Art in a Pune veggie market, again

Art Mandai 2017

Last year, Gauri Gandhi called some Pune artists together to sit in Mandai, Pune’s historic vegetable market, and exhibit our wares along with the vendors there. The event went well and it was a great experience.
In January 2017, the Art Mandai Group participated in the Pune Biennale at Let Art Work Gallery, with the theme Gauri suggested: Merawala Blue. We worked on a piece each, in our particular shade of blue. I had a terrible time, and painted a series which turned out to look so unappealing that I was in despair. At the last minute I went fishing … and, repetitive but true … up came Today’s Catch. I was away, interviewing for Ability Foundation, and missed the launch of the show and a spectacular performance by the inimitable Ruve Narang who is not just a writer and painter but a dancer too. Just a few days later it was time for Art Mandai again.
Art Mandai has two main purposes:

• to integrate with local spaces and local communities, and 
• to bring art into the mainstream, to people who avoid museums and galleries as restrictive or intimidating. 

Ours is a diverse group, with painters, sculptors, ceramic artists, masters of large installation, graphic wizards and more. One of my most favourites is Prabhakar Singh, who works with pieces of scrap metal and turns out evocative, lifelike figures (such as the ones seen here to the left and right).

One principle the Art Mandai Group follows is low pricing, so this year one of my products was a series of limited-edition plastic placemats incorporating an image of previous work along with a poem written for it.
I realised later that this was the first time my art and my writing had come together. Until then they had been quite separate, with the process of naming the pieces as the only point of contact. 

Biscuits II

and now, my daughter is visiting from Kolkata.
Someone from her office just phoned:

Kya, Poona gayi?
Bataya nahin!
Kya baat hai!
Koi suspense hai, kya?
Biscuit lana, ok!

Ode to a Bakery

So the other day I wanted some biscuits

Not just ordinary biscuits, mind

The biscuits I was craving

Had got to be light and crisp

Oozing with butter

Packed into square boxes

Immediately after they had cooled

Straight from the oven.

But it was morning!

What to do?

I was craving them –

And so were all my Bombay friends!

So I had to buy not one box but a dozen!

I phoned City Bakery

(Which opens for retail sale on weekday afternoons)

“Yes, you can come,” said Salamat Irani.

I rang the bell, he opened the door, I entered.

The door stayed open, just a sliver, behind me.

An elderly gentleman eased his way in,

Opening the door slightly more.

Two fat ladies entered

Chatting away animatedly

About the last dentist appointment

While they waited their turn.

A group of children came in

Then someone’s driver

Soon there was a big crowd waiting.

They had appeared mysteriously

Gravitated to the open City Bakery door

(Which stays closed all morning, every day)

Like ants when you drop a few grains of sugar.

Patient but eager,

They waited for their biscuits,

While my boxes got filled.

Ganga

So, I was sitting there, watching the river flow by fast

And thinking about my dear friend who so suddenly left this earth

And wondering, “River, where do you come from? Where are you going?”

Expecting something more profound than a geography-test type of answer

Which in a way I did get, because I started thinking of other friends

So many of them, actually – 

So beautiful, so smart, so kind (some even on facebook, actually)

And when life has been cruel, which it often has, so brave. So very brave.

It was Ardha-Kumbh, the crowds were thick, though only half as thick, I suppose.

We sang, stayed in line, made offerings, gave money

Though I would not consider taking a dip or drinking the water

Since it is holy, peaceful and pure but also dirty and polluted (and cold)

Like most places on earth, I suppose.

Turning Fifty

some days after the party

turfing out the drooping flowers

and thinking

that one day

soon enough

that fate of the flowers

awaits us too …

Hill Road

Heaps of cotton clothes

Fixed price, white-hot in noon sun,

Hill Road, I miss you! // when can I go again?

Summer

Dragon breath on skin

Sweet mangoes, bright gulmohurs,

Summer is orange.

Hunger

Hunger is when you are starving

Hunger is when you are deprived

Hunger is a tragedy that occurs

to people with protruding bones

People who lead wretched lives

Devoid of comfort and pleasure.

I am 

well off

comfortable

surrounded by love

and all manner of items 

and objects of utmost beauty!

My life is full of pleasant choices!

Perhaps there is another word for the feeling

Of emptiness that propels me to eat so much.

Marriageable age

Mausiji who lives in Narnaul

with Mausaji and their three daughters

– whom I have never met –

one approaching the age of marriage

asked us about skin lotions

and beauty creams.

We made a list for her

telling her which

would clear blemishes,

which lighten the skin,

and which 

remove dark circles,

and mausiji smiled,

relieved at the thought

that her daughter’s marriage

would be easier to accomplish

when her skin

improved.

Now I worry a lot

for my unseen cousin

(and where the hell is Narnaul, anyway)

They will find a match for her

Placing her,

at random,

in the first open situation

that seems to them suitable.

But will she be happy? will she be rich?

will he be kind to her,

will his mother torment her,

and when she goes into labour,

will the doctors be patient,

will they have clean sheets?

These are the questions

that dance in my mind

and I feel sad

that skin creams

hold no answer.

first appeared in Little Magazine Nov 2001

The Songbird on my Shoulder

My mother knew I was a writer

Long before anyone else did,

Least of all me.

When I was 7, she told me to write a poem about

Flowers.

And I did.

And it appeared in the school magazine.

Bitten by the lust

To see my name in print

I realised

that I must, indeed, be a writer.

When I was 11,

It struck me one day

That the words that flowed from my pen

clever phrases

catchy words

elegant descriptions

crafted metaphors

(show-off images)

Were actually automatic.

And I pondered

often

on their source.

So many years have passed.

I lived through

a long, barren period

in which I never wrote

a single word

but spent long years

accumulating “Material”

(quite unawares)

on which I could write.

And when I finally sat down again,

with pen in hand,

The words flowed

initially rearing and bucking

initially other people’s words,

– and even now,

When my words flow,

smooth and beautiful and artistic,

swiftly clattering

out on the keyboard –

I wonder ...

Where do they come from?

This metaphor of

the song bird on my shoulder

(for instance)

the constant and reliable companion

pouring its sparkling wit into my work

independent of my meagre consciousness –

isn’t it something

someone else

has mentioned before?

Everybody else is mad, except me

Everybody else is mad, except me.

In complicated discussions

rooting to the deeper meaning

of an elusive end

I suddenly find myself

all alone.

People understand, but only up to a point.

Thereafter they flounder, 

and I have to leave them

stranded on the rocky beach

of unreasonableness

while I swim happily away 

– far, far away –

safe in my private sea

of superior wisdom.

All this leads me to conclude

That all around me

are insane.

Luckily, 

I hold on strong

to every thread of logic 

and am a bulwark of

reasonableness.

In a world of insanity

surrounded by 

idiots and madmen

I give deep thanks

to the higher intelligence

for sharing some of it with me.

Tetris

5.30 a.m., when the alarm bibbibbibbips

and you stumble out of bed

with only three or four hours of rest inside you

for the business dinner that went on late,

… good food, good deals

so you’re not complaining,

not complaining, just exhausted … 

and spend the next few hours 

cooking breakfast

seeing your lovely kids

off to school,

packing dabbas

(each especially catered to a different taste

because you do enjoy indulging them)

and then,

rush to get ready for the office

and you’re still not complaining

because you only have to walk to office,

not take the commuter train,

and in any case, once there, they all call you Madam,

and do your bidding entirely 

– no,  not complaining, just exhausted – 

and finally get home, along with the lovely kids

all jabbering fast

so much to tell! so much to share! so many complaints!

so many jokes!

but there’s still laundry to be done

and dinner to be cooked

so, of course, you do it,

and in between when you need a rest

you sneak into the loo

not to smoke a cigarette

which is what you actually want

but it’s too smelly and besides 

if you won’t look after your lungs, who will?

so the cigarette must wait

but you can reach for your little

hand-held video game

and waste a little time, having fun.

Symbiosis

colonizers of a virgin planet.

constant companions.

of lovely long tresses.

scratch, scratch, scratch.

god! are they

breakdancing 

having sex 

digging holes

all the way to China?

scratch, scratch, scratch.

face wash, lipstick, kajal, perfume.

(scratch, scratch, scratch).

medicated oil and shampoo.

tormented writhings. 

fevered imaginings.

little settlements

– no,  whole civilizations –

annihilated.

tiny wriggling body

frantic waving legs

scratch, scratch, scratch.

thumbnails meet.

loud click.

one black dot

is now deceased.

scratch, scratch, scratch.

first appeared in Femina magazine 15 Dec 2000

105.7C

Mercury is a temperament

and Mercury can also be

a god

and a planet

But Mercury is also

a thick silver rod

encased in a glass tube

which jolts you

as 

rigours

vomitting

listlessness and pallor

simply cannot.

And Mercury is

the potent rod

that can direct you

to the dread

antibiotics

which you have long forsworn

in favour of

Alternative Medicine

and 

Natural Healing.

So he’s better now.

And I’m exhausted.

Please can I have

an antibiotic too?

first appeared in Femina magazine 15 Dec 2000

MG Road

A whining beggar child

snot nosed and bedraggled

pulled

& tugged my sleeve

and snivelled persistently

begging for alms.

Irritated, I scolded,

gestured with a warning finger,

but she begged on.

And on, and on.

And on, and on.

So I whipped out my hand,

pulled

& tweaked her black and grimy ear.

Later, when I walked,

satisfied and self-important,

back from the shops to my car,

I saw the little beggar girl

weeping by the roadside

and suddenly

she was only a wretched child,

a poor, unfortunate waif,

not loved or cherished (like mine)

not fed or clothed (like mine)

just a little girl,

sobbing, alone.

just as I had, 

when I was her age, alone.

She was an irritating pest

only by bitter circumstance

and I was flooded with remorse

for I had no sweets in my bag

to give the little beggar child.

Second marriage

We completely forgot
that there had been a life
before Us.

Many years of unhappiness
and happiness
had completely disappeared
and we never remembered 
that they had ever been
or harked back 
to those earlier times.

After all,
we were still young.
It was possible
to start afresh.
The past was all a mistake.
It had taught us many lessons.
We cherished the lessons, and forgot the instructor.

But now
people dead,
and divorced, (drunk),
have crept stealthily back into our lives.

Our adolescent children 
show features
and characteristics
they never acquired from us.

Stepmother's dilemma

What time were you born?

I don’t know ... I wasn’t there ...

Happy Birthday, son.

First appeared in Femina magazine 15 Jan 1999

Class Divide

I sit in my car.

A woman with a head load

Trips. She spits at us.

first appeared in Femina magazine 15 Jan 1999

Repulsing the eve teaser

For a woman

to stave off

unwelcome attentions

she must develop 

an attitude of

amused detachment

pleasant disinterest

calm confidence

and openly define herself

as centred and complete.

It also sometimes happens

that by the time the woman

has mastered this attitude,

she no longer needs

to stave off 

unwelcome attentions.

Silence II

In the classroom,

silence is obedience

(although

in the classroom,

silence is 

quite unusual)

To an outrageous proposal,

silence is sophisticated 

corporate strategy.

In a world

of teeming millions,

Silence is pregnant.

Silence is living.

It can be hurt and even injured; 

Silence can be angry, shocked,

apologetic, wary or passionate.

Silence is non-living.

It can be cold, it can be warm.

Silence is Golden!

Silence was in the beginning

and silence will be

The End.