Before the days of reality TV there used to be the CIRCUS... white-painted joker faces, cartwheeling fairies, tamed wild animals, trapeze jumpers... star-dusted costumes and the ubiquitous 'circus jazz'.

Today's work is recall of those wonderful days.

I made this today... and I am mighty pleased with it. It is my most satisfying work (so far) also because it is my biggest (6 ft X 4 ft) up until now. I find this work connect with a post that I did some time ago about Silver Fish.
Here's an excerpt: "These land fish spend their entire lives in books. Devouring them. Eating them page by page. As if their life depended on it. Do they like the paper? Or the black ink on it? Or the treasures the pages are rumoured to have? But no one writes for silver fish."

This is today's work...

I have been wanting to do a single colour painting for some time...
A monochrome brings out different different moods and textures of a colour.

It kind of lays it out bare, warts and all, which for me is always beautiful... achingly beautiful. It's like an anatomy lesson. A microscopic tour of the insides... how they stick, how they stretch, and click. I have tried to do this with green, which is one hell of a fab colour.

There I go again... the eye and I go a long, long way...

This and Leela play were done last week, just before HOLI...

Four works on paper framed together.

It was like I was playing... I was an eagle hovering over the canvas... swooping down every once in a while... and scratching the surface... and every time I'd scratch the surface would bleed differently... different colours would emerge... different textures...

It was a lot of fun... and I didn't want it to stop :)

I made this yesterday

Fear enters women’s minds like a corkscrew.
And then it turns.

Ram Dhakeli, as MD-saab had reminded her, was “after all a woman”. Putti Lal’s corpse often bled inside her head like stigmata. He was soaked in red when they had brought him home, a night after the wedding. His eyes were closed as if in deep sleep. His liquor soaked insides were pulled open at the point where the ribs make way for the boneless fall of the stomach. A blood-red umbilicus hung out of Putti Lal’s stomach. It looked as if he had just been born. All grown-up and hairy. Was he really drunk on the local brew? Or was the bull was in a rut? Could a rut be so fatal? Ram Dhakeli could not bear the idea of MD-saab riding a wedding horse. No way was he going to ride a rut-able beast. There would be no baraat; no horse, no brass band and no dancers at her fairylight-lit mausoleum. No way was MD-saab exposing himself to the whims of a rut on hoofs.

The baraat would travel on wheels. A car-o-baraat.

Several cars were pushed into service. The car-o-baraat moved like a Chinese New Year dragon, on wheels of which there was a surplus by at least a dozen and a half. The dragon let out continuous fumes of burnt diesel from its quaking nostrils. Such was the traffic. It was a temple-trip Tuesday. The traffic went swearing and snarling past the car-o-baraat dragon. The surplus of a dozen and a half wheels had to be unsurplussed for the car-o-baraat was nearly without guests. So guests were picked off the streets. A couple of about fifty-five were first. They were out on an evening walk. Other guests included two roadside romeos out fishing in the temple trip rush. One Pomeranian too small to be noticed was found on a woman wrapped inefficiently in a burqa. She was a dog thief and happy to be given a free ride. Others refused to be picked up for a wedding they hadn’t planned for.

Ram Dhakeli fainted waiting. The corkscrew had turned too much. MD-saab was getting impatient inside his New Year dragon. So the car-o-baraat was stopped at an ‘English Wine and Beer’ shop for refuelling. Beer and English wine were purchased fresh from the shop that looked more like a prison cell. Styrofoam cups were cheers-ed and MD-saab was three-cheers-ed for being such a jolly good fellow. Everyone joined in the midway celebration except the burqa-wearing dog thief because she didn’t want the Pomeranian to escape.


The car-o-baraat finally arrived at Ram Dhakeli’s mausoleum late by two hours twenty minutes. MD-saab was adequately sponged but walking.

Ram Dhakeli was conscious when the circles were walked round the fire. There were three people walking the circles because MD-saab had to be led by the hand. That was the first time Ram Dhakeli saw Miltree Sir. The three of them went round and round the fire. They were kids again playing Ringa-Ringa Roses, tying themselves into a huge fiery knot. And then they all sat down. For the wedding feast.

The buffet was arranged on the road outside the mausoleum inside the rented privacy of a cloth and bamboo marriage hall. Ram Dhakeli was red once again. The corkscrew turns had given her face a flush like circus make-up. She was wondering whether it was her fate to be single by marriage. But MD-saab’s English wine-soaked confidence lifted her spirits. Everything was ‘Theak Hai’. Ram Dhakeli smiled behind her red and gold net and traced her hennaed fingers over the stoned relief of her Niner ring. She felt the power return to her hand.

Around the fire Miltree Sir played a three-way proxy. He had hand-led MD-saab, the groom, and played Ram Dhakeli’s father giving her hand, body and soul to his former friend for seven births and seven deaths. And then he was also a friend, who was not a friend. All this he did with a great eyeballing skill, accomplishing a feat of dodging the barnowl stare of his former kachha pal. After giving his proxy daughter in marriage retired LT COL retired into the night, out of the cloth and bamboo marriage hall into the temple traffic.

The marriage complete, the car-o-baraat returned with Ram Dhakeli dozing on the daily exercised shoulder of MD-saab. Her fairylight-lit mausoleum was left to her old in-laws, collected from various neighbouring boroughs like mercury drops to show their approval of their daughter-in-law’s marriage. Ram Dhakeli left Putti Lal’s photo-haunted mausoleum with a head heavy with corkscrew turns. The tears fell kohl-black on her sari making stains that looked like diagrams psychologists used to read their subjects’ minds.

She was entering a new world. MD-saab’s world. Age or the passage of time that separated them meant little to Ram Dhakeli. For her, he was Superman riding a Chinese dragon. The MD of her life. And she was his P2MD.

CHEESE LIKE TERRAZZO is a treated photograph of a parapet that's looking down at the trees below.
The holes are pipe ends.

The WINDOW as a TV set... seeks to ask questions such as...
Can the window be an end in itself?
Does it have to frame the 'reality' outside or can it have its own reality?
Does it have to be pretty?
Can the window entertain, enlighten?
Can it talk back?

KUMBH MELA aka the GHOST DIP...
To the birds above we may have seemed like a giant snake. Blackish and sprayed saffron, lazily slithering towards the river. Or rivers. We were headed to where three rivers--two visible and one imagined--meet. At the water's edge our snake split into its human parts--like a powder explosion--and entered the rivers' meeting point.

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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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