One was Suresh Joshi ....

- Spectrometer-Jay Vasavada

- The disappearance of the event (always saying that I have said Tirodhan, not the disappearance) This creator himself was the one who woke up to bring in Gujarati stories

Put a hole!

Put a vein in my vein.

Accumulated interest of time,

At night taking the last turn

The juice of the tears shed looking east,

After the honeyed moments of love evaporated

The acidic juice rushing to the bottom of the heart,

The blind exhalation of the flower

Interest in space,

Died by drowning in Osbindu

Death juice of orphan suns,

From the sting of the moon to the sacks of the night watch

Toxic,

Hidden inside the silence like a spider's egg

A viscous web wrapping around the world,

The soliloquy of the sea accumulated in the fog of the conch,

Bhammaria eating the turn of the well

Deafness of deafness,

Accumulated in the protruding character of the desolate caddy

Reminiscent of an erased phrase,

Phosphorus in the cemetery and

Agniras of Hawa Ratirmana-

Intersect veins,

Not dripping

Pralayapur vahavi lo

Accumulated interest of time,

The juice burning in my veins.

What does it mean to be a key? Every artist has had such hidden or manifest ambitions. He wants to make his mark on the future. But the future generation will change our work. It doesn't stay the way we wanted it to. It loses its connection with us, then the motto of Mamatva is severed. There is no point in calling it 'my immortality'. The work that survives such a change is called kalajayi. The power of such transformations that he unwittingly ignited in himself from his creator also endures. That is why many of its twists and turns remain possible. It therefore arises independently of its creators. It is the offering of kindness to the next generation. As the phase changes, as the mood of the nation changes, its value increases .... There is no reason to believe that what has happened is dead. It would not be surprising if the sleep of such a 'dead' work fairy tale suddenly sat down like a lazy princess. So the best work that can keep its secret hidden for a long time. '

Dhinga Gujarati creator like Suresh Hariprasad Joshi, who wrote this poem and this essay, turned 100 years old last Sunday, May 30. But with Suresh Joshi's departure, the mainstream society, which is considered to be the mainstream in his forehead, has not been cursed to delay, it took a week to remember him. But Shatabdi is the splendor of the year, so we will keep remembering this one-time trendsetter. Under this pretext, if not a library, but also online, a modern reader would go to a collection of his works to fill a couple of mouths! He may not like praise from such a text. Even though it was his voice. So this is our voice. It is not possible for a devotee of Muktavidya to give up his potty in someone's walk. Talent is formed by nature, not by lack or influence.

That's why he put what he wrote at the beginning. The future generation will understand his works by changing their values ​​in this way, so Suresh Joshi had a generous generosity in the sixties and seventies, not to keep it tied to the ropes of sad feelings, but to make it flow freely for the devotees. Mani Kaul or Adoor Gopalakrishnan's films, like Picasso's or Dalલી's paintings, realistic but imaginative literature has never seen such a huge rush in Gujarati language. So this professor's class got bigger. The so-called 'class' disappeared behind him.

There is an age when the breasts in the chest and the mustache on the lips do not explode. The unspeakable Ajanpa revolt also erupts within. Not everyone has the experience of a pre-marital kiss or a mountaineering adventure, not everyone has this intelligence. It also caused Kafka, Camus, Sartre, Borges, Baudelaire, Paz, Rilke, Neruda, Kirkegaard, Dostoevsky, Simenon, Hemingway, etc. As if the existential vortex of darkness shakes it!

Su.Jo. In Gujarat, he remained the scapegoat of this creation. From Niranjan Bhagat to Sitanshu Yashashchandra or Madhu Rai to Chandrakant Bakshi or Nitin Mehta to Ravji Patel or Sarup Dhruv to Vipin Parikh or Aniruddha Brahmbhatt to Shirish Panchal. But Suresh Joshi lost his name in this matter and became 'Gharana'. Bakshi's sharp multidimensional observation and Suresh Dalal's ability to make literature popular were not acquired by him. Even though he was overwhelmed, he could not get the audience according to his status due to his jealousy or allergy. The rest of Meghani or Umashankar knew how to cultivate a garden among the people and maintain a fire inside and before them! So, Makrand Dave and Kundanika Kapadia did not cultivate world literature less, neither Dhirubahen Patel nor Vinod Bhatt, Chunilal Madia or Ramesh Parekh were unaware of all these trends. But his knowledge was not allowed to dominate his senses. That is why his creations are more special than read.

But in presenting the difficult philosophy with a pleasing lightness, someone said to the able rational emperor Osho Rajneesh that you understand, but J. "I speak for people like you," Osho said with a trademark humor when not Krishnamutra. He speaks for people like me. ' In that sense, Suresh Joshi was a writer for writers. Yes, when someone becomes Amitabh Bachchan in the mainstream, there is also Naseeruddin Shah in the parallel universe. There is also Amol Palekar among the two. Black stone, red roses and colorless springs for nature are all welcome in the expression. Grass and trees can only survive together.

Written by Suresh Joshi himself, Rabindranath has said that God gave the bird a nod, it is the bird that nods to God. But God gave tune to man, man sings to God. This is the pride of being human. Seeing this creation of God from the height of this pride, Van Gogh took pity on God and said: 'The world is a study of God which has turned bad. This deteriorating creation of God, this creation of his should be improved with our distinctive style. That is the most sacred duty of the Creator. No narrow policy or arrogance of sophistication should be hindered in this, our interest should not be a sin of bigotry! '

He himself is a keen scholar of Sanskrit and Bengali. Quote Ritke or Valerie as you quote Gitagovind or Mahabharata. After eating Bengali milk sweets, Gujarati sweets of ghee-flour would feel heavy. After he tasted Bengali literature in his youth, the taste of Gujarati literature started to fade. After Kafka's German Karela was kicked by the bitterness of the French camouflage, he did not like the spice or melodies of the social stories of that time. In his mind the jadbaslak was arranged that this creation is the same world. From this, the institutions may have borrowed the disgust of popularity from the Gujarati literary critics and made mystery, comedy and children's literature stand up to the nose. Of course, Su.Jo. Only philosophers were not critics. Balkat was also a cowardly creator. Interest is so important in Indian poetry that only God can be imagined as interest! Read the poem that puts the interest in her blood like the antithesis of a thought at the forefront! Like Mannade or Parveen Sultana's educated but prominent voice was a little overlooked among all the sweet voices.

Sample is a taste of being prominent. What typical goodie goody essay would a teacher write about a student who reads the payroll more carefully than a textbook to the students who come to GAIL after the cancellation of the exam? Taste the morning's M's dark-toned film, compiled from three different books by Sujo, with English in words that sound tough in brackets:

The first dew point has dripped on the lotus of an unfamiliar lake in an unfamiliar village. The city's sleepy half-baked eye is open. Standing in the middle of the square, an old pigeon sniffs. The tired adult prostitute turns back from the window. From somewhere the siren of the mill announcing the first shift of the day is heard. Prison inmates are going to work in droves. The dying patient in the hospital has opened his eyes to suffer one more day. The birth of a baby is heard in the maternity ward. The city's roads are being paved again. Forgetting to flicker the street lights, they are smiling lightly in the sunlight. At the bus stop, the love affair between a young man and a young woman is going on intermittently. The crows are annoying the bats hanging on the tree. The press reporter is collecting the details of the stranger who was crushed under the running truck. Leaders are rushing to town halls to deliver the first speech of the day. The school bus is in a hurry, filling up with students. Under the tamarind tree, the old man is sitting begging for one more day, thrown by God in begging. The filthy river, smelly of foul-smelling chemicals, is flowing. In it, the city laughs nastyly at its dirty mouth.

The industrious spider is sitting in the forgotten bamboo net in the garden with a blank stare. A corpse is waiting for police in an abandoned well in the middle of the city. Raised animal-like fruits are hanging in the shop. Humans have come out again wearing the veil of name. The two blind men are walking hand in hand. Some old man has started preaching God over a loudspeaker. The sleeping owl perched in the gorge of a high palace flew away. The sun has lit up all the garbage.

People are fleeing in cars and planes. Radioactive Raj is running behind him. The dew point on the lotus in the pond falls into the water. A bubble disappears.

My eyes are red and swollen, like a baby weeping and weeping, as if I had just put one foot out of the water of sleep. But the hasty sun has jumped. The world is on the move. The world has begun to move. The corpses have started moving towards the graveyard, the development of the disease is progressing in the body of the patient. The blood flow in the pulse of the workers has increased. The amount of toxic gas in the atmosphere of the town has increased. The boredom of civilized people has increased. Violence is being fostered in crowds.

Waking up in this world, I have become speechless and helpless. The twelfth and sixteenth chapters of the Bhagavad-gita, a few of the names of Vishnu Sahasra, are on my lips due to the rites of childhood. Then Baudler and Rilke's line rumbles, there comes the morning print and the Niagara Falls of words roars. The loud noises of the advertisement, the words roaring from the loudspeakers of the leaders' speeches, the screams of the unfortunate who was killed, the bows of a few marriages, the dialogues of the leaders, the heroines of the film. Slow voices of gossip in dark corners, all this seems to be swirling like a whirlwind through the press.

Nervous mild hygiene in the morning sometimes makes us hesitant to open our eyes, the scars of nightmares, the bruises of Ajanpa, the crumpled texture of consciousness due to insomnia - all these make us blunt before hygiene. Thus the day begins with the realization of having committed a crime. Gradually, as the day progresses, one can barely get out of it. But at the beginning of the day, Kashik Glanni is in the mind. Sometimes the whole day is spent in the shadow of this grief. Sometimes holding it is not so much a glimmer of happiness (fate). What a conspiracy our cunning mind devises against such guilt! Sometimes it seems that we have reached a new level of geography of our mind. From there, the road to the familiar climate region is not very paved.

We try to overcome the trivialities of day-to-day routine tasks. Avoiding all kinds of abnormalities by becoming desperate. Even consciousness has millennia. One never knows what will come of it! The time arranged separately in the waking state spreads the waking together like the roots of a giant tree at the bottom. That is why I often do not have the courage to open my eyes in the morning. Once everything is arranged in a familiar way outside, the sun returns everything to its familiar pieces, all the outlines become clear and organized, then an eye-opening adventure can take place. Thus the arrival of a new day is an extraordinary event. It's not as simple as simple figures on a calendar page. '

It is a brilliant thing that makes Imtiaz Ali's spectacle stand out! Such films were made in Gujarati decades ago! Su.Jo. In today's humor, Gujarati used to write a lot of difficult Gujarati. Not to impress anyone, but her style of expression was the same. In his early childhood, he was impressed by the unfiltered nature. The collection of writings 'Janantike' became a landmark and was praised. Janantik means sweet talk in the ear. Sweet Whisper. That is why the descriptions of nature seem so monotonous that they are repeated to such an extent in his writings. Then he said that Tagore was introduced and immersed in the Bengali stream in his youth. In primary school, he refused to do water in a 'lesson' note. He told the teacher, 'I will not write again without a reason for what I know' and had to change schools. In which the interest of meeting good teachers flourished.

I saw the book 'Great Wall of China and Other Stories' on the sidewalk while studying at Elphinstone College, Mumbai. Wondering if the name sounds gorgeous or the Great Wall of China in the story? M grabbed Kafka's finger. He doesn't like the fact that the narrators arrange everything in harmony with the events. But thus the pull towards the creators of the West came from such an unforeseen event. Then sat in the library and read pretty much everything modern world literature. So much so that all his life he kept belching at it. The book of interviews edited by Suman Shah was decided during his lifetime and came after he passed away at the age of 13 due to kidney disease after 9 years. In this, in response to the question asked about oneself, the references of the foreigner must have come! This was probably the greatest limitation of this sage. Because of the 'afra' of the study, it did not come out of the frame of the definition of others. He almost stopped seeing the world for himself without wearing those borrowed glasses.

But what I saw was priceless. Take a look at some of the same three diamonds in her quotes. "Now I am very careful with the irony of the white clothes. The language of such people does not have a heart. I know that such people are in a high position. AOs do not use such a high position with a very high instinct, a high position means the convenience of kicking the head of a man sitting down at his feet. The term ‘man under the hand’ we have there is wrong. In fact, 'man under the feet' should be said honestly ....

The conscience to face new problems (in education) has not been awakened. We students there mostly lived as foresters. Sent to Tapovan when he was five years old. Nature was also one of her teachers. Jupiter was not teaching. Descending from the mother's lap was immediately opening up to nature. Today, it is not the turn of nature to open up. I live in my house. If you want to keep the air conditioned, you have to keep all the doors closed. Have a nice fun neem outside. If it's shirish, I don't want to smell it. Don't look at it because I have to stay in an air-conditioned room ...

If there is a lump of gold, there are so many kilos of gold in it, look at that kilo, right? Etale evo atalu malyo em e hisab mande! When someone is wearing a small similar nose, the one who turns on it is said to be more curious ... '

So what is to be learned today from this Joshimath Ghat? More next Sunday ...

Fast forward

'Dadu Dayal has said very nicely that if a flower has to bloom, then he wants a guarantee from God that - I will bloom only if the sky should be very large, otherwise everything will fall small for me. And it is also said in the Upanishads that the biggest sin is the sin of Brahmasankoch. It is a sin to shrink your consciousness. ' (Suresh Joshi)