Thursday, May 20, 2010

Summer magic

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.

I'm not sure where he is looking, the gaze; into nothingness perhaps and that is what adds up to all the excitement. I am documenting each of my step. It's the happiness in all the liitle moments while making the painting. I like to pour the colour and wait for it to dry.

One fine day


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.

Barbie's cycle

The Adventures of Little timmy - The final chapter

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 !

The city of anandpur Sahib. Guru Gobind Singh writes a letter to Aurangzeb. The Jungles of Dina kangar. The Force of the Khalsa perishes one by one..... it is the story of the Coiled snake.

Drawing in Progress

Big Black Adventures

His poems are like uncut stones. When a poet writes, he writes and rewrites and makes a thousand changes. He worries about the grammar, he worries  about the rhythm, the meter, the words. He makes many changes. Even a poet the caliber of Rabindranath Tagore used to do this. His diaries are full of cuts and rewrite.

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