It was told to me by my elders that in the days of old, there was one warrior unlike any other. When he plunged into battle, twin swords in hand, he defied all the restrictions of shape. He moved like wind, and power radiated from his every step. As he set the field ablaze, his elaborate garments would blend into a colourless swirl. Then, his form temporarily melted into nothingness.
Eyeing him from the battlements, his comrades would exclaim with joy at his invincibility. "Beheroopia!" they cried, for that is what their master had wisely named him.
Beheroopia, in times now past, meant one without set form.
Beheroopia is the spirit of India; and India takes a million forms, each a story of infinite elegance and grace. Every work of graffiti etched into crumbling walls is a window; and every folk song is a voice, calling for ears.
Since booming industrialization and standardization have overtaken modern India, however, neglect and indifference has rapidly driven that spirit of 'beheroopia' into the realm of the forgotten. It's painful to watch this exploitation our peerless past for a uniform future, as if one cannot exist with the other.
I am a historian and story teller in training, and this is only a celebration of that great pursuit of beauty. I share what the universe sees fit to have me stumble against; art, music, literature or a story worthy to re-tell.
Now, as was done by the bards in ancient times, I apologize to any who my words might offend.
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