The poet and Holocaust survivor Paul Celan came up with the metaphor for sculptures and things left behind by history. Like bottles tossed into the ocean “at the shoreline of the heart,” coming back finally, washed ashore. They’re like the dead, these sculptures, ever coming back to us, radiant ghosts.
The thin layer of patina covering the centuries-old sculptures at the National bronze Museum in Chennai allured me more than party lights. Though greeted by power-cut and cooing ready-to-poop pigeons, the gallery was in Indian standard, in full regal splendor. The air smelt different, rich in the scent of forgotten stories. Of all those hands that molded elements into Gods. When I touched those idols, I wished if it would turn into those Harry Potter time portals- whisking me away into those dust smelling pages of history.
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| One of the Shore Temples at Mahabalipuram. Pic: Gayathri Sasibhooshan |
Each city anywhere has grown. Grown in and around and above but each house something in ruin, as if a precious wound, a scar that it just doesn't want to let go of. That piece of loneliness which has got this curse to see ages matures and die. Isn't loneliness or a state of crumble housed in each one of us? In fact, don't we all have a History?
Ruin is good, it means that progress isn't far away. History is clearly not a science, it changes according to the storyteller, and the storyteller changes according to the stories heard. Still, its oh-so-mysterious to imagine that this stone was touched by souls who made, discovered and believed in a story. On a page of history where it breaths.
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