4th June

Rainy day women: Love & the Monsoon

Finding the way back to Ithaka

June: Goodbye to the travelling bag

May: in memory of The Clash

London calling to the faraway towns
Now that war is declared and battle come down
London calling to the underworld
Come out of the cupboard, all you boys and girls
London calling, now don't look to us
Phony Beatlemania has bitten the dust
London calling, see we ain't got no swing
Except for the ring of that truncheon thing
The ice age is coming, the sun's zooming in
Meltdown expected the wheat is growing thin
Engines stop running but I have no fear
Cos London is drowning and I live by the water
London calling to the imitation zone Forget it brother, you can got it alone
London calling to the zombies of death, Quit holding out and draw another breath
London calling and I don't wanna shout,
But while we were talking I saw you noddin' out
London calling, see we ain't got no highs
Except for that one with the yellowy eyes
The ice age is coming, the sun's zooming in
Meltdown expected, the wheat is growing thin
Engines stop running but I have no fear
Cos London is drowning and I live by the river

- Joe Strummer and Mick Jones

A city in a desert: Part 3

A city in a desert: Part 2

Imagine, a city
By the borders of a bay
in the midst of a desert.

A city that one cannot belong to,
a city that one can only be born into.

The sole city of a country,
where almost all its citizens live.

A city of glass skyscrapers
and humming air conditioners.
A city where few walk outside in the day.

A city still rising higher
on the backs of outsiders,
who come for but a while to stay.

And ask yourself if you would live here
amidst heat of the sand and black gold.

And listen carefully for your reply.

A city in a desert: Part 1

International airports in India are difficult to see. It is not that the government is torturing passengers (well not intentionally anyway), but it is the kind of people you see there that makes you stop and look, and wonder. And look back at yourself.

I was invited to Doha, Qatar for a film festival, where my documentary film "Words in Stone" about the poet Wali Gujarati was being screened. My flight was at 4am and as such, I was told to reach the airport by 1am, latest. This was the first time I was returning to Ahmedabad International airport since my return from France in 2004.

Age does not necessarily make you wiser, but it does change what you chose to look at and what you choose to see. Entering the waiting room of that airport, after the security check-in, I looked around to find a place to sit. My eyes were drawn to a certain corner, where there were many old people. Grandparents, perhaps great grand parents, aided by canes and wheel-chairs, waiting. At 2am. Wide awake. Ready to board a flight. Travel for many hours. To meet someone they love.

Many reasons convince people to leave their homes for other countries. Education, opportunity, lifestyle, economics, glamour, idealism, foolishness, love, murder, cowardice. But to the visitors these people receive, there is usually but one reason to travel.

And as I sat, watching these very people, I wished that money, that borders did not exist, at least for a few of us. I wished that we did not have to ask permission to meet our brothers and sisters, sons and daughters. I wished that there could be no one who would refuse us this permission. I wished for idealism.

The clock ticked on. The TV continued playing at mute. And I turned to look out towards the tarmac, waiting, alone amidst a crowd of people, for my flight.

April: Distant shores

Are some of us eternal travelers?
Forever in transit,
hoping to reach an unknown destination?

Or are we all ceaselessly moving,
even as we think we are content to stand still?

Content as we stand still.

As we grow older, in one of the rare instances
of circumstance reflecting reality,
Family gives way to the self,
and we find ourselves making journeys in the silence of solitude.

Do we even then, really wish for moments past,
in a time when it was common
to encounter a magician on a train
with your parents and your sister by your side?

Onto Mumbai, Khandala and Pune

I set off to help my friends Aneeth and Chinar, as they showed a fall/winter collection under their label "Gaba" at Lakme fashion week. If you see my previous post 'Under the Mahua Tree' you will realise that these are the same two friends with which I made the trip to Chanderi with. Do check out their collection online, as well as on http://masalachaionline.blogspot.com.

It is called 'Kala-safed' (black and white) and is quite beautiful. Wearing their clothes is like wearing a drawing, the lines and checks of the Chanderi and Maheshwari silk are combined in various sizes and thicknesses on a single garment. As the wearer walks, the checks seem to shimmmer and come to life. Really.

On my way, by a stroke of luck, I travelled to Mumbai via a sleeper berth on a bus for the first time. The rains had come early, and as I stretched out on my birth to look outside, I found that I could really see a panorama, since the window was almost as tall (or long) as me. At night, as the lights in the bus switched off, and the rains feel, everything became enveloped in a dreamy mist. I noticed the shadow of the sticker on my window falling across my body, labeling me as 'Mumbai' and drawing a line across my leg. It seems incongruous to describe, but I watched that line and read those mirrored letters till I fell asleep.

And early in the morning, just before dawn, I woke up to see sap green trees dancing in and out of the cloudy air.

At that moment, I wished that the morning would never come.

Snapshots of March

It has been a very long time, since this blog was updated. This is not to say that my life came to a standstill, rather it became too busy. I travelled on and off, non stop for almost three months, touching base in Ahmedabad for a few days between trips, to catch my breath, and assure my room-mate that I was still alive. Over the next few posts, I will try to bring things up to date. Please do stay around for the ride.

A late New Year, complete with (2) hangovers

I guess I have finally caught up with the rest of the world. As the saying goes better late than never. A certain project has been taking up my time, since October of last year. But the mystery alas, will be revealed in the next post.

For now, a glimpse of RGB, NID's first design fest organised, hosted and carried out by the students. With attendance from other design and fine arts colleges from all over India, I really think it was a great step in uniting the growing design community in India. Of course this vein of thought leads one to the eternal question:" Is film art or design ?" And from there, it is but a small step to the next great question: "Are Art and Design the same? If not, can they ever be the same ?"

I guess the RGB effect has still not left me. So here, a photo from my eye at the said event. The protagonist, Mr. Mouli Marur, who kindly came by to be a part of the fest. :)



Then after RGB, Chitrakatha took place. NID's first animation film festival, it not only showcased a range of films from all over the world, but also conducted many seminars and discussions on various issues related to animation. For me in particular, two talks by the artist Jose Belmonte (from Spain) and Prakash Moorthy stood out.

It seems fitting then, that adopting Mr. Belmonte's philosophy of complete hand crafted/ drawn works I present Mr. Moorthy's lecture.. (Y)Enjoy..

when we see time..

To the party of one that reads this blog: rejoice!!
I am now in the position of being able to call myself a single working (hold on for it) woman (should I be more politically correct and say person? ).

Anyway, even though that is not a very recent or new development, it places me at a vantage point of obervation with regards to viewership and commentary on life and how it passes(perhaps because I am frequently unemployed? Note also the lack of reference to the word 'participation') Well, suffice to say it, for this year at least, I have decided not to join the 'rat race' or whatever equivalent of it, if found, from culture to culture. Living on my own, in a new city, having to manage bills, rent, my house, finding work and of course, food which basically means COOKING..

This past week found me having a minor ephiphany with reference to the latter..
You see, I've been trying to work hard on some projects of my own, and only manage to do that in the evenings, because I am working (trying to) somewhere in the day. The hours seem to pass by quickly, what with me being armed with the foreknowledge that I have to get up early the next day and so cannot work till late, it seems everything; relaxing, thinking, working has to be squeezed within a few 6 hours. Hence I find myself heading out for a quick bite to eat for around 15-20 min at night, so I can get back to work all the faster.

Now I do enjoy cooking, but it takes time and planning, well because you need ingredients...
So I was waiting for my cheese omlet at this mobile food stall outside where I work, and I was watching the road, and the man cooking for me and I had the ephiphany I talked about earlier. You see:
When we go out to eat, we are really never paying for what we eat...

We in fact, usually pay for time (first), then convenience, then bravado (for the man who takes his date out to a really really expensive place), then pride, then sex perhaps. And last of all, the food itself..Its so ironic, especially since we eat to sustain ourselves. But I guess, in today's world where white can be blue, men can be women and day can be night, food- that most essential of tangibles can become time-'the' intangible, something we cannot even see, let alone digest.

my heartbeat in a mirror

When i was
young i wished
for my heart to
beat on the
right side of my chest.
Because that
would make
me rare &
special. I
thought.