Friday, October 31, 2008

we hold the tree

we hold the tree. but it grows out of our palm.
i scoop the river. but it flows, unrelenting. mercilessly.

i didn't want yesterday to pass.
this morning dawns. another day.
but different. warm and welcoming the sun's face beams.

keep them company. who? i don't know. yesterday.
next morning, pend yourself. keep me company today.

flow out of my window. like a bloating river.
clear and unrestrained, my thoughts.

things change. grass shivers. cloud shifts. sunset vanishes.
........................................ EMPTINESS THERE'S A TIME FOR IT.

Thursday, October 23, 2008

and after saying all these, i look around to see if anyone watches me too.

The man has not left his eyes from her. She keeps talking like a little bird twittering to an amused eye. He is dressed well. In brown that blends with the sofa that he sits on.

He still looks at her. Trained. Keep your eyes on her. Shift your body so that it faces her which will give the impression that you are interested in her. Maintain eye contact. Trained. The art of conversation. Whatever.

Their dresses look like they've emerged from polished doors after long hours at furnished office stenching of coffee. Coffee. Symbol of progress. Symbol of hard work. Whatever. Their dresses remind me of coffee. Her boots are glossy leather - like an expensive horse's thigh.

They continue to talk. In all their learnt and bought artistry and education. In all their polishness. In all their coffee-cultured-evening-after-work-rendezvous-that-starts-with-a-peck-on-the-cheek tradition.


They shake hands. Smile. Friendlyly exchange greetings. Trained to impress. Trained to seduce.

Thursday, October 16, 2008

I crave. I carve

A place unlistened. And unwatched. 
A place unlistened. And unwatched.
Slips through the fingers.
The unlikely existence.

The Tyranny of Classification

By what right do we classify a thought as negative and positive? I think classification is wrong. There are no two sides. Everything is a sphere. Not cube. A beautiful rounded sphere. Without sides and direction.

When I think and express what is called 'negative', I am wrong. People are quick to bring me down, tackle me, because what I express does not benefit the audience. But I have never made art and expression, be it a story or a drawing, for the sake of the audience; but instead for the sheer joy of expressing myself. I never think of the reader, except when I am making a sell-out work, when I am penning a thought. There is something liberating in expression. That is not a secret locked away in a Pandora's box that got opened only by a few artists. I mean, why else would we love talking so much? I like to express. I like to let it out.

So why should a bubble that ensues out of my head, something so pure and genuine, be popped out of life just because the audience does not like it? It is my bubble. Everybody has their own bubbles. It is not like there are just a few handful of bubble-smiths, fortunately gifted to make thought bubbles.

How can a bat express daylight? How can an owl express sunshine? It hurts.

Order. Control. What earth is grappling for amidst the beauty but uncertainty of chaos. 

I cross the road. They wait. They cross the road. I wait. Else I bump into them and they bump into me. The stupidity of mankind.

The line (if there is a line, which I don't think there is) between what is negative and positive is barely existent. It is the habit of humans, in the same way that the hideousness of the traffic system is based on human infatuation for order, to put things in convenient envelopes and tagged systemmatically.

Look inside me. There is no order to delve into and extract that I can express ever fully. There are no lines, rulers, borders and envelopes in my mind.

I believe the devil in us wants to separate our thoughts and own these tags. Make us run on the left of the road. Make us follow signals and signs.

The devil invented the traffic signals.

Monday, October 13, 2008

Glide. Soar. Close your eyes.

Glide. Soar. Close your eyes.

Forget. Pick up. 

Flash of sunlight. Into the clouds. Open sky.

Earth. Green. Blue rivers. Fields.

Cool. Eagle soars.


Life flash by. Memories. 

Rebirth. Soar again. Soar higher.

Touch carpet of lake with your toes.

See fishes in the water. 

Across the peaks. Adorn with white.

Blinding brightness. Across the skies.

Sunday, October 12, 2008

Memories of Goa at Sumner

Warm sand beneath my feet. Clean. Fire. Powdery. Reminds me of Goa. The hot beating Goa. Of swaying coconut trees and unresting ocean.

I clasped my can of Coke. My just bought scarf hugging my forehead. I squinted across at the sand, littered with reddened tourists being cooked in the sun. My friends are down at the water, their tittering voices dissolved into the madness. I don't know why I felt intimidated by the sea. I just sat at the cafe, with a can of Coke, my SLR camera wrapped around my right hand... But that time of solitude - my mind washed by the song of the waves and swaying slightly to the random music that a cafe was playing - was beautiful. It is one of the moments that I cherish of Goa.

There were a lot to complain about at Goa. There were always things that I wasn't happy about. But what I would give to caress my toes in that warm sand again? Hear my friends' voices floating in as one with the voice of the sea.

To be lost in the adventure of the unknown, homelessness and being in a place no one knew me..

Warm sand beneath my feet. I now sit on my Kolhapuri chappals on the sand. The sun is warm - but when it disappears behind a cloud I am reminded it is not summer as yet.

Sumner is quite like Goa's beach that we were in. Little town, thriving on the advantage of the seaside. Small houses.

The sand is fine. It slips through your fingers like a fine cloth. The sea is blue, green, grey. The breeze is gentle and mannered.

Unstoppable. Unresting. Overflowing. Is the sea. Mystery. Dark. Green.

The sea holds a million stories. I look at it and see that it is smug. Mature. Old. Keeper of secrets. Unknown tales. It is tyrannous and repressive and yet liberating. it gives life and takes life.

Blue green grey mystery.

Thursday, October 9, 2008

on Premchand

When asked why Premchand didn't write anything about himself, he answered: 
"What greatness do I have that I have to tell anyone about? I live just like millions of people in this country; I am ordinary. My life is also ordinary. I am a poor school teacher suffering family travails. During my whole lifetime, I have been grinding away with the hope that I could become free of my sufferings. But I have not been able to free myself from suffering. What is so special about this life that needs to be told to anybody?".
Now thats different.
"A writer or an artist is progressive by nature, if this was not his/her nature, he/she would not be a writer at all."

Excerpt from 'Freedom, Tea and Spectacles'

Warm on my shoulder. I watch a reflection of a tree on the glass partition in front of me, rippling in the breeze. I remember a saying - "I think I shall never see a poem, as lovely as a tree."

[We talk about revolution all the time.]

The tree is revolution. Formless. Cool. Rugged. Undaunting. Unlined. One.

Tuesday, October 7, 2008

On Christchurch

My newest design project is about my interpretation of Christchurch based on the many drawings and observations that I have about the city. I am done with the synopsis. And the Word Map (which as the name suggests is just a page filled with words and concepts that can lead me to further develop the idea on the given topic. The more words the more ideas and stronger the foundation to build the designs on.) is becoming very interesting. Some of the words I came up with are:
Bland. Canterbury. Tasteless. Repressive. Graphitti. Quiet. Cold. Drunk. Maori flare. Fake smiles. Square. Lines. Controlled. Artificial. Showy. Detached. Outdoor recreation. Nostalgia of England.  CCC. Plastic. Public artwork. Christchurch Cathedral. Fish & Chips. Dance. Circus. Colourful Street culture. Youth sub-culture. Dead architecture. People disillusioned with life. Hip Hop. The Majestic. Kiwis. Asians. Uncritical. Unquestioning. Culture-less. Tourists. Southern Alps. 

Don't be fooled. They aren't all negative. But asking me what I think of Christchurch when I am suffering from homesickness is a wrong timing. What can you expect. There are, however, also some very positive and even respectful words that I mentioned. Like Colourful Street Culture, which I believe adds life to the drooping city. The Majestic, of course the church that I go to, the hotspot of creativity, art and music and dance (we are out to move the world through the arts), hope for a better Christchurch, not just tomorrow, but today. Dance, very very crazy dance movement here. Completely bowled over I am. Then there's good Hip Hop without mindless mania for money and sex. 

I have a comment about the art of NZ in general. I like Colin MacCahon a lot. Particularly his work I AM is phenomenal. There's Rita Angus, who painted women, not necessarily in picturesque setting and not for the sake of a pretty picture, but as they were, with bold colours. She's respectable I suppose. 
But there's NZ architecture. I do not understand why they have to make them as tasteless as ever. The architectural landscape of Christchurch makes you think that the people here are so disillusioned with life. Nothing to look forward to except the drinking binge next weekend or the outdoors adventure over summer (quoting Carl Crocker). Its my opinion that this disillusionment comes with the absence of religion, absence of a belief in the transcendental. Information, data and routine amounts to disillusionment. And this sense is represented in their art and expression. 
(I am just trying to interpret things that I see from my perception. Never an absolute conclusion. Tomorrow my opinion on the same things may change.)
By religion I also mean the belief in the imagination and the unseen. I think that apart from religion and faith, what else can you base your life on? News, sports, business, computers, technicalities.. blah blah. The pride of the modern times.
Christchurch has chosen to forsake the significance of the name. Now its just a name that forms in the lips of people, without any thought to it.
But again I should probably remind you, this is an extremely one sided opinion. I have only been watching the city from a very critical eye. I agree there are great things happening also. To mention the Majestic Church again, where they have a vision to win over Christchurch for the better. To retouch the culture, the arts with God, in the best possible way we can.

Monday, October 6, 2008

note of homesickness

Sometimes I think I hear trucks lulling me to sleep, trucks on their way up Barapani. Sometimes I think I hear tiny raindrops drip-drip on the garden flowers and moist earth just out my window. Sometimes I think I hear the soft breathing of my brother asleep on his bed. And at these times I wonder if anything has moved since I left.

Wednesday, October 1, 2008

untitled story of

There is an escape route that takes you to secret lake much smaller than any other lake I know. 

I heard scant music coming from a vent through a thick grove of spruce trunks and I followed my ears. 

I discover this lake that is cold and clear, the lapping water on the rocks like rain on clean fingers. 

Sound that washes your thoughts and drips your fears cool.

No one bathes on its water. No, its too far for the human legs to take him. 

It is not the distance, but it is very far. You need to hear the music. 

Close your ears around the rugged trunks. 

There is no one who plays the music. 

It is just the wind running through the trees and their tresses. 

And it is only meant to lead the inquisitive ear to the lake. Glass. Rippling.

But the horror.

It burns. It burns. The lake dries up. The mountain melts. The water singes my skin. My escape burns.

Disenchantment hates my world. And conspires against it.

And everyone on earth upholds disenchantment. And they win always.