I have taken up a challenge to write a poem each week. This one was the second this year. So far, my most obscure and surreal one. Here goes:
It was only last afternoonthat I met that old man.
The day was pretty ordinary, if you ask me,
as I walked along the marketlooking for the right shop.
I was looking for fresh towels you see;
new ones always carry a good scent.
The sun had been shining pretty well
leaving my old oneswith the warm scent of sunshine.
It was only last afternoon
that I made my way along the bylanes
peering interested, yet avoiding eye contact;
lest I be caught by a seller’s pleading eyes.
I finally stumbled upon this old man’s shop,
a tiny square made up of plastic,
it’s fragile frame holding it together.
The shop seemed to mock its owner’s stature
who sat there shrunk and lifeless
with eyes wide and alive staring somewhere.
It was in the final moments of our deal
as I bade goodbye to him, that
his fingers brushed against mine,
as his eyes held me captive
and suddenly the lights went out.
I couldn’t see anything anymore.
I couldn’t look into his eyes.
My mind and body wracking with fear,
I tried moving around,
surrounded by a thousand jeering sounds.
Suddenly, the whirring of his fan became louder.
The sounds and songs of the market
pressing hard against my ears,
I felt like I had morphed into a fly,
unwanted, trying to make sense of it all.
I could smell the dried piss on the walls.
I could smell the mustiness of each corner.
I could hear the old man’s wheezing
as I stood there reeling.
I can no more see the darkness of his eyes.
I can no more see the mockery of his state.
I can only thank his darkness for
stealing a little of my light.
– Shivranjana Rathore
It has been a few months since I have been teaching, mentoring and working with children and adolescents. The journey has been challenging as well as rewarding, leaving me with a fresh perspective with every interaction.
For the past two days however, I have been thinking intently about how can more children and teens be reached out. The reason that I feel this compulsion? Well, that’s not just mere knowledge that the children and teens of today will be the adults of tomorrow (duh!). No, my reasons are based on my observations.
I have seen 15-18 years old people suffering through death, bullying, peer pressure and so on; without, any support. Note that in saying that there was no support, I do not intend to imply that parents don’t support or maybe they are to be blamed in any way. What happens however, is that parents, after a certain time of spending their energies to keep things running smoothly in the daily, tend to look at things in a certain manner and fail to approach children to ensure an absolute support. It doesn’t necessarily speak of incompetency but, more of the human tendency to err.
A few observations that compelled me to think and study this include an adorable 8 year old becoming conscious of his eating habits because he’s been told by his friends that he is fat (unsure if he was made fun of or gently told); a seemingly stubborn and confident 17 year old arguing with her mother on shopping as the price for her to accompany her parents eventually saying that if her mother didn’t agree, she always had her father to ask for money, and then finding something to read to find a way into self confidence; the mother of a 13 year old fearful of her daughter’s reactions since a death in the family since she didn’t think she was capable of reaching out to her; a group of 17-18 year olds with nice clothes (in line with Instagram fashion), pocket money to buy whatever they could get their hands on (sangrias mostly) gathering together to record a video message for a friend in a public space ending up dropping an empty plastic glass and not bothering to pick it up; an 8 year old bumping into snack packets in the aisle of a grocery store ending up dropping the packets, turning to look at them and proceeding towards the next aisle, with no care for the dropped packets; a set of four 20-something boys on two bikes feeling the need to honk on a road full of traffic and then continuing to do that even when they had no vehicle blocking their path and lastly, the sight of 15-16 year olds with expressions of glorious victory while walking out a liquor shop with cans of Budweiser.
Each one of these observations created a good impact on my mind because none of these people are ones with whom I have had any direct interaction nor will I have one anytime soon. But, the prospect of their lives going on this way, with no mentoring or support, left me despairing over the future. That’s when I came across a short film called Rites of Passage that not only gave me possible solutions but, left me with a lot of hope because finally, my questions seemed to not be one of those that were left hanging in the space. It gives me a way, to find my own around this. Hence, I write this blog post as a part of action that I can take in this direction. If you are someone who deals with people in the age groups that I mention and/or if you maybe know one in your life, this will be of great help for you.
I will not get into details of what the film is about but, one core point it leaves one with is the need to nurture the future of the world being the adults’ responsibility through
- Respecting children and teenagers as they grow older in the form of respecting the individual who is growing up and who will add something unique to this world
- Celebrating and having markers / ceremonies around significant dates that mark the adulthood of teenagers – things like turning 16 (in Indian culture), turning 18, getting voting rights / driving license – anything and everything that makes them a part of the adult world
- And last and most important using action in their own lives as models to inspire responsibility among young adults as opposed to preaching or coercion or the ideas of “that’s how you are supposed to be”
The film’s site offers a toolkit that can be used as well. Go ahead and do it and share with me as well!
PS: This is something else that I found helpful in the same line of thought. The thoughts of a man from Chile practicing a Buddhist philosophy.
Note: Have published this to reach a wider audience on Youth Ki Awaaz as well.
I have always believed in there being a purpose for most things, if not a necessarily large cosmic plan, but, yes there being some order in the chaos called life. It has been one year since I have been practicing art on a full time basis. I still remember starting out on a mere whim to test my diligence at something that I enjoy immensely. I worried, at that point in time, that I might be disinterested or lazy soon and with sustenance, one can rarely take such risks without a decently secure financial status. At the end of October 2016, I had a collection of 31 artworks – sketches, doodles, whatever else they might be. I was in awe of what possibility life can be and took a few drastic steps. I had no plans besides swimming in the waters of uncertainty and learning to tackle the deep ends that I was safely away from till then.
Starting with the sudden bang of an exhibition and merchandise sales, this one year made me question a lot of things but, the never the leap of faith I took. I questioned if I was making a fool of myself by even drawing something since no one seemed to want to pay for it, a few claps can’t sustain me after all.
I have also found myself disillusioned at times with the state of the world, the minds of people and the technology enslaved lives that we spend. Over time, I have found my peace despite the external reality remaining the same or maybe, in some cases, worsening. I learnt nuances of canvas painting, created a total of 80 artworks, wrote unending poems and stories publishing a few, started a podcast, read newer books and started teaching art education. In short, this year has been the most fulfilling year so far.
The reason I share this is because today, I feel full of gratitude. For the past week, I have been visiting and immersing myself in art forms of varied types at the Serendipity Arts Festival.
I feel the need of mentioning my story with SAF because this festival, for the first time, left me with hope, inspiration and courage; as opposed to most others that had always left me with a butterfly in the stomach at the elitism of it. I remember having a conversation with a fellow art appreciator where she insisted that art today is very elitist. Looking from another spectrum, I felt compelled to share that it wasn’t so and it was just the inability for each one of us to connect with everything.
This thought still applies but, as I complete my year as a full time illustrator / artist / art student / teacher, I concur with her on elitism of art today. Ranging between extremes of overpriced artwork to pittances being paid to others, I have found a certain stiffness to fill the bodies (and hearts) of people in the “art circles” at times. I have no technical education, no BFA or MFA nor an uncle or aunt or godparent with their name pushing my work ahead but, all I have is the desire to create, to communicate better, to be able to move hearts, mine and others’.
That had made me once contemplate giving up completely and just drawing for myself; hell, I had even stopped drawing for a month and a half post October. But, SAF rekindled hope and perseverance in my heart again. This was the first festival that was completely inclusive when it came to people with different abilities, different understandings and perceptions. There was something for every single person who came. I have been drawing again, recalling all images that had been floating in my mind for the past month and a half. I knew I would remember each one as vividly as they seemed back then too. Each time my mind has asked me to give up, Nina Simone’s words, ” How can you be an artist and NOT reflect the times? That to me is the definition of an artist.” smack me in the face urging me to try harder.
With this nostalgic year end post and the hangover of SAF, I can only say one thing, art is for each human being because in the humdrum of life, it is art of any kind, that makes our hearts human. If you are exploring creation of any kind, like me, keep at it and you’ll get there someday. If not, at least you would have grown much more and found something else to morph into. That’s at least what I believe (and am told by fellow artists).
If you’d also like to collaborate with me on poems, podcasts, artwork, reach out!
This piece is something that has been brewing for a while and while I tried for it to be published somewhere where it doesn’t feel like a rant as well as gets a greater audience (twin win eh?), it is indeed a “controversial” piece and hence, I could not find any buyers for this. Sigh. I am not one to write lengthy Facebook statuses as well because well, I prefer writing in my notebook more. However, after an evening briefly spent visiting and checking out installations under the Story of Space, I am compelled to barf it out here.
But, before that, lets set a little context.
Those who know me or have maybe known me earlier when I was in school, seem to be surprised at my choice to work as an independent writer and artist – both, self taught. That’s mostly because everyone felt that my brains deserved to be embodied by an IAS officer or maybe, a number crunching CEO or economist. However, this professional choice was inevitable as far as I am concerned since this is exactly what I have known myself to be, since as far back in time as I can remember.
Like most amateurs (if you may), I have believed that art is for all. Of course, there are people who might not “get it” but, that is the purpose of art – for the artist to express herself and for the viewer / consumer of art, to experience it in her own way. Of course, the downside of all this is also the very difficult opinion that people who do not earn a living off making art, believing that they ought to get it for free. But then, that’s another story altogether.
However, as much as I love (f)artsy environs and galleries and conversations and events, I find myself slinking away in a corner at the sight of certain herds of hipsters or whatever the tribe is called today. Till yesterday, I had believed this opinion to merely be a personal prejudice or judgment hence, the need to not proclaim it on my blog earlier on. However, this evening, I found the same sentiments being echoed by a friend who isn’t an art enthusiast nor an artist but, simply keen to see and learn new things.
The Story of Space is a fascinating project that was held between 10th and 19th November in and around Panjim, Goa. The project, broadly speaking, explored the concept of space through an intersection of science and art. While for me, through whatever little I could catch, it pointed towards thoughts of us being made of ‘star stuff’ and the inter-relatedness of science and art, in relation to everything in life / nature.
Most of my sojourns into such shows or art spaces have been alone. I like experiencing the artists’ expression by myself, without the distractions of any familiarity. However, I also enjoy an occasional shaking of the mix, a new thread of thought and opinion to add to my own thought bubble.
On the last leg of my run to check out a couple of installations at Sukerkar House, a decrepit looking old building minus the usual charm, I found myself uncertain to walk in. I paused and looked around and sensed a strange vibe of discomfort, rushing towards me in waves as if the frequency of the throngs of carefully recklessly dressed artists, volunteers, curators and art and design students / enthusiasts. I suddenly felt an air of being an outsider, if you know what I mean, when you seemingly don’t belong somewhere. I wondered if it was my careless lack of the carefully casual outfit or my missing hipster glasses that did not fit the wannabe winds that blew at that moment in Altinho. Mustering my amateur, self-taught guts I walked in, passing over two and then, a third installation; my thumping headache adding to my misery of not seeing much beyond the already well explored idea of space in them.
And then, we entered a fourth room, into something that was called the Escape Room and that sounded very cool. Much to the chagrin the curator, I did not know about there being batches to enter the Escape Room that lay behind a door at the end of this room. I ended up walking into a room full of men and women with large glasses and long, unkempt hair in buns or braids, wearing lose t-shirts that looked like they came from the same factory in the glare of the single bulb that hung from the ceiling, shadowing their awkward gazes. Each pair of eyes stared at me in that longest moment as I squinted back, questioningly. My attention hating side screamed at them for screening me so intensely and then, my voice finally broke the silence that was pressing on my ears. Upon asking what was happening with raised eyebrows, I was then informed about the groups and that I would have to wait for the next one. Relieved that it was just strange speed of communication and not anything to do with perhaps my scrunched up nose as I tried to focus in light’s glare, I walked out heaving a sigh of relief.
Not too keen on waiting any longer (and keener to get myself a croissant or a coffee…or both), I walked out of the venue checking with my friend if he wanted to wait after. With a frown, he responded that he didn’t want to stick around that place even for a minute. Intrigued that maybe, just maybe, it wasn’t just my prejudice I decided to dig further, asking him what, in particular, was the cause of displeasure for him there while he did seem to enjoy the other installations and artworks.
His reply, to summarise, was simply the pretentious energy, the cold, raised-eyebrowed and hooded eyed looks that he saw there. He felt that the people present there seemed to exist is a slightly darker art bubble than at the other places, uninterested in allowing anyone else in.
I was stunned. I have felt similarly about litfests and major art galleries and art show openings, despite admiring a lot of the artists’ works on display. I presumed that it was my own misplaced intellectual arrogance that I thought I sometimes suffered from. Who doesn’t want exclusivity after all, isn’t it?
Turns out, I really have grown up!
What I felt was something to do with my untrained artist / writer status, simply was the tendency of the herd mentality that exists within all but, only a certain chunk of the world manifest it. I think I have a problem with it largely because while knowing that creation is an act of selfishness because it gives the artist a much needed release or sense of purpose, I also believe that as a way of life, art also is something that is universal even if someone is seemingly artistically challenged in the eyes of the most fascinating artists.
Art, for me, is a way of communication, an expression of the heart or one’s soul (mind, if you don’t believe in soul). Sometimes, these expressions are very simple and speak of broad emotions that humanity deals with. Other time, they can be very complicated that maybe only a few understand. However, the intention of any art form essentially is not to exclude because the act of creation in itself becomes a way of the artist opening up and sharing a part of themselves.
A part of my brain, the one that fears judgment from the world, the one that refuses to be vulnerable in front of humanity; that part of my brain is cringing as I type this. However, I must go on despite its warnings against this being a complete bomb and unnecessary cry for attention. If, as a reader, you feel the same, I urge you to go ahead and close the window. Sorry, I do not have a dislike or hate button here for you. I am sure someday soon, we will have them.
I have only once in the past written about my father and yes maybe briefly mentioned him in a recent post on Instagram.
Today, however, I write from the point of view of grief, especially after the death of a loved one. My father left his physical form 8 years, 6 months and 20 days ago. It was sudden, right 5 weeks after I turned 18, the birthday I was most excited about. 16 was never an interest.
Very interestingly, this year, I have been thinking of him often. Much to my surprise. I had presumed that I have grieved and accepted and taken his death in my stride. When Chester Bennington passed away, I found myself weeping almost as badly as I did when papa was close to the last moments of his life. My head went back to the time Robin Williams’ death made me feel on similar lines. I wasnt sure why I felt so deeply sad at this. I remembered all the times when I have been happy with my father, the times when I thought he was not right or made me angry. :) I learnt of what all he intentionally or unintentionally taught me during the time that we spent together. I learnt of why some of my favourite memories with him remained my favourite till date despite having made a considerably good number of memories since then.
Today, I have come to terms with his death in a way much deeper and intensely happy and peaceful than I had ever imagined possible. I have goosepimples as I type this line, in particular.
To him, I would say, I am happy that I met you, happy that I was born to you. I am happy where we are today and I hope you are happy and peaceful where you are.
I love you and today, very strongly, I understand what J.K. Rowling meant by those who you love never leaving you since they can always be found in your heart. I know you are always in mine.
Been a while since I wrote in here. Have sort of determined to be a little more less reluctant to type a blog post. Thankfully, I have been writing a lot but on paper. This world demands virtual media, however. And, need to succumb to it once in a while.
October brings along Inktober with itself and I have been creating more detailed artworks this year. Sign of progress, for sure.
I attended a workshop on Ekphrasis yesterday. According to the glossary on literature that I looked up to understand the term, I learnt that it is something that comes naturally to me. Ekphrasis is essentially writing something (mostly a poem), inspired by a visual, whether real or imaginary. I remember that I had started creative writing and poetry with imagined visuals, images that refused to leave my mind. Having never gone through the systemic teaching in literature and art, at times, I find myself doing a double take when I learn that there is a term for something I do! At other times, well, I learn something new. Feel like a student all over again. ;)
The workshop had a measly number of 4 people – one of whom ran away when we were left alone to write poems. We were presented with works by Monet and O’Keefe. I am a fan of impressionism and hence, Monet’s magic in seemingly simple, day to day scenes was quite captivating. However, I had pre-selected the artwork for my poem the minute I walked in. Poetically speaking, it felt like it chose me.
The artwork that I connected with instantly was O’Keefe’s Oriental Poppies (pictured below).
I have honestly, never really been a flower person. I mean I like flowers in flesh but, never as images. Apparently, the artist painted these and much of her work in abstraction following no real theme as such but, her work has been appropriated by many according to their own perceptions. Her work has particularly been labeled as feminist and has been interpreted accordingly.
For me, art comes from a personal space. Either its memory or emotion, it always stirs from an emotional part of the mind. While there was a gentleman who felt he doesn’t “get” art, he wrote a short poem which was so powerful and interpreted one of Monet’s works beautifully; thereby, bringing in the belief yet again that art is personal and that, many times what the artist would have intended would end up living with the artist alone.
Oriental poppies drew me in like a magnet. The fiery colours and shades emanated a kind of passionate power that I couldn’t think of any other work there. Sharing a poem that I wrote inspired by the work:
against the light.
Fire all around
emerging from the dark,
I see them in the evening
to the sounds of the lark.
As the night darkens
gathering her warm blanket over,
We huddle closer together
heads joint in a good night’s kiss.
Hand in hand
side by side, we traverse
every road, while
despite no light,
like those orange blossoms
in my garden.
One of my guilty pleasures is watching sitcoms on binge. The latest show that I watched on binge and even used Google to end my misery at times was The Mentalist (yes, yes, I am quite late to jump on the bandwagon but, better late than never right?)
While there are many tangents that I can go to in terms of what I loved as well as hated about the show, I will pick up on one broad trend that is a reality for media in most places. Sitcoms even in the Indian industry (can speak for Hindi shows alone since I haven’t watched any other Indian shows in other Indian languages), are the ordinary citizen’s access to a world far away from her daily reality. From TV sets in common rooms to Netflix and the likes on one’s bed, media as entertainment has access to the most private corners of one’s existence. Of course there is the business side to it as well that deems producing things that aren’t just liked but, also accepted by the viewers. It is crazy how the virtual production of the Game of Thrones made ‘winter is coming’ as a mark of cool and awe-inspiring minds.
What I have thought about time and again however, is the need to balance economic orientation behind soaps with creating things that add a new value to the viewers’ minds, makes them question and think. Media and storytelling has that immense power.
With such an orientation however, when one watches an acclaimed show and sees it fall flat on its face, it feels sad. Web series are definitely changing the way things go but, the downside of the trend yet again is the surge of multiple channels owned by a few big business houses that own the TV channels spreading mediocrity.
Why I am ranting about media here is to note one point that has come to mind time and again whether watching an Indian web series or reading a comic or watching The Mentalist. My basic issue is with all of it, especially the series in question, is the reaffirmation of stereotypes that deepen a sense of bias against people. This is a very subtle form of bias that exists in the modern world. One has opinions based on one’s race, class, sex and appearance…the least that storytelling can do, is to break through those typical narratives forcing the viewer to look beyond hearsay. Another classic fallacy in Western storytelling is building everything around one male protagonist (usually white) who is wronged by another man and with the help of a secondary female character who nurses his hurt ego and teaches him vulnerability after he disses her all through the plot, he gets justice and stands taller with his arm around the woman’s waist looking straight ahead. Remember Harvey Specter and Christian Grey? The typical protagonists?
While the entire plot line and appearance of the show is clean, minus heavy words displaying hyper-masculinity and full of humour and love. The characters are all shown to possess their own pasts and like all of us are products of their environments who have evolved a lot with time. All of this is what makes this show very likeable. However, as the series progresses, slowly all the mature writing falls through the cracks. Lisbon then becomes the female cop who was no nonsense and super professional not because she is good at her work and prefers to keep things that way. Rather, she was so because her dark past made her display a tough exterior to protect herself until love comes knocking. The same love that makes her throw away everything that she defined herself by and reduce her existence to anonymity. Jane is a funny, con man turned righteous hero who spends all his energies trying to salvage the murders of his family caused due to his irresponsibility. From the hurt and grief stricken man looking to avenge his loss, he slowly becomes the egoistic narcissist ought to display a sense of superiority especially against the woman he loves, without any care when the same woman loses everything in order to help him. Their story is the typical story, only with a little addition of Lisbon’s past. On the side are 3 more characters – Rigsby (tall, athletic, dumb white male aka jock in the dictionary of stereotypes), Cho (short, pokerface Asian guy with the focus of a horse with blinders because you know, he’s Korean with a gang past) and Van Pelt (red head with the perfect body that is objectified immensely, also a farm girl with the belief in horses, unicorns (not really) and rainbows, she is shown all business unless of course, love grabs her heart).
I would end with just one thought – while adding a background story to the lives of the characters does add a more humane touch giving life to these stereotypes, it still reaffirms every bit of it keeping narratives stale and predictable. Stories, while of course need to be a sort of business to sustain storytellers, are however, more powerful that dumbing down generations by affirmation of stereotypes. They can change the destiny of the world, if only, a little more courage is shown in telling them.