Month: May 2020

LIVED MEANINGS: SIMONE DE BEAUVOIR

LECTURE CUM DISCUSSION WITH DR. OMKAR BHATKAR
Live Zoom Session On Wednesday, 3rd June 2020,
5 PM to 7 PM IST // 25 SEATS ONLY


– Deconstructing the idea of ‘woman’
– Philosophy of Existence
– Meaning of Literature for Beauvoir

Simone de Beauvoir was one of the most preeminent French existentialist philosophers and writers. Working alongside other famous existentialists such as Jean-Paul Sartre, Albert Camus and Maurice Merleau-Ponty, de Beauvoir produced a rich corpus of writings including works on ethics, feminism, fiction, autobiography, and politics. this talk by Dr. Omkar Bhatkar shall look more into her Fiction Writing rather than her academic writing. It would deconstruct the idea of ‘Woman’ and touch upon the existentialist ideas of being and becoming. Her philosophy of existence would be explored through her semi autobiographical writings And conclude with Beauvoir’s understanding of ‘Literature’.

‘‘Go for a walk to find yourself”

– Dr. Omkar Bhatkar

Go For Walk
Wanderer Above the Sea of Fog by Caspar David Friedrich

“At last he went back to his old habit of spending most of his time at his office in Jesse Hall. He told himself that he should be grateful for the chance of reading on his own, free from the pressures of preparing for particular classes, free from the predetermined directions of his learning. He tried to read at random, for his own pleasure and indulgence, many of the things that he had been waiting for years to read. But his mind would not be led where he wished it to go; his attention wandered from the pages he held before him, and more and more often he found himself staring dully in front of him, at nothing.”

This is an excerpt from Stoner written by John Williams in 1973; one of my favourite novels and it tells the story of William Stoner who enters the University of Missouri at nineteen years of age to study agriculture. Later, he becomes a teacher. He marries the wrong woman. His life is quiet and, after his death, his colleagues at the University remember him rarely.  William Stoner’s life is the story of most passionate teachers around. Stoner spent an immoderate amount of time in planning for his class, scrutinising his students’ assignments and guiding them in every way possible; he was a dedicated teacher. He was so much of a teacher that very soon he forgot about his existence beyond that. His likes, dislikes, inclinations, pain or glories beyond being a teacher were hardly remembered. But does Stoner realise that he is also something beyond being a teacher?

In this essay, I have attempted to put down my thoughts on ‘the well-being of a teacher’ and how it could be taken care by going out for a walk. I have put together some of my favourite authors and paintings who have also expressed it in their works.

It is noticeable that an accountant does not bring his accountancy home nor does a labourer from the industry bring his blue uniform home; the security does not guard his own home and the painter does not paint the dinner table.  But a teacher will carry home assignments to check, question papers to set, answer sheets to assess, a pile of books to prepare for the class, the student’s attendance sheet to tally and what not! More often than not, this ends up on the dinner table if there is no separate space to do school work at home. The term ‘school work at home’ itself sounds like a paradox. One might argue over what is new about it, even the CEO of the office carries work home and sometimes even the manager. If that’s the case, then the teaching job is not the 5-hour job as it appears to be, it is much more than that. A teacher remains a teacher even out of school or college often carrying the burdens of school work on their head and soon drowning themselves under this burden.

Teachers love teaching and are passionate about it but being a teacher is not only about teaching a 1-hour class on Buddhist Ethics or quadratic expressions. There is much more that goes into teaching. Along with good moments of teaching, there are several moments which require an understanding of oneself to be able to deal with it. There are students we get attached to, there are divisions which do not inspire us; at times, there are subjects forced upon us to teach, syllabi that change without giving us enough time to prepare and, most often, the realisation that what we have to teach in the new syllabus is utterly impractical, unnecessary and drab. (A sincere teacher here goes out of the way to make it practical, necessary and interesting.)

As if this is not enough, there are administrative duties, pressure from parents and most often from the management and the system at large, following strange rules made without the consent of all, odd roles to be played such as planning a farewell along with preparing for a class on ecosystem, to teach and hold the attention of the students whose attention span is reducing every day, to be punctual, to dress well, to speak politely, to have manners, etiquettes, political stands and, above all, be generous. To be a teacher demands a kind of perfection that we think is possible. More often than not, we are fooling ourselves when we strive to achieve perfection. And in this race to be the perfect role model, we are constantly trying to be someone else. In this rat race to be the perfect teacher, we often spend long hours preparing a PowerPoint on the history of the Mauryan dynasty or designing cue cards for the geography class or checking assignments rigorously so that our red pen does not make mistakes in marking or even talking to students during breaks and then not eating lunch in order to be on time for the following class.

Walking-Alone-by-Joseph-Lee-HonKong
Walking Alone by Joseph Lee HonKong

Amidst all this, do we ignore ourselves? Do we really make time to read what we want to read? Do we make time to cook a meal we have been planning to make? Do we take assignments home to check and end up ignoring our loved ones or even taking them for granted? Do we dress for perfection? Do we go for a walk or do we come running to prepare for next class? And when we are home drinking our cup of tea, do we think about why our class is so careless? And when on our way back, are we discussing with our colleague how our supervisor is implementing new policies which we think are unnecessary? Even when we wake up early for school, very often we have to miss breakfast so that we do not miss the train or bus and reach on time for the assembly. In fact, in the morning, we have no time to even choose our dress, which is why we keep it ready the previous night. This is how busy we are that we do not even get to see the blue skies and feel the warmth of the morning sun. This schedule distances us from enjoying the blissful mornings and, in no time, we stop observing the little joys of life and nature. Like Charlie Chaplin’s Modern Times, even the teacher’s life has become nothing but a conveyor belt. There can be situational solutions to this. But everybody is different and different things work on different bodies. Yes, it is also about the body as much, it is of the mind, an amalgamation of the ‘self’.

This self needs to be cared for so that one is able to care about others. The need of the hour in times of crisis is to discover oneself. But during stressful times, finding oneself is not easy. It is like finding the way in the storm. Finding your way in a storm, you will always end up losing the path you have. One has to wait for the storm to subside and then choose a path to find your way.

Reveries-of-the-Solitary-Walker-by-Jean-Jacques-Rousseau
Reveries of the Solitary Walker by Jean-Jacques Rousseau

Most teachers sacrifice themselves too much under the weight of teaching being a noble profession. If teachers sacrifice too much, then there is nothing they would be able to give to the world. Needless to mention, this is often a thankless job in modern times.  At such times, one has to replenish themselves. Disconnect from the world to connect to yourself. Once again, make an attempt to discover your heart. Once you discover your heart, it is like discovering a fire torch and you can light the way for yourself and others who follow you. This light is found by you but, on your path, you share it with many others so that they can take some light with themselves for their own paths. After walking for some time giving this light to others, one realises that the light is gone and now the only way is to pause and think about whether you can create light there or walk a little to find or to create another light. A teacher’s life is about continually renewing and finding yourself so that you help others find themselves. A teacher cannot be just a teacher, a teacher has to be a learner first and teacher second. Lessons of life are learnt until we die and therefore we should never cease to be a student of the school called life. As Maya Angelou puts it, “As you grow older, you will discover that you have two hands, one for helping yourself, the other for helping others.”

Often, what has helped me as a quick fix is a walk. Walking is a remedy that often works in times of stress. Walking aimlessly when one is stressed calms the mind, body and the soul. Like Hippocrates puts it, “If you are in a bad mood, go for a walk. If you are still in a bad mood, go for another walk.”

Les Rêveries du Promeneur Solitaire (Meditations of a Solitary Walker), an unfinished manuscript composed between 1776 and 1778, is one of the last works of Jean-Jacques Rousseau. He died 3 months short of completing the 10 “walks” that comprise Rêveries. “I am devoting my last days to studying myself,” he wrote. The result is remarkable, the work of a man who felt himself rejected by society turned in on himself. The work is a powerful meditation on the quest for self-care. Rousseau felt rejected by society or you could say that he reached his mid-life crisis. But reaching the forties milestone, he analysed the stock of his life while taking walks in isolation. On his third walk, he writes:

“Since the days of my youth I had fixed on the age of forty as the end of my efforts to succeed, the final term of my various ambitions. I had the firm intention, when I reached this age, of making no further effort to climb out of whatever situation I was in and of spending the rest of my life living from day to day with no thought for the future. When the time came, I carried out my plan without difficulty and, although my fortune at that time seemed to be on the point of changing permanently for the better, it was not only without regret but with real pleasure that I gave up these prospects.

In shaking off all these lures and vain hopes, I abandoned myself entirely to the nonchalant tranquillity which has always been my dominant taste and more lasting inclination. I quit the world and its vanities, I gave up all finery—no more sword, no more watch, no more white stockings, gilt trimmings and powder, but a simple wig and a good solid coat of broad cloth—and what is more than all the rest, I uprooted from my heart the greed and covetousness which gave value to all I was leaving behind. I did not confine my reformation to outward things. Indeed, I became aware that this change called for a revision of my opinions, which although undoubtedly more painful was also more necessary, and resolving to get it all over at once, I set about a strict self-examination which was to order my inner life for the rest of my days as I would wish it to be at the time of my death.”

Thus, it is a walk that provides the mind with an understanding of the self. We are living in a culture of workaholism to which there is no full stop. Like a conveyer belt, everything is interconnected and interdependent. While teachers are busy teaching Semester I and trying hard to make a connect with the students, the exam sets in and, post-exams, when there is a break for all, the break is for namesake before we begin preparation for Semester II. It is already there, growing all around us like acrid air. The teaching culture does not provide us enough breaks and work continues to multiply Also, Rebecca Solnit describes what walking brings to her in her book Wanderlust (2000):like that of a worker bee.

Wanderlust by Rebecca Solnit

“The multiplication of technologies in the name of efficiency is actually eradicating free time by making it possible to maximise the time and place for production and minimise the unstructured travel time in between. New timesaving technologies make most workers more productive, not more free, in a world that seems to be accelerating around them. Too, the rhetoric of efficiency around these technologies suggests that what cannot be quantified cannot be valued — that that vast array of pleasures which fall into the category of doing nothing in particular, of wool-gathering, cloud-gazing, wandering, window-shopping, are nothing but voids to be filled by something more definite, more productive, or faster paced… As a member of the self-employed whose time saved by technology can be lavished on daydreams and meanders, I know these things have their uses, and use them — a truck, a computer, a modem — myself, but I fear their false urgency, their call to speed, their insistence that travel is less important than arrival. I like walking because it is slow, and I suspect that the mind, like the feet, works at about three miles an hour. If this is so, then modern life is moving faster than the speed of thought, or thoughtfulness.”

Kirkegaard illustration, Philosophie magazine

On contemplating our greatest source of unhappiness,Søren Kierkegaard writes, “Of all ridiculous things, the most ridiculous seems to me, to be busy — to be a man who is brisk about his food and his work… What, I wonder, do these busy folks get done.” Kierkegaard, the 19th-century Danish philosopher, felt that people who are constantly busy doing something are actually doing nothing in particular but only running away from their ‘self’. Being busy is escapism from discovering yourself.  It is only in moments of solitude that one tries to meet his/ her own ‘self’. Every teacher has a responsibility to know themselves in order to make the path for others.Therefore, selfcare is necessary for an individual, for every teacher to be able to care for others. If teachers feel that the situation around them is stressful and it is burning them inside out,then better than trying to fight the situation without enough protection to their ‘self’, they should walk out for some time and keep walking till they feel alright to resume. This will not be considered ‘escapism’, ‘egoist’ or simply ‘self-love’; rather, it is love of self and it is highly important for every teacher to be able to love themselves.

Rousseau was one of the first philosophers to make the clear distinction between amour de soi, love of self or innate self-esteem, and amour-propre, self-love or egotistical pride. Having reached a state of contentment, he remarks in his Eighth Walk: “… alone with myself, contented with myself and already enjoying the happiness, which I feel I have deserved … Love of self alone is active in all of this, self-love has no part.” Therefore, Rousseau had distinguished ego from self-esteem very early, before the birth of psychological understandings on the subject.

The Walk by Robert Walser

In short, walking cleans the soul of the weight of the burden that we carry, purifies the body with the sweat of unnecessary trivialities, clears our vision with clean air and cleanses the throat of words stuck in limbo, those said and unsaid. Walk, more than a preparation for the future, is an aimless meandering of thoughts which, by the end, resolve themselves in one way or another. Every teacher, every soul needs to walk every day be it with the sunrise or the sunset and observe how everything around them moves by.

To conclude, I would echo the words of the Swiss modernist writer Robert Walser, from his short story “The Walk (1917)”: “With the utmost love and attention, the man who walks must study and observe every smallest living thing, be it a child, a dog, a fly, a butterfly, a sparrow, a worm, a flower, a man, a house, a tree, a hedge, a snail, a mouse, a cloud, a hill, a leaf, or no more than a poor discarded scrap of paper on which, perhaps, a dear good child at school has written his first clumsy letters.”

Oblivion

The phone rings at 10 in the night. Wondering who it could be, I pick up the receiver and say ‘Hello’.

There is no response on the other side.

Again, I repeat ‘Hello’.

There is no response.

I say in a quick tone ‘Hello, Hello’.

There is no response yet again, but a calm silence. I become quiet and listen to the silence, then I again softly say, ‘Hello’.

I interpret the silence with a fear of the known, and my tone turns into a nostalgic ‘hello’, as if the pain in my voice would compel the person on the other end to say hello.

I could hear the breath of the other person caressingly falling on my ear drums, soothing me from my painful past, which at this moment, seemed beautiful.

I yearn to hear a response.

Then comes an unsure ‘Hello’ from the other end.

With moist eyes I respond immediately, ‘Is that you, is it really you?’

The other person hangs up. With the beeping tone, this wired conversation disconnects the surreal imagery of a past, which is unveiling in the dark night of the present and thus, begins the conundrum of scattered images. Pictures from the past that seem to make the present look unreal. I am plagued by these pictures and incandescently, transported to my past.

‘I was quickly making some cheese sandwiches, and he was in hurry to leave. The rain fell incessantly outside. He had to drive the whole night. He had not eaten and I couldn’t just let him go hungry. I managed to pack a few sandwiches for him and wrap them in a brown paper. I put them in his bag. With a smile, he hugged me and rushed out. With the thud of the door, I ran to my window to see him drive away. I again bade him goodbye, waving my hand in the air, as he drove straight into the thick wall of rain. He looked back at me, with a slight smile, resumed driving and continued to absolve into the thick rain. He soon disappeared and I stood at the window drenched in sweat and rain, still absorbed in the musk of his blue chequered shirt.’

I am still holding the phone standing at the window and looking into oblivion, as if I was still at the window of my reminiscent past; as if a part of me was still there in that night waiting for him. I keep waiting frozen with time, only able to move once again with his touch, which breathes life into me. The same breath is now echoing in my ear drums, reverberating in the phone and I am filled with that breath. The cells in my body are moving to this older rhythm they knew, they immediately recognized and are now dazed losing themselves in a present-past.

Before I can put this night in place, my soul races to call him back on the same number. I call the number again and again and again, only to realize I can’t reach him. It doesn’t really surprise me because now I know, it was him. It really was him. This is exactly how he always behaved — unpredictable and never responsive. The phone in my hand now takes me back, to about a decade ago.

‘I was in my studio teaching some new students about the Art of Frida Kahlo, her methods of expression of pain through a physical tragedy and the painfully loving relationship with Diego Riviera. While I had asked the students to go through Frida’s Memory, by heart, I happened to look at my phone. The phone was vibrating with an unknown number flashing on it. Even though I didn’t want to answer it, unknowingly my hands moved to pick it up. Before I knew it, I uttered a very soft ‘hello’. There was no response; I uttered another soft ‘hello’. The next moment, the person on the call responded ‘Hello’. There was a long silence. My heart sank and I moved out of the studio into the courtyard. I stood leaning on the pillar not knowing how to respond. He said ‘I hope you remember me?’

I responded ‘Of course, I do. Where have you been so long? Do you even realize what you do to people? I’ve been going crazy thinking about you? I try to call you but your number doesn’t exist? Why do you do this?’

He, replied ‘I called you now.’

I responded, ‘I don’t know what to say, I’m just …….I’m just shocked. I don’t know how to react. First, you disappear with no trace and suddenly out of nowhere I get this call; and I just don’t know what to say, I really don’t. I missed you. Where were you and whose number is this?’

He continued “Maya, I’m here, talking to you. I will tell you everything slowly. First, tell me how have you been? Do you still paint?”

We conversed endlessly. I was happy that he had called; and like the first blossom of spring, I was happy. Like the Easter lily, my face lit up. Even if it was for a few moments, I floated on a cloud of happiness that knew no bounds. And precisely, because it had no direction, this happiness drifted away until there was no trace, losing itself in the mist once again.

“Do you still live in Mumbai?”, I asked.

He replied “So far yes, but I would be moving very soon.”

“Where?”, I wanted to know.

“I will let you know. You know that I lost my mother, right?”, He asked.

I replied, “I didn’t know. How would I know?”

“Hmmmm….. “ ,he said.

“What happened?” I enquired.

“I guess it was her time. Time took her away”, he explained.

I remarked, “It must have been very difficult for you!”

“It was. In fact it still is. But I have to live with it”, he replied.

“So now it’s you and dad? How is he doing?”, I asked curiously.

“He is doing like before, nothing much changed for him, I guess”, he answered.

“You never really liked him?” I asked.

“There wasn’t much in him to like, he was just a dad who could never understand what his child wanted from life”, he reminisced.

“I’m sorry”, I said sympathetically.

“You don’t need to be. I’m living with it and trying to move on. ‘Move on’ is a strange term. I wonder if there is something like move on, because if we do, we wouldn’t be still stuck there”, he said to put me at ease.

I responded, “Yes, stuck is where we leave a part of us; a part of us that we often don’t find later, because it’s always somewhere there in the past. And bringing the past with the present is not really a present but a coherent past, just like different pieces of the past that sums the present.”

“And often we find a part of ourselves wanting to turn back the clock”, he added.

“Just like you’re doing it with this call?” I asked.

(We both smiled)

I continued, “I don’t know why you do this to yourself? To us?”

“I don’t know it myself, but I guess it’s something; I’m trying to understand”, he said with deep sincerity.

“I’m not going to ask you where you disappeared that night in the rain”, I said.

“I think it’s been a very long conversation and my office colleagues are wondering. Can I call you later?” he asked.

Filled with uncertainty, I asked “Are you sure that you will call?”

“Yes, I will”, he promised.

“May I have your number?”, I asked curiously.

“Maya, I still don’t use a phone, this is the office number”, he informed me, “Don’t worry, I will call”, he promised.

“I guess I believe you”, I said.

“And don’t think so much and return back to your studio”, he said gently.

“Yeah”, I said, a little disappointed.

The phone call ended.

I kept leaning on the pillar looking at the sky with moist eyes and all I saw was, white clouds passing by. In the courtyard, the spring blossoms had sprung up, it was a new beginning. With a faint smile, I walk back to my studio.

Suddenly, I realized that, I could not resume my class; I could not go back to my present. I was lost somewhere on an aimless drifting cloud, that only brought momentary passion in exchange of an aimless longing.

Probably there was hope in my heart that he is there around, watching me quietly and following me with utmost precaution to remain unnoticed. Sometimes I felt as though he might slip in through a back door. I had never shut the door for him, it was he who softly shut it. I ran to the window to get a last glimpse of him walking away in the rain. May be that’s why, I couldn’t cry, nothing was said; only his last smile, as he looked back through the thick rain.

The next few days slowly revealed to me, the same fear that of the known. I had feared that he might not call. I waited for days and there was no call. It was weeks now, but no trace of him. I was holding each day with patience, but was unable to see time slipping through my hands. I unknowingly dialled his office number to see ‘what would happen?’ ‘What if he picked up my call?’ ‘What if someone else picks up and hands it over to him?’ Without imagining what his office, cubicle, cabin or the floor looked like, I dialled the number.

I said ‘Hello’.

Man on the phone responded ‘Hello’.

“Is Walter there?”, I asked.

“Who, Walter?”, was the man’s puzzled response.

“Mr. Walter Smith”, I replied.

“Mr. Walter Smith, doesn’t work with us anymore. What is this regarding?”, the man enquired politely.’

I was still holding the phone and remembered that this was the call, I made many years ago too; but I couldn’t recollect how many years ago. Memory is so strange, if not revised, moments lose their timeline. Sometimes they lose themselves slowly- part by part, piece by piece, strand by strand, over a period of time. Often, what’s left behind is some paltry scrap. He could have become a distant memory but, he was like a shadow in my life. He was around — just everywhere.

Still holding the phone, I recollected that I could try to trace his email. Then I could figure out and end my struggle to know how long ago he had called. Perhaps I wanted to know the exact month, as my present seemed meaningless without knowing the incinerated past. But to trace each part, I needed to find that email. It was only with this email that I would be able to trace the timeline of which event followed the other. And there were several other parts. At the moment, the dots were scattered and nothing was joining them to make it a complete picture. Unable to control my overwhelming emotions, I sent him an email on the email id that I found. I wrote down my feelings of agony and love.

I hold the phone, recollecting how to trace the email sent. Possibly, then I could at least figure out how many years ago did we speak, as I was still struggling to understand, when was it that he called. May be, I wanted to know the exact month, or may be my present was becoming meaningless without knowing the incinerated past. I couldn’t believe how time had erased parts of me. Part of me standing at the window watching him drive away into the thick rain. Part of me leaning on the pillar, looking at the spring blossoms, hoping it to be a new beginning; and there were several other parts which I needed to trace. But to do that, I wanted to find that email. It was only with this email that I could trace the timeline of the parts, as to what event followed another. At the moment, the dots were scattered and nothing was joining them to make it a complete picture. I wanted the sketch of my past, and so, I ran to my computer to see if I could find that email.

It didn’t take me long to find that one last email written to him. The laptop at that moment had metamorphosed into a repository of my feelings and it read,

It was nice hearing your voice this morning. It felt as if I’m speaking to someone ‘lost in time’ yet stuck in between time and thoughts.

Though, I tried to reach you earlier, you seemed distant. But let’s leave that as past and look at the present. This long gap of time has taught me a lot, taken away some things and given a few things in return. I’ve grown and know a lot more now. The innocence in me is still there, but now it’s hidden inside.

Yes, I can say I missed you, because I do have close associations with people I care. Else, I wouldn’t be waiting at the window, saying bye to you in that thick rain. There was something that evening, that you didn’t tell me. Yet again, let’s leave the past. Doesn’t matter now!

I wish I was there next to you when mom left. I know that you’re a lost soul, and kept wondering what would have happened to you without her. I wish I could speak with you about everything right from the morning that you called. I don’t know if we will ever speak (knowing that you never revert) so, I thought….let me just write to you.

There is something that was left unsaid between us when you last called, and it felt as if it was an incomplete call…….

There is a longing, a loneliness. So I wrap myself in my art world, where I find some solace from “lovelessness” and yearn to find the missing part of my heart. My paintings have become intense and more painful, that’s what most say. May be, it’s the state of my consciousness expressed on canvas. Books give me solace, Art keeps me alive.

Sometimes I wonder if Life is a Paradox, as if Love and Loss exist together in the same heart, as if it’s a deal between them, that one would follow the other. Just like death follows life, the moon follows the sun, the spring follows autumn, probably loss follows love. And life wishes for this paradox, which itself is a paradox. Probably, paradox can’t be true. Because then everything would be a paradox. Paradox could be a cracked truth.

Yes, Paradox is nothing else but a cracked truth.

Amidst all these I write letters to people whom I really care about, and wish they were here. Wish they were here next to me but aren’t. So letters have become a way to express all that’s happening within. Just like this letter to you.

Looking forward to talk to you… Have a cup of tea with you.

As a closing remark I would like to quote Louis Aragon, “By the time we learn to live, it’s already too late.”

Don’t worry, I’m not falling in love again, (rather I can’t); just concerned for you.

Yours,
Maya

The email’s date helped me to place the three parts of me in a time line; it’s been fourteen years since I last saw him at my home. Then two years later, he called me from his office. Almost a month later I sent an email and he didn’t respond. So, a couple of days later, I sent another short email, which bounced back, as the sender’s email id didn’t exist. Every time he came into my life, he made sure he left no footprints to his home.

Did he even have a home?

It was then I remembered him in the café.

‘A year and a half after that email, I was sitting in a café with my fiance. I had finally found someone who could understand me, someone who could be a part of a journey called marriage. Sitting with him in the café, while sipping my cocoa, I looked at the street outside. I always loved sitting at the glass windows from where the outside world was visible and I could see life pass by. The door opened and it was him with a lady. I pretended to have not seen him, and continued my conversation with my fiance. I was troubled or probably was curious. I wasn’t unhappy that he left me but, I was startled to see that he never got back to me and here he was, right in front of me and I couldn’t say a word, as he wasn’t alone. After some moments, he noticed me sitting at the window with a man. He smiled from his table and I smiled back.

That was it, no one said a word. My fiance asked ‘Who is he?’ Probably, the lady at his table asked him the same ‘Who is she? ’And we both replied, ‘Just a friend.’ No more glances, no more smiles. It was as if the café was filled with strangers and we both were one of them. The incident left me with the same thought, he was always unpredictable and something changed and changed utterly. Probably, both of us found love, but not with each other. As absurd as it sounds, nothing more happened. All of us left the café at some point that night to fall into the arms of a love, we newly found. A terrible beauty was born.’

I was sitting in the dark staring at the email, trying to put back the pieces of the past fourteen years since I saw him last at my home. Then two years later he called me from his office. A year and a half later, I saw him in the café with a lady, to whom I took instant dislike.

There was one more part of me waiting at the National Gallery of Modern Art, dressed in white, surrounded by people and my paintings.

‘It was the opening night of my exhibition on the Greek goddess — Lethe. While I was surrounded by art enthusiasts, I noticed him in the crowd. I thought that I was imagining him, only when he smiled did I realize, it was him. I excused myself and walked to him and before he could say anything, I realized that he wasn’t alone. He was with another young girl. Not able to resist, I asked him how had been and where was he now? He just smiled and responded that he was doing well. He appreciated the painting in one word calling it ‘marvelous’ , and said that he wanted his friend Lisa to come and see them. Before all of this dissolved once again and as usual we drift apart, I again asked him for his number and he said that he still never uses a phone. In that moment, I was surrounded by another set of people and before I could say something, I pleaded with him to wait, only to realize a few moments later that there was no trace of him. Like every time, no footprints going back. Once again, he was there in a moment and just vanished in the next. I couldn’t understand; time and again he did the same. If he didn’t want to stay then why did he even come? This was another part of me, stranded in a white dress, in front of a huge canvas, surrounded by people and I, staring into the oblivion.’

I gazed at the phone in my hand and at the email on the laptop screen, and then look at the painting of the goddess Lethe on the blue wall. Perplexed, I pulled a piece of paper and tried joining these dots in an order. I scribbled on the paper……..

It was fourteen years ago that I saw him last at my home. Then two years later he called me from his office. A year and a half later, I saw him in La Patisserie with the strange woman. Two years later, he shows up at my exhibition with another or probably the same woman at the National Gallery of Modern Art, and after that, no trace of him. So, it’s eight years and after that he never appeared, until now with the phone call.

What is he thinking? Why does he do it time and again? He comes without any warning and disappears with no foot prints. Like a ghost of the past leaves me terrified. Never again the present seems present any more and, I am trapped in a pendulum oscillating between the past and another past. The present is only the interim, from left to the right. Possibly, he doesn’t seek a journey and is content with the mystery of us together, where there are no conversations, no confessions, no promises and even no understandings — just a limbo. Perhaps he’d seen that sometimes it’s best to stop things when they are perfect. He pauses these moments and leaves them incomplete, so that the in-completion seems perfect and there is nowhere to go. No desire to complete these moments and see them turning sour.

Fourteen years have passed by, but it all seems like an inchoate picture of yesterday. As if nothing had changed and everything was the same. As if I am still waiting at the window in the thick rain, as if is I am startled by the phone call, frozen, leaning on the pillar, gazing outside in my infirmity, my eyes glued to the glass door of the café. I am immortalized on the canvas and am being painted in white, like a goddess of the oblivion.

Written by Omkar Bhatkar

Notes of Love (2020)

Designed and Directed by Omkar Bhatkar


“Of all forms of caution, caution in love is perhaps the most fatal to true happiness.” ― Bertrand Russell

Poetry, Letters, and Paintings are the spontaneous overflows of powerful feelings: it takes its origin from emotion recollected in tranquility. In memory of the love lost and appreciation of the love found, St. Andrew’s Centre of Philosophy and Performing Arts in association with Metamorphosis Inc. brings to you a collection of handpicked letters and poems from literary writers, poets, painters, musicians, and artist.

From desire and longing to passion and relationship, these classic works of artist/e capture the full spectrum of romance, including its highest highs, bittersweet lows, and the power of lasting relationship.

‘Notes of Love’ features the works of beloved poets, writers, and artists which include Ted Huges, Frida Kahlo, Simone de Beauvoir, Christina Rossetti, Okkur Macatti, Elizabeth Bishop, Faiz Ahmed Faiz, Mark Strand, Rabindranath Tagore, Michelangelo Buonarroti, Tennesse Williams, Federico García Lorca, Emily Dickinson, Khalil Gibran, and Marcel Proust. These works take on both desire and its higher power: love in all its tender and taunting variety. Come and experience the power of love through words, said and unsaid in this delicately crafted experience.

Metamorphosis Theatre Inc Presentation

Christmas Poems with a Cup of Cocoa (2019)

Imagined and Directed by Omkar Bhatkar


Christmas comes again, With Jingle Bells and Holly, With Christmas Trees so Jolly, With Santa on his sleigh, His cute little elves and sprightly little reindeer HoHoHo heyyy

We bring you the Love Hope and Joy of Christmas with a glittery evening of beautiful Poems for all. A Collection of Poems from Clinton Scollard, Sandra M. Castillo, Louisa May Alcott, Gjertrud Schnackenberg, John Gay, Charles Wesley, William Butler Yeats, Henry Vaughan, Toi Derricotte, E.E. Cummings, Walter de la Mare, Ted Kooser, Henry Van Dyke, Livingston Jr. Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, Kenn Nesbitt, Christina Rossetti, T.S. Eliot

SAPP & Metamorphosis Theatre Inc Presentation

Source: Mid Day

Lead Kindly Light (2019)

Designed and Directed by Omkar Bhatkar


When India became free on 15th August 1947, Gandhi had no message for the nation, nor was he celebrating India’s Independence. He was in Calcutta fighting riots that were splitting the communal fabric of the country. He firmly believed that Religious Togetherness could only keep us united as a nation, and as a human being. Gandhi believed a respectful study of other’s religion was a sacred duty and it did not reduce reverence for one’s own. He was looking out for those universal principles which transcended religion as a dogma. This play is an attempt to bring his idea of religion to stage which he practised through his prayer meetings. The play is an amalgamation of movement, theatre, visuals and hymns.

ANDIE, SAPP & Metamorphosis Theatre Inc Presentation.

Source: Mid Day , Theteenagertoday.com

French Love Poetry in Motion (2019)

Imagined and Directed by Omkar Bhatkar


In partnership with St. Andrew’s Centre for Philosophy & Performing Arts (SAPP) and Alliance Française de Bombay comes a poetic presentation. A collection of classical and contemporary French love poems translated in English. The poems are performed by a set of actors using Text, Voice and Body. The poems are handpicked from Louis Aragaon, Arthur Rimbaud , Pierre de Ronsard, Max Jacob, Victor Hugo, Maurice Scève, Joachim du Bellay , Gérard de Nerval, Marceline Desbordes-Valmore and other such poets. Along with poems a few love letters would be read penned by Simone de Beauvoir, Pierre Currie and Napolean Bonaparte.

Alliance Française de Bombay in collaboration with St. Andrew’s Centre for Philosophy & Performing Arts and Metamorphosis Theatre Inc

Source: Mid Day

Last Few Poems : Kamala Das and Slyvia Plath (2019)

Imagined and Directed by Omkar Bhatkar


“Sylvia Plath and Kamala Das, prominent Poets, famous contributors of Confessional Poetry, a style of Poetry that focuses on Individual experience and Personal Trauma, also focusing on sexuality, mental illness and personal anguish. Some beautifully poignant and soulful poems written by Sylvia Plath and Kamala Das which they wrote in their last few years of life will be performed by Actors using Voice, Emotion and Movement interspersed with an AV of Plath and Das’s photographs, sketches and life. Last Few Poems deal with their interests, their emotional state, their anguish with the people around them and the general hopelessness that they experienced leading to their untimely and early demise.

Metamorphosis Theatre Inc Presentation

Source: Mid Day

Love and Loss Poems : Neruda (2019)

Imagined and Directed by Omkar Bhatkar


Pablo Neruda (1904-1973) was probably the greatest and certainly the most prolific of twentieth-century Latin American poets. He brought out his first collection at the age of seventeen and quickly developed an assured and distinctive poetic voice.

This poetic play draws on work from throughout his writing life, from the famous early collection Twenty Love Songs and a Song of Despair (1924) to the key works of his maturity, Residence on Earth (1935), Elemental Odes (1954) and the autobiographical Memorial de Isla Negra (1964).

Few writers of any age have described the pleasures and torments of erotic love with such unsentimental directness and sensual precision.

Metamorphosis Theatre Inc brings you the most celebrated and admired love poetry on stage penned in the last hundred years intermingling with Music, and Movement.

Metamorphosis Theatre Inc Presentation

Sacred Voices from the West (2019)

Designed and Directed by Omkar Bhatkar


Sacred Voices from The West is a devised theatre piece of handpicked poems about the divine reflections of Saints, martyrs and modern poets. St. Francis’ loving observations of nature through the eyes of Catholicism; ecstatic love poems of St. Thomas Aquinas, Musical poetry of St. Catherine of Siena, Meister Eckhart’s freeing humour of divine reach; St. Teresa of Avila’s sensual verse; and the mystical, healing words of St. John of the Cross to the painful trial of Joan of the Arc—these along with contemporary spiritual works by Maya Angelou, Karen Boye, Wallace Stevens, Alicia Ostriker, Julius Lester.

The play is an attempt to create profound and playful renditions of Western spiritual poems and paintings of artists like Caravaggio, Rubens, and Michelangelo through this theatrical piece for the modern audience.

St. Andrew’s Centre for Philosophy & Performing Arts and Metamorphosis Theatre Inc presentation