arnaultcavalcanti

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Yesterday, I was entirely absorbed by the reading of this book. It constitutes the first instance within my experience wherein I have encountered a sustained examination of a poet's faith – whether explicitly enunciated by the poet themselves or subtly embedded within their creative output. Historically, poets have demonstrated a pronounced inclination towards spiritual exploration, frequently immersing themselves in profound introspective contemplation. Within this meditative state, they compose a continuous narrative documenting their existential odyssey.

The poet, in essence, may be considered an architect of a lifelong symphonic composition, perpetually refining the musical arrangement to harmonize with the ever-shifting resonance of their inner being. Within this literary work, we witness a diverse array of poets engaged in a profound introspection – a solitary internal dialogue conducted within the hallowed chambers of their own consciousness.

At birth, individuals are typically assigned a religious affiliation, serving as a pre-determined marker of their identity. However, I posit that the foundational principles of any religious belief system are inherently grounded within the broader discourse of human experience. If a specific religious doctrine fails to champion the fundamental tenets of human dignity and moral rectitude, then a compelling argument can be made for embracing the virtuous precepts of all faiths rather than adhering rigidly to the dictates of a particular religious orthodoxy. Ideally, religion should function as a catalyst for transcendence, providing individuals with the metaphorical wings to ascend beyond the confines of divisive dogma and to cultivate a profound sense of human solidarity, analogous to the vibrant spectrum of colours observed within a celestial rainbow.

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Although I do not subscribe to the notion of change as the ultimate state of being, I acknowledge the profound truth in Heraclitus's observation of its constant and pervasive nature. This inherent dynamism is readily observable in the ongoing evolution of human societies, encompassing cultural shifts, civilizational advancements, and the continual transformation of professional landscapes.

Within the vibrant and culturally diverse region of West Bengal, India, the majestic Howrah Bridge serves not merely as a structural marvel but also as a potent symbol of interconnectedness, embodying the region's unique cultural identity. This iconic structure physically links two major urban centers, while simultaneously reflecting the rich historical tapestry of the region, including its legacy of colonial rule.

I wish to direct your attention to a scholarly work that examines the intriguing phenomenon of "Lost Professions and Lost Tales." This work investigates the intriguing question of whether these once-thriving professions have completely vanished, their existence now shrouded in the veil of obscurity, or whether they have simply receded into the realm of historical memory, their significance now reduced to mere mythical narratives.

Fortunately, the significant contribution of Kinnar Roy, a renowned scholar and author, has shed considerable light on this fascinating subject. His seminal work, "Luptajibika, Luptakatha," transcends mere anecdotal accounts, offering a more rigorous and insightful analysis of these lost vocations."

Not all livelihoods, perhaps, were sources of joy or honour, but they existed nonetheless. Alongside them were countless small things that once filled our daily lives, seemingly insignificant yet omnipresent. Before we could even realise, they vanished, slipping away unnoticed, lost amidst the shifting sands of societal change and crushed under the relentless wheels of the corporate world, taking with them an entire era.

This anthology is a commemorative collection of memories of a bygone time—of pond divers, washermen, street entertainers, water-fetchers, compounders, wet nurses, or the quaint relics of postcards, ink, and pen, mustard chutney, medicinal powders, traditional herbs, or the soothing touch of chilled rock sugar water. These were once essential parts of everyday life, now relegated to obscurity.

This compilation brings together two long-forgotten yet widely discussed books published by Pratikhon years ago, which captured these fading fragments of life and culture—treasured artefacts of a time now almost erased from collective memory .

This discussion delves into professions lost to the currents of time.

With the inexorable march of history, societal norms, cultural practices, and socio-economic frameworks have undergone profound transformations. Naturally, the sphere of occupations has not remained untouched by these shifts. New professions have emerged in response to evolving circumstances, captivating individuals with their novelty, while traditional vocations have either been adapted, marginalised, or rendered obsolete altogether. This is the inexorable law of change.

One such example is the erstwhile sight of bhisti—water carriers—traversing the streets of Kolkata, bearing leather bags filled with water. However, Kolkata was not their sole domain; these bhistis were ubiquitous across northern India, in cities like Delhi, Uttar Pradesh, and Gujarat. The leather bags they carried, known as mashaks, were typically crafted from goat hide.

The term bhisti is etymologically derived from the Persian word behisht or bihisht, signifying "paradise." It is believed that the name commemorates the martyrdom of Hazrat Muhammad's grandson, Hussain (RA), who, while carrying water amidst the Battle of Karbala, succumbed to his injuries, attaining paradise. This historic association bestowed a spiritual and cultural resonance upon the vocation, with the bhistis traditionally bearing the surname Sheikh Abbasi.

During the British colonial era, bhistis were a familiar presence on Kolkata’s streets. Employed under the aegis of the Calcutta Municipal Corporation, they were entrusted with tasks such as cleaning roads and supplying water, earning regular monthly wages. Notably, they served key areas like the Anglo-Indian and Chinese colonies of Park Circus, where their dedication and efficiency garnered societal respect. Literary references further immortalised them—Rudyard Kipling’s poem Gunga Din and Sukumar Ray’s verse Nera Beltolay Jay Koybar both mention these water carriers, with Kipling’s work conferring a sort of literary immortality upon the bhistis.

However, their indispensability gradually waned with the advent of technological advancements. The introduction of roadside taps, hand pumps, municipal water pipelines, and water tankers rendered their services redundant. Today, the presence of bhistis is confined to just two areas of Kolkata—Bow Barracks and Bowbazar. Among these, their services are more prominent in Bow Barracks, particularly within the Anglo-Indian, Chinese, and Muslim quarters. Yet even here, their relevance is diminishing, as manual labour succumbs to the efficiency of mechanisation amidst rising urban demands.

Most bhistis have now abandoned their ancestral profession, resorting to daily wage labour for sustenance. A similar fate has befallen their counterparts in Old Delhi, where the plight of this community has grown dire. According to a report by The Indian Express, only one family in the Shah Dargah area near Meena Bazaar continues to uphold this tradition. However, even they now supply water to restaurants, hotels, and roadside eateries, earning a paltry sum of 15–20 rupees for 30 litres of water. It is evident from such accounts that the extinction of this age-old vocation is but a matter of time.

Much like the bhistis, the numbers of certain other traditional professions are dwindling within the urban landscape. While their condition is not quite as dire, their presence is increasingly restricted to specific areas in northern, central, and southern Kolkata. Nevertheless, these individuals remain an enduring symbol of Kolkata—after the iconic Howrah Bridge and the Victoria Memorial, they are perhaps the next most recognisable feature of the city’s identity. Clad in sweat-soaked vests, knee-high lungis, and gripping the vehicle they cherish, these men sometimes rest under its shade on scorching afternoons.

Hand-pulled rickshaws are a beloved subject of street photographers, offering a nostalgic glimpse of the past. These rickshaws were introduced to India in 1880, first appearing in Simla, the British summer capital. Inspired by Japanese designs, the rickshaw concept spread globally, and India was no exception. Kolkata witnessed the advent of hand-pulled rickshaws in the early 20th century, which challenged the exclusivity of the palki (palanquin) and became a practical mode of transport for the Bengali middle-class workforce. The wheels of these rickshaws were robustly crafted from durable wood, yet the physical labour required to operate them was immense. By the 1930s, three-wheeled cycle rickshaws began to emerge on Kolkata’s streets, followed by auto-rickshaws, pedicabs, totos, and even modern velotaxis.

Today, apart from Kolkata, hand-pulled rickshaws are found in only one other location in India—Matheran, a small, pollution-free hill station near Mumbai where motorised vehicles are prohibited. This unique setting ensures the survival of hand-pulled rickshaws for the time being, but their eventual consignment to the pages of history seems inevitable.

The decline of professions extends far beyond rickshaw pullers. Many vocations that once populated Bengali literature are now either obsolete or facing extinction. For instance, one such vanishing profession is that of the bahurupi—traditional performers who brought various characters to life through their artistry. These performers, often entire families, would roam villages and towns, enacting roles drawn from mythology or folklore. Some relied on elaborate masks, while others showcased their skills solely through makeup. In urban areas, they were colloquially referred to as song.

The bahurupi have been immortalised in literature—most notably in Sarat Chandra Chattopadhyay’s Srikanta, where the amusing tale of the performer Srinath captivates readers, as well as in the works of Abanindranath Tagore's grandson, Mohanlal Gangopadhyay. However, as new forms of entertainment gained prominence, such as fixed-stage jatra, group theatre, and ultimately cinema, the bahurupi faded into obscurity. Although a handful of performers can still be found in rural areas like Birbhum, their numbers are dwindling. For instance, in the village of Bishaypur, the Chowdhury family continues to preserve this ancestral craft, with members of all ages dedicated to their vocation. Their performances, primarily based on mythological narratives, are their only source of livelihood, as they lack agricultural land. Yet many former bahurupi performers have abandoned their craft under the pressures of modernisation.

Similar to the bahurupi, another profession fading into oblivion is that of the compounder. Once the indispensable assistants to physicians, compounders prepared medicinal mixtures, applied bandages, and provided basic medical care. In smaller towns, suburbs, and villages, they were often the go-to individuals for primary healthcare when doctors were unavailable. Locals would address them with deference as "Compounder Babu." However, with the advent of pharmacy degrees and specialised training programmes, the role of compounders has been replaced by professional pharmacists, relegating this once-essential vocation to the annals of history.

Among women, too, several traditional professions have vanished. Historically, lower-class women engaged in specific occupations, often within the confines of affluent households. One such profession was that of the napitani—wives of barbers who specialised in applying alta (a red dye) to the feet of aristocratic women. In joint families, young girls and married women alike would adorn their feet with intricate designs of alta, applied with care by the napitani. Over time, as societal norms evolved and middle-class values took precedence, such practices became obsolete, relegated to the occasional wedding or religious festival. The profession of the napitani has long since disappeared.

Two other female-dominated professions tied to the domestic sphere were those of the dhai-ma (midwife) and dudh-ma (wet nurse). The term dhai originates from the Sanskrit word dhatri, meaning "nurturer." In earlier times, childbirth occurred at home, with the dhai-ma supervising deliveries in designated birth chambers (aatur ghar). Equipped with sterilised knives or bamboo slivers for cutting the umbilical cord, these midwives also tended to the newborn for several days post-delivery. In royal households, dhai-mas were entrusted with the long-term upbringing of children, but this practice was rare in ordinary Indian families. Notably, male newborns often fetched higher tips for dhai-mas than female infants—a stark reminder of the patriarchal biases of the time.

In contemporary society, home births have been replaced by institutionalised medical care, and childcare responsibilities are often outsourced to nannies or governesses. While the term dhai-ma endures in some regions, its scope has narrowed significantly, with its primary function now subsumed by modern healthcare systems.

The Dastangoiya

Dastangars, or storytellers, were once the harbingers of oral narratives, captivating audiences in bustling marketplaces with tales of kings, emperors, and folklore. With a mastery of eloquent storytelling, they transported listeners to mythical realms through their vibrant narrations. This profession, akin to street theatre, faded with the advent of cinema and digital media. A parallel can be drawn to the advent of the bioscope, where visual storytelling combined static imagery to enthral the audience. However, it is crucial to distinguish Dastangars from pothi-pathaks (script reciters), who would gather communities at night to read sacred manuscripts. Unlike the Dastangars, pothi-pathaks performed without monetary recompense, serving instead as cultural custodians of their times.

The Palki Bearers

The palanquin, a quintessentially traditional mode of transport in Bengal, was reserved for the affluent and aristocratic classes. Palki bearers, who carried these ornate carriages, were once integral to the cultural fabric, facilitating ceremonial processions, including weddings. However, the advent of modern vehicles has rendered this once-revered mode of transport obsolete.

The Pankha Pullers

The pankha-pullers, professionals tasked with manually operating large hand fans known as aranis or smaller ones called arbakis, have long disappeared. Their services were a symbol of luxury in the courts of kings and feudal lords, signifying opulence and servitude. Modern mechanised fans and air-conditioning systems have reduced this occupation to a relic of the past.

The Snake Charmers

Snake charmers, or sapures, played a dual role in the urban and rural landscapes of Bengal during the Mughal and British periods. While they were primarily employed to remove venomous serpents from human habitations, they also doubled as entertainers, showcasing their art in public spaces. Today, this profession has diminished, largely replaced by pest control services, and its practitioners, often referred to as Bedes, are now known for different trades that deviate from their traditional roots.

The Cotton Carders (Dhunaris)

The craft of cotton carding, an age-old profession, was integral to the making of mattresses, quilts, and cushions. The dhunaris would travel door-to-door, armed with their tools to fluff raw cotton. Over time, this skilled occupation declined as industrialised production of bedding took precedence. Today, descendants of the dhunaris work as labourers in large-scale mattress manufacturing units, far removed from their artisanal past.

The Hookah Makers (Naichaband) and Stick Makers (Tikiawala)

During the heyday of the hookah, Dhaka was renowned as a hub for the finest hookah craftsmanship in the Indian subcontinent. Naichabands, who specialised in making hookah pipes, were predominantly Sylheti craftsmen who fashioned pipes from a variety of woods such as shishu, jam, and jarul. Similarly, the tikiawalas of Dhaka’s Tikatuli area elevated the craft of producing lightweight, high-quality hookah sticks to an art form. The shift in societal habits and the decline in hookah culture have all but erased these trades, leaving behind a legacy of intricate craftsmanship.

The Couriers (Runners)

The profession of the runner, immortalised in Sukanta Bhattacharya's iconic poem Runner, epitomises a bygone era of communication. Originating during the Mughal period, runners were entrusted with delivering messages, letters, and even money across vast distances. They relied solely on their physical endurance and impeccable integrity. The advent of telegraphs, telephones, and eventually email systems rendered this profession redundant, consigning it to history as a testament to human resilience and adaptability.

The professions discussed above, ranging from storytellers to midwives, serve as poignant reminders of the transient nature of human occupations. Driven by technological advancements and shifting societal norms, many trades have faded into obscurity, leaving behind a cultural void. The inexorable march of progress ensures that today’s flourishing professions may one day become mere footnotes in history, reinforcing the cyclical nature of obsolescence in human civilisation.

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Star friendship.— We were friends and have become estranged. But this was right, and we do not want to conceal and obscure it from ourselves as if we had reason to feel ashamed. We are two ships each of which has its goal and course; our paths may cross and we may celebrate a feast together, as we did—and then the good ships rested so quietly in one harbor and one sunshine that it may have looked as if they had reached their goal and as if they had one goal. But then the almighty force of our tasks drove us apart again into different seas and sunny zones, and perhaps we shall never see one another again,—perhaps we shall meet again but fail to recognize each other: our exposure to different seas and suns has changed us! That we have to become estranged is the law above us: by the same token we should also become more venerable for each other! And thus the memory of our former friendship should become more sacred! There is probably a tremendous but invisible stellar orbit in which our very different ways and goals may be included as small parts of this path,—let us rise up to this thought! But our life is too short and our power of vision too small for us to be more than friends in the sense of this sublime possibility.— Let us then believe in our star friendship even if we should be compelled to be earth enemies.

Friedrich Nietzsche, The Gay Science: With a Prelude in Rhymes and an Appendix of Songs

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In the distant past, I encountered the poignant strains of a ghazal composed by the esteemed Makhdoom Mohiuddin, a lyrical masterpiece that continues to resonate within the recesses of my memory. Frequently, I am beset by an ineffable yearning, pondering whether, by some fortuitous circumstance, there exists within the vast expanse of this earthly realm an individual possessing the profound patience elucidated within those verses. To persevere in expectation, as he so eloquently articulated, is not merely an exercise in futility but rather a meticulous sculpting of hope upon the altar of another's existence – a selfless devotion unburdened by the shackles of guilt, untarnished by the corroding influence of remorse. One cannot but ponder: is the object of such unwavering anticipation even cognizant of the solitary figure who would willingly expend an entire lifetime in such pious vigil?

Within this ghazal, the nocturnal tableau unfolds with poignant intensity, wherein the lunar radiance, typically a harbinger of romantic reverie, is transmuted into a malevolent affliction. The stillness of the night, far from offering solace, metamorphoses into a palpable solitude – a cacophony of loneliness perceptible only to the soul ensnared within its suffocating embrace. Such is the paradoxical beauty of the nocturnal landscape: an arena of quiescence that pulsates with the agonizing rhythm of a desolate heart.

By a curious stroke of fate, I stumbled upon another ghazal, penned by the illustrious Faiz Ahmed Faiz, bearing the identical title as Mohiuddin's original composition. This masterful elegy, crafted in tender remembrance of the departed poet, serves as an exquisite testament to the enduring resonance of Mohiuddin’s verses. It would afford me immense pleasure to share this rare gem with all of you.

aap ki yaad aati rahi raat bhar

chandni dil dukhati rahi raat bhar

gah jalti hui gah bujhti hui

sham-e-gham jhilmilati rahi raat bhar

koi KHushbu badalti rahi pairahan

koi taswir gati rahi raat bhar

phir saba saya-e-shaKH-e-gul ke tale

koi qissa sunati rahi raat bhar

jo na aaya use koi zanjir-e-dar

har sada par bulati rahi raat bhar

ek ummid se dil bahalta raha

ek tamanna satati rahi raat bhar

Book : Nuskha Hai Wafa (Pg. 619)

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Thank you to everyone who got me to 50 likes!

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Once more, I found myself returning to a book I had concluded long ago, during the waning days of a year—a juncture marked by transitions, where endings seamlessly give way to beginnings. This particular text appears to encapsulate the intriguing notion of the past engaging in a dialogue with an even more distant antiquity, as though bridging epochs. It presents a fictional meeting between the Indian poet Kalidasa and the ancient Greek philosopher Aristotle, prompting speculation about the nature of their exchange. Might they deliberate upon the merits and shortcomings of their respective eras, reflect critically on their works, or perhaps exchange sagacious advice? One cannot help but ponder whether they could transcend the barriers of language, culture, and time to truly understand one another.

Such imaginings give rise to the vision of other historical and mythological figures entangled in timeless dialogues. Picture Dhritarashtra, the blind monarch from the Mahabharata, sharing a contemplative moment with Oedipus, the ill-fated king of Thebes. Could they, in this imagined encounter, dissect their profound guilt or confront the moral quandaries of their lives? And what role might Tiresias, the seer whose prophecies hold the potential to rewrite fates, play in such an assembly? Would his revelations act as a catalyst for divine intervention or a profound moment of self-realisation, compelling them to eschew the errors of their past? Perhaps, through this hypothetical convergence, they might chart a path of redemption, thereby offering a cautionary paradigm for those who delve into their stories and endlessly debate their implications.

Turning to the archetypal figures of seduction, one encounters Paris of the Iliad and Indra of Hindu mythology, whose actions resonate across cultural canons. Paris, infamous for his elopement with Helen, the wife of Menelaus, unwittingly precipitated the Trojan War and wrought untold devastation upon humanity. His narrative parallels that of Devraj Indra, king of the Hindu gods, whose infatuation with Ahalya, the wife of his spiritual guru, culminated in a deceitful seduction and a consequential curse. These figures compel us to question whether they possessed even the faintest awareness of the ramifications of their hedonistic pursuits. Do they, as embodiments of unchecked patriarchal privilege, serve as cautionary exemplars, their tales echoing as warnings against the destructive allure of unbridled desire?

Reflecting on these illustrious yet flawed figures, I am reminded of Sisir Kumar Das, whose intellectual oeuvre exemplifies the boundless potential of the human mind. His scholarly endeavours, characterised by a spirit of experimental inquiry, evoke the metaphor of an unfathomable ocean—deep, expansive, and resistant to simplistic understanding. Yet, his magnum opus underscores a vital principle: that the true vocation of a scholar lies not merely in the pursuit of profound thought but in forging connections that illuminate pathways for future generations. Indeed, scholarship, when approached as a continual process of trial and error, becomes a bridge that unites ideas across temporal and intellectual divides, fostering a legacy of enduring relevance.

[arnaultcavalcanti]

There was a time, during the celebration of Durga Puja, when books became an essential embodiment of one’s very being, as though they were an intrinsic part of the festival itself. I found myself positively enthralled by the custom of acquiring volumes for the Puja season—whether one chose to delve into new tomes, essays, or verses, or revisited the venerable classics which beckoned for a reread, be they from the Victorian or Modernist age, the Avant-Garde or Experimental schools. It mattered not—whether the books were freshly minted or old, procuring them or discovering some rare gem was always a day worthy of great esteem, a noble endeavour to enrich one’s collection for the days to come.

Of late, however, it seems we are abandoning that spirit of festivity and individuality, as others presume to dictate how matters should be. This begs the question: are we, perchance, forsaking our heritage? I do not allude here to the act of worship or matters of atheism, but rather to those cultural traditions which, in my estimation, should be the rightful possession of all. Alas, it seems to be falling under the sway of mercantile interests, where others are now decreeing what attire, what fare, and even what songs shall be proper.

Though we are well acquainted with the patriarchal customs of yore, what I intend to express is that, in this day and age, we appear to be following the caprices of others. Our way of life is no passing fashion, and our traditions (some of which ought, no doubt, to be consigned to oblivion) are cultural touchstones, intended for the welfare of society. Why, then, do we permit these alterations to creep in?

[arnaultcavalcanti]

The culture and lineage of books, the emotions they stir, the prestige they command, and the hubris they have accrued—alongside the mechanisms of capitalist publishing and the commodification of literature—are phenomena we must scrutinise over the past millennium. Books have enlightened and misled us, rendered us both sagacious and naïve, propagated falsehoods, and even provoked violence. We have borne witness to these multifaceted roles. Yet, the critical inquiry remains: why, after centuries, do books continue to wield such formidable influence? What intrinsic qualities have enraptured us so profoundly? What accounts for this enduring obsession? What trajectory lies ahead for books, and what profound questions remain unanswered? What course of action ought we to take?

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Agha Shahid Ali

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Ezra Pound

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It is scarcely conceivable that poetry embodies a greater degree of the imaginary than it does an array of distinct personae...

Ezra Pound...

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In the solitude of the subject, what emerges as a peculiar companion is not a clear object of desire but rather the manifestation of ambiguity, an emblem of the fragmented self. The question is not situated in the domain of what action should be taken, for this inquiry misrecognises the fundamental structure of the unconscious. Instead, it is this very ambiguity, this internal lack, that paradoxically offers a form of jouissance, standing as an ever-present witness to the subject’s alienation in the Symbolic Order.

Perhaps what is at work here is the mastery of the alienation inherent in loneliness. During those instances when the Other is absent, this ambiguity, this split in the subject, becomes all the more prominent, patiently awaiting the subject’s engagement with their divided self. It entices the subject into a dialogue with their own fragmentation, inviting them to traverse the fantasy, to direct their aggression inward, toward their ego-ideal, and toward the world that constructed their objet petit a. What once appeared as a potential site of meaning or hope is now revealed as nothing more than the excess of signification—the ambiguity that structures desire itself.

Even as the subject approaches a state of weariness—though not yet reaching the Real of death, for that cessation is the ultimate foreclosure—this ambiguity persists, lingering in the gap between the Imaginary and the Real. Within this suspended space, the ambiguity assumes a new guise, one that resembles a deceptive promise of meaning. It waits for the subject to decide: Will they remain trapped within the Symbolic’s entanglements, or will they make a move toward the Real, confronting the truth of their divided subjectivity?

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Anon, life doth present diverse seasons, which but a poet alone may rightly describe.

Odysseus Elytis

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Love to share this unbelievable armenian poets poems translated by #metamorphesque

my translations of Armenian Poetry 🌻

Vahan Teryan

"I love your guilty dusky eyes...", Vahan Teryan

"Two Phantoms", Vahan Teryan

"I shall come to you ...", Vahan Teryan

"To forget, to forget ...", Vahan Teryan

"Sweeter Than Living", Vahan Teryan

"In the empty words", Vahan Teryan

Paruyr Sevak

"Unexpected Storm", Paruyr Sevak

"One of Us", Paruyr Sevak

"Close your eyes", Paruyr Sevak

"I love to love...", Paruyr Sevak

"To Go Mad", Paruyr Sevak

"Your Name", Paruyr Sevak

"You don't love anew ...", Paruyr Sevak

"People are not alike...", Paruyr Sevak

"To Live...", Paruyr Sevak

Hovhannes Tumanyan

"In slumber's grasp...", Hovhannes Tumanyan

Eghishe Charenc

"Sister, it might be ...", Eghishe Charenc

"All of these flames ...", Eghishe Charenc

Hovhannes Grigoryan

"Songs of Farewell", Hovhannes Grigoryan

"Armenia", Hovhannes Grigoryan

"I'm no longer looking for you", Hovhannes Grigoryan

"An evening with aged maidens", Hovhannes Grigoryan

"Perhaps, it's spring ...", Hovhannes Grigoryan

"Don't you ever die", Hovhannes Grigoryan

"A letter that will never reach you", Hovhannes Grigoryan

Henrik Edoyan

"I did not do what was written ...", Henrik Edoyan

"I remember many of them...", Henrik Edoyan

"A biography that might as well have been mine", Henrik Edoyan

Vardan Hakobyan

"Love One Another", Vardan Hakobyan

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#metamorphesque I am profoundly appreciative of your work. It has been an immense privilege to be introduced to this preeminent poet of Armenia, whose existence was previously unknown to me.

"In the empty words ...", Vahan Teryan (translated by metamorphesque)

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I dare say that perusing a magnum opus is akin to beholding a commendable intellect. Yet, when one delves into the life of a sentient being, it is as though one's soul is elevated to the heavens. This must mirror the process undertaken by Naguib Mahfouz, the illustrious Egyptian author who conjured life within his own celestial garden, with the Cairo Trilogy as his botanical masterpiece. Presently, I am engrossed in the first volume, "Palace Walk." As a Bengali, I am intimately acquainted with "Pather Panchali," a dynamic magnum opus crafted by Bibhutibhushan Bandopadhyay. This work persistently lingered in my thoughts as I commenced reading Mahfouz's "Palace Walk." I endeavoured to recall the myriad memories associated with our journey through "Pather Panchali." Rather than noting mere resemblances, I prefer to underscore the shared themes of livelihood, familial bonds, and communal relationships. Despite a particular family's struggles within the confines of their specific religious society, which adheres rigidly to its doctrinal norms, the inexorable march of life continues. Nevertheless, individuals must discern their true desires as a family, their intrinsic needs, and what they genuinely seek from their community, which has become an ornament of grievances. They find themselves unable to discard it, yet bereft of it, they are left with naught.

[arnaultcavalcanti]

This initial photograph of mine for the current year holds marginal appeal to me, as I generally eschew the penchant for capturing visual representations. Nevertheless, there exists a pragmatic utility in utilizing images to manifest one's presence in the contemporary milieu. I conceptualize my persona as a nuanced amalgamation of introverted and extroverted attributes, harbouring a proclivity for distancing myself from prevailing fads, which, unequivocally, prove to be vexatious and transform one's existence into an arduous ordeal. The contemporary zeitgeist, bereft of poeticism, authenticity, and genuine affection, becomes an ostentatious facade, where ostensibly cherished connections are but disingenuous posturing. Occasional recourse to imagery serves as a mnemonic device, facilitating recollection of one's intrinsic essence and the latent potential for affection, even in moments when life greets one with salutations of despair. Is it not an acknowledgement of the despondency inherent in the transience of enduring significance?