Sumangali.org: In The Spirit Of Serendipity

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Chinese Recollections: Strolling and Standing

Most urban Chinese appear to live in fairly cramped conditions, so they are very inventive when it comes to using public space for daily activities. The side of a busy dual carriageway serves as a fine arena for Tai Chi practice. It’s perfectly acceptable to hang clothes to dry wherever there is space; any flat wall on a roadside is likely to have a line tacked on to it from which to hang pyjamas and suchlike. High-rise blocks are a patchwork of colour; verandas crammed, layer upon layer, with flags of laundry.

The public park almost reaches saturation point by 7am. A dark tangle of bicycles forms a complex unintentional sculpture at the entrance. Three long stone hoops create a gateway, each hoop crested by curled green tiers of roof tiles. As if locked in some darkened oil painting, clusters of Mahjong players converge on stone tables. Smoke hangs like carded wool between them and the awning of trees above. Some practise Tai Chi alone; others form groups. I am mesmerised. They move as one body, so they are acutely conscious of one another, yet their faces betray only an inner awareness. Each face is devoid of expression, basking in the serenity of concentration. Tiny children stump around with overflowing energy as they do anywhere in the world. They are perfect models of charm; fine porcelain faces touched with bloom. Nothing seems to be used as an excuse for inactivity. Even the most wizened are out shuffling or stretching with what vigour they have at their disposal, however limited that may be.

I continue to the vast, placid scenes of a botanical garden. In the damp breath of morning huge rounded rocks adorn the edges of a lake. Through mist an ornate summerhouse, open to all sides, juts out into the depths. All thoughts are suddenly hijacked by its classical splendour. Trees reflect their softened versions in the water; I reflect on a life composed of love and beauty. Within that stunned silence there is space for a fount of gratitude. A steep hill behind invites me to a higher viewpoint. I accept, and climb. Many others are climbing too, so perhaps there is a destination. Perhaps mine is not the same as theirs though. The road winds and splits, winds and splits again. Town looks toy-like; tall buildings rendered squat. The road twists and splits again. Youths are calling to one another from craggy peaks, voices echoing eerily in the gorge below. I pass an elderly lady under a tree… then for a moment there is only me.

The sun stretches warm fingers out to me through a haze broken by branches. There is a tangible stillness beyond the mere lack of movement: a living stillness. Bags of sand and cement are propped against trees. Then I see why: ahead is a bridge of white stone — so new one would think nobody had ever set foot on it. With soft, reverent steps I reach its centre and look sunward. In an envelope of clarity that brief moment sets me alone with God, and it all makes sense.

Images by Kedar Misani at Sri Chinmoy Centre Gallery

Chinese Recollections: Writing and Painting

The forms of any written Chinese characters are exquisite — on rusty signs, tea packets or even just as graffiti. I came across a bamboo thicket rich in poetic beauty. On closer inspection I was transfixed; each stem was completely covered in characters, carved into the green skin to reveal yellow. I was glad not to know what it all meant - to be able to see it not as defacement but as ornate and intricate decoration. The hotel elevator takes an age, and I am not yet used to the gentle pace of life. Luckily there are several paintings on each floor to help pass the time as I wait. I am told a Chinese painter or calligrapher must grind ink in a stone following the line of eight hundred figures of eight before marking the paper. Only then will the mind be fully cleared of thought; allowing the artist to create dynamic, authentic strokes. The result is a fluid, bold, fast expression of form. With just a few curves a blossom clings to a stem or a crane takes flight.

An hour can easily be lost in perusing works of art in the shop next door. I hear a crackle and a hum as the strip lights are illuminated. A Pekinese puppy crouches and attempts to ward me off with a snuffling grunt that is presumably his best menacing bark. I mimic his stance, chuckling in appreciation of his boldness, and offer my open hand in friendship. He coils away in a silken ball, but then lunges forward to plant a full sneeze in my face. This marks his acceptance of me as a potential patron, and I am allowed onto the premises. Three groups of girls are scattered around absorbed in card games and animated discussion. Two men talk in more serious, muted tones. From a carved table in a haze of cigarette smoke they slurp tea from wide ceramic thimbles. Piles upon piles of living masterpieces drape the walls. A handful of black strokes link loosely together to shape a wriggling shrimp; a blotted green stain forms an icy body of water, bursting into torrents as a waterfall; muscular carp flex between weeds in a carnival of colour. I am lost in admiration.

I find my shopping trip doubling as useful research on my return to the hotel. Someone has found for a particular event an enormous scroll depicting a mountainous winter landscape.

“Can you turn this into a spring scene?” she asks me, “It’s a little bleak.”

I seem to learn more about the Chinese people whilst shut away in my room than whilst in their company. The eight-foot by four-foot scroll unfurls to take up all available space and I have no choice but to be completely immersed in it. There is no grinding of ink eight hundred times as a prelude I must admit; my preparation consists of a prayer fervent enough to swiftly clear the mind of thought! Initially I feel a fraud – people spend decades learning this technique, then along I come to edit a masterpiece. How ironic. Practising on scrap paper for a while though I realise that hesitation just doesn’t wash with this style of painting. Conversely, just about any intelligent, confident stroke cannot look “wrong,” (at least not to my untrained eye). A metaphor for life perhaps? Further preparation suddenly seems like procrastination; I look into the scene and identify with its life and space. In less than an hour the trees are heavy with open blossom and the water is flowing and vibrant. Through this priceless experience I understand more of how the energy and confidence so evident in China can harness truly authentic creative freshness.

Images by Kedar Misani at Sri Chinmoy Centre Gallery