The mystical allegory of ‘The Shepherdess and the Seven Songs.’ (Laila aur Satt Geet)

Laila aur Saat Geet, directed by Pushpendra Singh takes you deep into the soul of northwest India. The film is inspired by a short story by Vijaydan Detha (who also provided the source for Singh’s 2014 debut feature, The Honor Keeper) and the poetry of 14th century Kashmiri mystic Lalleshwari, also known as Lalla or Lal Ded.

The geopolitical tensions of the Kashmir region become the backdrop for this beguiling romantic feminist narrative. Shot in the majestic mountains of remote Jammu and Kashmir, the region constantly under heavy surveillance by the army and the police, the story has both the feel of a mystic folk tale and a touch of present-day peril.

Pushpendra Singh’s captivating character study meticulously represents combating forces of cultural amalgamation and freedom, patriarchy and creative imagination. Laila (Navjot Randhawa), who finds herself stuck in a culturally stagnant world not out of choice but an arranged marriage to the shepherd Tanvir (Sadakkit Bijran), embodies this struggle on a spiritual level.

While she suffocates as a free-spirited woman and a traditional bride, Laila relies on the seven folk songs that play out in the film as guides, both accepting and subverting the very traditions that have landed her in this beautiful lush green land which comes across as inescapable.

The camera work exceptionally exhibits this feeling through many wide static shots. You feel Laila’s sensuous presence as a delicate but ferocious femme-fatale, with a stark awareness of her situation and a melancholic orientation towards a worldly detachment. Underneath it all, Laila is in control of her decisions and desires.

While the longstanding political tensions are a constant element in The Shepherdess and the Seven Songs, they are not what the film really is about. Instead, modern dangers in a traditional world and the opportunism that seeps into the lives of the Gujjar-Bakarwal community of shepherds become the focal point. Of much more importance is the quest of these characters to find meaning in their lives in an ever-changing world while they either accept or shift societal realities and find themselves normalizing corruption and gender inequality under the semblance of tradition or progress

The character of Laila poetically becomes a metaphor for the state of Kashmir itself, the paradisiacal land whose soul everyone stakes a claim on and wants to seize. At one point, Laila asks herself, “Why am I playing this dangerous game?” But the answer to that question is obvious, and it has to do with reclaiming her freedom. In another telling moment between Laila and Tanvir, he obliviously tells her while he reeks of male privilege, “You can’t argue with powerful people. You should be polite to them.” Laila responds daringly, “But for how long?” Such moments reveal the true motive of the film.

In the beautifully vague ending that one can almost get lost inside, The Shepherdess and the Seven Songs admits again that Laila simply wants to break free, no matter what the cost. All limitations that one associates with a linear narrative are not seen here. Instead, as we move through the snowy landscape with Laila, we may find ourselves extremely emotionally charged by the graceful sweeping shots of the majestic mountainous terrain, thanks to Ranabir Das’s hypnotic camera movement.

For so long, Laila’s fierceness as a woman has been driven entirely by the men surrounding her. But when that passé old veil is finally removed, Laila is not redefined by anyone else, but given the chance to recreate and revive on her own terms, completely away from the male gaze. Laila’s reawakening is also sexual in nature. After constantly turning down half-assed attempts at seduction from powerful men, a more confident clarity about her physical desires evokes in Laila. This clarity is profound and connected to an esoteric longing, clarified further by the songs of playfulness and seduction.

Laila Aur Satt Geet is a film that is a scintillating cultural excerpt, a disruptive political allegory, and a feminist tale of romance with self. The poised narrative is subtly punctuated with the richness of folk music from Kashmir and Central Asia on the themes of marriage, migration, regret, playfulness and ultimately, renunciation. It is a rare work of art, a compelling splendor that takes us on a journey into lives we never really see on the big screen.

Sweet nothing.

How long is it possible to enjoy doing nothing? Absolutely nothing. A few days? A few hours? A few minutes? In a world so meticulously designed to be constantly doing something, what does doing nothing mean?

When I live life, I try to do things, at all times. Everyone around me is always doing things too. Its a perpetual flux. We must never be idle. It’s a sin. An unforgivable sin.

One can ask — what is it us humans really seek out of this constant cycle of emotion depraved productivity? Some kind of self-realization? Emancipation? Happiness? I want you to know that I am not talking about the desire to become good at something here. What I’m interested in is the hyper-productive culture of attaining a kind of elevated state of mind, to get somewhere in life although most humans will agree happiness is fairly simple to achieve and highly ephemeral.

What about nothingness scares us then?

There seems to be a haunting delusion amongst our species, a giant self-importance, a cunning quality to go against the universe itself, to achieve many goals, to forget everything happiness encapsulates, to deliberately ignore the calm and serene side of life.

I found myself in India last year in October for 22 days. I had nothing to do, no plans, no itineraries, no goals. I was there then with a kind of depraved soul, wanting to experience nothingness, to know what it was like to wake up and do nothing and to be at peace with it. I wanted to pass beyond myself but struggled with it immensely. I was desperate to experience a personal salvation in the crevices of life that was somehow happening to me in the streets of my country. I was craving a void – to forget the past, to experience life with the unknowingness of a desire for the future.

Here’s the thing about wanting nothing — it turns into wanting everything. The universe then puts you in touch with a mystery as deep as sea. The littlest thing becomes the greatest thing. Your desire for nothing turns into the most acute awareness of an unsolvable mystery that life is.

That’s the sweet spot.

The spot where you have no beginnings, no ending, just the mystery of the universe. The destination you have arrived at is now a point of departure for another destination. Nothingness lasts a few seconds. Its not that one can not not do something. But we are neurotic beings constantly fighting our own thoughts, constantly trying to get somewhere.

I did taste the sweet nothing during that trip to India. Nothing had been added to or subtracted from my life. I still stood in the midst of the vast ocean of life. But I did know something after that experience. The best medicine for my soul was to do nothing. Decay, growth, beauty, ugliness, darkness, light, chaos, order, purposefulness, purposelessness, melancholy, joyousness, truth, lies — everything makes up the world. I learnt that most of the accidents are unavoidable and life is a sea of mystery.

I had tasted how sweet the sweet nothing is after all. A bit too sweet perhaps.

The yearning for home, and the lies I tell myself.

I sit by the window and desperately try to be at home,

and to find an ambiguous intersection of two worlds somewhere.

The otherworldly and the smut.

Maybe its in the flight of birds or in the hurry of the pedestrians I see every day -

back and forth, back and forth.

Maybe its in the warm sepia sun that floods my couch,

or maybe in the books that stare at me insolently.

Maybe its in the dust that settles on the window sill -

so stubborn, so slow.

Or in the smoke that hovers above the buildings -

dark sooty swirls.

I am home.

This is it.

There is no homesickness.

There is no yearning.

Some lies are so brutally beautiful, so deeply fragile.

I should be in a toxic relationship with these lies, I tell myself.

I realize I already am.

I love them so much I want them to go away,

as far as possible. That’s it.

Then I can be at home.

——————————

ਮੈਂ ਬਾਰੀ ਕੋਲ ਬੈਠਦਾ ਹਾਂ ਅਤੇ ਘਰ ਪਹੁੰਚਣ ਦੀ ਨਾਕਾਮ ਜਿਹੀ ਕੋਸ਼ਿਸ਼ ਕਰਦਾ ਹਾਂ,

ਅਤੇ ਕਿਤੇ ਦੋ ਸੰਸਾਰਾਂ ਦਾ ਇੱਕ ਧੁੰਦਲਾ ਵਿਚਕਾਰਲਾ ਮੁਜੱਸਮਾ ਲੱਭਣ ਦੀ -

ਸਵਰਗ ਤੇ ਨਰਕ ਦੇ ਵਿਚਲੀ ਕੋਈ ਦੁਨੀਆ,

ਸ਼ਾਇਦ ਇਹ ਪੰਛੀਆਂ ਦੀ ਉਡਾਣ ਵਿੱਚ ਜਾਂ ਪੈਦਲ ਚੱਲਣ ਵਾਲਿਆਂ ਦੀ ਕਾਹਲੀ ਵਿੱਚ ਹੈ, ਜੋ ਮੈਂ ਹਰ ਰੋਜ਼ ਵੇਖਦਾ ਹਾਂ -

ਅੱਗੇ ਅਤੇ ਪਿੱਛੇ, ਅੱਗੇ ਅਤੇ ਪਿੱਛੇ, ਓਹੀ ਰਸਤਾ

ਹੋ ਸਕਦਾ ਹੈ ਕਿ ਇਹ ਨਿੱਘੇ ਸੂਰਜ ਵਿੱਚ ਹੈ ਜੋ ਮੇਰੇ ਸੋਫੇ ਦੇ ਕੱਪੜੇ ਨੂੰ ਸੁਨਹਿਰੀ ਰੰਗ ਦਿੰਦਾ ਹੈ,

ਜਾਂ ਸ਼ਾਇਦ ਉਹਨਾਂ ਕਿਤਾਬਾਂ ਵਿੱਚ ਜੋ ਮੈਨੂੰ ਬੇਪਰਵਾਹੀ ਨਾਲ ਘੂਰਦੀਆਂ ਨੇ।

ਸ਼ਾਇਦ ਇਹ ਧੂੜ ਦੇ ਕਣਾਂ ਵਿੱਚ ਹੈ ਜੋ ਖਿੜਕੀ ਦੇ ਸੀਲ 'ਤੇ ਟਿਕ ਜਾਂਦੇ ਨੇ -

ਬਹੁਤ ਜ਼ਿੱਦੀ, ਬਹੁਤ ਹੌਲੀ।

ਜਾਂ ਧੂੰਏਂ ਵਿੱਚ ਜੋ ਇਮਾਰਤਾਂ ਦੇ ਉੱਪਰ ਘੁੰਮਦਾ ਹੈ -

ਘੋਰ ਕਾਲੇ ਧੂੰਏਂ ਦੇ ਛੱਲੇ

ਮੈਂ ਘਰ ਹੀ ਹਾਂ।

ਕੋਈ ਯਾਦ ਨਹੀਂ ਹੈ।

ਕੋਈ ਤਾਂਘ ਨਹੀਂ ਹੈ।

ਕੁਝ ਝੂਠ ਬੜੇ ਬੇਰਹਿਮ ਤੇ ਸੋਹਣੇ ਹੁੰਦੇ ਹਨ, ਬੜੇ ਡੂੰਘੇ ਤੇ ਨਾਜ਼ੁਕ ਹੁੰਦੇ ਹਨ।

ਮੈਨੂੰ ਇਹਨਾਂ ਝੂਠਾਂ ਨਾਲ ਇੱਕ ਕੌੜੇ ਰਿਸ਼ਤੇ ਵਿੱਚ ਹੋਣਾ ਚਾਹੀਦਾ ਹੈ, ਮੈਂ ਆਪਣੇ ਆਪ ਨੂੰ ਕਹਿੰਦਾ ਹਾਂ

ਮੈਨੂੰ ਅਹਿਸਾਸ ਹੋਇਆ ਕਿ ਹਾਲਾਤ ਤਾਂ ਪਹਿਲਾਂ ਹੈ ਅਜਿਹੇ ਨੇ

ਮੈਂ ਇਹਨਾਂ ਝੂਠਾਂ ਨੂੰ ਬਹੁਤ ਪਿਆਰ ਕਰਦਾ ਹਾਂ,

ਮੈਂ ਚਾਹੁੰਦਾ ਹਾਂ ਕਿ ਉਹ ਬਹੁਤ ਦੂਰ ਚਲੇ ਜਾਣ,

ਜਿੰਨਾ ਸੰਭਵ ਹੋ ਸਕੇ।

ਬੱਸ ਇੰਨੀ ਕੁ ਗੱਲ ਹੈ

ਫਿਰ ਮੈਂ ਘਰ ਰਹਿ ਸਕਦਾ ਹਾਂ।

LOVE IS NOT DEAD.

“Love is dead”, he said.

“Love is a disease”, he said.

“Love does nothing for the world!”, he almost shouted.

I remember staring at the sunlight glistening on his dewy cheek while he kept saying all these things and wondering if he was really saying them or if I was imagining it all. I suddenly almost forced myself to think of my childhood, to somehow retrieve the exact feeling of being in my grandmother’s lap on a Sunday afternoon out in the verandah while pigeons surrounded her for a mix of seeds she fed them every day. I try to remember how it felt when her wrinkled wavering hands caressed my face.

I felt like everything I had lost in my entire life since my childhood had washed up in that very spot in front of him. I told myself, maybe if I just wait for a while and look into his eyes long enough; he would realize that love is not dead. He’d tear up, maybe smile. But it was all a fantasy. I had to let it be a fantasy. I never summoned the courage to let it become a reality.

I sit here now, looking into the horizon as the sun sets — and I imagine my grandmother as a tiny blurry figure out in the fields, feeding the pigeons, smiling, singing one of her melancholic poems in a soft shaky voice. And I imagine her looking into my eyes and saying, “Let no one tell you that love is dead. Let no one stop you from being a lover. Promise me you will keep love alive until your last breath. Promise me I will always have a home in your heart.”

And in a flash, I can’t see him anymore. He doesn’t exist.

But love does.

Will I ever get over him?

'Mohabbat' - the Urdu word for love. Such a sweet sound. Just saying the word makes me feel like I'm in a garden of roses. I remember my desire for love growing up, more so for being in love than being loved. Now when I look back at it, I wonder if I had convinced myself that a phantasmagorical life existed - the kind where you fall in love and everything else just floats like being in a beautiful dream. I grew up without ever being told by my parents that they loved me. Love came in the form of a calculated response. Get good grades and we will love you. Excel in every possible way, be better than the neighbor's kids. Just be perfect. That's all. Then you deserve love. That's what I grew up with.

And then, when youth hit me like a stream of water being held by force, when my heart started fluttering at the sight of a boy in high school, I already knew life was going to be difficult. I didn't even know being gay was possible. That's the world I grew up in. I kept lying to myself. I kept telling others I was interested in a girl in class but mostly I just avoided the conversation around who was my crush in school. I was thankfully not shy or scared, so bullying was always addressed and responded to in my own way. It never impacted me too much.

Fast forward to university, where I was studying engineering because I was told to, because that was the only way I could have been loved; I remember becoming so nonchalant during that time of my life that I actually completely stopped caring about anything. But ironically, at the same time, a wave of hope was washing over me. Life was happening to me. I was doing things on my own, I was taking charge of my happiness, I was starting to slowly love myself. The slow but continuous watering of self-love was allowing flowers to grow inside of me.

And one day in the year of 2016, I decided it's time to leave the country and live life on my own terms. Kind of extreme and impulsive, I know, but that was my limited worldview on display. It was leaving the country or living a life of constant oppression. India for me was just what I had grown up with - an overprotective orthodox environment. At the end of 2017, I found myself in Canada. I had done it. I had finally convinced my parents to send me abroad - who during the 4 years of university, had never asked me if I was okay and if I was happy with where I was headed. Conversations revolved around whose son or daughter had been admitted in which university and who out of them had landed a six-figure job. It was extremely disheartening.

Life in Canada was quite strange initially. I had never travelled much because I was over protected as a child and my parents were never the kind to explore. So for the first time in my life, I had full control over everything. It was the kind of freedom that can be extremely dangerous. And it was. There are nights I don't clearly remember. There are days I regret. But the most dangerous thing, the one thing that left me just totally shattered and confused as to what is real and what is fantasy, was falling in love, or as I think of it now - my desire to be in love.

I had fallen for a man in the most consuming possible way. Head over heels, 'Behosh'' in love. 'Behosh' - the Urdu word for senseless. My childhood experiences made me think it's totally normal for someone to control me, to tell me off, to tell me I need to do better when there was an argument. Inside of me, there was almost this dark twisted need to be humiliated. I enjoyed the degradation. I was so sad but I was convincing myself that I just needed to follow his orders and make him happy because his happiness equals my happiness. I learnt this equation as a child. You make mommy and daddy happy and you always listen to them even when they tell you that they regret the day you were born. You just quietly deal with it all. That's how it works.

Things eventually ended between us after a year and a half. I won't get into the dirty details. But it was nasty. By the end of it all, I was at my lowest. I had lost weight, had started smoking, had no motivation to do anything with my life and was convinced my life was over. I will never be able to move on from this - I would tell myself when I would look at myself in the mirror, on my way to work in the bus, at work, at school, in the streets, at a restaurant, at the movies, everywhere. It was this voice, beyond my control - "You're so worthless. You don't deserve any love. Nor are you capable of truly loving someone. Look what you did. You let go of that one person who loved you." It was all my fault. That was the first year, all of it - spent with these voices. I would wake up in a blur, spend my days in a blur, go to sleep blankly staring at the ceiling or crying.

As years went by, I learnt to live a certain way. I started expressing myself through art - paintings, writing, music & film. I suddenly remembered how much I'd put on pause for this mess of a relationship. It was really even a relationship only in my head. I don't know what we were to him. But I won't deny - there were days I desperately wished even after it was over, that it meant something to him. I'm not sure why, but I did. Maybe it was a selfish wish.

Present day. We now talk every now and then. And even this year, I found myself listening to ghazals, looking at the raindrops trickling down the window panes in my apartment & telling myself to move on. It happened. Just fucking move on. But I swear I'm not lying when I say that the life I had imagined with him was something so close to my idea of home. And in very rare moments with him - I tasted that life. It was so sweet, so beautiful.

I forgave him a long time ago. I forgave him before I had forgiven myself. He needed more love than I ever did. He is still using people for selfish reasons. I told him one day - the ladder we climb is also the ladder we have to descend. He laughed it off.

I also forgave my parents. I had to. It was too heavy of a grudge to carry forever. Life is so short and they're growing old. They understand me now - in some way. I hope they've forgiven me too - for not being the perfect son.

I’ll admit it. My life right now is confusing. But I’ve never felt this confident before, ever. I’ve never been so in love with myself. Looking back at it, I just can’t believe that it took close to five years to finally accept that it had all happened to me. I don’t regret anything but it still shocks me sometimes. I really thought we were eternal lovers. Ugh. I was so naïve. It’s just annoying I guess. I’d only read about such heartbreaks in books or watched films about it. Living our lives in a race, we so easily forget that amidst a continuously moving world, there are hearts that are being shattered to pieces in each passing moment. So many stories go untold. So many people just never move on. So many lives change forever in an instant.

‘Life changes fast. Life changes in the instant. You sit down to dinner and life as you know it ends.’ — JOAN DIDION

We all walk around with a heart that has been broken in one way or the other. I realized that the more I held on to the magnanimity of my heartbreak, the more difficult it became to just live. It took an uncomfortably long time to learn how to love the broken parts of myself, the parts that will never truly fit perfectly into the structure of my soul. But I’m more than okay with that.

I finally know what joy feels like.

It feels like ‘Mohabbat’. It feels like a garden of roses on a late blue summer evening.