Living Teal

Link to Part 1 It had been long since that night of spectacular mind bending by the Whats . Stating the obvious by serving it on a plate full of questions was a disguise, so apparent that it mocked the anti artists from the dadaists in the most sarcastic way possible. Everyone, including the Whys felt obligated to unearth the questions thrown at them, but never reached out to the Whats for answer, for they knew that there was no right answer anyway. It was only the persistent second cousin of Who , who couldn't get his mind around them and kept nagging the Whats with their questions time and again. What is art? And what does that, which is considered as art, mean? And whose an artist? This continued until one fine rainy evening, when he found a piece of parchment paper penned with some thoughts - Art is honesty. Art is truth.  A piece of art is nothing if it is made with the slightest of pretence. Pretence to look like someone else's art. Pretence to not look like someone el...

"As you see, within our bodies each of us has the elements needed to produce phosphorous. And let me tell you something I've never told a soul. " "My grandmother said that each of us is born with a box of matches inside us but we can't strike them all by ourselves; we need oxygen and a candle to help. The oxygen, would come from the breath of the person you love; the candle could be any kind of food, music, caress, word or sound that engenders the explosion that lights one of the matches.  For a moment we are dazzled by an intense emotion. A pleasant warmth grows within us, fading slowly as time goes by, until a new explosion comes along to revive it."    -- Like water for chocloates, Laura Esquirel   The past two years have been tumultuous for us all. We didn't have the faintest idea of how our lives would change in the months to come. We were forced to deal with our inner demons, while the world around us seemed to collectively grow into a darker place...

I recently travelled back to Bengaluru, the place I both love and hate. On most days, I abhor the damp, moist and cold climate that goes throughout the year here. Especially during the winters, when my heart longs for the sun soaked mornings in Bhopal. Sitting on the little balcony of our flat there, I would sit down on a dari, with my back facing the sunlight, waiting for it to slowly defrost while I sipped on some basil and ginger tea. But then, it's this very weather that takes a romantic turn sometimes. Like last Sunday, when it was  cloudy and a light chilly wind ruffled through the pink flowers on the canopy clad roads of Indiranagar. Sitting across the window in a prim sea green room of Hanoi, I ordered some drip coffee and patiently waited for it to fill above the layer of sweet condensed milk, drop by drop, as I revelled in the poetry of the moment.  Eventually it started to drizzle and it was only when I was sipping and biting and fishing through the delicious hot ...

I was a tiny girl who loved to play hide and seek. One day I decided to hide behind my parent's bed to scare my Ma when she would come inside. Ma and Dadi came into the room and I heard Ma saying to Dadi, "Lekin mujhe mera beta hi zyada pasand h" ( I like my son more). I jumped up frightening myself instead. "Kyaa?" I asked in astonishment. Don't get me wrong, I am the apple of my Mum's eye. She told me later that she had to say it for my grandma. You should know why. I didn't know what that statement really meant back then. But over the years I couldn't help but see the deep held roots of patriarchy suffocating the society. Growing up, the favourite plot line for most of the TV shows was pretty much like so - girl is forced into a marriage, girl hates the guy, eventually girl learns to fall in love with the guy and be a good wife to him. Permutate the age and background, for the girl and boy and this formula would end up fitting into most of the...

I have had a hard time dealing with reality, tending to always find solace in the comforting world of fiction. In enchanting tales of magic and in vivid stories of places unknown. Growing up, there was no other book that satiated my hunger for adventure and exploration like "Secret Island" did. The story of four kids discovering a secluded island in a beautiful lake, protected from the real world, caught my imagination every time I read it. In the later years, this was replaced by the mystic lores of the boy who lived. My favourite escape from the daily doldrums of doing homework and other petty issues of that time. Dark and dingy alleys, leaky cauldrons, murky quills and candlelit hallways made clean and shiny seem totally obsolete.  Rowling's universe of chocolate frogs, moving pictures and every flavour beans became so profoundly convincing that it was inevitable for it to not pour some of its magic into my earthly endeavours. Little does my mother know, that I used to...

Rain drops settled on the large glass window next to her workstation. She peeped up to find that it had become dark. Grey clouds looming over a cobalt sky. She hadn't realised that it was late. Her tired eyes could see the glitter on the crammed street below. Cars stuck one next to the other as the two wheelers played maze in whatever little of the space was left in between. The traffic was patient tonight, not much honking. They knew the ritual. She leaned over the computer to see how lone she was- everyone usually disappeared at the first sight of the grey skies. She didn't blame them, that was only the sensible thing to do. The three of them were the last ones to leave from their floor. They always left together. As they started dragging themselves towards the car, she waited at the entrance shade. She would run straight into her seat once the car was unlocked, avoiding as many of those icy raindrops on the way as possible.  Once settled, they took a turn and calmly waited ...

It was a smoky room filled with indistinct chatter, occasionally broken by notes of shrieky laughter and the characteristic clang of contention. Dark and dimly lit, it glared in its opulence, mirroring the energy of its occupants. The Whys walked in with a gait peculiar to the aristocracy, as, a not-so-famous second cousin of Who, got up to greet them with shiny eyes, a wide smile and sweaty hands. Quietly moving towards their preferred seating- a pine velvet sofa in the corner having just enough light to read, they were about to get their evenings started, when a group from the other side rose up to clink their glasses bringing everyone's attention to them... What is art? Is it a frivolous luxury entitled to the elite? A conversation starter for the intellectuals? A status symbol for the wannabe elite? Easy money for the seasoned charlatan?  Or a sense of purpose for the disoriented? And what does that, which is considered as art, mean? Obscure monochromatic patterns that a comput...