Saturday, May 29, 2010
Wednesday, May 26, 2010
Timmy was saved by the hawks of KG Marg. They stiched his head into one of them. Timmy, now known as Timmy hawk meets Singha bird. Singha had met a similar fate. He was caught stealing toilet roll from the gallery. The house keeping department decided to teach him a lesson. They tried to beat him. During these moment of extreme violence, Singha broke the urinal and smashed it into the head of a house keeping boy. Singha tried to run and lost his head between the doors. He was also saved by the hawk family. He is now known as Singha bird. The picture above depicts both of them at the Water hole.
Tuesday, May 25, 2010
these are the rolling boys of the gallery. If they see u, they will start rolling you. Little innocent timmy was clicking with his toy camera in the gallery, the tool box of mr. carpenter Shera Singh. Shera didn't like it all. He immediately instructed the rolling boys to roll little timmy. He kept on crying and begging for mercy. After rolling the velvet carpet, they threw the carpet from the window. Then a speeding truck went over it. Later a bulldozer went over the carpet. Little timmy became all flat, but now he is better. The local cycle puncture wallah decided to pump air into him. He is right now underground, seeking revenge from the Rolling boys.
Saturday, May 22, 2010
Surma boy came today. He was facing nightmares. Glasses of amritsari lassi, one after the other, non stop, like the non stop flight from delhi to mumbai. And i saw the box open, windows exposed to sunlight after a year, the tool box lay wide open, all spread out, waiting to be played with. I, the artist and little timmy with black powder eyes started to search the kuura kabbar lying on the floor. I always knew you could do a lot with a screw. Screw you buddy, said my cousion on a full moon night as i told him about the monster in the balcony.
Summer Residency, nimbu paani, kapichinu, and the hawk babies are getting bigger, all around me are holes in the road. And in my frustration i sit in KFC, tearing the murga in my mouth, going round and round the circles of CP (crazy place) and falling sick on the kachha duudh of keventar, watching out for the holes everywhere. Yes, the tool box and the sun light in the gallery. It brings a smile to my face and a giggle within.
For I am cheeni monster, wanting to run into the mountains and jump into the river beas and die, me floating. So the works, erotic art, gatka movement, my stories, all wanting to come out, wanting me take a Jump... like a kangaroo off the top of Qutab minar and scream as i fall down.
Yeah, it must've been love but it's over now, it must've been butter chicken because i ate it all.
Thursday, May 20, 2010
I have learned to live alone, amongst my own thoughts, my dreams and desires. I am on the bus, the journey starts from the city of Qutab, i fly off into my fantasy world of dreams. I'm not aware of the traffic, people around me, the madness which surrounds me. I am somewhere else.
The parents were out there, in the summer heat wave, keeping any eye on their baby who was playing with his toys. Little timmy had the tendancy to jump the wall, get eaten by the hawks or fall on the floor or run into a table. The parents made sure he was under strict supervision.
Little timmy landed that day in the Arts I Cafe. His bicycle was waiting for him. He was a trained pilot but was not too sure about riding the bicycle. He had only trained with training wheels. He was tired, the ashes over the pacific ocean got into his eyes and he also wanted to do su su. He parked his aeroplane in the shade, making sure no one steps on it and decided to head towards the barbie doll cycle. On his way, the hawks interrupted his journey as they took him to be a little cockroach meant for a journey through their intestines and out into the sky on top of a Car as green chutney. Barbie was inside sipping on her masala tea at sesame sandwiches. Barbie decided to sacrifice herself to the hawks after discovering the end result of timmy. She was also spurted out on a pedestrian walking on KG Marg. This can only mean one thing - don't ever land your plane near a hawks nest. They will eat you !
Nanak's words are different. They are not changed and arranged. They are just as Nanak uttered them. These are words that were spoken and not written: therefore no account is kept of the rhythm or the cadence or even the language. If it has a meter, it is the meter of the soul; if there is any grammar, it is not of man, but of God. If you find any rhythm in it, it is the rhythm of the ecstasy and intoxication within.
Osho - 'The True Name', Talks on the Japuji Saheb of Guru Nanak Dev