THE WARRIOR OF LIGHT: PAULO COELHO AND HIS BOOKS

A warrior of light values a child’s eyes because they are able to look at the world without bitterness. When he wants to find out if the person beside him is worthy of his trust, he tries to see him as a child would.  (The Manual of the Warrior of Light).

Paulo Coelho, the literary alchemist, was born in Rio de Janeiro, Brazil, in August 1947. He was a highly successful songwriter for the rock star Raul Seixas until he met with his mentor who advised him to go on a pilgrimage to Santiago de Compostela. This walk changed his life and he converted to Christianity. This life-defining journey forms the theme of his first novel The Pilgrimage, published in 1987. He advocates through this book that “the extraordinary is always found in the way of the common people."

Coelho’s second book The Alchemist has become a universally admired modern classic because of its allegorical nature. It describes the journey of a young Andalusian shepherd boy named Santiago to the pyramids of Egypt in search of a treasure and the philosophy of the book is lies in these lines: “When you want something, all the universe conspires in helping you to achieve it."

Brida is Coelho's third novel and narrates the story of young woman who experiments with sorcery and other magical traditions. In this novel, he dealt with the theme of the feminine face of God, which was a strange idea to most people.

The Valkyries is about the exorcism of personal demons and discovering one's strength. This autobiographical novel narrates how Paulo and his wife Chris go on a spiritual quest to the arid Mojave Desert to meet the Valkyries, a group of warrior women who travel the desert on motorcycles.

By the River Piedra I Sat Down and Wept, Veronika Decides to Die and  The Devil and Miss Prym are part of a trilogy called "On the Seventh Day". This trilogy is a week in the life of someone ordinary to whom something extraordinary happens.

The Fifth Mountain is based on the story of Elijah from the Bible and explores the prophetic questioning of authority, rebellion and liberation. At the same time the novel is a powerful metaphor of human self-confidence and strong desire for self-fulfillment by helping other humans.

The Manual of the Warrior of Light is a collection of Paulo Coelho's teachings summed up into one volume. It includes proverbs, extracts from the Tao Te Ching, the Bible, the book of Chuang Tzu, the Talmud and various other sources, and is written in the form of short philosophical passages.

Eleven Minutes narrates the story of Maria, a young girl from a remote village of Brazil, who goes to seek her fortune in Switzerland, only to find that reality is lot harder than she expected. But when she least expects it, she experiences love.

The Zahir is about a bestselling novelist who enjoys his luxurious and peaceful life, until the inexplicable disappearance of his wife from their Paris home. Coelho compares a marriage with a set of railway tracks which always stay together but cease to come any closer. This novel is journey from a stagnant marriage and love to the realization of unseen but ever increasing gravity between the two souls.

In Like the Flowing River, Coelho offers his personal reflections on a wide range of subjects from archery and music to elegance, travelling and the nature of good and evil. He shows us how life has lessons for us in the greatest, smallest and most unusual of experiences.

The Witch of Portobello starts with the death of the main character Athena and is narrated from the perspectives of many people who knew her. They each provide a different view of her, describing not only what they saw and experienced but adding their own impressions, interpreting her through their own beliefs and fears.

The Winner Stands Alone is set at Cannes during the Film Festival and narrates the epic drama and tension between the three main characters- Igor, Hamid and Gabriela in a 24 hour period. He offers a novel full of suspense, a mirror image of the world we live in, where our commitment to luxury and the success of any cost often prevents us from hearing what the heart actually whispers. He points out that money, power and fame are what drives most people.

Aleph is an autobiographical novel that depicts his search for spiritual renewal and growth. Coelho decides to travel, to experiment, to reconnect with people and the world. This journey helps him to open up to friendship, love, faith and forgiveness and be stronger in the challenges of life.

Coelho has written more than twenty novels and his recent work Manuscript found in Accra deals with the story of an Englishman who discovers a manuscript that figures an ancient alchemist named Copt, who answers questions of a crowd who are gathered inside the city gates of Jerusalem in 1099. What is success?” poses the Copt: “It's being able to go to bed each night with your soul at peace.” His works focus on the discovery of the self as means of spiritual fulfillment.

Message in a Bottle

You drink me with your eyes
Your slices of brown bread
Your mugs of black coffee

You think of yesterdays
Worry about tomorrows
While there is only the now

Wrapped is the present,
This time where dreams
Reign over reason.

Forget the lies of snow,
Forget the lies of words
Think only of the now.

Rush not stay steady
Drink your coffee black
Your eyes on me...

Sanctuary

Once we sat under the shadow of the red rock;
When we were wanderers across the fields
That night, we weaved dreams out of light,
Broke boundaries and wrote a life together.

We rode out together into the dark night,
Counting the stars and then stopping only
For brief respite and then starting again;
You singing with your shining eyes on me.

We dived into those cool soothing waters,
We slept under the canopy of those trees;
We quenched the thirst of these long years
With our hearts full and souls replenished.

When I woke up, scared of what I will see,
You were lying next to me smiling at me.

Dreams in Prussian Blue

Dreams in Prussian Blue (2010) by Paritosh Uttam captures the life of some Fine Arts students in Mumbai. It was recently in the news because Shyam Prasad’s new movie Artist is based on it.

Naina Trivedi, a fresher at Fine Arts College meets Michael Agnelo and his friends Abhinav and Ruchi. Michael’s passion for painting and his charisma sweep her off her feet and she realizes that she has fallen in love with him. To the dismay of her conservative Brahmin family, she leaves home to have a live-in relationship with Michael. The initial plan is that she will write and he will paint. But when they start living together, the responsibility of running the household falls on Naina as Michael does only what he is promised to do- to paint and nothing else.

Caught up in a situation from which there is no turning back, she creates a website for his paintings and calls prospective buyers and art galleries. Michael refuses to turn up for one such meeting with the owner of an art gallery and Naina calls and threatens him with a break-up. Unfortunately, Nicheal meets with an accident on the way and loses his eyesight. It is Abhinav who helps her with the bills and with Michael.

Abhinav and Ruchi live the middle class dream of a secure job, a posh apartment, plans for starting a family and having a car. Naina is distraught that Michael who used to be the best of all has come to nothing while the others are thriving. Inspite of his blindness, Michael continues to paint and she has to work hard to pay the rent and buy new canvases and paints. Abhinav advises her to give Michael used canvases and gives her a box of Prussian Blue that was there at his house.

Michael finishes 24 pictures that depict the history of painting and his exhibition draws people because of the publicity that is given to his blindness. However, Abhinav’s deceit does not stop with the Prussian Blue and Naina is caught up in a fix because of her love for Michael and gratitude for Abhinav. Will she be able to fix her strained relationship with Michael?

Artistry

Life, she draws with a deft and careful hand;

In slow measures, planning out minute details,

The tiniest bit in its place, never a line random,

A devotion that brought to fruition a first love.  

She chooses her words with much precision,

She measures out words, deeds and memories,

In her hands, the wheat and the chaff separate,

In her mouth, the words come out in harmony.

From the dark kajal that she draws on her eyes

From the neat drapes of her elegant clothing,

From a hand that never has to strike out words

She is a perfect artist in whatever she touches.

What makes her so is getting what she wants;

Her artistry is of keeping careful what she gets.

The Hats

When you work everyday
Wear this little white hat
The one with a cute feather
That makes you look good. 

When you read with me
Wear your dark red hat
For all the future visions
That life may bring to us.

When there is eternal strife
Wear your strong jade hat
That will give you the caution
Of the snakes, for your dove.

When you are down dear
Wear that pretty yellow hat
Which will bring to you 
Some bright lovely sunshine. 

When you feel really stuck
Wear our olive green hat
It can freewheel your mind
Into new pathways unknown. 

When you go out of control
Wear a blue hat and chair
Then you can come back
Straight into the green hat. 

If you have not noticed, 
We shift between all hats
Every single day of life
Don't ever wait for one. 



 

Dreams in Prussian Blue

Dreams in Prussian Blue (2010) by Paritosh Uttam captures the life of some Fine Arts students in Mumbai. It was recently in the news because Shyam Prasad’s new movie Artist is based on it.

Naina Trivedi, a fresher at Fine Arts College meets Michael Agnelo and his friends Abhinav and Ruchi. Michael’s passion for painting and his charisma sweep her off her feet and she realizes that she has fallen in love with him. To the dismay of her conservative Brahmin family, she leaves home to have a live-in relationship with Michael. The initial plan is that she will write and he will paint. But when they start living together, the responsibility of running the household falls on Naina as Michael does only what he is promised to do- to paint and nothing else.

Caught up in a situation from which there is no turning back, she creates a website for his paintings and calls prospective buyers and art galleries. Michael refuses to turn up for one such meeting with the owner of an art gallery and Naina calls and threatens him with a break-up. Unfortunately, Nicheal meets with an accident on the way and loses his eyesight. It is Abhinav who helps her with the bills and with Michael.

Abhinav and Ruchi live the middle class dream of a secure job, a posh apartment, plans for starting a family and having a car. Naina is distraught that Michael who used to be the best of all has come to nothing while the others are thriving. Inspite of his blindness, Michael continues to paint and she has to work hard to pay the rent and buy new canvases and paints. Abhinav advises her to give Michael used canvases and gives her a box of Prussian Blue that was there at his house.

Michael finishes 24 pictures that depict the history of painting and his exhibition draws people because of the publicity that is given to his blindness. However, Abhinav’s deceit does not stop with the Prussian Blue and Naina is caught up in a fix because of her love for Michael and gratitude for Abhinav. Will she be able to fix her strained relationship with Michael?

The Rain

In between her sobs,
She tells her story,
My hysterical friend,
The rain.

How she had waited
For years
For her true love
To come back.

She remembers
How he forgot
Or never bothered
Much about her.

How her longings
How her love
She hid behind
Grey veils.

When she could
No longer bear
Her sadness
She burst to tears.

Once in a while,
She weeps inconsolable,
Abandoned and lone,
Through the night.

She sobs and chokes
Her long silver hair
All scattered
Over her frail body.

In between her sobs,
She tells her story,
My lone friend,
The rain.

The solitary reaper

I am a solitary reaper, singing in the fields,
I keep pace with the sun from dawn till dusk;
I sing and speak to the hills and the dales,
And I hum all day to the beat of my sickle.

The valleys echo my solemn voice to me,
I forget the long hours as I keep humming;
My song changes its hue from hour to hour
And I love to sing of loves, lost or gained.

Sometimes, I sing of epic battles of yore
Bending over my sickle in the green fields;
Sometimes, a passing stranger stops to listen,
Lingering over the soft music that he hears.

I see him smiling at my lonely song and me,
As he moves away, I get back to work again.

Spring

Somewhere after the terrible times, after the turmoil is over, there has to be a spring,

When your footsteps will be like before, sprightly and fast not like the drag of feet across these interminable winter,

May be only you will be left behind to tell the tale, how this went from joy to misery in a single day.

Sense of loss

In a throw of a dice,
In a move of hand,
You threw away all
Went into sanctuary.

The songs of loss,
That spoke of you,
The tiny wings left
To learn to fly itself.

The seething pain
The story of losses
Come back again
In its full sense.

You choke your tears
Without a goodbye.

Ma

All I wanted was a pink book full of recipes;
Like the one she wanted to leave behind;
The family kitchen smelling of spices,
Christmas, roast chicken and plum cake.

The shopping spree just before Christmas,
Cake-making at midnight done together,
Your recipes followed to the last line
And the tweaks to the plans that I make.

This book of magic remains incomplete;
The Christmas flavours linger in the air;
Goodwill, happiness and the first time
I had celebrated Christmas with flavours.

The book of recipes, your cooking secrets;
All are lessons that I have learnt from you.

Pic: mariasmenu.com

Definitions

You were no bride in red;

Only a widow-heart unwed;

Yet with the seasons came

A spot of red in your hands.

I was no prince charming;

Only a lonesome wanderer;

Yet with the seasons came

A boat song on these lips.

We moved along these lines

Along these definitions;

In the end you are a wanderer

And I have turned widow-heart.

Yet these roles reverse and turn

Bring no comfort only despair. 

Musically Yours: 2015

At times, a very small change in thinking can bring about significant changes in life. For me, the most dramatic change last year was the acquisition of a Windows phone. Before that, I guess, I have been running somewhere in the Middle Ages of ignorance and darkness. Suddenly these observations shock me considerably:

·         That I can do so much with my phone

·         That I can leave so many chores unfinished and sit with my phone

·         That I can’t do without it any longer

·         That I can kill hours with it altogether

·         That I can listen to favourite songs endlessly

This year, the songs vary in theme and style, but they have managed to be a kind of foothold in a slightly confusing reality.

Most of these songs were accidentally stumbled upon but they have played in this habit of playing in the head so much that they have become part of yearly event calendar this year. The best of the English earworms are Ed Sheeran- Thinking Out Loud , Ellie Goulding- Love Me Like You Do, OMI- Cheerleader , Selena Gomez- The Heart Wants What It Wants and Alexandra Burke- Hallelujiah

Among the desi ones, the best song with each version vying with the other for its magic is Tere Bin; be it by Uzair Jaswal, or the song from Ek Paheli Leela sung by Tulsi Kumar that accompanies Sunny Leone’s assets or even the Bhojpuri version.  

So are the songs from Hamari Adhuri Kahani especially Yeh Kaisi Jagan Le Aaye Ho Tum, Samjawaan from Humpty Sharma Ki Dulhaniya and Naina from Khoobsurat. However, the best cheer-up songs for me are Dheere Dheere recreated by Honey Singh and Gulabo from Shandaar. So are Vidya's remixes of Love Me Like U Do/Hosanna, Mere Sapnon Ki Rani/ Same Old Love and Balam Pichkari/ How Deep is Your Love. 

So, this post celebrates a year of songs played, replayed, lost, found or forgotten, just like every single year. 

A bad day

I mean everyone has those days when nothing really seems to work. It is hard to get out of bed and when you finally manage to pull yourself together, you find that you are terribly late.Then you dress down so that you can make up for the time lost but the moment you reach work things go topsy-turvy. 

Then you decide to go to the library and read but on coming back you get struck by the exhibition nearby. You get befuddled by what you see and end up buying a few trinkets. But when you get out it's drizzling heavily and you are caught wishing wipers for your glasses.Then something strikes you as it rains heavily and you decide to go home. Looks like the entire day should have been spent on bed succumbing to your demons.

But then it turns out to be a really bad day because the auto driver hears some other location and tadang! You are right in front of a very famous school in town and suddenly you realise that you might have to try hard and count to ten not to lose your temper.Finally when you reach home paying the prize, the first thought is that may be you should have bought a few lacquer bangles from the exhibition. Those looked so enticing but then they were sold in dozens and  may be that was too much.

May be there isn't a day like today when I had to trace back four routes just because the auto driver said he knew a shortcut that never really existed and because of me who should just have stayed at home lazily curled up reading brand new books that smell fresh that have dream worlds postponed to tomorrow. May be tomorrow might turn out to be a good hair day!

Sacred Space

Dark, dark, dark, scarecrows from past,
May stand in green fields of delight,
Appearing like a witch out of nowhere,
Showing their graceless faces filled with paint,
Casting shadows on our bliss,
Tearing at it with sharp paws and long nails.

When a shadow falls, run, run, run,
Come home before it gets too dark,
And take delight in our sweet talk,
By the hearth, sit in comfort idly,
For the little lamp of hope,
That I put along with our prayers,
Will shine bright, brighter,
Scaring away all shadows,

There are no shadows, my dear
You are at home, beside me,
In our minute but perfect sacred space.

Of Libraries and Library Books

For me, library visits mean a lot as can be seen from my trademark huge bags that can carry huge tomes and a slight damage to the right shoulder from carrying them around regularly. So are the constant mind-fogs that come from having too many things on the mind such as the home and the heart, the things to buy and the things to get rid of. 

Libraries and I have a long history of events- finding them, losing them, misplacing them and of reading them so much at the cost of eyesight and a sense of reality. When I was doing my M.Phil, I had placed a book on the Automatic Book Return Kiosk in the Central Library, only the find that the machine refused to read the book and it was a kind-looking staff who enlightened me that the book belonged to the College Library and not to the Central Library. 

I had my excuse that I was juggling a baby, a thesis and a household and that it was difficult to keep track of all the library books that I had taken. Those were the days of the late returns and heavy dues and mind-fogs resulting from having too much on my hands. 

It was in the same library that I had a spat with a guy who formed a new parallel queue for a pretty little thing and called my attention to it, when I have been standing in a straight queue for around fifteen minutes. However, I was too embarrassed after my mercurial outburst, that too in English that I had not gone to the library for a few months.  

For someone who spends a good deal of time in the library, it is at times a little disappointing to see a new notice on fresh arrivals: “Writing or marking on books is a punishable offence”. On seeing this notice the first time, I could not help thinking of my college days, when I was more or less an accidental scholar who found the right books at the nick of time, on the eve of the exam and gorged upon them as if there was all the time in the world to read them. 

Studying English literature was no fun as most people believe. I have had so many relatives and friends tell me, “Oh! All you have to do is read novels”. Sadly, it was not true as I discovered during the second and third years of my graduate study. Buying all books needed was out of the question as most of them were unavailable or way too expensive. So, hunting for books in the library was part of the routine and with time, I was familiar with most of the shelves and what they held. 

The city libraries were part of these book-hunting trips though most of what I read was books that were no part of the syllabus. Only at the beginning and the end of a semester did I think of text books; otherwise it was all Agatha Christie and all the readable ones. But at the end of each semester, on my serious visits to the library, I was always fascinated by the comments and notes on the margins made by some previous reader and at times, I even recognised the handwritings of my teachers in some books. 

Yes, I love it when my number is stamped as the first user on fresh arrival. There is certainly a pleasure in handling a new book: the fresh smell of crisp pages and the ideas that look new and inviting but a much-used and well-thumbed library book offers much more for a reader and student. Just like the books that I had seen in those days, the books left traces of the ones who had read them before- markings, numberings, explanations, critical comments and more not phone numbers as feared by present day librarians. The meanings written next to difficult words or the names of poetic devices with explanations, these texts were most probably used by teachers for their classes. 

In the present age and its demand of annotated editions (that say more than the writer), the ordinary library books on English literature could supply easy reading just by the fact that they were read through the minds of good scholars who could chew and digest the work by marking key words and underlining what was important. But I do remember a girl who studied with me, who had seen me underline a sentence in a library book and screamed “That’s a library book!” in the same tone as “That’s my boyfriend!” 

May be I am just a little zany; but as a teacher, I will be honoured if any day, if a student comes across my handwriting in the pages and recognises it as part of a painstaking but rewarding procedure of preparation for classes and feels the same way as I felt when I had seen those writings, numberings and markings against the margins made in a familiar hand. For someone, whose heaven is a library, whose dreams include having a coffee counter inside the library; finding a new book to read is a pleasure but reading a well-thumbed and annotated one is an even more enjoyable experience. 

When I was a teenager, I had read this story named “An Evening in Grand Central”, in which a man falls in love with a woman just from the comments that she had written in a book that he comes across. The book is a second hand copy of Somerset Maugham’s Of Human Bondage and when they decide to meet she tells him that she will wear a red rose on her lapel. On the day of the meeting, he comes across an old woman wearing a red rose while a beautiful girl in a green dress walks by like “the springtime come alive”. But he decides to talk to the lady only to find that his love is none other than the girl in green dress and that she is waiting for him in a restaurant across the road. May be she was too shy to meet him in person, God knows!