Speechless Notes

Iravati visited my dreams last night. In her flowing blue skirt and white racer back and hair worn open, she looked the Iravati of my childhood. If Ammi were given a chance to approve of a bride for me, it would, without question, agree upon her. Abbu had always been a fan of the lively child next door, hankering on his doorstep after biryani smell. The walls of this house, which were once called 'ours' till Ammi and I moved out, were draped in renowned artists and one of Iravati's masterpiece gifted to Ammi and Abbu on their anniversary. At age eight, she may not have understood what an anniversary might mean, yet she created an intense image of a bright crayon blue flower swimming in a light pencil blue sky. It is a pleasant painting to have lived with for these many years. The skirt she wore in the dream looked like it belonged to the painting. She longed for the stage she said. I wish.

My name is Kabir Suleiman and I never thought I would take up the pen again, having taken up the camera. I am fairly known for deftly capturing the unpredictabilty of the wild. I wanted to be a fashion photographer though. And gave it up because all my building life I imagined Iravati modelling for my shoot, in the most intriguing of wears. I cannot fake it anymore. She has pierced into my very being with an imagination so fierce, that it captivates the real. I wish to see her set the stage on flight and ignite the audience with the same passion she arouses in me. 

I want to sketch her in a dance-drama, flowing through the stage, as speechless rivers do.  

Iravati's Promise

The stage is set in an effect of drowsy moonshine. She enters with diffused spotlight on either side, gliding through the laps of the mighty Himalayas, a proud secret. Proud of her entity, yet hidden. She is dressed in a soothing blue, sparkling with diamond dews. Crossing over to the other end of the stage she suddenly rises up to the orange of an explosive photo-shoot, brash. The changeover from dance to ramp is provoked by the rhythm of drums and the centre of focus on her. The slits in her orange dress confiding more than giving away. Iravati walks up, does not smile, stares forward -- an arrogant stare -- and turns to walk back. As she pauses the light diffuses. The music changes to the soft tones of the windchimes as do the light. Her face too. Softly she looks at the other end of the stage, the light only on her eyes now. A dead brown, they are awakened. The other side of her violet soul is floating. 

We see tears she does not allow to fall off, her pride intact. We hear a whisper, a promise, as she walks back, one assured step following the drum and after the assured other. Her voice has the free spin her movements do not. The light returns to the enticing moonshine, heavily diffused. Infused with shadows and whispers.

Iravati is too difficult a subject to be showcased on the stage. Her speechlessness renders her voices that are not often heard, they are seen. In dreams. I am Kabir Suleiman and I failed to stage her. But then, who can? She flows through my veins and will not empty until I slit them wide. The notes of her wings cannot be captured into a script. Iravati flows, she flies.