Poem by Langston Hughes

What happens to a dream deferred?

Does it dry up

Like a raisin in the sun?

Or fester like a sore--

And then run?

Does it stink like rotten meat?

Or crust and sugar over--

like a syrupy sweet?

Maybe it just sags

like a heavy load.

Or does it explode?

Langston Hughes

Jose

We met a warm old man, Jose . He came from Ecuador. He spoke spanish to us but his native language was Kichwa :The Quichua (Ethnonyms: Kichwa, Qquichua, Quechua, Kechua; Countries inhabited: Bolivia, Peru, Ecuador ; Language family: Andean Equatorial ;Language branch: Aymara-Quechua)
Originally from the mountains he sold caps and mittens on the street in Harvard . We spoke about marathi and he spoke about Kichwa. Learnt what we were called in each others languages sitting at the roadside peeping, leaning comfortably on each others shoulders when the other one wrote to explain the respective words and eventually worlds. It was a very informal and fulfilling experience in a relatively indifferent western world. I felt much reassured.Here are some pages.

Fuzzy Spheres

(Fuzzy Spheres, water colors and oil pastels on drawing paper)

kahe Kabir

Sadho Ye Murdon Ka Gaon
Peer Mare, Pygambar Mari Hain
Mari Hain Zinda Jogi
Raja Mari Hain, Parja Mari Hain
Mari Hain Baid Aur Rogi
Chanda Mari Hain, Suraj Mari Hain
Mari Hain Dharni Akasa
Chaudan Bhuvan Ke Chaudhry Mari Hain
In Hun Ki Ka Asa
Nauhun Mari Hain, Dus Hun Mari Hain
Mari Hain Sahaj Athasi
Tethis Koti Devata Mari Hain
Badi Kaal Ki Bazi
Naam Anam Anant Rehat Hai
Duja Tatva Na Hoi
Kahe Kabir Suno Bhai Sadho
Bhatak Maro Mat Koi

- Kabir

and as i understood:
Kabir, urges us to break away from the shackles of this village of the dead ruled by Kala or time. With the 'naam', the unseen god or power.
I wonder being a non believer, what I like so much about this. I think I like the faith in faith, the faith in self hence the faith in the world around. The concern which echos in every line of his about the world only leaves hope behind! It made me believe in myself.It made me believe in making a different world and working hard on the task of making it! He tells me the real meaning of being free. A highly 'concerned' freedom, the true 'fakiri' with the sense of belonging.

ekmekant (within each other) : poster for a play by Lalit Group, Mumbai

Todi

Raga Todi came from Turkastan, 'Turushktodi'.
Yesterday was Miya ki Todi. The ga of Todi is to give in, a complete surrender while the pa comes from the backdoor, softly.

the live skeletons remain while the leaves fall away
moving imprints before the snow
down the lane i race
a tangerine evening awakes!

chasing the day

webmaker webmaker
who am I?
just a fly in the eye*
or
a catcher in the rye?

*fly in the eye: a term used to explain camera position- point of view of a person/object
(fly : camera, eye: person/object's eye)

one yellow day

mean free path

(oil pastels on paper)

The Road I Must Travel (and my sketchbook )

By Tom Morello : The Nightwatchman

Well I climbed the seven summits
And I swam the seven seas
But the road I must travel
Its end I cannot see
I fought in the jungles
And I fought in the streets
But the road I must travel
Its end I cannot see
Once I had a reason
Don't know what it could be
But the road I must travel
Its end I cannot see
Well I sang to myself
That I want to be free
But the road I must travel
Its end I cannot see

I walked the empty desert
And I was burned in the heat
But the road I must travel
Its end I cannot see
I crossed the frozen wasteland
And in the bitter cold did freeze
But the road I must travel
Its end I cannot see
And I will knock on every door
For I do not have a key
And the road I must travel
Its end I cannot see
Well I sang to myself
That I want to be free
But the road I must travel
Its end I cannot see

They shot a man in Soho
Couldn't guess his age
I found his empty journal
I filled up every page
I called up my state senator
They said he wasn't there
The secretary took my name
And man she sounded scared
So I counted my misfortunes
I added up the blame
I picked through all the garbage
I checked off all the names
I read in the newspaper
They'd questioned all my friends
They hoped that they could find me
Before I struck again
Well I sang to myself
That I want to be free
But the road I must travel
Its end I cannot see

So when thirsty I will drink
When hungry I will steal
But the road I must travel
Its end I cannot see
So tonight I walk in anger
With worn shoes on my feet
But the road I must travel
Its end I cannot see
And I will sing to myself
That I'm gonna be free
But the road I must travel
Its end I cannot see

There's a sign along the highway
But it's too dark now to read

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Evening with Orhan Pamuk in an american church where he read from his book 'Museum of Innocence'

know u i don't ?

coimbatore diary

Writing a diary every day of my increasingly dramatic life in wakefulness and in dreams, has been my dream for years. I never get around to doing it consistently just as many other things i dont update, including this blog. But here is a page from my Coimbatore Diary.Staying in the outskirts of Coimbatore at DJ Academy of Design made me feel like i am soaked in a small windy oasis of the Design World. I came here to teach two courses for seven weeks to two very interesting batches of twelve beautiful people.

We made a few films, watched a lot of films, talked about them and talked about ourselves, too.
Films make us talk about ourselves. They make us talk about ourselves to ourselves. I believe that is when we start looking at the world ...The real looking.
So 8 students made 8 films about themselves and then a film about the flower market in Coimbatore. It was an overwhelming experience since all the films were so different, highly creative and so unique. Though working first time with the camera, constantly searching for the languages of their own. The other batch was of four people, on four different planets. They made a beautiful film on The Wind, personifying it into a character.
The process I insisted was simple. It was to enjoy the effort and not the outcome. We really tripped on it.


















Teaching in NID is like working at home, in a place where you know how things work. Teaching in DJ was new and therefore much enlightening. Actually both are two very different experiences on all fronts:The human experience, pedagogical experience and the design experience. Places make people.The visual language, the verbal language, body language, pace of work and the very idea of work is very much dependent on the space where people are working. So Design as a concept also changes wherever it goes. I experienced this as a teacher this time unlike otherwise I do as a designer practicing design. At times I wondered if I am forcing my students to look through the camera the way I look. but realized very soon they were much intelligent and were looking the way they wanted to look, as diligently as I was myself.

Yesterday I dreamt of Coimbatore. The windy roof where we sneaked. The beautiful and cathartic music jam we had the day before I left which summed up everything that I was saying. About getting together, understanding the other, understanding the self, imagine a world together and make music! The films started it, music ended it.

(Hey DJadians I had a good time and I can go on about it. Thank you and so long. Till then finish your assignments! and also help me by uploading your films...)

SWach

Here is a part of communication work done with Shailja for
Solid Waste Management organisation, SWach, in Pune city.
The character 'Sugandhabai' (Sugandha:the fragrant one), now appears everywhere...

page.1 and 2: a folding brochure

Aurangabad:a few shots...

Aurangabad: for University of Pune

sleep

in the cold cold inert hole

i see you

making a magic potion

with

moonlight, tears & some plane powdered dreams

on marriage

you and i
under the night's sky
like
longing butterflies
in
the swelling cities

intensity is a shield
attacked and melting...

wait

am left with only you
a lone cloud you are,
breathing through my skin.
wait before you become water,
am coming with you.

faceful of spots
soak mouthful of cloud
make nightful of noise

no home when i say when

no home i say when
i stand by the road
in my small soul
eyes go blinking
small (w)holes of nothings apear
i sleep soemwhere
no home i say
when no one bothers

watersketch of birds

(ink, salt and water on paper, 13X13 inches)

monotone mantras

i love it when i sit in the sun
in a life mundane.
and think of you

breakfast, lunch, dinner, breakfast, lunch....
work, home, cooking, trains, roads, walks, work, home,...
coffee, chai,phone,meetings, money, clicks, flicks, flops, coffee, chai...

circles continue like monotone mantras sung for good !

you come around
near my ear, just for a moment or two
i look for your hand
...
are you there?
i am scared now.
monotone mantras have no space for a little dream:
of us standing in front of a giant sculpture
on the face of the blowing wind.

faith and i

prayer flags in dharamshala, oil pastels on paper

nicobar: between memory & record

these are works form the islands
now a part of something i am in a process of writing.

birds sleeping 1,2,3

1.

2.

3.

Teresa island

teresa is an island in the central group of nicobar islands, near Chowra island. the sea is very rough near these islands and many times ships return before they reach the shore. As i keep saying over and again, people in the islands are just too loving, just the opposite of the rough sea. here is a dream i had last night as i try to remember it...

the ship going to Campbell bay,Great nicobar embarks at Teresa for sometime. i get off the ship and start walking towards the other end of the island, on the one and only road.Met an old uncle who took me to see something which has newly come up in the island.

suddenly the road joins the river.
there was a river.very small river.
and a very very huge dam geting built on it.big concrete standing tall.
stones getting thrown by bulldozers.
land all empty.
forest shifted off the river bank.(dont know how they did it).
fat government officers speaking loudly.
small villagers hanging around.
uncle says,stay with us.his face smiling,wrincles shining in the sun.

the ship honked.honked again.honked the last time.
and i ran towards it to get in.

*there is no river out here in actuality.there isnt any dam.the shore is damaged and people are trying hard to oevrcome the post tsunami crisis.

borders by Nigel Jenkins

What begins for you

where the waves break

sea or land, land or sky

depends on where you?re coming from,

depends on where you?re going to

and whether you

have legs or fins, lungs or gills.

-Nigel Jenkins

like salt in the sea

granules is me
living in you
like salt in the sea
eyes are sea
sea is home
home is eyes
my tear is yours
and we become sea

leftovers 1,2,3

1
2
3
(leftovers1,2,3 ink and salt on paper
with dash of an oil pastel)

tattoo story

the shop in Dharamshala did a 'permanent' tattoo which fell off in 4 days!
here is the real new one which will never fall.and here is me tripping on it.
i am now getting ambitious and wanting these things all over me.

tattoo shop

(drawing in Dharamshala, Himachal Pradesh outside a tattoo shop)

as

as i grow on you
you grow inside me
bit by bit
making me an ocean
of your moon.

in a cupboard with an old shirt

junuka2009 in sketchbook

Tagged!

I have been tagged by Soo to do sixth picture meme.here is the 6th picture from my 6th folder.

I recently met my little cousin Ila in goa. She lives in a small town of goa.She is 10 and loves talking in konkani and likes to run around all the time.These are her chappals, always parked in the corner of the courtyard.

Now i am tagging:
1. Anish
2. Noopur
3. Chaitanya
4. Smitha
5. Manaswini
6. Apoorv

This is what you have to do:

1. pick the 6th picture from your 6th photo folder.
2. tell the story around it.
3. pass it onto 6 other people you like.

spying an old shirt

junuka 2009

bheempalas 3

high on you.

on
my home with wet walls
on a road with rain drops.

and when my walls fall apart

you trickle in.

bheempalas 2

no trace of rest
you all keep me busy.

there is a memory of living in a cold green shadow
and there is one of hot blue thickness.
oh and i fergot about that one blowing wind on a very very old night
when i saw you.
BLANK
now i run around a polluted ball of mist, finding memories!
with bheempalas.

bheempalas 1

walking up the memory lane sometimes i shut certain doors.
i know they will open and i wish they wouldn't.
'bheempalas' opened them and made me feel, why were they ever shut?
it was a pleasant surprise.

more to come, memories are an irresistible species.

noise

open wires make noisy noise.
these connections make it wise.
i watch you asleep.
deep in me.
and then some sparks.
here and there.

you don't know where i live.
neither do i.
but still

i watch the roof fall.
on us.

city feels like a solitary confinement.
new year wishes with love and hope.
in solidarity,
junuka