The leaders we want

This post is in a reactive dialogue with images such as these that have been flooding my visual space. 

As days pass, i think it is maddening to see the political dumbness around in this country. Before Modi was declared the BJP PM candidate, i could still understand people fantasying about him as PM. Everyone from their own positions has been frustrated by the Congress which for the last ten years has been trying to keep the social stalemates alive and yet silently push a global corporate agenda. It was but understandable that the large sections of democracy does not think critically (it seems they tend to think re-actively); and that section would find Mr. Narendar Modi as very attractive. As it is the electronic media has numbed our reactions to violence and crime...and it has been over 20 years of watching riots and terrorism on television while having dinner and the breaking off into watching Pepsi ads. 

It has become un-understandable and maddening now cause after being named the BJP official PM candidate, Modi has shown many many disgusting colors. Many arguments have been made against Modi and I do not think i want to add to that, but how is it that it has gone unnoticed that Modi only keeps thugs and god-men around him. Mark my words...only.  Apart form Arun Jaitley (who Modi desperately needs, and whose greed desperately needs Modi), all the educated , liberal  withing the BJP were quickly marginalized. Some like Jaswanth Singh have had the guts to openly revolt. It has come to such a farce, that one cannot think who are the people who will be entrusted important cabinet posts. Also the sheer amount of money this one man has spend, not promoting a partly or a ideology or even a broader slogan...but just his name is staggering. 

Is this the kind of leaders we want? Is that the message we want to give our children by making heros of people like Modi? As it is when we go on saying we want a strong leader, we acknowledge that as citizens we want to be lazy and surrender. Asking for a strong leader is the first sign of a weak nation. More so when people stop asking how is the leader going to use the strength!!!
It also shows how very intelligent we are, when we fall into the "If you are anti Modi, You are pro Congress" trap. 

When You Push

When you push
and it does not move;
Then you feel like pushing harder.
When you push harder
and it does move;
Then you feel like pushing more.
When you push more
and it does not move;
Then you feel like pushing harder.

Space, anger, victory, defeat...
all become one.
Push is a hard word
Easier to pull gently than to push softly.

When you push
and it does not move;
Then you feel like pushing harder.
When you pull or hug
and it does not move;
Will you do it (again) softer?
Same thing with small differences
create different journeys for the soul. 

A Short Note on Gulam Mohammed Sheikh's 'Art and Art History'

Art and Art History | Gouache | 30 x 40 cm | 1996 |

Courtesy. Shirish Panchal Collection. 

As a critical post modern miniaturist, Sheikh has been a member of the avant-garde who reinvented the idea of narrative for Contemporary Indian Art. The title of the work reminds one of Binod Behari Mukherjee’s murals, reflecting a continuity of thought around art, its history and its pedagogy. Yet in the hands of Binod Behari’s student this analogy of discipline and landscape becomes restless and radical. There are hints of deep, yet almost untraceable shadows of surrealist iconography that anticipates a dystopia. My eyes can see Beauty enshrined and protected, yet being washed away by storm and inferno. Art and its history are man made, yet the universe weeps when art dies. But it never dies, always survives the storm.

The handling of material is starling. Gouache as medium has defined by its opaque character. Sheik transforms it, challenging gouache to become water colour. These eclectic expectations from medium challenge our notions regarding relationships between the physical and the conceptual.

Steps on the pavement

That evening he walked out of the jail gates...

And it was moments before sunset

As he kept walking

Steps on the pavement

He almost felt it was home

Walking down the path

By now deserted

Steps on the pavement 

Big dark city on a winter night

'Akele Hum Akele Tum' playing through a stranger window

Somehow brought back memories

Of radios and winter nights

Life lay scattered like unplanned lanes leading to various no-wheres 

Fourteen years in prison makes one forget a lot

That chilling murder he could never forget

But they made him work in the 'mess' for fourteen years

Food was the last thing on his mind

By now hunger had become a distant dream 

Steps on the pavement 

She was not at home

The posters was still up on her wall

But there were cobwebs in the balcony

A sleeping neighborhood

At the end you are just alone

Steps on the pavement

A car rushing past

Life disappearing in the rear view mirror

As he kept walking

He almost felt it was home

Claws on the pavement

The feel of dogs behind him

The quietness and silence felt like death

Some of them

Many of them

Remembering the posters was still up on her wall

He kept on walking

But he forgot that there were cobwebs in the balcony

Steps on the pavement

Pretending not to run

The roads parted

Like they did in those filthy school books.

Like it had fourteen years ago

One path seemed lightened

The other was dark

He chose the light this time

Untimely salvation is worse than sin

The road ended under a a dead banyan tree

And an old blind dog

The steps on the pavement stopped

The steely silence of a winter night 

The claws on the pavement had stopped

'Akele Hum Akele Tum' floating from a distant radio

Still as a monk, the blind dog sat

He stood still as his life flashed by

And then that deafening bark from the monk

All the dogs attacked

A silence that only death can carry

Blood on the pavement 

A car rushing past

Life disappearing in the rear view mirror

The golden coast of Malabar

The Golden Coast of Malabar | Story told in words by Rahul Bhattacharya, re told visually by Samudra Kajal Saikia | Order your copy at kankhowa@gmail.com.

One happy day when I was a young little boy, someone told me, that the coast of Malabar is very beautiful and neat.

One day I went and I saw, that the sea was blue, the trees were green and along with the golden sand, the coast of Malabar was special indeed.

One happy day in Malabar, I was lying on the sand. When an ant came and bit me here, bit me there and went.

Then came another ant, slowly there came many more ants; they bit me here, bit me there, they really bite me everywhere.

On that beautiful day in the coast of Malabar, as I was dying in pain, I heard a small voice talk to me and call me by my name. 

“I am sorry Mr. Donkey” I heard him say. “These are all young ants and they shall learn their lessons one day.”

He climbed my nose and proceeded to say, “Please do not attack our small little hole, our queen begs to be forgiven, or so I am told.”

Then he turned to the young little ants. “I warn you again you little young ants”, he crackled as he spoke, “If you go on biting, the humans will fill our holes”.

That strange morning on the beautiful Malabar sand, I could not help praising the crackling old ant.

If indeed he had not come by, I would have really filled the nearest ant hole before saying goodbye.

A small story I saw...

***

It was a hot summer evening everywhere near my house, and as I lay beside the pickles mother had left for sunning, I saw a colony of red ants. Like in all ant colonies, a board at the entrance read 

“tiredness is a word outside the Dictionary of Ants”.

Now, like all words, Mr. Tiredness hates not being printed in all the dictionaries, and ever since I can remember, and I can remember a lot of things, Mr. Tiredness was trying his best to be a word in the Dictionary of Ants. 

Every time he saw an ant colony, he would camp nearby and hope to be introduced to the Dictionary. As I looked through the blades of grass, I saw a pale blue man who looked like he was doing nothing.

He was setting up his tent about 5 meters away from the ant hole. Did I forget to tell you that he was very small indeed? Nearly 6 centimeters tall, he was about the size of a cockroach. Imagine it very wobbly and walking upright.

He looked much tiered; and he was complaining “how much I hate to work……even if a lot of it means doing simply nothing”. He lay there hoping for a quick introduction to the Dictionary of Ants.

***

 The little ant Alina had never felt like this before. She was actually looking for a place to sit. Till now she had been busy walking with the ant army, ready to attack a sticky yellow toffee which I had spit out a few minutes before.

Taking a turn away from the line she was walking in, she spotted a shade under a blade of glass and sat there.  She started staring at the sky and sometimes at her mates busily walking by.

Slowly but surely Ruchi, Jason, Rumana, and Jeet joined her. Many other ants had started wanting to sit down. Slowly but surely all of them started yawning. Jason even started dreaming about sleep

 “Wait….. Wait don’t do that”…. my mind screamed, but before I could do anything, the gardener aimed his water pipe right  at the ant hill, the water drops started helplessly landing and hoping to escape a bite.

 

As the waters drops started landing on the ant hill, Jeet jumped up, “these Pants are horrible”…… “They always come between us and our lives”. Jeet started rubbing his chin in anger. Oh yes! He nearly rubbed his chin right in.

Rumana always shouts when she is angry. “Stop wetting us” She burst out a shout, her brain began to heat up with every drop of cold water that fell. I wanted about to stop the maali, so started just thinking what to yell.

I was surprised to see the line of ants still carrying on, unaffected by the gentle spray….only our angry ant friends seemed disturbed………only our tiered young ants seemed disturbed.

 By now Alina had picked up a ball of mud and flung it at the nearest water drop. She started screaming “Pants are merciless” …… Jason stood up... “We need to revolt”.  Then I saw Anpu joining the group.

 Stamping her feet on the ground, Anpu started to give a great speech and asking all the ants to bite the gardener. Stamping their feet on the ground all the 6 ants started singing “Bite the gardener, Bite that Pant”.  

 By then our angry ant friends were sitting around and trying to imagine a good way to bite us Pants. They were yawning and yawning planning a bite. They dreamed and dreamed for a bite.

Through the corner of my eyes I caught a small movement. Mr. Tiredness had stopped had just started doing something. He hates cold water just like your pet; as soon as his tent started leaking, he busily packed up his bags and withered away.

It was strange to see Alina get up and join the line of ants. Soon Ruchi got up. Soon all of them had joined the line and had all started walking in a row. Marching with the beat that only the ants are supposed to know.

I heard Mr. Tiredness had gone to buy a waterproof tent and will be back very soon, so the next time you are bitten by an ant do not forget to look. You will surely spot a pale blue man who looks like a balloon.

***

Everywhere I went

Everywhere I went, she used to come after me.

Everywhere she went, he used to run after her.

Everywhere I was they used to be there too.

Somewhere I went, she came somewhere with me.

Somewhere she went, he went running somewhere.

Somewhere I went, they were somewhere too.

To a cold place I went, she came to a cold place with me.

To a cold place she went, he ran to a cold place with her.

To a cold place I went, they were in a cold place too.

To see a sunrise I went, she came to see the sunrise too.

To see a sunrise she went, he ran to see the sunrise too.

To see a sunrise I went, they saw the sunrise too.

Everywhere I went, she used to come after me.

Everywhere she went, he used to run after her.

Everywhere I was they used to be there too.

Then one day on a trip I went.

That one trip I wanted to go alone.

 I was really afraid that they would be there too.

To a place called Nowhere I went, she came Nowhere with me.

Nowhere she went, so he went running Nowhere.

To a place called Nowhere I went, and they were Nowhere with me.

two rhymes and a verse

I

There is no eye in the sky
Even in The Catcher in the Rye
No fly in my chai
Just heat in her sigh

II

Dogs sleeping under the sun
There is sun for everyone
Some stay in shade 
And don't have fun

                          *********** 


I


He did not know the story to tell
Just flashbacks from a florescent media 
Delicate inconsistencies
The universe is our post modern God

They call it lust

The heat was inviting, so was her touch
Drawn by his weakness he snuggled into her
But her heart was beating fast
And her skin was on fire
He felt a desire rising
They call it lust
He gave into the demon
But it was not the lust that opened the gates
That four letter word was 'lost'.
If he broke fidelity and kept loyalty
would that heal his soulmate?
His cock was throbbing hard
And she was throbbing with lust
Twisting her nipples
He stroked her cunt
Her moans brought out his hunger more
Un able to control her lust
She took his cock in her mouth
He just made her feel that way
He fucked her mouth like the God of lust
With every stroke he felt the loss
of being pushed aside by his partner
She was leaking like a bitch
He was on top fucking her hard
Through her many many orgasms
He forgot his lust
His heart troubled by its ignorance
He was still throbbing hard when she could take it no more
He felt the blush of relief
He could take it no more too
Collapsed into a deep deep sleep
Thankful for staying intact.

A tribute to Parvez

 Speaking about baroda archive as a treasury or graveyard

So you are not here any more....

We did not speak for about a year before you went. It does feel that we were giving each other space. You wanting to see me settling down and finding a deeper direction, extremely uncomfortable with the multiple directions that my work was talking...I too wanted you to settle in more.  For me you are the best art historian of our generation, but i did not like you giving up chess, poetry, drawing and so much more. 

you could have been doing your Phd from the most elite university possible, but you chose to do it from Kala Bhavan and teach there; it made me proud. The history department really needs your energy and excellence...perhaps more than that your commitment to pedagogy.  

Living in Shantinketan, cycling to work rushing to complete your Phd, making books for Nandanmela...what a beautiful life you had. Why did you loose connection with your self.  Why did it take you so much time to realize how ill you were, why none of us knew?

You were possibly the only one who combined the field research and rigor of old art history with the criticality of the New...you were the only one with the commitment to be equally deep in both and yet balance it.  

Art history is a dying discipline they say...like a loosing team on the dying moments of a football match, you knew that we can never win it now, but still fighting hard for a draw...it is as if you were running with the ball all alone aiming to shoot...and then you tripped and fell...hurt yourself so hard that you had to leave the field. What is our tribute to you will show in how we plan the match now on.