A murder of crows sits atop the smouldering block of concrete. Is it sewage tank? Is it a marker? No one around the gawking birds seems to care too much. I spill a drop of water on the surface only to see it instantly evaporated into thin air. I could hear a buzz; it might just have sizzled.
A balance seems to lack in the metropolitan culture in contrast. No matter how deep you look, souls are never visible from behind the veils of social reactions. Where would Maslow identify us in the pyramid of hierarchy?
When Geeta didi, Gram Pradhan; Darmar, heard my question about why she thought no one came to their aid, she just laughed. She laughed and exclaimed, ‘Hum hi mahila toh karti hain. Aur kaun!’
While fingers are painted red in the processing unit below, the air around the entire building – top to bottom – is engulfed in a whiff of intense sweetness. It feels like the secrets of the jelly have been revealed. But there is more to it than you understand just yet.
There’s an air of satisfaction as she shares her story, and I can’t help but revel in it with her.
In a land where livelihoods are bare minimum and ambition is based on happiness rather than achievement, women find joining hands a sacred way to get by. Dearth is ample, but contentment flows in rivers. Self help groups, thus, become a great channel to imbibe values, yes, but also to make life a little more comfortable by knowing that they’re not alone.
The roundness of raindrops is forming into puddles as I bring in its constituents under my sticky high tops. “pch-pch-pch-pch” I go owning my clumsy demeanor, messy atttire, and naive confidence in being the one to restore order in my creator’s world.
Photographs have a way of opening floodgates of emotions. Even if you’re not the one in them.
In the race to be on the right track, we forget to ask ourselves who’s judging the marathon really. We often tend overlook the simplest, most important context to success..
In the backdrop of guitar you drum ground realities that resonate with the thumping of every troubled mind. In the dynamic crescendo of your voice you blanket the hours of fine-tuning put in to be heard. Maybe this is how art can revolutionise: in a world not ready to listen, it creates vibrations that make one’s blood pump; the simplest creation condemns what exists, and gives hope to what could.
At the end of every accomplishment I feel renewed, at every failure I have gained an experience to live with. On days when there seems no purpose to life within this apocalyptic big picture, my tiny goals give me a reason to get out of bed.
You taught me, Mr. Burbank, that it’s never normal, because every step forward is a process of ongoing transience. You taught me that even when I think I’ve hit a wall, a second later a whole new world shall be waiting to lay at my feet on the other side, if only I don’t settle.
A silence hardly noticeable, almost cherished, in the ever growing city that now races through my veins. The city of Delhi. Suddenly somehow, the tedium of walking this uphill journey of metropolitan progress seems far less pleasing than the tranquil mosaic of nothingness.
Finally, I’m at a point in life where uninhibited expression and free-flowing exchange of perspectives seem to be the most consequential elements of life. Finally, I am beginning to understand that life’s purpose can be more than just to build oneself; it can also be to build a culture.