All posts tagged: Narayan Tushar Kaudinya

When Krishna calls. A dream life of an Australian Photographer from Paris : Travels in Vrindavan

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“O Krishna, the stillness of the divine union, which you describe, is beyond my comprehension. How can the mind which is so restless, attain lasting peace. Krishna, the mind is restless, turbulent, powerful, violent. To tame the mind is like to tame the wind.” – Srimad Bhagvad Gita  I was in my early teens when on my grandmother’s fierce insistence, parents took us on a tour to Mathura and Vrindavan. Krishna had supposedly entered my grandmother’s dream. She lost her sleep, and waited for that day when she would touch the earth of Krishna’s birth. And encircling the epical, ancient, holy Govardhana hill,  गोवर्धन पर्वत on her bare feet. The sun was setting in the land of braj as we arrived, the winds started blowing, grandmother’s eyes went backwards; her body calmed, voice started mumbling the words known to every wall and each monkey sitting on them, as they could  be heard from myriad mouths. Narrow lanes of brick, tall walls wearing Mughal attires turning holy, as the time turned blue like romance, the colour of Krishna, Yamuna …

Singing the uhuru burn

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The case of chasing sun a fat girl wedded to life singing the uhuru burn what will remain of this world continuity and creativity in uncle hassan’s sleep losing his spirits walking away from his favorite tree her signs his silence her future poetry a journey to the stone country on top of a bus with an x zorastree on a kiss less day Taiwan’s highway Terminal eating Imagining an Adivasi cinema Translated museums is bad hand writing freedom? Freedom from brain First the god will die and soon men. Love, like living is commerce and commerce is time and time in the case of the chasing sun that fat girl who wedded to life kept singing the uhuru burn

Homeland

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He woke up four inches below the snow like bed. But the day ahead was going to be as treacherous. He felt excited because travelling to rural India gave a smile to his face. Indian villages to a good extent still practice their civilisational old traditions. The air is different, the land for miles is green. But leaving Delhi behind is a lengthy affair. Their is an infrastructure push. Hundreds and thousands of trees that once gave beauty, breath and shade have now given way to expressway and highways and along with it empty, always being constructed high rise buildings. Slowly we start going past it. And we start seeing cow dung cakes kept for sun drying for kilometres. For centuries cow dung cakes known as “upla” in Hindi are used for cooking, cleaning homes and for homa- the fire worship. It’s smoke is known to purify the environment killing small insects and creatures. Many years ago someone said to Nara about India, when he was roaming in the river valleys of Kedar, that India …

LAST FLIGHT OF AN OWL

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She kept looking towards the sky while floating in the water kept for cows. Her death seemed such that at one time I felt she chose it.   But do birds more so when one is a predator choose their own death?   When Maharaj ji arrived, he first closed his eyes. May be she needed someone to close her eyes before it could be plucked out by hungry ones. May be he earned this burial. To only put a stop to this cycle. May his body rests and the spirit awakens. Aum Shanti In Photos 1  

In the land of Snakes

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Twenty six days ago and three hundred fifty kilometers north I Moon I reached Aldona late in the night. It was Purnima, the full moon of Holi. Vishwan was away, gone to a border village, tsar. A place somewhere in the middle of the jungle at the border of Goa and Maharashtra. But I had no idea of that then, I was waiting. I sat downstairs at the bar. Grandmother was pouring feny to a local. She told me about Vishwan smoking too much. The room was lit with two cyan bulbs. He arrived. We kept my backpack at his place. He lit his cigarette. We sat. His hair had grown and white; beard thickened and black. Soon, we were off, feeling the dense wind of the leaving winter, scooting through the western ghats in the night going towards the moon. We entered the fair. Vishwan parked the vehicle somewhere outside and we started walking away from the lights towards the jungle. It was late. But it wasn’t dark. The night seemed to have dissolved with …

Teachers Day is also a Mother’s day

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Teachers day is somehow another Mother’s Day. Because mother is our first teacher. First person who taught us love, and taught us how to everything on earth. It was a good day at school. Children had come becoming as new as wise. They had come wearing dresses of teachers. Its fifth class’s last year at school. Children grow at a rate of moon cycle. Its a shame we don’t have enough space to add at least three more classes. Our’s is a primary school. I was only thing that we enthuse our love, our energy and resources shaping and giving them the best of foundations but leaving school as early as VIth standard. It is hard for children to change their patterns. Who knows how much disciplined and caring the newer school be. For us, we feel to at least bring our classes till VIIIth so that you can shape those children better and further holding onto those ideas, creativity and empathy for humankind and for nation a bit longer. Every day, every year is …

The great art of Sleeping

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Time stops for body but the mind evolves into dimensions connecting with the ethereal while disconnecting with the physical. Isn’t this magic? Sleep can consume all the good, bad and ugly actions. It dissolves the worst and best, highs and lows. And after all of this when mind comes back to see what is real we get another day. Another set of limited hours that can be spent any which way we want. For most, a time table is there in place already in terms of job and other engagements. And hence, get very less space to do anything else. The happening of anything new is rare. By the time noon ends; for most the day becomes similar as the hundreds of days that have already been dished out, No one in the moment believes that this breath is temporary, that this body is going to go. It doesn’t seem possible. Probably it doesn’t even cross ones mind. What could be the solution? What is “that meaning” which everyone is looking for in life? Is …

The Wedding Song

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In her wedding dress that one day she stopped counting years   I met J uncle on a very cold january morning this year. It was raining and we stood outside an empty swimming pool. His room – 705, is just beneath my room – 805, where i am writing this. J uncle had his own quiet world till he met my sister. My sister, Ruspsi is a kathak dancer(banaras gharana). J uncle would not know about it for a month till one day they meet in the elevator, she moved and her ghungroo rolled from her bag. J uncle and his lovely wife had come from Banaras. In a quest to live with their son, they sold their house. They used to sing all morning there, he told me. He disliked it here. Everything. But he never spoke about it. He was just visibly sad. In his walk, thats how mostly i saw of him. A singer coming from a gharana who doesn’t sing anymore. In the meantime J uncle grew fond of my …