Ashutosh Khanna
Pen! Vow! What a weapon! Even if a manowed physiognomy! Since times immemorial it’s existence is pervasive finding a formidable Niche in the fingers of paragon unmindful of what lethal it would inflict or what lucrative it would enshrine in eternal lines that would withstand the onslaught of the time as it has been immortalising human canvas which is subject to the outrage of time and space.
The ink of the pen is a perennial gleam of the divine which brings into fame the masterpieces of the illuminative minds which have been pedestals of the human society and have steered the society when the times were hard and out of joint. The mightier, the mightiest and the triumphant than the sword on which only blood litters and reflection of agony and torture is seen that abnoxiously sends shock waves to the posterity. The pen reluctant albeit to write the glory history of mankind wherein the paragon has eroded the ethics of kinship and altruism for which the paragon was made by the dispensation of the providence. The posterity curses the lines which can’t be obliterated the perennial of creativity is made morbid. Being Repugnant of, thus throttling and suffocating the ink of the symbolic pen which was an illumination to dismantle the phantoms of ignorance and pull the astray society out of the abyss of morass when the symbolic pen was a coronated figure both in power echelons and in common masses.
The ink which reflected the puritanic vision of John Milton in “Paradise lost”, George herbert a pivotal figure whose vision is reflected in religious poetrty “The altar”. And the sagacity of vision in shakesperean tragedies which purified human vision and wordsworths plunge into pantheism is adorable and extolling wooing one to juxtapose with the pen and taste the nectar of the lines. How can one be in oblivion of the golden epoch released through the symbolic pen.
How can one be oblivious of the golden lines of Shakespeare,” As flies to wanton boys, so we are to Gods. Who kill us for their own ecstasy”. How pregnant the lines are reflecting the cornstone and gospel of human life which is just a tagged puppet whose both limbs and mind are paralysed dancing to the dictations of the arbitrary force in whose rein of justice no one can stand as a rebellion and accept it as justice.
These pregnant lines have become the stark reality rather than a guiding paradigm to every human who might not be desisting in pursuit for the fake glory of this ephemeral and transitory world. The fall of glory characters in human history whose reign of terror has annihilated human pathos and led the human society into the claudron of chauvinism lethal blaspheme and made tainted human soul’s who could not find any trace of redemption. And the symbolic pen got the stigma which is difficult to expunge or obliterate.
Couldn’t pen restraint and adhere the ethics thatvwould juxtapose rather wedge the society on chauvinist grounds and invoke bloodshed in the beautiful landscape of world and make people frenzied or has the pen turned so haughty that believes in sadism and takes pleasure in wedging the human society on chauvinist grounds when the world has already submerged into global village where human barriers are mere pygmies. Should we infer that the rational faculty in artists and steering agents is so morbid that fails to discern the multi- coloured beauty of the world?
Can’t artists seek inspiration from John Milton who was anguished on his blindness and was vexed and peervish for inertness in the utilisation of artistic sensibility for the human good for that noble vision of John Milton God had replied that even the inclination to serve for the human good is construed as service to the divinity?
Can’t we restore lost glory? It is a reverberating question. One is in a fix! But the panacea is not suburb. I am candid and point blank. We can! If we we realise we are paragonic not pygmies. We have to tower and we have to rebuff the onslaught of lucifier who haunts us like a passion, makes us reel infirm and frail and demolishes our foothold a moral security.
Let us introspect into the lives of the seers, saints, suifis,prophets, who blatantly repulsed the temptations of looming lucifier whose ungratified state of thirst and vaulting ambition is to enslave the paragon. When sketching sordid stories the symbolic pen would be mourning and lamenting and shedding the sightful tears. As did the Mathew Arnold in “Dover beach” when he expresses his concern when human existence came under the onslaught of science in Victoria era. Oh! Sea of faith has drowned,” but the haunting golden lines of P.B. Shelley acts as a universal penaca in the following lines”, If winter comes, can spring be far behind.
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