The man that clothes me

It was predominantly a dark room lit by the fire in the hearth. The shadows of the men assembled danced on the ceilings, making them appear even more surreal than the figures in the tapestry far above them. A few maids scurried here and there, carrying pitchers of water or wine.

Peter was pacing the stone floor, his eyebrows furrowed in thought. The others looked at him apprehensively, some hoping he had an answer to why they were gathered there.
The creak of the door created a sudden stir among the assembled, and Jesus of Nazareth strode in, rather slowly. His eyes moved over the twelve others gathered there, resting briefly on a man hidden in the shadows.

"Teacher!" Peter rushed forward and kissed Jesus's feet. The others suddenly seemed to have realised that this was the apt thing to do, and snapped out of their trance to do so.

Half an hour later, the twelve were sitting stunned, as the impact of what their teacher had told them sank in. It was going to change everything. Every single person knew that they were witnessing history - a legend in the making. But who was the one? Their eyes moved sideways, daring the others to doubt them. The air seemed to have turned sharp all of a sudden, as daggers were thrown from behind eyelids. Who?

"Judas Iscariot!" The man addressed so by Jesus jerked up, his eyes missing everyone but the messiah's. "Come with me. We need to talk."

Guilty as charged! The other eleven looked at the darker man with contempt and - could it be relief? Had Jesus beckoned Peter, or Bartholomew - would the feeling have been same? There was no way to find out anymore. The die had been cast. The man had been marked.

Jesus and Judas strolled along the courtyard of the temple of Solomon, their path adorned by a dazzling moonlight from above. There was a faint scent of fresh herbs in the air as the two men walked.

"We are pretty much the same, my Judas. We have both been marked. There are times when destiny weighs down on you like a mountain. There are times when death might feel lighter than a feather. That is when men confront choices."

"But there are no choices, are there?" asked Judas, his eyes reflecting the moon.

"No. Not for us." A sudden cloud of darkness seemed to have passed Jesus's face as he said the words, and Judas could sense the sadness behind those words.

"You," said Jesus, "are going to free me from the man that clothes me. You are going to free from eternity. You are going to kill me, Judas. You are going to be my salvation."

Nothing - not even the eyes - betrayed the other man's emotions as he heard the words. He kept nodding and looking - deep inside.

"Let me initiate you into the way of stars, my friend," said Jesus, looking up. "Let me tell you about the duality of things. Hear the words of the gods as you listen to the inner drum. Let me tell you about fate and chance.There are layers to the human response, and there are levels of understanding. There are colors of men and shades of evil. Listen, and let me tell you..."

The younger man did not know how long the session had lasted - but he was smiling at the end of it all. There were tears in his eyes, but he looked at the Saviour with a new-found light. He had been the doubter, but now he was the only true believer. He was the first gnostic.

He bent down to kiss the anointed one's feet. Jesus flinched from Judas.

"Not yet," said Jesus. "Not just yet."

The above short play is based on a discovery called 'The Gospel of Judas' near the Dead Sea, where the Nag Hammadi scrolls (Dead Sea Scrolls) had been discovered. The authenticity of this document is still in question but it makes for an interesting read.

Walking with the dreamers

The morning was early and the ducks were elegant. The small pathway along the lake seemed to stretch on endlessly and it was the first time I was enjoying a walk with six others.

It had been Mahendra Pallava who had suggested that we head out to a pub the previous night. Pulikesi had gotten drunk with vodka while Sivakami had taken it easy with lime juice.

And now we were all walking along the lake and Kabilan intoned, "Nagareshu Mysore."

"Athi Sundaram," said the Pallava king and I half-expected Sivakami to compose a dance right there, competing with the swans.

The Annual Theatre Festival (or Rangayana) at Mysore happens curiously every year. A few foreign films had also been showcased. 'Shame' by Ingmar Bergmen had touched a nerve - the pathetic human emotions and the shameful exploits to survive were put embarrasingly on display.

I had initially envisioned a place with bearded men in kurtas and movies that displayed breasts in aesthetic, black & white frames. I wasn't disappointed. But what surprised me most was how much I liked being there.

Then it had turned out that we (my travelling companion and I) were friends with the cast of 'Flame of the Forest' - a stage adaptation of Kalki's 'Sivagaamiyin Sabhadham'. The play brought alive the Kanchipuram of the Pallavas, resplendent with Sivakami's dance and Appar's poetry. Men and women that were forever stuck - and blissfully so - with Hamlet and Chekov performed with their hearts and souls. The same men and women with whom I was walking.

That very morning, I had woken up at six thirty to a lively discussion of the usage of iambic pentameters in Othello and its uses in theatre.

We were all dreamers there, refusing to look at the world in the eyes. We were rebels, trying to break through. Through to the other side. Some of us had found it. Some of us were still hunting for it. But all of us were dreaming. There were no inhibitions. No hesitations. No physical contact.

I had found the pleasure of their company. The company of a thousand lost souls. The company of one collective individual. The pleasure of travel. The pleasure of life. The kind of two days that bearded men in kurtas always talk about...

The mango grove

Like friendly monsters waving their tentacles, the plants outside the coffee shop saluted me in the breeze. It was afternoon and the sun was throwing kaleidoscope shadows in that tree-ridden street. Tuesday.

The cushion sighed as I sat, and I ordered for tea.

There were baubles and mistletoes hanging limply, mourning the death of Christmas while Jim Morrison sang the eulogy from the speakers.

My tea arrived and tantalised me with the reflection of the asbestos and the crotons above it. How wonderful would it be if we could just reach in through the tea and carress the world beyond it? 'Through the Earl Grey' - I would call it.

The next song brought images of an earlier America - with metal diners and grumpy men and weathered hats and sweaty armpits. And intelligent waitresses and passionate adultery.

Why is it that all my recurring images are from a place and time I have never been to? The neon signs and the falling snow and the smoky cigarette form another image.

I was surprised by the creeping sunlight. There I was in the midwest evening and then there I was in the deccan afternoon. Shit! There I am!