Envious

 

Image courtesy: Dead poets' society from internet

    I envy poets. They can write happiness and agony, indifference, confusion, beauty and I can feel it. Run-of-the-mill human being here, yours gratefully, cannot do it. It is not about the rhyming verses, I say. There is more to it. Poets, they are. Maybe, they are the reincarnations, as we Hindus say. I do not know. It is somehow magical.

    I envy musicians even more. I double down the jealousy here. I once saw a percussionist wielding an Indian drum called Mridangam exhibiting his rhythmic cycles and I thought he was in a trance and so were listeners. They thought the Mridangam was singing. He was happy and ever smiling for the whole of 10 minute performance. The tranquil state. The magic of these poets and musicians is that, they express their feelings, fondness, happiness through words, strings and rhythms. I can feel it. How am I able to feel it?

    Many of Ilayaraja’s songs have this strange magic with them. They make you forget the extant and lull you into this 5 minute world that he has mysteriously crafted. If the song is about rains and the rains are everywhere? That is how potent, Raja is. Heck, poets can give bravery to fellow humans. It happened quite many times here in India in its long and tortuous freedom struggle. Immense influencers, these poets are! From Wordsworth’s Reaper to Bharathi’s strong women, poets are the true magicians. It helped people gallop against the tides. 

    Are poets and musicians blessed umpteen with boons and food? Have they successfully bypassed the modern world problems? Tranquility. Even in sorrow, they weave good words and pull strings gleefully. Somehow, I think, their sadness, is somewhat refined.

    Maybe they are the true gods. And exalted one at that.