A humming word

Today is the end of celebrating Black History Month and we are on the cusp of celebrating Women's Day. This sculpture of Cleopatra was made by Edmonia Lewis (circa 1844-1907). Edmonia was an African American with roots in the Native American heritage. She was the first African-American sculptor, born in New York, who gained international fame. She was orphaned before she was five years old and lived with her mother's tribe (Native American). "It takes a village to raise a child," indeed. Her brother, who became a gold miner in California, financed her, and determined to become a sculptor, she moved to Boston. She finally settled in Rome. However, I am fascinated with how Lewis, greatly admired the poetry of Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, and she completed at least three figural groups inspired by the poem. Sources: American Art, Smithsonian Mag, Daily Art

Context: This poem is for Shah Rukh Khan. During the lockdown, his movies and memories that flooded my heart kept me going as I missed meeting my colleagues and friends, whom I love dearly.  Poem: Love wore jeans and t-shirt  and spread its arms on a screen and gyrated, spreading its charm I had no clue, around me, what was going on  my heart swelled watching this scruffy haired man   Of course, over the years,  I learnt love is not what is seen  or unseen but what is felt  But whenever I think of love  S R K is how it is spelt 

Context: This poem is written for my mother who is a tomboy. As a child, it baffled me to see her demeanour versus the coy aunties I knew. But as I grew up, I realise that her presence, though strong, moulded my life in unique ways.  Poem: She is a marigold, an unlikely flower to be loved. Unlike a rose or a carnation that hoards our senses.  a marigold has a chunky shape with its petals tightly meshed But no rose would adorn the door like the marigold.  which in times of need is like the truth and statements, bold She is a marigold: beautiful. unique, strong  Leading an unabashed life,  crafting her own right and wrong She is a marigold. She is my tomboyish mother.

  /for a dear colleague, Anees/ Listen to this song   while reading  Is it the strength of her voice or the depth of her baritone Baked in humility. When she looks, her eyes reflect  A question, she cannot ask.  She speaks not from the tip of her tongue but from the  Bottom of her gut It is laced with a nobleness,  as soft as the handwoven clothes she drapes  But none see it for their senses are veiled  With the loudspeaker of a blaring noise That only deafens their conscience and  Mimics nincompoops

You will notice that about a lot of tomboyish women guard their independence, fiercely and when it comes to expressing their love for you, their actions are their notes of love. They will not ask anything of you. They are wholesome. They have a unique balance in them.  Some of us need validation. Some of us need sweet embrace.  But then, they don’t.  They would rather play basketball than gossip about the players. They would rather sneak out and ride a bike and have an ice cream than speak about their problems. Their streak of ego also lands them in problems, at times. Their problems are like unfolded clothes, haphazardly thrown into a wooden box and shut tight, without a napthalene ball and they are okay with it. Also, I have few gender-fluid friends, who have begun to embrace their feminine side. I read there are now 70 types of gender. Some of them are even hard to understand but i think that is definition of it all: beauty in differences.  But i believe, no matte...

  Dear Reader, You don’t know me, nor do I know you. But let me tell you where I come from. I come from a land of emotions. I am in my thirties and I run on emotions. My parents are in their late fifties and they ran on obedience and emotions. My late grandparents ran on roles and obedience and emotions. And it continues. Also, we are emotional about the things we care. Be it painting or coding. We treat our work as life, at times. Somewhere the work and life gets too intermingled to even have a balance. And, writing helps. It helps the emotional fool within us to navigate the path of life, often guided my numbers and hours. Our emotions don't know numbers. But writing about it is a sign post for our hours and days. We are not machines to be guided by the northern lights of numbers. We are human to be nurtured by art. But can we organize that? We can try!  In 2007, I started writing poetry, in August, when our city Hyderabad, known for harmony, suddenly became the epicen...