I traveled to the Palani mountain range over the weekend. I went birding in its moist deciduous forests. From Flycatchers and Flowerpeckers to Sunbirds and Bulbuls, they came to me, brimming with love. Raptors of different sizes graced the skies. A large blue butterfly dropped by to enchant me. Also, I saw an Indian Rock Python scampering across the road at dusk.
But I was preoccupied all the while. Given the company, I was unexpectedly distracted.
I blame it all on Jean-Paul Sartre. I was reading Intimacy during the overnight bus ride. I stumbled upon something so beautiful that I had to put the book down. It sent shivers down my spine; the way a winter morning blows cool air into a bird’s nest and bristles its twigs. But then, it poured gasoline all over me and burnt to crisp any half-baked clarity I had about the universe.
It had been a few years since I buried my nose in a book. I used to read a lot. I had to stop because I started to mimic my favorite authors. Instead of being inspired by them, I tried to make observations like how they did. I wanted to be a storyteller like Franz Kafka. I ached to make Albert Camus proud. I craved for lessons from Virginia Woolf. A stroll in the woods with Ernest Hemingway and Mark Twain is pretty much all I wanted out of life.
I was the fat man in the Hangover trilogy, trying to win the respect of dead writers to elevate my own ego. And so, I had to let go off books for a while.
Last Friday night, I pulled out a hardcopy of Sartre’s Intimacy that had been collecting dust in my backpack for months. Turning turtle in a cramped upper berth, I held the book a few inches away from my face. The pages could hear me breathe. Unfortunately, matters came to a screeching halt when I came across the below passage on Page 3,
“You ought to love all of somebody, the esophagus, the liver, the intestines. Maybe we don’t love them because we aren’t used to them. If we saw them the way we saw our hands and arms maybe we’d love them; the starfish must love each other better than we do. They stretch out on the beach when there’s sunlight and they poke out their stomachs to get the air and everybody can see them; I wonder where we could stick ours out, through the navel”.
It mugged my mind, thieving my lungs of their respiratory functions. I drank so much water that I had to ask the driver to stop the bus for an unscheduled bathroom break.
It wasn’t just because Sartre had written it beautifully. It had more to do with how great writers can draw blood without even throwing a punch. His descriptions of love, sexuality, and longing of the human soul were so layered that I had to reread every paragraph. Each time, it led me through a different wormhole.
I couldn’t get his words out of my mind. They haunted me even while I was birding at dawn. When I spotted the Nilgiri Blue Robin, I wondered if his lover ever tasted the orange on his feathery chest. I saw a Painted Bush Quail during a hot afternoon. All I could think was about her talons piercing through soft skin. A pair of Yellow-Browed Bulbuls were playing hide-and-seek with Oriental White-Eyes. A Flame-Throated Bulbul was plucking fruits without any inhibitions.
And it seemed as though all their spirits were throbbing together as one. Like a giant origami bird intimately rubbing its tail-feathers against my cheeks. I could have sneezed in watercolors, and nobody would have noticed.
When I came back home, I wanted to write about the birds I had spotted. I sat down to read the notes I had scribbled on paper and stare at some photographs I had taken. As I started writing, I realized that some of my elucidations were familiar. There was a running theme. And once again, I was trying to sound like someone else.
These experiences weren’t entirely mine. They belonged to Jean-Paul Sartre too.
As for the birds of the Upper Palani Hills, for a couple of hours at least – they belonged to me. Nobody else could claim them as their own. They were mine to admire from a distance, photograph as penance and take lessons from.
And now, for a few minutes, they belong to you too.
Take me
to places
I wouldn’t
have known
if I hadn’t
met you
once before
(Photographs: Anjaveedu – Upper Palani)
Beautiful
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Thank you!
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Beautiful. To think that I have been to many places you mention without appreciating their beauty makes me quite sad. One needs a good whack on the head, or your penned sensibilities to open ones eyes to what is on offer.
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Aww thank you Madhu. I had been visiting hill stations for 2 decades without appreciating them either. Late bloomer I am. One thing I can be sure of is that it is never ever too late (big smile)
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Never ever too late is my motto in life. *Has to be my motto in life. 🙂
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“draw blood without throwing a punch” a very accurate description of a good writer’s power. i wouldn’t be too consumed with worry about unconsciously imitating a style we can’t escape it according to t.s. eliot & northrop frye.
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Thank you Daniel. Plotting an escape does seem a tad presumptuous on my part. Perhaps, it isn’t a choice at all.
I think there’s an imaginary line between being influenced and being hijacked, intentionally or not.
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If only I had the gift of words like you I think I could do justice to this incredibly overpowering article…ah drawing blood without throwing a punch 🙂
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Very kind of you to say that, Sumana. Thank you dearly!
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Great writing, great sightings !
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Merci beaucoup!
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Let it flow through words of your own or breathe it into your soul with those of others. It doesn’t matter. Its love after all. It matters only that you soak in it and soak it in. And you seem to be drenched, my friend
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Like estuaries, these mortal words shall pass onto thee!
Your kind words mean a lot to me, S, thank you ❤
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Wow..lovely clicks..👍
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Thank you, Neethu! Next time there will be owls (smile).
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😉😉👍👍👍
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Now, I can do perfectly without the mentioned writers—as long as I’ve access to what you’re sharing here!
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Gosh, that’s so humbling to hear, dear friend. Thank you!
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Honor to whom honor is due.
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Wonderful writing. Your style is unique.
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I’m afraid that Sartre always used to make me feel depressed, but birds never do, and neither do your posts.
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Thank you for that, Val. That feels special.
Between Sartre and Sylvia Plath, wasn’t growing up just the bee’s knees? (smile)
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Not to forget the the charms of Dostoevsky…!!
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Gosh, if books be food for the soul, let “crime and punishment” be my amuse bouche hehe
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‘Take me
to places
I wouldn’t
have known
if I hadn’t
met you
once before’…exactly!
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And…I’d rather bleed than not read (on some days when I find fortitude simmering on the surface of this pot of melancholy.) How beautiful is this!!
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Awww thank you shru! As for me, I don’t mind going through long phases without reading. Of course, there’s a condition. I’d have to write like the dogs. The dogs, I tell you! (smile)
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What lovely words to share and what lovely birds to accompany. (Flame-throated bulbul. AHHHHH.)
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I like the wordpress format with the Medium pictures. Nice you found into your role as an author. Congratulations.
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Thank you AMP (hope the acronym is alright). Pleased to find you here. Pleasure connecting with you, good sir.
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Thank you for sharing your wild birds with us! Like birdsong, your words are delightful and exhilarating.
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