saree wearing scribbler of thoughts or is it thinker of scribbles?
The year was 1969 or thereabouts. 50 years ago, India would still have been very young in her freedom and quite poor but the handcrafted aspect of her everyday was rich, a living, breathing continuum of history, full of colour and flavour. A tiny part of that piece of culture wound up in a country… Read More
I submitted some samples of work to get feedback and was surprised to receive a few lines. It did sound very algorithm generated in a manner of speaking but none the less, it was a revert. I’ve always hesitated to put any of my work for scrutiny because how can any art really be evaluated?… Read More
💚✡️💚 there’s a secret cave in the heart where body and soul meet 💚✡️💚 in that mystic space all is bliss unstricken unmanifest unborn 💚✡️💚
An old saree picture and a scribble for a Saturday Shakin Stevens is crooning because I love you, it must be from the house with the boy. It’s the radio playing, nice. I should play the radio too. Unbreak my heart now and Toni Braxton sounds soulful and sensual all at once. I slip out… Read More
I’ve had many blogs over many years, always zealously private until something started to loosen up. Perhaps it was a sense of growing older and figuring out all of us had the same loves and losses. We guard our secrets from friends and family but let them tumble in front of strangers. Some of my… Read More
I was hunting for some work notes in my old notebooks and found a few doodles by the youngling as well as some random scribbles. Now, the doodle involves her sister as well who may not take very kindly to her depiction so I’ll keep it off this space but the few lines I wrote… Read More
Towards the end of last year, I did a series of ruminations on the chapter titles of a book. While the book remained very forgetful, the headers provided a springboard for some meandering. One of the headers was ‘tears’, the kind we cry. It led to a spontaneous poem and here it is, pulled up… Read More
no more pain where you lie the earth a fertile soil where flowers bloom and tiny creatures play your limbs entwined with creeping green as night turns to day and moonlight to fire sleep well daughter mine we are born we are crushed we rise again
The last few days were filled with thoughts of a little girl who was raped and murdered. It was also a period of celebration with many Indian new years yet I could find no joy. I couldn’t find myself the will to wish or greet anyone and stayed away from people. I just kept thinking… Read More
