There is a place deep in the heart of the forest. it is a silent grove. an oasis. a place where time is forgotten. a place of magic. of heresy. of wild desire. It is aranya’s workshop.
The artist sits here silent. and each moment sits in anticipation of her carress. A slow trance engulfs the hiatus. a heady drum beat breaks the conversation of the earth, and the rippling brook. It sings of the birth of sensation, the first cries of recognition, when darkness meets light.
The rhythm of the trees beats in the thundering soul of her movement. And the goddess dances in her eyes. red. sensual. catastrophic in her slow murder of everything we know to be sacred.
Her art is neither man nor woman. It is both man and woman. It is the wonder of union. And the fission of creative, destructive energy. It precedes language. It’s the beginning. Going back to the genesis, the womb of the forest.
We are born complete. Our innocence enmeshes us in everything we do. Every act, every gesture, every silent giggle is plucked out deep from a stream within. The blank stare of consciousness is the pool from which we drink.
As we grow older, we start to dig the earth, we bury our incomprehension with the paraphernalia of the chase. The sickle which burns skin after skin, in the archaeology of the restless soul’s quest. We dig a pit so deep, searching for ourselves, forgetting that our image is already there. The ripples cloud our senses. And we dig deeper. With the toys that we find.
And when we’ve reached rock bottom. We begin to fill the hole again. With dollops of culture, society, art, knowledge, information. We create a hall of mirrors. We fill the void of our loneliness with people, and with adulation, and with the rhythm of routine.
But aranya knows better.
She sits there quietly observing. She sees the palace in the stone, the forest in the quivering root. centuries of humanity fall away in one twitch of an eyebrow. She holds the sublime like a spider weaves silk. And basks in the warmth of epiphany like the excited squirrel, that finds and collects. And then forgets.
She embraces the first impulse, and learns from what is around. Her muse is the incandescent wind that flirts with the leaves. Or the shadow that a branch casts on the slippery mush. Her body is the plaything of destiny. Everything she does is the disheveled nonchalance of the deepest, most basic instinct.
Aranya reminds you of yourself. Without trying.
Her quest is complete. Because it never began.
Her feet found the path. The path found her feet.
She was, in her natural state, the anthem of the forest –
‘When two ends meet,
It’s a circle’