Jaipur, sharing a joke with friends (Pic by Revati L)
Jaipur, diwan-e-aam for the monkeys (Pic by Revati L)
Jaipur, from the Sun Temple at Galtaji (Pic by Revati L)
Behind the EYES there is darkness.

The OPTIC nerves work in darkness. In darkness they transform light into darkness.

In darkness, the LIGHT of visual knowledge is ATOMISED into tiny drops of CHAOS. Tiny drops of COOL chaos!

The darkness, with all it cool secrets and deceptions, then tangoes to the brain. There it begins to spread. Like ink on blotting paper. The brain then begins to RELAX in the darkness. It begins to float in the juices of its own INERTIA. Begins to enjoy the shaded repose. Floating, like a stalled motorboat.

Feeding on the black mystery of no-sight.

Savouring the mystery of no-sight, the brain orders the eyes to SHUT.

The eyes shut and the mind blacks out. TOTALLY!!
[Detail: Sudarshan Shetty installation (Melting Taj); Pic: Sahar Z]

It’s a Taj Mahal sort of feeling
of sending postcards home
of haggling for articles of faith
of dancing in Amazonian rain forests
of trickling down from
user-friendly rock faces
somewhere in the Andes
of living with winged low-life
in some equatorial landmass, somewhere
of emailing memories
through Dell and Apple notebooks
concealed from hungry native eyes
in sturdy Swiss-made backpacks.

It’s a Taj Mahal sort of feeling
that comes from surfing
the information highway
of mouse-mounted windows
of easy, downloadable wisdom
and high resolution porn
of hits and eyeballs
of a smart, impersonal type face
somewhere in the centre of nowhere
somewhere between the longitudes
of freedom and free-trade
coloured dollar green and white
and entered through
a plastic keypad.

It's a Taj Mahal sort of feeling
of mapping the world
on glossy travel books.
A feeling of marble strength
and stamina for busrides
and cashing travellers checks,
making pictures and awesome
observations about what a
colossal bore this life
would have been
without this feeling.

Slowly, the first
petals yawned
and stretched...
Like fingers
wiggling
inside a fist.

The petals stretched
some more
as the first sting
of dawn touched
their tender tips.

Then wetness
entered their soul
in drops too
small to be seen.
Or heard.
The wetness tongued
their insides
and sucked at
their innermost parts.

Together the warmth
and the wetness
rubbed their unseen
rut onto the petals.
Their yawn widened
and stretched
until it became
a soft and muffled moan.

The first row of petals
grew bigger as they
yawned and stretched
and thrashed about wildly
pushing the second row
then the third and
the fourth and the fifth
behind them.
The frenzy spread like falling,
slow-motion dominos.

It all happened slowly.
Somewhat like destiny.

And then the flower moaned
and shivered as it felt
a deep 'rising' inside it.
Slowly, in rhythmic pulses,
the rising kept
rising and rising
and rising and rising
and rising
up the flower's stalk
through its middle
to the tips of its petals
rising and rising
till the flower came
out all grown-up and smiling.

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As an art practitioner I work in a variety of mediums, what you see here are glimpses of my many creative projects. If you like or feel strongly something here please don't forget to comment

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