A humming word

The lockdown has made us aware of the people we live with.  And, our diet included: Discord. Debates. Discussions.  For most, living with family was surreal. Their habits, their thoughts, and their actions seemed different from their nostalgia that they fondly remembered. Life was no longer a Paper Boat illustration.  What changed? We grew up!  And how!? In a way our parents never did or even our grandparents never did.  Away from family and our everyday rituals, many lived a life tasting freedom and during lockdown, a stay-at-home only made it uncomfortable with thoughts we don't connect with and with habits the elderly don't relate with. We call this generation gap.  And illustrating this was Generations, a play by Suryasnata Tripathy and directed by Jay Jha of Kissago at Rangbhoomi Spaces.  The conviction of the artists and the emphasis on generation could be understood only post lockdown. Till then we were all living in our bubble, slurping on the ...

I remember growing up, my brother and I would cycle to the library. He riding and me sitting in the front. The library was City Central Library. In Chikkadpally. I spent my entire childhood here. My cousins and I hiding comics within text books and reading.  We watched television only in the night for half hour. Else, we spent more time with paper planes and paperboats. As malls sprouted and libraries diminished, cafes with bookracks took over but somewhere stuck on that cycle handle, I realised how wonderful it would be to recreate the spirit of throwing around paperplanes, making paper boats but with our words, moulding it, kneading it and creating art and books together. Join in.. As you lived a childhood as cool as mine. Or create one if you have not.

Dear you. Thank you! for being the observer and the absorber for being soft and not giving into  the advertised concept of muscular strength of soft power. Thank you for being kind and generous and a giver, despite everything. Thank you for standing in a corner and being socially awkward despite your sweaty palms. And Thank you for being there, gently, spraying the perfume of your natural self.

 /I read these at The Quarantine Train, an online poetry forum for learning and community building/ Title: Podium   We are defined by our headgear now    He, a friend, visited home  over the years Eating milk sweets and  Applying vermillion on his forehead    Over the past few years  The shape of his head was  Covered with a dogma, I cannot refute    I don’t see my friend, anymore  I see a thought, I cannot digest  I see a faith, I cannot worship    Now, we are two ideologies    Arguing on a podium  That doesn’t belong to us   Title: You stink   You stink  Because you inherit  Pride, misanthropy, unrecyclable discord and an Orgasm for power   You stink  With the blood of an infant,  Murdered for a surname,  Whose innocent letter Wonder of its purpose    You stink  ...

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.