, a wicked maid servant who got killed in another, and this brahmin; I always seemed to be in tears. When I complained to the director, Dipika Smith, one time, she just smiled and said I was lucky to have meaty parts like that. Apart from the crying, I liked everything about being in the Krishna play, even for just a week; it was really, really fun! You enter into a completely different world and there's all the joy of make-up and costumes. I used to appear in these plays a lot when the cast was larger, but now it is more streamlined and only has nine members who all have to play many parts. Their last play was about the Buddha; I'm not sure what they're going to do next.

Krishna in The Mahabharat Indian TV series

Anyone curious about the Mahabharata and Gita might appreciate the links below. Rest assured I have not said my last word on the subject. Lord Krishna is dear to me and even twenty years ago I started making notes and thumbnail sketches for a graphic novel set in the immediate lead up to the battle. I used to day-dream of thousands of chariots raising dust in the middle distance of an Indian desert, and watch the characters moving in my mind as though already on film. I've seen camera angles in the battle scenes of the Chinese movies we like so much that are very similar to those I visualised long ago. Maybe a good Chinese director could bring new intensity and poise to the Mahabharata. The Indian TV version was great, and you will probably never find a better Krishna, but imagine the possibilities! Sometimes it takes a fresh take on a culture to do the most justice to a story. Look at the film Elizabeth, directed by Shekhar Kapur; did any English director do such a job for the Virgin Queen?

I also love Peter Brook's Mahabharata, with it's international cast. I only ever watched the film but one of my friends saw the original stage version in an open air theatre in Australia a long time ago. He said it started in the afternoon, galloped through the night and when the sun finally rose the stage was littered with the bodies of fallen heroes and the battle was still in full flow. You may be wondering at this point if I am a person who childishly glorifies war, but I promise you I'm not. I may appreciate a beautiful samurai sword but I would only ever use it to show off. I don't think I am any more voyeuristic than the next movie-goer. I am not excited by destruction, unless it is the thrashing around with a wrecking-iron on a demolition site sort, and then I do, for whatever reason, really get into that! War is commonplace and there is nothing in it to romanticise. The Mahabharata is actually more about the people who find themselves in the middle of a war and wonder how they got there; it's about the forces within human nature that affect us all. When Dhritarashtra and Ghandari give the throne to their own son, knowing he is unsuitable to hold office; when the five princes, the Pandavas, insult a charioteer's son whose only dream is to be a Kshatriya warrior; when Kunti abandons her newly born baby because she is unmarried; we can see ourselves and the slow, relentless backlash of all our unwise choices. I find the Mahabharata multifaceted, morally ambiguous and emotionally complicated. Though the trappings are more exotic, I recognise it as the story of all our lives. The body count may be worse than Hamlet, or even a Christmas edition of Eastenders, but the story is beautiful and meaningful and as up to date as a peek in the mirror.

A nod to Mahabharat's special effects

Immortality's Flame-Waves

The Bhagavad Gita at Wikipedia

Penguin Classics editon of the Bhagavad Gita; a translation I particularly admire, by Juan Mascaro

The Mahabharata at Wikipedia
Mahabharat: completely addictive Indian TV show with terrible special effects but great heart
Plotline of all Mahabharat episodes. Essential reading for confused Mahabharat viewers; if you're not confused, you obviously haven't been paying attention

Peter Brook's Mahabharata

Infant Joy

2011-06-30T16:53:00.000+02:00

‘I have no name;

I am but two days old.’

What shall I call thee?

‘I happy am,

Joy is my name.’

Sweet joy befall thee!

from ‘Infant Joy’ by William Blake

At the birth of this blogspot, my eternal thanks go out to my brother, Tom Hirons and his partner, Rima Staines, or "Coyopa" and "The Hermitage" as they probably think of themselves by now. Over 72 hours these angels took it in turns to teach me, step by stumbling step, how to open my online shop at Etsy, where to order prints, when Photoshop is best applied and, most importantly, theory of blogging. They also found time to make me a chocolate and beetroot birthday cake. Rima’s patience is, as you would expect of an angel, supernatural, and, although my brother’s heavenly nature leans more to the ‘Good Omens’ side of things, he demonstrated marathon compassion in the face of my ineptness. A special mention should also go to Macha, their dog, whose insanity was a source of constant inspiration to me. If you like anything you see or read at this blogspot then I strongly advise you to visit the sites of these two long-suffering characters (Macha does not yet, unfortunately, write online) to whom I completely owe my newfound web presence. Long may it last; sweet may it remain!