Thursday, November 19, 2015

The one that stitches scattered pieces together.

She always envied him his precision while juggling with words. His ability to sum up all the thoughts in just a few letters. Like a sharp tip of a pin.
Her words always seemed to be running on the curved paths of her perception and she could swear that sometimes she was even able to hear their laughter inside her head. The words would mock her in various ways - sometimes they would refuse to fly out of her mouth and she would stand there among the people feeling smaller to any of them. At other times they would pair themselves inside her mind in some strangely shaped clusters that she wasn't able to comprehend or they would hide themselves inside a box and push some unwanted word out for her to ponder upon.

She sighed. It took her 600 seconds to be able to come up with the last few sentences. She also had to open a dictionary 5 times.

She sat quietly on the threshold. The caterpillar made a bed for itself inside a leaf, however, this time she was sure that it was just a pest. A grasshopper sat on her hand few nights back, a man sitting next to her told her that it must be a sign of good luck. She smiled. It made her feel warm, yet at the same time she knew that he was not the one she wanted to curl next to on a cold winter night.

She sat on the floor by the wall and quietly observed his fingers moving on the piano keys. They both looked similar to her- the keys that lost its sparkling white colour and the roughness of his hands. He loved a woman once, she knew that. He would play the piano for her and watch her as she would dance for him in the room. He would then stand up and join her in the dance. He would hide his face in her hair and kiss her neck. His fingers would gently play with the white skin of her breasts. She flew outside the room one day, just like the vapour drifting above a blue and red cup of hot tea. He turned himself into a magician then, yet sometimes the smell of strawberries is stronger than that of magic runes, so he hid his belief in magic inside a box and turned himself into a jester instead. He still played the piano, yet the courage to dance had left him years back.

She sat on the floor by the wall and quietly observed his fingers moving on the piano keys. She felt drawn to that rough skin, newly acquired strands of grey hair. She loved the music that he played and often wished of becoming a book that he would read before sleep. Maybe then he could put pins and nails into the walls in the living room and hang some paintings with not-so-straight lines there.
She did not feel lost this time, she did not need to cry in the rain, she did not need to bang at the doors and to shout to him to pull her out of that invisible mist that she had become. She grew up a bit. And she did not need him to dance, she needed him to read.

And as he read he took off his shirt and she could see his faceless body. She came closer and as she touched him they both dissolved into one drop of red and blue. The red ball that a spoilt rich child threw out of the window of a moving car and the blue ball that another child saw in her dream as she lay her head on a pillow made out of her mother's sari.

I took a sip of tea. My fingers were tired of dancing on the black and white keys of the piano. As I turned I saw a girl sitting at the threshold. She was smiling. She stood up and began to dance... 

Saturday, November 14, 2015

Us and them

Homo homini lupus est.
attack - retaliation,
retaliation - attack,
front page in big fat font in the morning newspaper,
Syria, Paris, Lebanon, Dadri...
(a child just died in Africa, yet the lack of oil in the region makes this death less honoured)
them - us,
us - them...
black and white colours of right and wrong - the former one always stand on the side of us.


Will there be a day when us and them could turn into 'we'?

Friday, November 6, 2015

It takes 5 minutes to fall 9000 meters down before you hit silence.

Did they? or Did they not?
.
.
.
.
The facts and speculations  are being thrown at us each day.
.
.
.
.
Did they? or Did they not?



5 minutes.

Did someone smoke a cigarette?
Did a child hold his mother?
Did she scream?
Did they not regret having gone there?
Did the wine spill over her white dress?
Did he try to open emergency exit and jump?
Did she think it is just a bad dream?
Did he feel hungry?
Did he regret not having called her last night?
Did she cry?
Did he hold the hand of that stranger sitting next to him?
Did he pray?
Did she close her eyes?

Did they? or Did they not?

5 minutes.


It takes 5 minutes to fall 9000 meters down before you hit silence.


Saturday, October 24, 2015

An average verse.

The quality of averageness entangled me today
It pushed me to a bottle, like a djinn.
I painted the glass with vibrant colours to hide its content, yet
the bottle proved to be too small for the greateness of my averagness,
it spilled outside the brim:
average intelligence that fails to deconstruct itself in the light of Derrida's theory,
average face that has never been immortalised on the canvas at NGMA,
(even ambition is average as it fails to strive for the walls of Louvre)
average muscular strength that makes me stay on the floor longer than those not-so-average bodies around,
average poem, no average comment on that shall be offered.
Average, average, average to the point of nausea.
only the spelling mistakes and mispronounced words shall proudly announce my individuality,





Wednesday, October 14, 2015

I

The 'I' in me wears a thick coat on a hot summer's day.
It closes the eyes in the middle of things:
intro-I-duction, po-I-em, walk-I-ing.
It stops with the eyes closed and hands extended
feeling the structure of the wall near by.
It will be late for work today,
although,
the sense of responsibility
will push it towards the doors.
I inter-I-rupted poem.
It will come back to it in the evening.

I sat to it with a cup of tea in my hands,
while the 'I' in me kept pondering over the sense of it all.
I watched the child, the adult and the I conspire against me.
The child was laughing
The I was missing
The adult was annoyed.
I sat in the corner looking at the I.

We were trying to measure each other.
I wore a thick coat and I went away.

Saturday, October 3, 2015

The Cow.

'She's a fat cow...' These were the exact words that would creep into his mind each night as he mounted her on the squeaky cot standing in the corner of the room.
'You stupid cow...' he would tell her as he slapped her for having gone out with her girlfriends to buy the glass bangles without telling him.
He milked her parents well on their wedding day - new motorbike and a smartphone with unlimited access to those pretty scantly clad kittens that would make up to him for having to bear with that cow of his.

He heard in the evening that a man kept cow's meat in his fridge. He was outraged. How could one have even thought of eating a cow. He run to the man's house with a stone in his hand.

I run out of words. They turned into sharp  blades of grass that the cows graze on...

Friday, August 14, 2015

Pretty cup.

I liked the cup. It was blue at the bottom and had red and white design at the top. The tea drank from it had this peculiar taste of tea that is being drank from a blue and red cup with white designs. If you don't know what am I talking about then the loss is absolutely yours...

I was sitting by a wooden table with a blue and red cup of tea in my hand and my eyes were examining the surroundings. Tall chair with a red colour pillow, a poster of a film star from the sixties, a guy who dropped in for a moment to enjoy his office coffee break, cups arranged neatly on the shelf.

They were sitting two tables away from mine. Early twenties I guess, he might have been slightly elder to her. They were both busy smiling at each other and I think he might have even wanted to hold her hand but was too scared of doing so in front of strangers.
She lowered her eyes to study the menu card.  She wanted to enjoy some of the exotic tastes that the place was offering. She zered on a strawberry flavoured green tea, which was being advertised as one of those rarities that one is supposed to try in order to become a true connoisseur of tea. It was also one of the most expensive items in the card and I could see for a moment a glimpse of panic in his eyes as he tried calculate in his mind whether he would have enough money in his wallet to be able to pay the bill. He was still smiling.

She was pretty. Big dove like eyes smeared with kajal. Long hair. Glowing skin. Straight teeth.

'You know... I could only marry a man who would gift me a diamond in an 18kt golden ring' she said.

She was pretty. She was pretty indeed. Eyebrow threading. Golden facial. Legs and hands waxing. Hairdresser. French manicure. Pedicure. Hand cream. Under-eye cream. Moisturising cream. Lipstick. Perfume.

He was still smiling. With a smile on his face he would drop out of college and study correspondence to join the call center to earn those few thousands that he would put into his bank account. He would eat once a day to save those few hundreds so that she could have her strawberry tea once a week. He would walk everywhere to save those few coins so that he could pay for her auto back home in the evening. He would do this stupid job once in his life that would make him feel ashamed of himself but would allow him to put those few thousands more into the bank. He would cut his foot and not go to the doctor to save a few hundreds and his foot would become swollen and hurt for six weeks. He would not go to see the sea with his friends to save few hundreds that he would otherwise have to spend on a ticket. He would not get himself a dog to save money that he would have to spend on dog's food, instead he would put few hundreds more into his account every month.

She enjoyed her tea. It had a flavour of sophistication mixed with a pinch of aestheticism. She had always been inclined towards beauty - the walls of her house were full of paintings that she bought at auctions or during her visits to art galleries. She would finish law at one of the ivy league universities and work in a foreign bank. One day the son of her parents' friends would gift her a platinum ring with 2 diamonds. One day at work she would catch a glimpse of a bit familiar face of a man applying for a loan. Unable to recollect the face she would just think to herself how silly those little people are - they do not know how to succeed in life and constantly beg big companies to give them money to survive.

He would not be given a loan. With tears in his eyes he would raise the ax to cut down the olive tree that his grandfather planted  after returning from his only travel abroad. The tree was just about to give fruits... He sold the land to the multinational construction company - the land would be converted into a calling center of a foreign bank. They would install big computers and college drop outs would be calling people to offer them loans and credit cards.

I finished my cup of black tea and paid the bill. As I went out I spotted a child sleeping on the ground at the construction site across the street. She kept her head on a pillow made out of her mother's sari and was dreaming of  her village and the girls playing with a blue ball by the river. A squirrel run up the wall. I could spot a single line on its grey fur, as if somebody had touched it with a finger dipped in paint. 

I looked back. She was still pretty. He was still smiling.


Tuesday, August 11, 2015

The pianist.

He always loved the piano. It was its presence in the living room that would link the old worlds with  today. His fingers were long and bony and he would often catch himself observing the lumbricals of his hand as he played.
Black key... vibration. White key... vibration.
It made him feel as if the music was not coming out of the piano strings but from all the muscles and bones of his body as he stretched himself to fill the room with his presence.
There was a lot to fill up as the room was large and empty of furniture. Only the piano stood at the center. He would sit next to it, eat, drink and sometimes even fall asleep. He once even dreamt a strange dream of having become a magician who stood by the river with a torn blue cloth in his hand. What could that mean he had no idea.
Having no ideas was a rather general state for him. He had no idea about the world, no idea about people, no idea about wars. All he knew were the black and white sounds coming out from his piano. It would always make him think of magic - this simple fact that by pressing one key he could create most unbelievable sounds that would paint the white walls of his room with different designs.
He enjoyed having his own ways - he would cry where other people would laugh and smile while others would try to wag their fists. He could not understand their ways and they were equally unable to understand his. He got used to the fact that he and his piano grew into becoming each other's best friends, best men, old husband and wife who had lived together for so long that they had eradicated any form of communication as it was no longer needed. They knew each other too well.
He was sitting by the piano that day trying to master the most intricate choreographies for his fingers when his efforts were interrupted  by a sudden knock on the doors. That seemed strange to him as nobody ever came this side - his house was far away from everywhere, everything and everybody. He thought that the sound was just a game of his imagination. He was getting old after all. However, the knocking seemed to continue and irritated as he might have been he could not ignore it any longer. He stood up and walked slowly towards the doors. The knocking  was becoming louder and louder with every step he took. He got scared and paused for a moment. Somebody began to bang hard against the doors. He could not ignore the loud sound so he decided to press the handle.

As he opened the doors he could see a little girl standing outside. Her hair was drenched in the rain of her tears.

'Can you see me?... Can you see me?' she cried. 'Can you see me? Cause nobody else can!!! Can you?'

Of course he could see her. What kind of question was that? Of course he could see her, yet he did not know how to say that to her. He was not good with words. Music was his domain.

'Can you see me?' she was almost shouting.

Not knowing what to do he suddenly pulled the child closer to himself and kept his hand on her head. The girl looked at him with her big green eyes 'Do you know that squirrels have marks on their fur because they were once touched by the hand of a man?' she asked.
'Yes, I heard about that I guess' he said 'it's an old story'
'It's not so old' said the girl 'I made it up yesterday only. May I tell you a story?'
He was lost for words, his hand however, began to play with girls hair. It seemed as if nobody had brushed them for years.
'Yes' the words flew suddenly out of his mouth 'I would love to listen.'

Sunday, August 2, 2015

The water cycle

She could feel the heavy blocks of ice melting under her skin,
They would climb out of her body to fly away like clouds that the wind would send towards his window.
She blew a petal out of her hand.
It turned into a kite.
The rain began at midnight.
The drops were heavy and each of them fell on the leaves of a creeper that was searching for its way through a tiny crack in the wall.
A green leaf found itself growing on a dry branch of a tree.
She kept her head on his knees.
It felt soft.
Her hands morphed into a creeper climbing up his body to fill up the crack in his chest.
She touched ice and it began to melt.
Drops fell down her hands and as each of them hit the ground she could feel leaves and branches growing out of her body.
His head was resting in her shadow.

The two butterflies found their way out of the white metro car.
I think I saw them sitting on a leaf as I drank tea on a cold morning after the rain.

Thursday, July 9, 2015

Untied masks.

The circle spinned as each of them untied the masks of insecurity that the thoughtful family tied on their heads.
My children.
Emancipated woman.
Fuck the system.
You hear only one side of the story.

She was sitting by the wall and her fingers were searching for the grains of cement that she could use to build up a wall between here and there.

Tuesday, July 7, 2015

The woman.

He woke up suddenly that day. Unable to grasp his whereabouts. Unable to remember the past that led him here. Unable to perceive the face of his faceless body.
He was just a thought.
The magician.
Unreal.

The real came rushing at him at a terrible speed. He thought he might fall again, his body shivered in fear. Was it fear? he wasn't sure.

'I shall sit there on the veranda every evening watching stars. The rocking chair. The quilt which I shall wrap over the legs of a woman whose voice will accompany me through the evenings. Her skin shall be covered with deep wrinkles. I shall touch her feet and hold her hand as she stumbles at the threshold.'

'Who said that?' he asked as he looked around the room. It was empty. He has never come here before, yet it was his own face that was looking at him from a painting on the wall. Cartons of notebooks in which he scribbled in his own handwriting. Books packed and waiting for somebody to unpack them again. He went to the sink and began to wash the dishes. This made him feel as if he did belong to this other place of his own self.

He turned and saw an old woman shrouded with a morning mist. The morning of acquaintanceship against the evening of forgetfulness.
He could hear her crying in the distance. He could see her hand moving involuntarily as they increased the dosage of morphine. Her lips were dry. A sponge soaked in water. She was walking slowly supported by the hands of a young woman. Her voice was soft. Like whispering. Like whispering in the middle of the night. Like whispering in the middle of the night when you ask if you could tell a story...

He turned back. He did not want to distract the women. They belonged to each other, which made him feel as if he was a spy on their moment of togetherness. Yet he wanted to look...

He turned back again. The third woman sang a prayer. Her fingers kept moving as she was counting the beads of a rosary as she sang. He had forgotten how to pray. It seemed so distant to him and yet it made him bend his knees and bury his face in his hands and beg. Whom? ... What for?... Would anybody listen?

He opened his eyes to see that the women are gone. The cane rocking chair moved slightly in the light of a hospital tubelight. It seemed as if somebody sat there for a moment. But that moment was over now.

He sat motionless, unable to comprehend and suddenly out of nowhere a pen of the writer made him run for his life as he felt his body transporting itself onto a flight bound to nowhere.

He sat in meditation. These were the longest 3 hours of his life.

The women. The prayer. The flight.

The rocking chair flew away from the patio as the flight landed somewhere in the undefined space.

He took out his face again from the pocket of his trousers. It had a polite smile on it. It said 'Yes, I'm fine. Thank you for asking'. He wore it on his body as it was trembling with invisible spasms of crying. He stood up and walked towards the doors. He pressed the handle and took a firm step transporting himself to the stage again.


Wednesday, June 17, 2015

The magician

The magician stood at the center of the stage. It was an old number to perform. Something he had done thousand times in his life. He was relaxed. His movements were smooth and confident as he took out a bouquet of daisies from the creases of his jacket. The audience applauded, but he was not moved by their expressions of admiration, He had got used to it through the years he had spent on stage. He did enjoy appreciation he would receive here and there but he did not feel the need of it anymore. He was not hungry for it as he had once been while standing in front of the roaring crowd. What thrill had it been... but now the thrill had been long gone. It was precision and flow of his movements that drew him towards performing his shows well rather than unfulfilled desire to shine.
When the performance got over he went quietly to the green room and took off the mask of a face that was stuck to his body. He was faceless now. It didn't really matter for everybody around him had forgotten what his name was. He was known to them as the magician. The man of crafty fingers. He kept his face on a hanger and fixed its smile a bit as it was explicitly stated in his contract that should have an impeccable smile whenever he stands on stage.
He wanted to go home but the minute he took the first step towards the doors he tripped on an orange peel that drifted into his greenroom from somebody else's story. He felt for a moment that he is not a master of his own destiny anymore. This thought frightened him and so he threw his arms wide in his last attempt to catch the balance but it was too late. He was falling behind and strangely enough he had thought that he caught a glimpse of a girl clad in a torn blue skirt. She was fighting against the current of a river as her hands were smeared with stains of blue paint.
He had been falling for quite some time now as suddenly he realise that he is floating on the waters in a tiny room where the eyes of his own face were looking at him from a painting hanging on the wall.
'But I do not exist...' he began to scream as he felt a soft touch of somebody's hand brushing through his dry disheveled hair. It felt warm and comforting and so he slowly drifted towards the land of his unconscious... many years later he would have written it in a book that this was the first time he had slept for real.

Friday, June 5, 2015

Stairway to infinity...

There once was a girl who thought she knew what heaven looks like. I am not sure if she herself was the author of the image of heaven of her dreams or maybe she had created it from scraps of conversations she overheard while having chicken at a 1.30 pm Sunday lunch with her family. Or maybe she just remembered one of the advertising slogans for heaven?
I don't know.
What I know is that she really tried hard to reach that heaven of her dreams. She studied hard, she collected objects that could help her towards getting to heaven. She thought she could climb there by the ladder that she would keep next to a cloud and try to climb up. She tried so hard that drops of sweat were dripping from her forehead even though it was not a hot summer... She tried and tried and tried... For a moment or two she would even think that she had indeed touched heaven with her hand... But somehow whatever she touched left only stains of blue colour on her hands. The marks of acrylic paint. You see... The heaven she touched was just a word that somebody pained on the ceiling with a blue coloured paint.
She wasn't angry. Or maybe she was? She was disappointed I guess. She might have even felt cheated for a moment... but whose hand was it that had scribbled on the ceiling of her house? Wasn't it she herself? She was confused on that one...
She might have been confused about many things, and she might have been experiencing many contrasting feelings at that moment, but one thing she was sure of - she could never satisfy herself with a mere word, with the confinement of a small room, with blue painted ceiling instead of an open sky. The infinity...
So she packed her backpack and turned herself into railway tracks... But not ordinary railway tracks... You see... Whatever was behind her began to bend and roll inwards like a scorpion's tail... There was no way of going back... One could only move ahead... Whatever was there behind was rolling inwards like a wave and an invisible hand held an eraser that would gradually make the pages of the past histories turn pale and the words that had been written on them were slowly becoming unrecognisable.
It was a magic railway track that would move ahead in twists and turns through the fields. It was a safe track - whatever was behind was blurred so there was no possibility that suddenly a heavy black locomotive engine would crush you from behind.
The track was moving ahead all the time. The most magical thing about the railway tracks is that if you look forward you think that you see the end of your journey but as you move closer to that point you realise that it is not the end at all, and then you see another point far away on the horizon and you begin to move towards it, and again, and again... till infinity.
There are no stations next to this railway tracks. Stations have words written on them, and once you reach a station you have to stop according to a schedule and depart according to a schedule. You can't even wait for a passenger that was getting late for the train....  No. Stations are not for this railway track. This railway track goes through fields...  And whenever the girl wants she can just transform herself into a girl, and sit by the track and breathe...
She is sitting next to railway track right at the moment. It might even sound funny to you, but I think she even took out an old style curved pipe and began smoking it as she is sitting there.
So she is sitting smoking her pipe by the railway tracks and looking at a filed stretching in front of her. The soil is very fertile and somebody just sowed the seeds. The scarecrow is there in the field. It's a very colourful and cool scarecrow. Do not ask me for the definition of 'scarecrowiness', but it's a very scarecrowy scarecrow...
You can punch the scarecrow jokingly and it will take off its hat... It's a nice scarecrow. A friendly one.

So the girl is sitting there by the railway tracks with her pipe. The filed is there. The scarecrow is there. The railway track is also there. And the girl is there too.

She is waiting and enjoying the moment.

The girl is there. And so are possibilities. The railway track. The field. The scarecrow. These are the possibilities.  But the girl is there for sure.

Saturday, May 30, 2015

they told us to pick up one animal, maximum 2.
i picked up a butterfly with white and blue wings, and a cat. but it didn't feel right to keep my animals suspended somewhere on empty canvas so i also picked up a tree and created a jungle for them to live in.

Monday, May 18, 2015

At the construction site

Brushing through her red hair,
Naked,
caressing her
metal arm,
Heavy breath,
Obligation,
Harder,
Deeper
Sigh,
Steady rhythm.

Flesh...less,
stump of the future that we cut away.
.....................

The tree looked at them from the distance.

Sunday, May 17, 2015

Infinity

Infinity,
I liked the sound of the word.
in fini ty
fini tea in
tea in the end
you in the end
the end in you.

Pause,
look around,
breathe.
Finite infinity.

Relax the muscles,
Fall,
Infinite,
stretched in time
extension
intention.

Find...
infinite ending.
Exit.

It will pass.

Sunday, May 10, 2015

Huligemma

It's a stupid game! a child cried and threw a ball out of the window of a fast moving car. They were on a highway, the most boring highway ever... even MacDonalds was nowhere in sight. The child was bored. The school holidays began few days before and his parents decided to take him to visit his grandmother in a dull town few hundred kilometers away from home. Grandmother would make sambar for them, dessert of banana and juggery and force him to drink buttermilk every morning. He hated it. All his friends had time to loiter in front of tv and watch cartoons all day and it was only his unsophisticated parents who insisted on embarking on that tedious journey every summer. Everybody else was allowed to have fun with the latest version of TRANSFORMER.5 on the tablet while his parents wouldn't even get him a smartphone for his birthday. Life really sucked with them and he often dreamt that maybe he had been adopted and one day his real parents would ring the bell and take him away to some foreign country where the sickling smell of coconut oil would not reach his nostrils at every corner. But that was only a dream, the reality was that he was trapped inside the moving car and the only way to express his frustration was to throw out that idiotic ball outside the window. Such a boring toy!

Huligemma lifted three more stones and placed them in the basket. The supervisor insisted on keeping there three more, but she knew that she would not be able to lift it then. She was not a weakling, it's not that - she even knew how to climb a coconut tree, but there were no coconuts around, only dust, stones, asphalt and the building that was higher than any coconut tree in the village. It was summer so her parents decided to bring her with them to work at the construction site of a new apartment building on the outskirts of a big city. She was twelve. Or at least that's what she thought she was for nobody really remembered the exact year when she had been born. How did it matter anyways? What mattered was that she was a child of her parents and thus had to help them in earning money so that they could send her younger brother to school. She left school when he was born. Her parents wanted her to take care of him when they would be away.... and now she was away with them. She missed the village, the trees, the cow and the girls who would go together to the river to do their laundry. Here the sun was high above and she would often get scolding from the supervisor for being lazy. Her reminded her of a teacher she once had at school. He would make her stand up, stretch the hands and the hit the knuckles with a ruler. It hurt. Her knuckles didn't hurt now, but her back did after a day of work at this dready construction site. She kept her head on a pillow made out of her mother's sari and closed her eyes. When she slept she saw their village and the girls playing with a blue ball by the river.

Tuesday, April 21, 2015

The commandments.

These are all those simple truths that I should have learned many years back but unfortunately it took me a bit more time to give the exams in the subject called 'life'...

Don't beg for love. You are worth being loved and there is no need to beg for it.

Happiness lies inside. No outside person can make you happy but you yourself.

Be grateful to all those who promised you help but never actually helped when you needed it. They helped you a lot. They helped you to discover your own path and prove to yourself that you actually can.

Whatever you give will return to you one day. So give love.

Your birthday is every day, as every day you are born again to discover new things!

You don't have to be the best in everything you do. Your being is more important than your doing.

Keep the negative thoughts at bay. What you think is what you get.

Take risk. It's worth it. Even if you fail in some things you will succeed in other.

Be grateful for what you have. You have much more than many other people in this world.

Walking alone allows you to meet many new interesting people on your way. It allows you to stop whenever you want to and take a detour whenever some new paths open. Walking alone is not lonely. It's beautiful and it allows you to discover yourself.

Write, sing, play, paint.... be happy... That's what life is about....

Many smiles to you all!



Tuesday, April 7, 2015

Silence

Silence is eloquent said he.
Silence is a very prominent figure of speech laughed I in response.
The traffic was heavy,
the music was loud,
the thoughts were screaming.
We were sitting silent
until he stood up and left hurriedly to his work -
the speeches had to be made.
I remained silent.
A thought run across the highway,
I think she saw a forest there
and for a moment
thought
she could sing like a bird.
.
.
.
.
.
.
He switched the radio on...

Wednesday, March 25, 2015

The work in progress

The work in progress reached the point of regress as it was pointed out by the progressive regressor outpointed by the work in question.
Exclamation mark.

Minutes...

No I don't.
Shall we?
What if?
But...
Please...
Sometimes
I'd like
Would you?

I think the sparrow once came to say yes.

Sunday, March 22, 2015

Six degrees of separation...

Six degrees of separation is the theory that anyone on the planet can be connected to any other person on the planet through a chain of acquaintances that has no more than five intermediaries.

Six degrees of separation... Only six people between you and me. Did you know that? Will you find me? Will you search for me?

It's been many years now since I embarked on this journey. We both did. You and I. Together, even though we've always been separated by time and space. I can't remember how it all began. Was it a train? a bus? maybe metro? or did simply begin by walking far away beyond the horizon of all these things that we knew from our everyday lives? I don't think I remember, do you? Your hair turned grey I guess... and so did mine, but I still smile to those memories of you... Do you smile when you think about me?
I know how it started. It all began with a dream that made us walk towards the unknown, towards each other. I was just a young girl then, a twelve year old child. And you? Do you remember how old were you at that time? I created you the way you created me.
It was that simple dream of being rather than having that made both of us walk for may days... I walked far away, and so did you I guess... We've changed a lot... You and I... But I don't regret, and neither do you I guess... Each day made us walk closer towards each other... So far away through time and space... so close...
Will you make tea for me? I'd love us to sit on the roof and watch the stars... I'd love to hear you teaching me about all the constellations above our heads...
Will you tell me a story before I sleep? I'll wake you up in the middle of the night to tell you thousands of silly stories of a silly girl who jumped once into a deep river...
Will you tell me a synonym for 'embark'? I need it for my story. I won't help you with synonyms much, but I would coin thousands of metaphors for you.
Do you paint? I think you do, but you don't tell anybody... but I'd love to see... Will you teach me about painting? I've just began to learn.
Do you have a dog? I'd love it if you do, but please tell him not to chase my cats too much... Could we work in an animal shelter for some time? Please...
Do you think we could build a house together? Only you and I, with our own hands? A house among thousand green trees by the lake...
Do you think communities really exist? or did they just steal the name and applied it to chilled out parties and high trips? Do you think we could find a real one? Would you take me there? To that place where we could be with people and write, act, learn, move, play, sing, paint, express... BE...
Will you exchange books with me? Have you read Murakami? Because I haven't, but I could tell you about Marquez... And could we start running a small library together? Do you think story telling is nice? Maybe we could read some stories to the kids together?
Will you laugh at my jokes? Will you let me run around the house for hours pretending that I speak with the French accent? Will you make me laugh when I cry?
Will you bare with me when I try to play the higher notes on the flute? I know I keep striking the false ones... Will you learn the piano for me?
Will you sit with me on the floor of the train by the doors and look outside for hours saying nothing?
Will you write letters to me? Will you keep them secretly under my pillow?
Will you teach me how to make a box?
Will you learn thousands of new things for me? And will you teach me them after that?
Will you let me steal your shirt in the morning?
Will you make me work on my core and biceps a bit? Will you make me fly?
Will you paint me when I'm old?


Are you smiling now when you think about me the way I'm smiling now thinking about you?

It's been a long journey... Would you like to sit with a cup of tea?

Monday, March 9, 2015

The Parrot's Squawk...



She never learnt how to speak... Speaking is for others. They have all these beautiful words that they gift you at every occasion. I remain silent. The only words that come to my mind are those silly ones that you laugh at... 'You do like a good quarrel' you said...
And then I go home alone... And I sit... and write... and paint...

Monday, February 9, 2015

When she watches contemporary dance...

When she watches contemporary dance...

She unwraps her sari and walks slowly towards a chair. She is wearing black palazzos and a tight black top.
She sits on the chair. She adjusts her position a number of times. Legs crossed. Right on top. Left on top. She leans forward. She leans against the chair. She covers her face a few times. She plays with her hair. She yawns. She looks here and there.
She opens her bag and takes a brochure out. She reads a few lines. She keeps the brochure inside her bag.
She leans forward. A mobile rings. She pretends it is not hers and tries to reprimand a man sitting next to her. The mobile rings again. She answers the call and speaks in a rather audible whisper. She keeps the mobile in her bag.
She changes the position and opens her bag again. She takes out an old projector. She keeps it on the floor.
She takes out a torch. She lights it and directs the stream of light towards the audience.

The sound system begins to play digitally remastered recording of a cat meowing and purring. Meowing and purring. Meowing. Purring.

She begins to speak:

Stand up slowly. As slowly as you can.
Do not smile. 
Take 3 steps forward. Stop.
Look to the left. Look to the right. To the left. To the right. The left. The right. Left. Right. 
Look up........
Lift your hands to your face. Keep your index fingers inside your mouth and stretch the corners of your mouth down to make a sad face.
Release your left finger.
Use your right finger to make a repetitive sound in your mouth. Clock. Clock. Clock. Stop.
Look to the left. Look to the right.
Release your right finger.
Run and exchange places with anybody you can see around. Stop.
Raise your right hand and with a fast movement stick it in your mouth. 
Bite.
Release the hand.
Raise your right hand and beat your chest thrice.
Hand down.
Fall flat on your face.
Lift your right hand and spread your fingers in a dramatic gesture. 
Make a dramatically sad face.
Shake.
Shake harder.
Harder.
Moan.
Louder.
Louder.
Louder.
Breathe heavily.
Keep shaking.
And breathe.
Stop.

She turns off the torch and keeps it down. She claps. She stands up. She goes out.

Sunday, February 8, 2015

Lights

I love lights... and shadows.

Two rays of light crossing above my head.

Many years back I would light a candle in the evening and make small installations of object partially lit and partially hidden in the dark and then I would sit for hours, look at them and take photos.

They fall slowly on the ground.

I loved the evenings spent with a white wall, a bucket of water and a mirror. I kept running here and there to bring various paper cuttings, tiny bottles, crystals and we sat and watched the designs coming to life on a white wall in front of us.

The barrier of light dividing the space into here and there.

I loved the night when you put a tiny bulb into the water tap and when I reached the water station to quench my thirst all I could think of was the beautiful colour of the water, the ripples, the bubbles... Magic...

Lines of light crawling on the floor.

I loved those days in Rajasthan when we did not have electricity and had to rehearse in the light of huge battery lamps and whenever I would turn I could see my shadow on the wall laughing and playing with me.

Light and darkness, light and darkness, light and darkness...

I love watching how the light falls on the body making it even more mysterious than it actually is. A ray of light following your movements, the beams of light dancing on a man in front of me. A man dancing in the beams of light in front of me. Is it the light that is dancing or a man?
A flush of light on his shoulder... on his stomach... on his thigh... and suddenly each of these body parts becomes something different. Look at you hand in the yellow light, green light, red... Each time you will think that it gained its own identity. Like words written with different colours. Black ants. Blue memories. Green hopes. Red scream.

A thin line of light moving above their heads.

She used to catch the rays of light that were thrown at her. The elephant playing outside the temple.
I woke up in the middle of the night an my room was full of moving lights. I was mesmerised. I couldn't move for hours. Thousands of fireflies above my head.

Two rays of light raise from the ground and fly away towards the ceiling.

We leave the theatre. I stop to catch the net of lights one last time. I look up. You were also there. I smile. I leave alone.




Saturday, February 7, 2015

Cities and people

Cities are like people, they both want to change as they grow older. The difference is that the cities focus on expansion and plastic uniformity, while people shed the layers of their make-up and begin to look inwards more often.

The sisters

I jumped over a rather important developments in the story, and since there is nothing worse in this world than the stories badly told then let me move back in time to the day when Nawafar was sobbing in her room...

Nawafar cried a lot that day, but no matter how much we would like the world to make notice of our little personal tragedies it always does go on with its own interrupted rhythm. No matter how much we wish for the world to stop still the sun does rise every day, the time flows past us every moment and the earth never stops rotating around the sun, and so it happened this time as well...
Nawafar lifted her tired head and looked towards the bright sun that was trying to make its way inside her room in order to dry the floor and her face after the deluge that happened the previous day. She looked around the room...  the cat was floating in the pool of her tears and even though the view was not funny at all somehow she began to laugh at hearing his meows and seeing how he tries to keep his tail above the water.
She floated to the kitchen and with the help of fevicol made herself a boat out of peels of bananas and oranges. She pulled the wet cat into the boat and floated towards the doors. She wrestled with the lock for a moment and as the rusted lock gave in she managed to open the doors and let the flooding waters flush outside with a great force. She sat on the wet floor and began to write a letter...

You see... you entered this story only recently, but the story had been here for many years... Nawafar and Rajkumari might have been different from each other and live in remote places of this land but nevertheless they were closely related by blood. They were twin sisters.

Nawafar had always been the emotional one, Rajkumari the reasonable one. Nawafar loved saris, Rajkumari had soft corner for skirts and bellbottom trousers. Nawafar would cry while being hurt, Rajkumari would rather hide her feelings and try to keep herself busy with work. Nawafar would whine and feel miserable all day, Rajkumari would take out her laptop and write, play the flute or draw. Nawafar always wanted to be found, Rajkumari always wanted to find herself...

And so, when Rajkumari read a letter that her twin sister had written she packed her bags and rushed towards the flooded debris of an imaginary house among the trees by the lake in order to rescue her sister from burying herself inside the mouse-hole.

Aren't we all like the twin sisters living under the same roof? Sometimes the emotional one takes over the house, but then there comes a day when the rational side of us prevails once again after the emotional turmoil is over?

painting

Nawafar untied her blue sari and watched it spread over the floor. It twisted and made a few turns here and there... Like a river, she thought.
Was she to jump into that river again and allow herself to be carried by the torrent to some far away places? Had she been ten years younger she might have done it, but not this time. She was getting older every day and each day made her realise that she would finally want to unpack her bundle, keep paintings on the walls, light the lamp in the evening and sit on a threshold with a cup of tea and a book in her hand. And she knew it very well that it will be a small house for one person only.

She was watching the stars last night. The Orion was just above her head and she tried to remember those days of her childhood when she would sit in the evening and dream about finding the imaginary South Star in the sky. A bat flew above her head and sat on a near by tree. She turned to see the Moon, but the view was obscured by the high buildings.
She was watching lines dancing and forming intricate patterns in front of her. Moments later she could see a cluster of bodies contort and mould themselves into various shapes... Like Gond paintings, she thought.
When the kaleidoscope of images came to a stop she took out her shawl and went for a walk to find the moon. It was hiding behind the clouds. Delicate clouds that looked like dancers on a stage of the night performing their acts for the audiences that were rushing below them too busy to look up towards the artists displaying their skills. She stood for a moment in awe of the spectacle taking place above her head. It was so beautiful, so ephemeral, so magical... It was one of those moments that makes one think of the beauty and mystery of existence... It was one of those moments that you would love to share with somebody... But she was standing alone. The boy was not there... He was just a mirage that she conceived with her imagination.
A single tear flowed down her cheek. It fell into the river and then Nawafar folded her sari and kept it neatly inside her trunk.

I woke up in the morning and rushed to the kitchen to make myself a cup of tea. It's been many days since I last sat on the threshold. I don't sit there anymore. The naughty children from the neighbourhood spotted the two caterpillars and they killed them one day when I was at work. It made me sad. I was waiting so badly to see the caterpillars turn into colourful butterflies in front of my eyes, but the silly children did not allow them to live...

I'm not sure if it is a metaphor or reality... Or maybe both. I am always confused on this one.
Don't you think that it is amazing how often our inner lives and the outer world exist parallel to each other?
And if you do, do you think you could paint a butterfly for me? The most colourful butterfly in the world. And the sky, the moon, the river, the trees, the parrots and the hand to hold while watching the sky at night...

Thursday, January 29, 2015

Thought of you...


Hallucinations

It was a day to be remembered...

Rajkumari was standing somewhere at the crossroads of the famous Broadway alleys, when a speaker announced loudly 'And now ladies and gentlemen the students of our prestigious academy shall sing a song in praise of Google God'...

What? Rajkumari thought that she misheard the announcement, but no... they brought a huge computer on stage and put a garland of flowers on top of it and then the kids stood around it and began to sing praises of the Google God of XXI century....

Orwell at its highest, thought Rajkumari, or maybe I have fallen ill again and began to hallucinate...




Nawafar woke up in the mouse-hole in a village far away from the first world. Her eyes were red... I think she cried all night.
Was it really possible that Mr Timothy Leary did enter her story after all? Was it really possible that she ate some hallucinogenic mushroom and all she thought about the forest creatures was just a picture of her imagination? A projection of an ill mind? Were all her clothes lying scattered on the floor and nothing was ever stolen secretly???

She picked up this dreadful small box with numbers and buttons and threw it against the wall... Had she had a hammer with her she would even smash this monstrous machine into small pieces, but since no heavy object was to be found she put all the pieces of a mobile phone together and pressed a button... DELETE it said. She pressed it and a name and number drifted towards non-existence. She had already sent the same number and name towards the black hole a number of times, but each time her innermost feelings made her bring it back as somehow the very presence of that name around her made all the spirals and twists of life seem a bit easier...
But not this time... she promised herself... if the archenemy, who is in fact the only medicine she wants in life, ever wants to find her he will do it himself.
Wasn't it he who told her once that 'Men are like hunters. They like following their prey'?  She always thought this statement to be one of the most idiotic things she ever heard, but if the menfolk and the archenemy did believe in such unbelievably stupid things then let her pretend for a moment that she is not a tigress but a delicate deer that's hopping around the forest fluttering her eyelashes and pouting her lips...
The thought of becoming a deer to be hunted made her shudder with repulsion... Disgusting!
She was neither a deer nor a man-eating tiger. She was a woman who believed in partnership and equality. And since some gnomes were trying to talk to her about whatssup generation she wanted to tell in front of the whole world that she belonged to the generation that had buttons in the mobile phone, loved pink floyd, piano and cello, had watched Kieslowski's films more than hundred times in her life, went hitchhiking to some festivals in her youth and believed that Martin Luther King was right.
She looked around the room. It looked messy today and the walls were full of holes made by the stones that somebody threw at her last night through an open window. One of the walls had a deep visible crack. She went towards that wall and found a small piece of paper tied neatly around the stone 'revenge on some... from your past' it read. She could neither understand its meaning, nor comprehend why was the stone lying there.
Revenge? what revenge??? she was not the person who would want to take revenge on anything or anybody in life. Love and peace. Ahimsa paramo dharma...
Past? What past? There was no past. There was only present. Past was something that she dealt with long time back. She was very much at peace with her past whatever it might have been like.
Some... Some what? Some potato? Some cabbage? Some tomato? Some what? There was nothing.
She looked at the ruins of her house... She really wanted to build this house in a nice way, make it beautiful, make it brim with laughter and happiness, with the sound of his steps... but the walls were falling instead...
She lied on her bed, buried her face into a pillow and began to sob.

Wednesday, January 28, 2015

Curiosity killed the cat...

Curiosity killed the cat... or so they say, for this time curiosity did not exactly kill the cat but left it with a mild heart attack and a feeling of panic that made it run around the house in an attempt to dig a mouse-hole in one of the walls...

You see, one day curiosity took over the cat and so it decided to wear its tiger costume and march towards the forest in search of some new berries... As soon as the cat entered the forest it saw that one of the trees had been badly hurt by an ax... The cat felt really sad on knowing this, for it imagined that the wound must be rather painful for the tree... It even contemplated for a moment asking the tree if the wound began to heal already, but it knew that talking to trees won't make much sense - they speak a different language after all... 
Don't you think it's funny that one of my theatre teachers used to make us sit in front of trees and talk to them for hours until they finally responded. How silly that exercise was... Ridiculous...
But the cat did feel sad and did not know what to do, so it run around the forest in search of some medical plant that it could put on the torn bark...
You know... when I was a child I used to imagine that all the objects in my room live with their own life and have their own feelings. I used to think that when I close my eyes my teddy bears start moving around the room, they exchange gossips and have their toy parties while I am asleep...  Sometimes I would even try to cheat them by closing my eyes for a moment and pretending that I'm sleeping and then opening them fast to catch a glimpse of their movement, and whenever it was cold in winter I would put all my dolls and teddy bears under the quilt so that they would not fall ill.

Anyways, the cat was scrambling through the forest as it suddenly stumbled against a log that was thrown at it by some invisible hands... The cat began to examine the log very carefully and for a moment thought that it found some magic mushroom growing on it... but no, Mr Timothy Leary was not meant to be a part of this story and the cat came to the conclusion that it's not hallucinating after all...

How? What? Why? No! What for? Meow! Oh God! Dlaczego? - all of these came at once to the perplexed cat's mind and it did take it a rather long moment before it could move again...

You see, the log was covered with runes and pieces of cloth that had been stolen on the bank of the river...

You see... Nawafar, who was the owner of the cat that enjoyed rambling through the forest under the disguise of a tiger, took pleasure in taking her everyday bath in the river on the outskirts of a jungle... She would slowly remove her blouse and skirt and then she would open her hair and swim naked in the river that had the magic capacity of helping her to wash all those thoughts that were hiding in the strands of her hair. She would then come out to the rocky bank and sit naked in the sun while casting secret glances towards the forest... She would wait for her hair to dry and then she would wear her clothes again and silently go back to the village where she lived. It happened that why for many years until one day Nawafar discovered that some invisible hands had stolen her clothes and that she is standing naked in front of the forest creatures who are looking at her with their strange eyes...

She was scared. She could picture the creatures to be rolling on the ground laughing at her humiliation. She could even imagine being dragged into a university room where a blase know-it-all professor would give her a lecture about 'imaginary future' and ask her if she takes medicine against this and other ailments... If the professor knows so much about education he should also know that if he tells a six-year old child not to do something the child is going to do exactly the opposite with not only double but triple determination to annoy those who give it some demeaning orders.

 Why was she scared? you might ask, after all she did sometimes dream of running naked through the forest with her hair flying wild...  But thinking and desiring is much different from knowing that somebody simply stole her clothes... There is nothing wrong in dreaming about nakedness and the soft touch of the leaves against one's hair, but it is a totally different feeling when you know that you've suddenly been stripped naked against your will.
It is different when you invite somebody to dance with you through your thoughts when you think that somebody might have been interested in watching your improvisation, or when you ask somebody about the critical opinion... but nobody was interested in the length of her hair so she allowed it to grow long and wild freely... and to know that she was standing completely naked without all those spears and arrows that she used for protection in the other world was a really scary thought...

Knowing all this the cat unzipped its tiger's costume and run fast towards the village to dig a hole in the wall of a tiny house so that it could hide there Nawafar, itself and a few skirts out of which mouse costumes would be stitched, so that nobody could recognize any of them in public anymore.

Tuesday, January 27, 2015

whining

I am ill. My nose turned into an elephant's trumpet, head is paining as if it was stung by hundred bees and mood is as low as Mariana Trench. If you are reading it, then let me warn you from the very beginning that it's not going to be the most eloquent post on earth but a monologue infused with whining and grumbling at its highest. Some people claim that that's the only thing I know how to do in life. So you can stop now... Don't say that I didn't warn you later on...

Dear world... I am really ill, and even the chocolate treatment didn't work, so please do have mercy on me and love me a bit today. I'm sitting with the hood over my head, socks on my feet and huge handkerchief next to me... And feel bored (books don't work today), and unhappy (please hold me somebody, give me tea and rasam and chocolate and pastry and read to me, and show me some film I haven't seen before).

The chief enemy of my army wasn't dying to trip over himself recently. Well... I understand.... Poor fellow...  After all a fall onto the pavement would give him a broken nose for sure and plastic surgery is expensive... But it's the crooked mannerless nose we are talking about! And I swear, someone should finally teach that nose a lesson, for he does rankle everybody around and thinks too highly of himself, despite the fact that it is in a rather low position in relation to the ground...
Oh... don't you think that idioms are the most incredible part of speech!!! I love them! And I love putting them on my plate and tearing them into pieces with a fork of my imagination.

Anyways... even imagination is refusing to cooperate today. The royal tiger turned its royal tail on me again... He should understand finally that half of the household job should be done by him.... But the lazy creature refuses to serve tea in the morning and doesn't want to wash the dishes... How ungrateful of him!

Dear world... will you please have mercy on me...  And if you could add some tasty pastry you would prove your magnificence today... but I guess you are just a grey XXI century world and you must be too busy with marketing and politics to notice a humble human being that I am.


Monday, January 26, 2015

Guru

My grandmother used to amaze me with stories of her youth that seemed much more alive in her than the events happening around her. I think I am also gradually becoming more and more like her as I slowly discover that these are all those people who came into my life for a brief moment only who left me with incredible memories and who shaped me into the person I am today, and that I often miss them more than the faces of people surrounding me at every step.

It was many years back, if you like mathematical puzzles then let me tell you that it was half my age back, that I had a friend whom we used to call Guru. Guru, I and many others were classmates in that grey early post-socialist school that I told you about before. We both wore coarse long sweaters that we got from the second-hand shop, and if you would look at me closely you would notice that even today I often wear my sweaters inside out, just like I did those days.

My hair was growing back after I had cut it short as an act of rebellion against people who would only look at my body, while I always wanted them to look somewhere beyond that. I always struggled for that... Even now, though it did feel nice when you liked seeing me in that blue sari, but I would much prefer if you would lose yourself in my thoughts rather than my apparel, but none of my words ever find their way to you. Inability to communicate. And do you actually really exist, or are you just a projection of my mind? The queen of projection...

I was busying myself with reading Morrisson and listening to Nirvana in the evening. I discovered Rimbaud and savoured on all possible books of Wharton and Marquez, while Guru gave me my first introductory lessons in Hobbit, The Witcher and fantasy.

Guru had short curly hair that always seemed to be living their own life irrespective of what Guru wished them to do. Like many of the boys of his age he had pimples and was far from being a person one would call a handsome face or muscular body. I was never a beauty among my peers myself, so much of my youth was spent in feeling miserable at seeing all those perfectly beautiful girls being adored by numerable suitors, while I would sit quietly with a book somewhere in the corner.

We were staging 'Taming of the Shrew' with me as Katherine and Guru as Petruchio. (As I look at it now - dear B. you were perfect with casting as never in my life could I possibly play sweet and beautiful Bianca... although it might be a good theatre exercise for a change) The rehearsals were full on and we reached a scene where Katherine slaps Petruchio in anger. It was the first time ever in my life that I was to hit somebody... We tried our best and poor Guru had to walk around the school for 3 hours with a red mark of my palm on his cheek...

But it was not the fact that I could express all my anger towards the male race on Guru's cheek that made him special. It was for the gifts of words and images that I shall remember him till my last days. You see... Guru used to write letters to me... Not even letters but stories of various kinds, and each year as the summer would begin my mailbox would be invaded by stories written in his messy handwriting and pictures drawn with pastels on black sheets of paper. I never knew what to think of those letters, but I loved reading them during lazy summer afternoons. I think I still have most of them in a box in my old bedroom at the attic.

It was the last day of school and I was already on my way out when Guru stopped me and gave me a box. I opened it to see two silver bracelets lying inside. I went home, sat in front of my mother and began to cry... I never wanted to get expensive bracelets from anybody in my life. I know I was rather unfair to my friend but that gift made me feel as if was an object in a shopping window that somebody could try to buy with a shiny piece of metal. I never wanted that. I took the box and gave it back to him the next day. I don't think we ever met after that.

It was almost eighteen years back, and I have no idea where Guru is these days. I don't think any of our classmates knows either... but if you ever meet him somewhere at the crossroads, do tell him that it was not that expensive gift that made him a special person in my life, but all those stories, letters and pictures that I would find in my mailbox every summer. Ask him if he still writes, and if he does tell him that I would love to read a story and see a pastel drawing on a black sheet of paper...

Saturday, January 24, 2015

You

Hi...

My voice is slightly lower than normally.
I lower my eyes and try to hide my palms in the pockets of my dress so that you would not notice how i clench my fingers around my thumbs to hide my embarrassment, and then I finally muster the courage and look straight into your eyes...

How have you been?

I sometimes think of you.... I try to imagine the expression of your face when you are reading all these letters, words and sentences... Do they mean anything to you? Do they turn into images in your head or do they enter your mind as a more or less logical stream of words that I stitched together into a sentence?

What are you thinking  about while running through my innermost thoughts? Do they remind you of the images from your life? Do you try to imagine who I am? Or do you simply laugh secretly at a silly girl with her naive imagination?

I wonder who you are and which roads brought you here... Have you come here before? And if you did then what made you come back?

Would you recognise me in the street? Would you be able to feel the energies hidden in my words? Would they make you drift towards me? Or would you just pass by looking blankly at this not very sophisticated face of a girl standing somewhere in the corner of the room far away from the crowd.

You sometimes come to me to say that you enjoyed my writing... Sometimes you even comment and ask if i managed to find solutions to the things i'm talking about... But i always wonder how much of it really reaches your being... Are you really the person I wanted to tell all these?  Can a person really become engrossed in another person's existence?

I always wanted you to touch my thoughts... To stand naked in front of you and feel the touch of your hand on those innermost impressions that i painted with my mind... but your indifference always make me wear an extra layer of silence or anger and pushes me more and more towards the corner...

Conversations with myself... Conversations with you...

Who are you? Do I know you? Would you come up to me to say hi... i understand...

Silence all around...

That terrible void that nobody can fulfill... This deep void that is dying for you to come and share those tiny bits of life... Loneliness in the crowd of people... How come only some people experience it?

Where are you?  You know... I sat on a threshold again today... The caterpillar is still there... I watch it everyday as it savours on the leaves of my plant... I read today that for some it may take a few weeks before they turn to butterflies... I didn't know... I always thought that this process is much faster... I'm tired of waiting... I would want to see the butterfly on my leaf... And I would like to finally strike a good note after so many false ones...

I'm looking into your eyes... I'm scared to say anything... I want to say something, but then I just turn and walk away...

Will you stop me? Will you stay? Will you come here again?

Thursday, January 22, 2015

Salon des Refuses

Have you seen Monet's paintings? I love him. But did you know that his works were rejected by the Academie as not good enough for the Paris exhibition? And it was only seen by the public when Napoleon III declared that the rejected works by various painters shall be displayed in the Salon des Refuses...

I would never dream of seeing myself as equal to impressionist painters, but I also have my own private Salon des Refuses... of the work I wanted to do, proposals I have written, performances I wanted to give... You may laugh at them, I don't care... But they were an important part of what I wanted to do in life and somehow never did...

Application for performance in a festival in the North - rejected:



Motivation letter for scholarship for attending workshop by the sea side - rejected last year and this as well:

There once was a parrot that lived in a small cage up on a big green tree.
Everyday she would hear other birds singing songs, or see them flying high in the sky. But she didn't know how to sing. When she opened her mouth she would only squawk. Flying came to her only in her dreams. I do not think she even realised she was a bird.
The parrot's cage was small, and she did not know what to do, so she kept nodding her head over and over again and everybody around was happy to see such a polite and obedient parrot. One day a storm came and the cage fell down and broke. The parrot thought that she was badly hurt as she felt strange pain on the sides of her body. She looked at herself and saw her green wings for the first time in her life. The cage she lived in was so small that she could never spread them before.
She still does not know how to sing, but now the parrot wants to learn how to fly...

I began my journey as a dancer with the classical dance form of Bharatanatyam, and the martial arts based form of Seraikella Chhau. For many years these two formed the core of my training. I was happy with the bodily discipline imposed on me by these forms, the aesthetic beauty they provided and the fact that they were deeply rooted in Indian literature and culture. However, in the course of time, I experienced a sense of dissatisfaction with training that laid so much stress on the outer beauty of movement and expression but seemed to lack an inner awareness of the body. I felt the strong need to connect with my body and the way it wants to move rather than being forced to move in a way imposed by the grammar of the form. Thus I began to search for “the thinking body” (using the terminology of Mabel Todd) in terms of both emotional and somatic awareness.
Moving towards yoga was the first step I took. Practicing and teaching yoga did make me more aware of my body and breath but it was still another form of limiting myself and aiming at stillness rather than the free flowing movement I wanted to explore.
The turn towards contemporary forms came with entering the theatre world. An important experience was choreographing and acting the lead in a multilingual play .........., a project sponsored by ........ Although I used traditional forms of Chhau, Kalaripayattu, Bharatanatyam and Odissi I experienced a feeling of freedom from strict grammar as the form was not a goal in itself, but rather a tool to express emotional, textual and conceptual associations. A strange but valuable lesson I learned from this production was that the energy of touch carries a notion of truth in interpersonal relations, while language and external images have the capacity to lie. Another was discovering how strong the connection is between mind and body – how our psychological states influence our movement and vice-versa. This aroused my interest in the concept of expressive therapy.
My next steps in a contemporary idiom were working with a youth theatre group in .........., for which I choreographed and co-directed a play .............. based on the poetry of ............., and teaching movement for theatre in .............. In ............ I worked with three batches of students on devised physical presentations of poetry. In this context I chose the role of facilitator rather than teacher. This allowed the students to build personal connections between the written word, the self and bodily expression. It was refreshing to be able to come out of the Indian classical dance set-up, where a dancer is a tool in the hands of a choreographer rather than co-creator of the work. What was also valuable for me was the opportunity to observe how the individual physical responses of students differed in improvisation tasks based on textual associations. I was amazed once again at the strong connection between soma and psyche. The irony was, that I was not aware of the concept of somatic awareness at that time.
Another powerful experience came with acting in a non-verbal play............. Here the script provided the performer with outward physical clues from which an inner narrative was to be constructed. This work once again involved establishing associative and emotional connections between movement and the emotional self and it introduced me to the aesthetics of slow motion and stillness as well as tai-chi and butoh. It was exhilarating to be in the position of a student exploring new fields after a long time. Tai-chi that allowed me to look at my body and movement from the perspective of searching for inner connections within the body rather than through the prism of emotional associations or outer physical form for the first time.
As an Artist-in-Residence at .................... I choreographed a solo performance "Pocchawali". This was an exploration of my journey through movement training and my relationship with the ideas of death, life, memories and forgetting. Through this process I worked with non-linear inner narrative and applied the movement practices I experienced both in the dance studio and in the theatre space. This production and work-meetings, workshop and discussions with ........., with whom I work at ........, made me realise that there is no dichotomy between the search for emotional connections with the body and the search for inner physical connections. They both lead to exploration of a human.
My encounters with contemporary dance took place through various workshops and classes in Delhi and after experimenting with several movement techniques I realised that it is release technique combined with somatic practice in the broad sense of the term and improvised work with kinesthetic response that I am greatly interested in.
I had a brief experience with contact improvisation while attending the workshop of .......... in Delhi in 2012 and presently I am involved in a project directed by ........, which uses elements of release and contact improvisation to explore physical and emotional connectivity with historical and architectural space of Indo-islamic monuments in Delhi.
These two experiences with contact improvisation left me with the powerful feeling of joy at experiencing self both against the static surface of a wall as well as in harmony with another body while searching for a unison experience. Through being connected to another body I discovered the joy of freedom in the unknown and the beauty of listening to my own and others' bodily responses. I would like to continue to search for other opportunities involving experiencing the give-and-take relationship with other selves.
In addition I feel that until now most of my creative search has been based on exploring connections between emotional memory and physicality, but at this point I would want to expand the scope of my movement work by exploring the interplay between different movement qualities, searching for the inner physical connections, as well as understanding movement principles such as weight shifting and the inner geometry of the body.
Having worked as a solo performer for a long time I feel the need to open up and meet other contemporary dancers and work in a collaborative group settings to sense the group energies. I would like to experience shared approach to creative movement work as opposed to the competitive environment of an urban or classical dance set up. I believe that art should be based on sharing and inner exploration rather that competition and depending on outward physical manifestations.

And then the parrot flew high in the sky....She touched the moon, and the sun, and all the stars... And each day she would happily come back to her green tree because that was the place where she belonged. She even built a nest by collecting tiny twigs scattered around the tree, and sometimes in moments of bemusement she would look at the rusted iron cage lying on the ground at a distance.

Fragments of research project I applied for when I was still studying Chhau - rejected:

Female Performers of Chhau Dance.
Introduction
I began my training in Seraikella Chhau in 2007 under the guidance of Guru ........ at ........... in New Delhi. I can still remember a discussion with a male classmate of mine, who seeing my eagerness to learn and eventually use Chhau for my professional dancing career told me “It will be difficult for you – after all Chhau is the men’s world”.
It is true that traditionally Chhau dance was performed by males only. However, in the 1930ties few women were introduced into this art form and gradually some women tried to break the taboo of non-female art form and began to join Chhau groups.
My personal experiences with Chhau:
 Throughout the years of my training many women of various ages have joined classes, but most of them would leave after few months of training. I couldn’t stop wondering over the reasons why they decided to discontinue their training. Is it because the rigorous physical exercises are exhausting for the body and require a lot of stamina and physical strength? I do not feel physically weaker than my male counterparts in the class. Is it because of lack of repertoire that women could perform? But Chhau does have a number of dance items that include female characters. Is it because of social conditions? Is it so that because of traditional set up women should not participate in the art that stresses its martial arts background? But there are forms of martial art, such as Kalaripayattu in Kerala that have always been open to female practitioners. Moreover, the technique of Chhau itself apart from boasting of its martial arts, and thus “manly” background, at the same time stresses the importance of women in a household as the core of basic movements depict everyday activities of village women.  In addition – the female classmates of mine did not learn in traditional village setup but had their training in an institutionalized set up of a metropolitan city. There were a number of successful female performers such as ............... who gave a number of Chhau performances. Is it because of their foreign origin that they were allowed access to training in this “manly” form of performing arts? But before these foreign dancers appeared on the stage of Chhau there were some Indian women performers of that dance. My Guru .............. told me that in the 1930ties a group of Seraikella Chhau performers was invited to perform in Europe. Overnight the Ostads, or Gurus, decided that their performance would be more attractive if they include some female performers into their troupe.  Who were they? Why are they forgotten by the history of Chhau dance? 
Some efforts to promote Chhau dance among women:
Recently some efforts have been made to include girls among the students of .............. However, even during the recent performance (13.02.2011) by the center during the ........... Festival at ........., there has not been even a single female artist among a dozen of performers of the group.
In an interview after the performance of Chhau during the .............., a festival devoted to female participation in theatre .........., an artist of Purulia Chhau spoke about her experiences as a female student of Chhau:
 “For 45 days, I waited for my Chhau gurus to agree to teach me as girls are not allowed to perform the Chhau and when they did, they did not allow me to wear the Chhau mask that wears three kilos. Just to gain entry was a long struggle and now that I have been practicing and teaching this style to other girls for 14 long years, I am still not sure whether girls will take on to this style in the future.” #
Chhau – general information:
Chhau is a martial art based dance/ dance-drama form that comes from Eastern India. There are three recognized styles of Chhau: Seraikella (Jharakhand), Mayurbhanj (Orissa) and Purulia (West Bengal). 
It is not certain how old this dance form is and scholars argue about the origin of its name. According to some the word “chhau” comes from the word “chhauni” – the cantonment, which stresses the martial arts background of the dance. Some believe that it comes form the word “chhai” or chhatak” describing clowning, while others derive it form the word “chaya” meaning  shadow.
All these styles share common background of martial art exercises known as Parikhanda (“pari” meaning shield and “khanda” meaning sword), which are supposed to prepare the body for the actual dance. The dance technique is based upon chaalis – basic types of walk that are derived from observing nature, ex. baagh chaali (tiger walk), mayor chaali (peacock walk), khel – variations of sword play, and ufli – 36 movements describing everyday human activities.
 It is true that all the three styles are based on similar technique, however, a closer look at the three styles reveals that there are significant differences in execution of movements, social background of the performers etc. 
Mask is a very important aspect of Chhau. The face of the performer is invisible to the audience and thus all the emotions have to be expressed through postures and body movements. While both Seraikella and Purulia Chhau use masks, Mayurbhanj does not use them at present, although it was in use until nineteenth century. The masks of Seraikella are suggestive and lyrical, while Purulia masks are more elaborate and often have sophisticated headgears.
Seraikella seems to be the most lyrical and suggestive of all the three styles, although some of the dance items do derive from the martial dances of the warriors. The dances of Purulia Chhau are very acrobatic, with numerous vaults and somersaults executed with great proficiency. Mayurbhanj has retained a lot of its martial character and many dance choreographies represent fights between groups or individual dancers.
It is interesting to observe that the performers of Purulia Chhau usually belong to the tribal community (Mura, Bhumij, Kurmi) and that there is no significant royal patronage for Chhau artists of that region. In case of Mayurbhanj Chhau the dance was supported by the royal family, but it was only in Seraikella Chhau that the members of royal family not only provided patronage to the dance form but also participated actively in Chhau as dancers and choreographers.
Chhau performances take place throughout the year, but traditionally Chhau is an important element of Chaitra Parva (Spring Festival) that takes place in the month of Chaitra (March/April). It is festival devoted to Lord Shiva in his form of Ardhanarishwara during which Bhaktas or devotees observe various austerities and participate in religious ceremonies. The festival concludes with Chhau performances, that often take a form of dance competitions between various dance schools. The schools are grouped together under the name of Uttara Sahi and Dakhina Sahi in case of Mayurbhanj Chhau, and Bazar Sahi and Brahmin Sahi in case of Seraikella.
In 2010 UNESCO recognized Chhau as Cultural World Heritage, and thus it is expected that a lot of support will be given for promotion of Chhau dance not only in India, but also abroad.
Female elements/aspects of Chhau:
It is interesting that though traditionally Chhau was performed only by males, 18 of uflis (basic movements) describe the everyday activities of a housewife. Some of these are: Kharikiba – sweeping the floor, Gobar kudha – picking up dry cowdung, Sari Pinda – wearing a sari, Sindoor Tika – applying of sindoor, etc.
It is said that when in 1938 a group of Seraikella Chhau dancers traveled to Europe it was decided that two female performers should accompany them and overnight a new dance choreography: Devadasi was composed for them and from that time onwards female performers started to join some Chhau groups.
Some of female performers of Mayurbhanj Chhau: Sulochana Mohanta, Sharon Lowen, Ileana Citaristi, Kabita Patnaik, Sarojini Das etc,
Some of female performers of Seraikella Chhau: Shogun Bhutani, Rakha Mitra, Roshni Ghosh, Brandy Leary, etc. 
Some of female performers of  Purulia Chhau: Madhumita Paul.
Some of Mayurbhanj Chhau dance choreographies that involve female characters: Sita Svayamvar, Bastra Haran, Premika-Premika, Chandra Bhaga, Lab Durga, Tamudiya Krishna, etc.
Some of Seraikella Chhau dance choreographies that involve female characters: Devadasi, Chandra Bhaga, Radha Krishna, Durga, Nabik, Dasamahavidya, etc.
Some of Purulia Chhau dance choreographies that involve female characters: Mahisha Mardini

It is interesting to note here that in case of Mayurbhanj and Seraikella Chhau there are quite a few female students and performers, however the number is very limited when it comes to Purulia Chhau. Is it because of differences of technique? Because of differences in the social background of the performers of all the styles of Chhau, or perhaps the lack of proper training centers in metropolitan cities that prevent female students from learning?


The Project:
Not much is known about the history of female participation in the Chhau performances thus a research that would trace the individual histories of female pioneers in the field as well as the collective history of social acceptance of female Chhau performers.

One of the objectives of this project is to document the history of female performers of Chhau, which shall involve gathering of visual documentation of costumes and dance choreographies, and also to examine how the involvement of women in this traditionally male dominated performing art form influenced the tradition of performance and training. Another aim is to explore the process of interaction between female performers and their male counterparts, dance gurus and musicians as well as to look at the history of social acceptance of female Chhau practitioners. 
The research shall be based on participant observation involving personal interviews with Chhau performers (both male and female), dance gurus, musicians, patrons, and dance audiences as well as families of female Chhau performers. 
 The study is also aiming at gathering visual documentation of dance costumes, and dance choreographies performed by female Chhau dancers and thus it shall involve direct participation and observation of the life of community of Chhau performers, their training and performances.
The research is aimed not only at creating a documentation of female participation but also at empowering women to stand against the patriarchal social value system. I believe that by setting the examples of female Chhau performers women of local communities that are connected with Chhau dance would see themselves as equal with men on various platforms. 
Main questions that shall be addressed by the research and conference are:
What is the history of female Chhau performers?
Who are/were female performers of Chhau?
Are there any differences in history/ social acceptance for female Chhau performers in different styles of Chhau?
Have there been any changes in performance/training that happened because of female participation in Chhau?
To what extend did women penetrate the male dominated environment of Chhau dance?
Are female Chhau performers accepted by other Chhau performers and society in general?
What is the history of interaction between female Chhau performers and male Chhau performers who specialized in female roles?
What are the dance choreographies performed by/taught to female Chhau dancers?
Are there any social impacts on community life because of female participation in Chhau dance?




Fragments of application for a performance grant -rejected
I,myself, Draupadi…
I wish I could say that this proposal was inspired by the events of 16 December 2012, but it was not. The core of my proposal was growing inside me for a long time, and as I think about it now it might have been maturing with me from the day I was born, as issues of identity, sexual oppression and the power structure cross all the boundaries of geography, age, and culture (I'm referring here to the modern world of patriarchal societies).
I have never seen myself as a feminist but a series of personal experiences, encounters with my male students and few middle-class families, observation of everyday life situations and readings such as: Taslima Nasrin – Shodh, French Lover, Eve Ensler’s Vagina Monologues and recently a poem Shrinking women by Lily Myers made me question my own identity as a woman.
The questions connected with what it means to be a woman, what defines me as a woman? Is it just about a biology and ability to bear children? Is it just about having the yoni/vagina (words that I have problems with uttering even as a 30+ person) and its physiological functions? Is it about the roles that the society imposes on women?
As soon as I start thinking about “womanhood” I remember how my mother used to ask me “have you fallen ill?” each time she wanted to ask if I'm having my period. I remember how she would cook my father's favorite dishes, but nobody remembered to ask what would be hers.
I remember the expression “to go and see a girl for marriage” - nobody goes to “talk” to a girl before marrying her, as if a woman was to be seen only through the external beauty of her body. Why do people only want to see women? Why can’t women be also heard? Is my being limited only to my appearance? Should I just keep myself at the periphery of the society and family and allow events to happen to me rather than take my own life in my own hands?
I remember that marital rape is still beyond the purview of criminal law in India. I also came across a newspaper article about a panchayat in Haryana that decided that in order to fight the increasing number of rapes the marriage age of girls should be made lower. Another article was published in Tehelka about the problems that women face when trying to report cases of rape at the police station. Why is it that women are being blamed for being raped? Why is it so that teenage girls should be given away in marriage in order to protect them from a sleazy gaze of men? Why is it that Krishna in Mahabharat did not try to prevent the humiliation of Draupadi, he merely covered her up, but did not stop Duhshasana. Is wearing a burqa, child marriage, not allowing women to go out unaccompanied a way of protecting their chastity and honor? Or is it just another way of oppressing them? Is it right to constantly cover your body in fear and be subjugated by the patriarchal society or is it needed to use the body as the act of protest like some women of Manipur who undressed themselves in front of the army camp in order to protest.
I remember the photoshopped pictures of “female beauty” staring at me from covers of magazines. The mask of make-up covering the real face. Is a female body really only an object? As I look back at my own relationship with my body I realize how much unfair this relationship was from my side, how as a woman I felt contempt towards my own body by not being able to comply with societal norms of “female beauty”, or rather the external beauty of female form. I would like to not here that when I say 'body' I do not mean the physicality or sexuality of it, but rather the inner somatic awareness, ability to perceive the body from inside as a thinking and feeling organism, oneness of soma and psyche.
I remember my own troubled relationships which left me with few physical and a few psychological bruises, and society's reaction to it: “har koi purush aisa hi karta hai, yah bilkul normal hai, yah bardasht karna hai”. (Every man behaves like this, it's absolutely normal, one has to bear with this.) But I did not want to bear anything that would violate my physical or psychological space. I wanted to speak up for myself. And I finally did, and I guess I am doing it now too by writing this proposal. An attempt at rebellion.
I feel that I have already succeeded in some of my little acts of rebellion. I already know that my identity as a woman is not connected with my body, which is often so wrongly objectified by patriarchal power structure, but I am still unsure of what it is and I still have not come to terms with the relationship between myself, my body and female sexuality. I already know that I want to rebel, but I don't know yet what stands a step ahead of it, what kind of self-acceptation or self-discovery would it bring. I would like to be able to find this answer one day. I guess many women would.
I believe that dance/theatre/any other form of art is not only about the product, which is a performance, but about a process of enriching oneself through connecting with one’s inner being. This performance is my search for my identity as a woman.
Why this title?
The character of Draupadi has been fascinating me for a long time. She always seemed to me so different from the stereotypical “good Indian mother, wife, daughter”. I often see her as opposition to Sita, who always passively allows things, such as the fire trial, to happen to her, while Draupadi tries to speak up for herself and remind everybody about her rights.
She has always been somebody I could feel closely connected to, somebody I could understand, somebody I could identify with. I guess I could feel that she and I share the similar experiences, similar approach to life. But what experiences were similar between her and me? Who am I? And who Draupadi would be today?
I can see Draupadi as a symbol of a woman whose mental and physical intimate space was violated by the evil male gaze. Her body is subjected to ruthless behavior of men and then she uses the same body as an act of protest. It is the use of the female body as an object subjected to violation and used as a means of protest that links Draupadi with many contemporary women – Irom Sharmila, as Draupadi, whose body is equal with the political body of Manipur; Sabitri Heisnam and the women protestors of Manipur, who undressed themselves as an act of protest against Indian Army; Drpti of Mahashweta Devi’s story “Draupadi” and many more.
In Indian culture the female body is worshiped as divine power of the Goddess, and at the same time seen as obscene object and according to rules of patriarchy its vital energy needs to be suppressed and controlled. In Christianity it is Eve who is being blamed for the original sin.


My plans for 2015 are not to be rejected - street dogs and cats never reject a bowl full of milk... and they are much nicer than most the people too.....