I

I sit in the midst of paintings and poems that are engaged in a dialogue. These works are also a dialogue between a student and a teacher as much a dialogue between two artists working with different forms of media. How does one write about a dialogue that touches history, nature, artists, thinkers, leaders, emotions, passions, stories, and memories? This list is by no means exhaustive. How does one respond to a growing correspondence of minds? I recall familiar works being widely recognized as belonging to one or the other category of ekphrasis. There is also a newfound interest in ekphrastic poetry and there are studies coming up in the other half of the world. Rather than listing other poets and their works, I feel it as enriching to contemplate on the compositional wavelength that makes possible such a sustained creative tempo across media and mind. The most striking aspect that merits attention here is the kind of compact that emerges between the paintings of Ajayakumar and the poems of Jameela Begum.

I start thinking of that moment of origins, of beginnings. When the first painting was shared in Facebook there was an artistic response in a few days. This was not a one-time response, for those who responded to the subsequent paintings by then had now started looking forward to the corresponding poems. I also suspect that the poems in turn inspired Ajayakumar to come up with his next painting. But the beginnings cannot be read and understood in the Facebook time alone. Was it the charcoal of an idea that made the beginning? Beginnings know no individual.

In mediis rebus

A thought An instant An outline In the smithy of the mind Emerge details that flesh out the thoughts A brush dipped In the colours of an instant But that is only one kind of a beginning

Try again:

Charcoal and colours Enact emotions Then/Simultaneously/Later (There can be more choices) Words on the page Bring in that third perspective ‘In my beginning is my end In my end is my beginning’ Let me add my two pennyworth to it: Somewhere in the middest There are endings and beginnings A continuing compact Composing fictions that imagine The rainbow of life, death, The rhythm of emotions, And the world We turn the pages And look for fictions we read

II

The hallmark of this collection of creative work is the discovery of a wavelength that harmonizes the language of perception of both painter and poet. It does not iron out differences; they are perceived when the representation of the different subjects is parsed. The means and media employed to represent the subject is different. Yet, they come together to reach the same point of comprehension.

There are four portraits by Ajaykumar and each one becomes distinct not because of the personality. It is a telling use of the pencil to lay bare something of what the artist discovers of the personality during that moment of creation. A case in point is the portrait of Ayyappa Paniker. This is the cue that the poem also takes up to elaborate:

I see a figure not me looking back at me awestruck asking me is that you?

Similarly, the depth captured in the eyes of Basheer is matched in verse capturing the Sultan of Beypore in an interesting frame:

“Sharp eyes peer… to ironically ponder On the paradoxes of life and living.”

This eye for detail characteristic of any visual artist is evident in that rich luxuriance of bell fruits with the odd green fruit providing a pictorial moment of recognizing differences which the poem uses effectively to draw a picture of the vicissitudes of life. These portraits of still life are pleasant as they trigger memories, tales, and even a whole history from Eve to Steve Jobs as in the poem “Rainbow Apples.”

The power of evocation of the paintings comes out best for me in that contemplation of a “Stony Scene.” I was reminded of a lesson I had studied in my primary class in the Malayalam text book titled “Even a stone has a story to tell.” That is precisely what “Stones Speak” tells me. The image of the stone

“Left destitute I call out No one hears No one sees I stand exposed Dry and parched”

is a contemplation and filling in of details reminding of the precarious existence of life and the environmental destruction that has ravaged the ecosystem.

I also discover the presence of traditions, styles, and languages that work in various ways in text after text. Perhaps because of the differences, they perform a concert, more precisely, a jugalbandi. The compositional harmony of this book reveals of itself of the way one keeps moving from painting to poem to painting endlessly. I do not intend to read all the paintings and poems here; I share here something of what I have tasted and relished.

The way the paintings and poems are placed alongside each other serves to discover the fluidity of the narrative subject rather than a fixed object. The perceiving mind roves around colours, shades, tones, and hues available in the immediate reading experience and even ventures to imagine an archive of memory that effects such represented subjects and subjectivities. In our trying times when we are overwhelmed by a virus and its mutant formations, one is free to wonder about the relevance of such artistic expressions. The world is not expressive of a single purpose. We wake up to new realizations about the world every moment of our life. These brush and pen strokes capture something of the myriad moods of the human mind to give a pause and offer some insight on to the fictions we use to represent our thoughts and reflections.

And so Mary’s basket rolled down the way Balancing new thoughts and dreams In the minds of many who passed that way Fact and fantasy ploughing fertile minds.

I can only offer this tentative note and pause to take another look at Mary’s basket.

B. Hariharan

Professor and Head

Institute of English, University of Kerala

Ayyappa Paniker; charcol on handmade paper by Ajayakumar, P. P.

I look above my glasses perched on the tip of my nose at my portrait I see a figure not me looking back at me awestruck asking me is that you? I question my end and my beginning the days and the nights the life that has made all the difference I scribed words for I could not but sing the golden flowers of thoughts I sang of pain of joy of urban jungles of village girls of the Kurukshetram of life I wept for the forests for the old for the shifting sands of culture for a grieving earth I played with irony tap tapping words bursting laughter painting caricatures a mere thief a robber. I guided many through labyrinths of thought enquiring minds restless search and research I journeyed many a town and country to leave my mark to rest again in my own Kavalam I am you you are me reconstructing me so let it be so let the enigma prevail I take my leave.

—Jameela Begum

Grapes and leaf ; oil on canvas painting by Ajayakumar, P. P.

Middle East nurtured centuries of viticulture Egypt crushed grapes to bubbling glasses Greeks carried it to the Black Sea and to Spain Romans to the valleys of Rhine and Venice Danube and Rhone, Burgundy and Bordeaux Spreading sweetness and camaraderie. Columbus transported it to the new world The foothills of the Andes Mountains California cherished it in Sonoma and Napa Divine deep purple globes with green shades Suspended clusters, never ever single The vines of nature canopied together. Heart shaped leaves receiving the sun Keeping vines fresh, to set budding More and more shoots, to breed fruits Flower clusters shaping into berries Its greenness one with the leaves Ripening and filling with the nectar of Greek Gods. Christ toasted wine to friends and foe at Eucharist “This is my blood” atonement for your sins To wipe out greed, treachery and malice Releasing the white dove of peace To keep humanity together in uprightness The blood He shed for mankind’s sins. Rivers meander round and round hillocks Mountains shift in strong currents of water Water and land flow in and into each other Each making way for the other to find space Yet we build human walls where there are none Fencing in and out what belongs to none. The vineyards continue to spread its canopy Crossing boundaries, traversing land and valley Finding roots wherever it winds its way While religion and region divide and shed Rivers of blood and find exultation In keeping the other at bay; they do not belong. In the valley of Napa stand rows of grape vines Heavy with the juice of its ripeness Clusters jostling, waiting to be pressed To be trampled in vats, meeting of juice and feet Celebrating the immersion of nature in nurture, For, after all, that is the elixir of life.

—Jameela Begum

Fruits of passion; oil on canvas painting by Ajayakumar, P. P. (2018)

Once Mary had a basket of eggs on her head For an instant she jerked her head in wanton pride Out fell the eggs, breaking them and her dreams The upturned basket went rolling down the way. Someone down the lane, caught it for its beauty A finely woven basket twined dexterously in and out Marvelling at the shades of grey and brown And turned it upside down to see it more Someone walking up the lane, looked long at it Wondering what was that under the basket Hen crouching on eggs to hatch a litter Or was it an empty one with no promises. Someone coming down with passion fruits in hand Stopped to place three of it on the base with care One more would have upset the balance on the base It was not like filling a whole basket. Someone saw the three green round passion fruits But not the basket, the winding vines of abundance Of lost paradise and the trees of pride A lost world of mankind’s disobedience. And so Mary’s basket rolled down the way Balancing new thoughts and dreams In the minds of many who passed that way Fact and fantasy ploughing fertile minds.

—Jameela Begum

Sulthan, Vaikom Mohamed Basheer; charcoal on handmade paper portrait by Ajayakumar, P. P. (2017)

Reclined in an easy chair, lost in ruminations Clad in Khadi, inspired by swadeshi ideals Sharp eyes peer at the canopy of the Mangosteen tree Seeing delicate webs of relationships The irony and humor of the struggle to live. Walls divide yet unite Ignite fantasies of the beyond Mystery pulsating in soft hushed tones Mixing sensual and ethereal tunes Emotions overflow high walls within walls. The rose bush tenderly pushed forth its red flower But only to crumble in a hand That stretched to give but lost the accepting hand For walls and walls distance the near Within or without, prison walls are rigid. Carefree as a goat, bleating in delight Pathumma tended her goat with love Fed her with green fodder and rice gruel Dreamt of the flow of milk to extend The comforts of her home. Alas, to fall a victim to her merciless siblings To forsake her dreams for her extended family For to give one was to give all To keep alive the circle of human bondage Partners in the cycle of life. What a pride to boast of past glory Me Granddad ‘ad an elephant So soothing to be drowned in superstitions To measure out life within four walls Shutting out strife and turbulence. The bullock cart plodded along its way To strange lands and variant experiences Sifting old beliefs and accepting new thoughts To live with the times, to embrace change To return and overturn the mini elephant. So the Sultan of Beypore wove his tales In the small village of Vaikom Breathing life into multiple mindscapes Placing pawns to ironically ponder On the paradoxes of life and living.

—Jameela Begum

Red, red champakka; oil on canvas painting by Ajayakumar, P. P. (2021)

Red, reddened chambakkas from honeyed flowers Red dropped rose apples string from tree to ground Branches loaded with the heaviness of juicy fruits Stand suspended in a dance of euphoric glee. Hands touch the shimmering polish of ripeness chamba Sever each from each, from branch and tree Sifting not the well formed from cankered ones Gathering all to fill baskets to relish or ditch. Hands tear down these red drops more than rain Raindrops leave behind the tears of the tree Tilling ground for sprouts to spring in the sun Making sure of a return though ruthlessly mangled. The red blossoming faces of children at play Each alike in their shout of joy, yet so different So differently moulded to weather the storms of life Some challenged in a society that takes little care. Hobbling on in fear of jeers and smites Lost happiness in life’s pursuits and narrow paths Knowing little that it makes all the difference Take refuge high above in whirls of dreams. The red drops of life on the ground Trampled and sucked in by slushy soil, wait Wait for another life to be born in fullness One to be lovingly prized and caressed.

—Jameela Begum

Apples on plate; oil on canvas painting by Ajayakumar, P. P. (2018)

Inscribed to the fairest of all Eris’s golden apple unleashed discord At the wedding of sea nymph and mortal Cast a spell of contention on Olympus Unleashing strife and conflict and dispute. The Trojan war fought for fair Helen Foreseen in the race for the golden apple Aphrodite won the apple with a promise Placing beauty above wisdom and wealth Paris fell for beauty, love and lust. Painted on the ceiling of Sistine Chapel Eve clings to a golden fig in the Garden The apple not the forbidden fruit for Angelo The Temptation and Fall not of an apple Newton’s apple fell to the ground. Come summer, under the ripening sun Branches bend with the heaviness of apples Golden yellow, red delicious and crunchy green Tempting to bite and drown in its nectar To pluck truck loads for the cider press. Not on Mount Olympus or the Garden Not a contention or a transgression But celebrating the flow of communication The curved Rainbow apple of Steve Jobs Invades our homes to win the race.

—Jameela Begum

Stony river; oil on canvas painting by Ajayakumar, P. P. (2020)

I am a stone now Hard and brown Tended by none Pushed to a side No longer a rock Water flows over me, no more. Once, the bubbling waters Played around me Played with me Covered me Hugged me Hid me from human eye. I heard the joy Of childish laughter As fresh streams Gushed over me Reveling in its power But it could not displace me. Then, I felt the cold drops Droppings of the sky Strong and harsh Muddy waters of slush Pushed me at its will Set me trembling at its will. I lost my home Under the cool waters Broken and torn I am helpless The embrace of clear waters No more. Left destitute I call out No one hears No one sees I stand exposed Dry and parched.

—Jameela Begum

I sit on top of the world; charcoal on handmade paper by Ajayakumar, P. P. (2017)

When the lamps of heaven are dimmed Nature gently folds its silent leaves Running waters smoothly flow The lullaby of the cool wafting air Slowly casts a spell of drowsiness. Owlish eyes ferret out its prey Fierce passions are let loose Fear stalks the streets and hamlets Wild screams punctuate the night Witness the trauma of innocents. Sharp gory unblinking eyes see it all Far away on the streets on running buses Nirbayas being brutally tortured Soumyas on trains hunted and torn to pieces Wives beaten and daughters raped in their homes. Trust within the home shattered Promises of pure love never kept Suryanelli not a place but a hell One of many others resounding With the screams of teenage girls. Owls hunt prey to keep alive The law of balancing nature Human nature hunts to destroy Leaving behind scarred victims of abuse Mangled body and tears soaked in blood. If owls were to hoot in words The hoary tales of the night Blood on hands that remain Would many hide in shame Bridle the beast in them?

—Jameela Begum

Kamala Das; charcoal on handmade paper portrait by Ajayakumar, P. P. (2017)

Kamala, you rise from your ashes As Kamala Das You are born again As Kamala Surayya You have left your body Your spirit reaches out in love. You merged with the coolness of the leaves Protected by an ancestral home Under the wings of knitted relationships Submerged in readings of the beauty of love Wide eyed you gazed with a throbbing heart You flowered and flitted from bush to tree. Words sprouted as never ending leaves From your body and the depth of your being Languages flowed from the fireball within You became Madhavikutty, Kamala Das Calcutta made you, away from home You sang of the sweltering summer in the city. My Story was your story You sold your body to mystify To stir the strings of passion Which you could not deny Clutched in the grip of conformity Living life as half- dead. Loved and curled up at his feet Writing of wild thoughts and men And the lustful overtures on body You loved the love of your grandmother The neermathalam tree that flowered Wafting the fragrance of selfless love. Your quivering voice sang of violence Wrung in the fire of wild passions You wept for the harlots and the child You dared to speak of social taboos You were both the voice and the victim Of your dark tresses in a world of hierarchies. You sought relief in a hijab, O Surayya Wrapped in the melody of Quranic verses You felt the warmth of spiritual love Your soul tilled the desert of your being Your heart bled from your trespasses You yearned for a slumber of peace In the eternal Kingdom of Love.

—Jameela Begum

Mahatma Gandhi; charcoal on handmade paper portrait by Ajayakumar, P. P. (2020)

Bapuji, I see tears in your gait A long pole to aid your weary feet Those restless feet were once ever so fast I wondered when it touched the ground Snowballing public feeling against violence. Thoughts moved faster than your feet One thought, one aim, one plan of action The dream of a nation bonded in oneness Dissipate in the war of words and religions In the power play that sealed the knell. You marched with the silent majority Shearing roots of feudalism Shared rice gruel in harijan huts For to be Indian was to be equal Chant together the song of oneness. Long traditions and customs die hard Change is in the mind not in the land Divisions are roused when majority claims Selflessness is lost in the selfishness of greed Bewildered people gaze and know not why. When you boarded the train to Africa You little knew that you had to return To save a people from colonial bondage Larceny of priceless spices and stones Calling it culturing of the uncultured. For the Indian flag to unfurl its Chakra You strained to appease the power hungry You helplessly watched the drawing of the LOC Cut the body of a nation that went up in flames Sowing seeds of vengeance and hatred. To part ways is a matter of the heart Packed trains leaving packed stations Unknown destinations, families torn apart Looting and violence, murder and fires Rend the air to leave scars that never heal. Your smile died on your lips at the horror Your eyes could take in no more You prayed to the crowd to show tolerance Intolerance cut down your life of non violence A victim to the violence you silently sparked.

—Jameela Begum

Jameela Begum, A.

Jameela Begum, A.

A well-known academician and Professor of English (Rtd.) at the Institute of English, University of Kerala, Dr. Jameela Begum contributed much in promoting Canadian Studies in India and served as the president of Indian association for Canadian Studies and the secretary to the International Association. She was instrumental in introducing skill based programmes through asap. Her skill in writing poetry reveals yet another facet of her personality.

Ajayakumar, P. P.

Ajayakumar, P. P.

Dr. P. P. Ajayakumar, is currently working as the Pro Vice Chancellor, University of Kerala. The Chief Editor of Littcrit: An Indian Response to Literature, an International literary journal of repute published from Thiruvananthapuram, he has more than 35 years of experience spending quality time on teaching, writing and publishing across disciplines.