Ah! How Beautiful

(A Reverie)

BY C. R. K. MURTHI

If happiness were to consist in the identification of one’s self with the beauty of Nature, there is nothing in this world for me so happy as to be watching the glory of a moonlit night spreading out its brilliance all over the earth.

With a heart torn asunder by a strange conflict of emotions, I found my way easily enough to the only place which could give me the happiness to forget the momentary sorrows of life. I watched the still waters of the lakes reflecting the moon. I looked at the distant row of trees presenting the appearance of a small hillock. The movement of the fishes was setting up disturbances in the still waters which distorted the image. I could easily see its counterpart in my mind. The crickets were chirping. The hoppers were tittering out a note in unison.

There was something mystical about the nature of things. It gradual began casting its spell over me. There was some inner transformation going on within me and I could feel the initial beats of identification. Instinctively I started humming to myself. I tried an alapana. I attempt in vain a kirtan of Thyagaraja. I had a dash at Bharati’s lyrics. I tried even to whistle out a shrill note. I was in such bad need of some kind of out-pouring of my heart which was threatening to overflow.

From the distance the sound of foot-steps began to disturb, the calm of my surroundings. I could also see some white figures moving in the direction where I was sitting. As they approached near I could make the out as washermen carrying their burden home after a day’s hard work. The bundle of clothes looked bigger than the man who carried it a how it balanced on his head added to the mystery of the entire situation.

The procession of these toilers approached me very near. The oldest and the most crippled amongst them threw a quick glance at me and passed on his way, completely ignoring my presence. He must have thought me mad to be looking into the still waters at this dead hour of the night when normal human beings must be in their beds. What is beauty to him? The moonlight which had produced in me such strange sensation has left him cold. He has seen many moon-lit nights like this. Probably, he has seen many a time other mad fellows gazing into the depths of water. He does not find any satisfaction in this gazing pastime. He has his thoughts about some ache in the lower portion of his body. A gnawing pain makes his walk uneasy, groaning as he is under the weight of the bundle of wet clothes. He has to walk a mile more to reach his hovel to be welcomed by a tired wife with no happy or contented face. To darkness. To Sit and take the morsel of gruel this woman has managed to prepare by standing in the mile-long queue far away in the busy city. He is not an uncommon life. Many like him sped their way in that hour after their day’s toil in search of their homes. To eat and to rest. With the appearance of the first flickers of dawn to wake up and travel through the same journey of the struggle for existence. What is moon-light to them?

This passing vision disturbs the current of my thoughts. I look to myself. I have eaten the costliest of food. Filled to the full, I become romantic and start to go out ‘mooning’! I find mystery in the little flakes of White clouds. I find mystery in the shadows. I am hypnotised. I feel I am one with Nature and I gloat over this thought. But do I feel any gnawing pain at the bottom of my belly? Ah! Nothing! Contented! Happy! –Nature! Glory! –Divine! But somehow I feel that something is wrong somewhere. I start walking aimlessly to escape from these thoughts.

Two or three motor-cars pass by me. Yells and shouts come out from these vehicles out of tune with the calm of the silent night. The man and woman game again! Men in uniform supposed to defend democracy against Fascist aggression helping themselves to their legitimate share of enjoyment. They are drinking the beauty of the moon-lit night. The scene appears to me all the more incredible.

I walk on engrossed in these thoughts. From afar I hear the wailing the A. R. P. siren, wailing with its tragic note of warning. At first I mistake it for the howling of jackals. The note becomes clearer and is being repeated from here and there. I could also hear the blowing

whistles. By this time I had managed to reach a more inhabited place. People are moving excitedly in utter confusion. I was still dreaming. So when a firm hand caught hold of my wrist and dragged me inside a shelter and shouted into my ears in an unearthly voice, “Eh! You there, take shelter,” I woke up as if from a dead sleep. I found myself surrounded many others in the same plight inside the dark dismal place. My heart began to thud and pound against my ribs. Sudden1y, I could hear a crash. It was like thunder. Soon followed a series of bursts. “The screeching of bombs” said some. “The Pounding of AA guns” said some others. You hear the roaring of planes just over your head. Your heart sinks within you. Even the heard-boiled atheist thinks of some imaginary God. You think of your mother. You wit for the last moment. Again, the sound of crashing near by. The planes must have dropped another load of these glorious messengers of Death. Probably, you think of the beauty of the moon-light outside. You may wonder whether the planes have no power of identifying themselves with beauty. Bombs! More bombs! What beautiful things: Shaped so nicely! Coming down with such fine music! Kissing the earth with all the passion of the imaginary world! Sending into the skies innumerable bits of live and dead things. Bombs falling on thatched huts bringing to an end the sad story of the inmates! Bombs starting fires here, there and everywhere! In the end everything in a glorious braze! The red flames of Destruction rising higher and higher vying with the silver brightness of a stupid-looking and blinking moon! Which is beauty?

Again, the sound of the sirens. This time a continuous note. Danger past! Outside the moon is still blinking. The fires are burning brighter. Is reality the true beauty artists are searching for? I wish it were not.

Calcutta;

night of 14th June, 1943.

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