The Gallows

Old buildings move me and draw me to draw them.

The gallows in the cellular jail moved me - not its form or colour or texture or architecture - but the story behind it, the story of India's struggle for independence in particular and the struggle against colonialism and imperialism in general, the story of heroic young men whose life was cut short by disease, hard labour and a hangman's noose.

Some of what I felt when I saw the gallows is below and an image of the hateful building drawn in pencils and digitally altered.























Did the architect seek beauty and balance?
Or only purpose and efficiency?
Did it touch him that a man climbing up those steps
Would KNOW that he would never climb down?

Did the mason, who builds for the living,
Feel that this was for death?
Did the rain blacken the roof or
Was it death that painted it black?

Did the burning desire for freedom
Burn the fear of death too?
Did the hangman see his brethren
Or did he sell his soul and his eyes?

Did the criminal who called a hero
A criminal and ordered his death
Snuff his conscience 'cos he knew
He was killing a nobler being?

Did the first man that this structure took
Break his back to break the rock
To lay the base for the scaffold
That would one day blow the candle of his life?

Blame

Once in a while, a thought starts appearing in my mind already in the form of a verse or poem. I develop it later into what can be called a poem - if you are generous. This usually happens either in Kannada or in English, more often, the former.

Vincent van Gogh, an artist whom I admire instinctively, is oft-quoted. His opinions and remarks on art are revealing.

"..... But still one ought to try, however incompetent one may feel before the unspeakable perfection and radiant splendour of nature", he said.

I was once sketching a portrait or something and the results were unsatisfactory, to put it mildly, and I remembered Vincent.

And within a short time, a thought started forming in my mind and I was astonished that it was in Hindustani. My knowledge of that language is sketchy, at best, and as for a true South Indian, gender is the first victim when I speak. 

I continued to have some fun processing that poem in Hindi. I hesitantly submitted that poem to my brother-in-law, Nagraj Rao, who corrected some words and added an appropriate one in one place. He made sure that not everything had the same gender, and hence often wrong.

Here is the result.

                 तस्वीर बनाने लायक दुनिया बनाके
                 तस्वीर बनानेका  शौक बंदे के दिल मे  जगाके
                 तस्वीर बनाने की लियाक़त बंदे से छुपाके
                 बंदे का मज़ाक उडाते हो?

                 वाह रे खुदा, यही है तेरी खुदायी?
                 वाह रे खुदा, यही है तेरी खुदायी?

Memories

I was a scout. A cub, to be precise. My scout troop planned a camp. My father was apprehensive about sending me. I was not even nine yet. The man in charge of the troop came home and persuaded my father. It was one of the most thrilling moments of my then short life and it has remained the same to this day.

The camp was at Byadarahalli. It is just 30 km away from Mysore by rail. Next to the railway track is a hillock and we camped there.

On the second day of the camp, the senior scouts, the Rovers, went on a hike. They were expected to return before nightfall. We were all tense as darkness fell and no sign of them. We were all looking westward periodically, the general direction of their return. In those days there was no electricity in any surrounding villages and it was pitch dark. After what appeared to be an interminable wait, we saw flashes of light from a torch which transmitted the message "we are safe" in Morse code.

Eventually, they came.  With not even a radio at our disposal, we were completely cut off from civilisation. They returning rovers had bad news.

It was the 27th of May, 1964. Nehru was no more. A pall of gloom fell on the camp. 

The next day, we hoisted the scout flag at half mast. Observed a minute of silence. And we went about other scouting activities.

Whenever I travel by train between Mysore and Bangalore, I eagerly wait for this station. The hillock and the small traveller's bungalow on top bring back memories of that memorable day.