Talking Tears

Talking tears is about the hopeless world of dating, some
from my experience in London, and how we at times use
our stereotypes as a very weak and almost humorous defense.

Random Conversations

Tied to a Box

Someone, (name changed), I haven't been
acquainted with before, sent me a mail once:

"I loved your work in cut here.
I am an educator. What do we leave behind
was on the softboard, My 9 year olds loved
you for that one."

Some other people (Rohit, Mandakini, Eipe,
Kaustav, Ayush etc) want Tied to a Box back. I
dug out the ones I had and revamped it
because:
1)I hated that guy I created with a ball
point pen:












2)Let's face it, the humor is obscure:
I was probably on some unidentified substance
from the guy who also had goat dung strewn
around his courtyard.
So the art work has scope to be beyond a cute
golly wog.

3) I realized, since most of the humor is
related to our misery in living pigeon-holed
lives, I could actually use the metaphor of
a cardboard box-those boxes packing in our
expensive shoes, television sets, refrigerators,
ACs etc. Have you noticed the completely
non-commital graphics on those boxes, the FRAGILE
logo, the broken wine glass? I realized if I could
incorporate that visual language, I can give a
context to my readers. I also realized, that I hate
those signage type art work, so..

4) I got inspired. A trip to the Gallery of Modern
Art, got me face to face with Nandalal Bose, and his
art through a well done retrospective.I loved his
work on "Shahaj path" which had a graphic quality
to it, something you could rubber stamp on a box.











So anyway, this is what
tied to a box is about:

Aindri's Green Period

When my grandmother died
that afternoon, there was not
much noise made about it.
She was old, too old- and her
presence seemed awkward in
our daily routine of things to
do to embrace life.










Her absence filled her bed
with water. The windows
were left shut and below her
portrait the water swirled
with little bright specks
of light like you would find
in the deep of an ocean.









One day, while visiting her
silent room, I noticed that the
water had given birth to plants
that spoke in deep guttural
sounds. Being in the room felt
like I were in a water tank
trying to hear the world outside.
I stepped in. My feet looked big
and clean. My grandmother
smiled.







I lay on the bed like she had
once and raised my hands out
of the water. The plants
whispered to each other while
I explored their world. The
water had the sweet scent of
her hair. It was jasmine and
sandalwood and bright blue.








A catfish swam in circles
around me. I could hear
tinsel chiming through the
water. Sometimes the
plants spoke, most probably
of me-but they let me be.











I got up for a breath of air.
The drone of conversation
stopped and they were
looking at me. They knew who
I was, but they had not seen me
before. I, for my part, found it
difficult placing them
anywhere in my conditioned
mind.
They were living in a figment
of my imagination but they
breathed the same air as me.






When I touched one of them,
it branched out into a tree
of faces. I recognized my
grandmother as one of them.
It seemed like a family tree of
people so long forgotten that it
would be futile to start anywhere.
There was no hierarchy, just
relations popping up and
blooming into faces.







I plucked one of the squealing
faces and it spilled into a man
with a well ironed hair and
beard.
"Look at what you've done,
child!" he bellowed in a
baritone, "you have removed
me from my family! My first
wife wants me back!"
"Oh! I'm sorry" I said hastily,
from my own instinct of
apologizing.
"I did not mean to, sir, and
frankly, I am not aware of
what I need to do around
here!"

Scatterbrained.

An observation on our attitude to terrorism.

CAT FOOD FOR THOUGHT

i am starting a leetle comic strip.
wish me luck!