tHe pLum tRee

An Unveiling

2010-02-21T23:02:00.000+05:30

There is a new blog in town.

The Plum Tree (Volume-2)

Updated infrequently but surely.

See you there.

:-)

And That’s it!

2010-02-01T10:00:00.003+05:30

I could write a deathless monologue here about why I am ending The Plum Tree.

I could write entire maudlin pages about how much I love love LOVE you all dear blog readers because you make me so emotional with your fan mail and even more emotional whenever my site meter notches over a hundred frikkin hits per day so that I keep charging out of bed at 2am in the morning to pant breathlessly in front of the comp for the rest of the day alternating between sitemeter comment sitemeter comment sitemeter comment….But dust, cobwebs, mould, decay had grown all around and over me until the new decade hit me with a BANG. Then I crawled out of the mess a frizzy grey haired red eyed zombie, got myself a million buck haircut and a pedicure to clean up my horned, yellow, inch long toenails and then I just happened to pick up the nearest magazine lying around which happened to be an outdated issue of Oprah ………..(erk)

In the mag was a statement:

‘The question

I am asked daily

By the world

Was that all

You wanted?’

Answer:

a) Regarding sitemeter hits, NO, I want gazillion hits per day

b) Regarding Jens Stoltenberg, yes, yes YES! That’s all I ever want I swear.

See what blogging has turned me into? A brazen hit seeking hussy.

So I gotta end this.

But I will still be lurking by your blogs.

And The Plum Tree will still be floating up there…somewhere.

And one day I might come back with The Plum Tree part II, a leaner, meaner, deeper, bitchier version of this blog.

But until then, that’s it for now.

Bye.

Saturday

2010-01-23T18:14:00.008+05:30

After a whirlwind week, here are some images from my relaxed Saturday.

In the garden, clearing the studio, reminiscing over old drawings, wondering what to do with a decade of old journals, horrified at the stash of empty new journals collected over time.

Yes, I am procrastinating over clearing further, washing my hair, whipping up dinner...maybe I'll just go see what's on TV instead.

What did you do on your Saturday?

1 Shanti Road

2010-01-16T22:04:00.015+05:30

Here is the atmosphere at beautiful 1 Shanti Road

during an exhibition

Some of the varied crowd - Suresh, Abhishek, Sonia, 'Cop' Shiva

You will never find such wholesome grub and booze at an exhibition opening elsewhere - hot samosas, large nibblys, spiked and unspiked minted punch ...all served with roses

Covering the courtyard above is an almond tree.

This is the view of the street below.

Frangipani adds a splash of colour in the corner

And here are some pics of the exhibitions that were there -

mysterious shapes

strange hangings

stark images

bewildering photographs

and silent film...

And since I know most of you are saying 'Duh? uh?' like I first did, let me ask you to read this below for truth to be revealed:

The artist couple Martina and Thomas have been preoccupied with abstracting landscape into minimal objects, crafted to resemble forms from nature using minimal colour and constructing elemental structures from the abundance of nature's diversity. The desire to capture the transient in the dynamic forms like the burst of fireworks, a fountain or even the spray of lush palm breaking into bloom of course I'm checking to see if anyone is reading this much so I've put a great big firecracker in here. The experience of absorbing a foreign land can be overbearing and the Indian landscape triggered the artists to look for archetypal forms. They have been responding to these forms seen in the urban landscape and the hinterland of rural and urban spaces.

There! All plain and simple.

Now for those of you who want to argue that those cardboard cones and hanging black thingies are just that, in spite of the explanation claiming them otherwise, all I can say to you is, 'Chill out Machchas, have a beer, mint punch, samosa...sit on the swing in the courtyard, enjoy the gentle breeze and look up at the stars through the almond tree above. It couldn't get any better, we are at 1 Shanti Road >>.

sieger koder

2010-01-10T13:28:00.003+05:30

i was looking through some old files when i came across these beautiful pictures that i had colour photocopied from a borrowed book. the illustrations are based on stories from the Bible. the illustrator is sieger koder>>

Wall Safari!

2010-01-09T19:10:00.010+05:30

I received a stern message from my dear friend Wendy:
Hey lazy-daisy....put something new on your blog soon ya! Just because you're crazy about that PM guy doesn't mean I have to look at him every time I go there, ok!!!!! Your blog is what I go to at the end of the day to read/look at something interesting, so get up and get going.
W

Oh all right, all right... here it is, another post on The Plum Tree!

This is the second time I'm actually praising the Bangalore City Corporation in this blog. Many of you living here will have noticed the walls around have been painted with these gorgeous, bright and colourful pictures.

What a difference for the better from the usual Beetel juice and pee stained walls with 'Do not Spit' written on them.

Whoever these wonderful painters are, they have made this dusty city look so much more beautiful. Don't you agree?

;-)

Read and see more about the wonderful meeting between Artnlight and The Plumtree here>>>

2010! A HOT Interview!

2009-12-31T18:40:00.034+05:30

Happy New Decade dear blog readers!
Here in this first post for the New Decade, is a rare and exclusive interview from the author of The Plum Tree about left, right, tanning and other important stuff…

Why do you have a picture of a tanned, gorgeous dude in this post?
Because he is tanned and gorgeous stupid!

Oh all right. But what relevance does his picture have to a New Year?
What relevance do any of my pictures have to anything at all? I just bung them in there to make my blog look pretty and make my site stats rise to exciting levels. If you’ve found relevance in my pictures so far, damn good for you! But I sure hope you didn’t expect me to put a picture of a flower or peaceful skies or a cup of tea or other such trite stuff like that for yet another New Year blog post (yaaaawn).

Okay, I have to admit I am totally floored by the picture above, you MUST tell me, who is he? Who is he?
Aaaah! You are a curious one aren't you!
Okay, he is the Prime Minister of Norway! Yes! Really! I can see the shock on your face, but I’m not kidding. If you don't believe me, you’ll have to click on an authority here>>>
I know you are surprised, considering the fact that you, like me always assumed that politicians usually look like this -

Wow! I am bowled over completely! I used to think Vikings wore those Asterisk helmets with horns coming out of them and all.
Yeah, so did I. One would think that the Prime Minister of Norway would've looked like this -

I know! Now suddenly I rrrreally gotta find out all about Norway, how to pronounce those o’s with slashes across them and stuff like that!
Totally understandable.

What else can you tell me about this Viking Prime Minister?
Well, apparently he leans to the ‘left’.
In case you don’t know what that means and you’ve acquired this sudden interest in (Norwegian) politics, let me explain Politics to you:

Politicians who lean towards the right, look like this-

Politicians who lean towards the left, look like this-

Therefore I remained dead centre until…until…until…I saw the picture here>>>
Now I tilt so precariously towards the left that I might topple into Norway any minute!

I wanna lean to the left WITH you!
Sure! Join the pardy!

Gosh! My site stats have sky rocketed!!!

Tiger!

2009-12-18T16:30:00.008+05:30

My illustration for Deccan Herald. My last one. After three years of this, I'd like to move on. This picture was done for a very good poem written by a young student, so I think it is a good way to end.

I WON!! I WON!!!!

2009-12-16T23:14:00.008+05:30

I won a contest on Saleem’s terrific blog The Last Resort. You can see it over here>>>
And do you know he gave me a prize? A recipe for the gargantuan SALEEM'S CHOCOLATE CAKE! I must say that you could have felled me with a feather! Yes, I know I’d demanded a prize and all, but I wasn’t expecting one, and there it was in my inbox, complete with three cups of flour, an entire cup of butter, lots of chocolate and sugar and everything. It is one of those towering two layer cakes that I used to eat at one sitting once upon a time, which is why I haven’t made it yet which is why I was late in announcing the prize (please pardon me Saleem). I will make it for Christmas and give a sliver or two to the neighbours (one of them had better give me her box full of butter murrukus in turn).

Until then, you my blog readers have to make do with these Chocolate cake images which I have whacked from Google search which are exactly what Saleem’s cake will look like once it is made. (Certainly better than illustrating a slice where it just turns into this mass of brown) (i tried, i tried).

Meanwhile, do have a look at Saleem’s blog here>>>
I am very careful in recommending blogs but I have to say that I wholeheartedly do so in this case, what with The Last Resort being so full of wit and substance and humour. This is a blog with personality (which is more than can be said for most eye candy blogs I come across which seem to be clones of each other and which is what my blog is turning into with so many pictures of cake but who cares its Christmas season and I haven’t put up my tree yet) and has already made it to my list of ‘Different from the Usual’ blogs which you can see on the side.

And of course needless to say, I’m hoping I’ll win again in the other contest after Saleem (such a great kid) reads this post.
And I say this darkly that this is the very cake that Saleem and his famous and beautiful mother Mridula gorge on at the stroke of the midnight hour, which is why Saleem is so brainy and Mridula is so slim and brainy.
And if you procrastinating blog readers have read this much, then you might wonder where you can get your hands on the recipe for this cake, but I have it in my inbox and you will have to win a contest on The Last Resort, to win something and who knows what it might be? I won a recipe for chocolate cake and you might win a recipe for Spinach Soup. In any case I really hope that that’s what Plastic Graduate wins, if he wins at all (hyuk hyuk hyuk).

From my Bookshelf

2009-12-15T14:20:00.016+05:30

I am showing off some of my Picture books today because there is a perception that illustrations for Picture books have a saccharine and Disney-ish quality to them, thanks to this being a prerequisite for anything marketed at children these days.
But illustrating a good Picture book is a work of art by itself.

Illustration and story of the Red Tree by Shaun Tan

Look how the text reacts with the illustrations in varying relationships to narrate the story.

Illustration for The Wizard of Oz by Lizbeth Zwerger

Whether the visuals work in isolation or combine with the text, their power and beauty serve one of the primary functions of a work of art - they open new meanings and experiences for us, their audience to consider.

Illustration by Armin Greder for The Great Bear by Libby Gleeson

Why do creators of Picture books deal predominantly with dark subjects? To this Shaun Tan rightly says that ‘Perhaps this is because such things are more thought-provoking than something light or harmonious, in the same way that you can’t have drama without conflict of some sort.’ Positive emotions seem to resolve themselves while the emotions that demand contemplation are darker and less pleasant.’

Illustration by Roberto Innocenti for Pinocchio by Carlo Collodi

But Maurice Sendak perhaps expressed it best when he said, “The people who are frightened by my images and stories are adults, not children. It is grown-ups who are scared to death of death, it’s grown- ups who banish unpleasant thoughts to the back of their minds.”

Dragon Feathers, Illustrated by Olga and Andrej Dugin

It is difficult to be dismissive of these pictures as ‘mere illustration’ because I find myself drawn again and again to the imaginative worlds these visuals evoke while telling me their story.

Illustration by Gennady Spirin

Illustrations resonate with me far more than perhaps a lot of paintings in art galleries vainly trying to stand on their own merits as pure works of art.

Matilda by Hillare Belloc, illustrated by Posy Simmonds.

Picture books engross us with their unique combination of art and literature. The messages they contain makes us, the older reader, contemplate and reconsider perspectives.

Clockwise illustrators Maurice Sendak, Antje Vogel, Alois Carigiet, Unknown

As we turn the pages, these books fly us back to the world of imagination and inquiry we knew as children. They transport us into unfamiliar territory, encouraging us to explore, to question once again and by showing significance in the mundane they give us new insights into our lives.

A Much Awaited Flowering

2009-12-11T10:28:00.009+05:30

As a child, I remember showing my visiting grandmother a certain potted plant and telling her indignantly that it ‘simply refused to flower’. Then my grandmother touched the leaves and told me that this plant had been given to her by a cousin of hers and it usually gave out the most beautiful flower called a ‘Nun flower’. ‘It needs to be looked after well’, she said.

Years later, I brought that adamantly non flowering plant into my own garden, determined to make it flower. I repotted it, fed it and looked after it as well as I possibly could. It still refused to flower. Then in exasperation, I had it kept on a ledge along the wall that received maximum sunlight. ‘Please flower!’ I part begged, part commanded the plant, expecting an iris to grow out between its elongated ridged leaves.

Then last evening, I walked outside to examine some creepers growing along the outer wall of my garden and there, peeping amidst all the foliage was what I'd waited all these years for, an extraordinarily beautiful Nun flower!

The Plum Tree meets Artnlight

2009-12-08T13:00:00.013+05:30

There is always something exciting and intriguing about meeting a fellow blogger, especially if that blogger has one of those blogs that you avidly follow. From the moment Vineeta of Artnlight called up with a cheery ‘lets meet!’ and we giggled over the phone together, I knew it was going to be one fabulous and unforgettable encounter which was well worth crawling out of my cave for.

Vineeta is a gorgeous woman with striking looks, a presence to be reckoned with. She is fun, brave, intelligent and radiates this amazing aura of love, happiness and positive energy which is absolutely infectious and yes, she too has curly wurly hair!!!
We gassed like old friends who hadn’t met for years, we indulged in chocolate, caffeine and lots of sugar, and told each other about ourselves, our lives and how and why we do what we do.

Vineeta and I had ‘conversation’. We both spoke. (No endless monologuing here). Instead, this was an afternoon of healthy, civilized, funny, intelligent conversation at its best.

Yes, I know I’ve just included shots here about stuff we ate (can you blame me?), but Vineeta has this fabulous DSLR camera and she’s taken these great pictures of our visit to Time and Space Art gallery and Cinnamon boutique, so the moment she puts up her post about these places on her blog, I’ll include the link here.
Meanwhile do rummage around in the treasure trove of beautiful things in Vineeta’s blog Artnlight >>>!

Illustration Friday - Entangled

2009-12-03T16:27:00.004+05:30

This week's word for Illustration Friday is 'entangled'.
I already have a picture in my Redbook which suits the topic so I might as well post it.
For new viewers, here are more images from my Redbook >>>

Flying back to the Past-3

2009-11-29T12:58:00.013+05:30

In the church compound next to the house I grew up, was this enormous tree. By the width of its trunk, I presume it must have been a century old at the very least. The tree covered the entire church compound like a large green canopy, a heaven of myriad branches and leaves. When I looked out of my window, I would see a section of the tree, something like what I’ve tried to convey in the picture.
If I climbed to my terrace and looked face to face at the tree branches, I could see that it was a township to many creatures – squirrels, kites, sparrows, monkeys, cats…One day looking out to see what the cacophony was, I witnessed hundreds of parrots flying out of the tree like a cloud of green smoke.
On Sundays, people would come into the compound, enter a little asbestos topped shack built beside the tree and sing and chant to their God. Then they would congregate outside under the tree, look at each other, exchange gossip and go home.

Years after I’d moved away from the neighbourhood, I heard that the tree had been cut down. I heard that it took days and days to cut down such a tree as this and thousands of truckloads to cart away its trunk and branches. Once when I passed by that compound, I saw a little structure in place of the tree – a church, built to worship a God inside its enclosed walls. Just behind the wall where the altar stood was another structure – a toilet for the worshippers to pee.

Sometime during those years, the Bangalore City Corporation, yes, the very same one that we criticize so much went on a tree planting drive. They planted saplings in front of all the houses on the road of the house that I grew up in. They put a wooden fence around each sapling to protect it from cows. We were told to look after our saplings.
Now decades later, when I return to my house, I find that the entire road is green with young trees. And in summer they give out blossoms of different colours, yellow, purple; the one in front of my house, the biggest of them all, gives out pink flowers. It has now covered the entire façade of my house and it is a good feeling to stand under its shade or sometimes gaze at it from the terrace. This new tree might not be the ancient tree from my childhood, but still, having a tree is better than none at all.

Meanwhile the worshippers at the church next door continue to pee behind the altar erected to their God.
-----------------------

The world's most prosperous and happiest countries are also its least religious >>>

*

2009-11-28T14:02:00.007+05:30

There are only two types of women - goddesses and doormats.
-- Pablo Picasso

Hey Mr. Picasso, you forgot to include the bitches!

Today's exciting link: Sex pranks of the Orchid world >>>

Powerful Art!

2009-11-26T21:40:00.000+05:30

Let us Remember

2009-11-26T09:52:00.002+05:30

Let us remember the tragedy of 26/11

*

2009-11-18T22:42:00.000+05:30

sweet potato flower

Not Worth It

2009-11-17T09:52:00.015+05:30

We the public, are easily, lethally offended. We have come to think of taking offence as a fundamental right. We value very little more highly than our rage, which gives us, in our opinion, the moral high ground. From this high ground we can shoot down on our enemies and inflict heavy fatalities. We take pride in our short fuses. Our anger elevates, transcends.
-- Salman Rushdie. East West.

A friend I used to know, I’ll call him Bloke, dropped by at my place. We were meeting after many, many years. We sat at the dining table and he told me what had happened to his life in the interim. He had sorted out family problems. Gotten his sister married. Built up the family business. Kicked out his wife's lover. Built a house for his mother. Wonderful! After listening to him, one would think it would be my turn to tell him about my life. But Bloke decided he knew everything about me already. What's more, he decided he knew how I should run my life as well. He had sorted out his issues after all, so why not sort out the rest of us? So he started advising me. “You’re like this!” he stated, “You’re like that!” and then, “You shouldn’t be like this!” he declared, “You should try to be like that!”

I should probably have gotten into a heated argument of self justification with him.
I should have raged indignantly about his pomposity for weeks afterwards. But there is something about hitting a landmark Birthday that has led to the realization that people will always be who they are. And I have come to realize how precious that thing called time is. And how blessed I am that I still have the energy to want to do the things I really want to do.
Since I had already made the unfortunate choice to waste some time on Bloke, I didn’t think I wanted to waste my energy on him as well.
So I just sat and watched for a while, this arrogant, empty- headed donkey braying loudly at me.
I wondered at myself for having hung out with him and his gang years ago.
After a while, I asked him to leave. Nicely.

Bloke phoned me the next day, and the next.
Unfortunately I couldn't answer his call.
I was so busy being who I am.

Here is another example of a donkey.

in the dead of the murky green night

2009-11-14T20:36:00.011+05:30

green roses bloom in water

a tiger surveys her domain

a lethal multi pronged monster awaits its prey...

and in the orangey daylight

a persimmon sits at my desk (first one i've ever eaten!)

and after a very long time, another page of redbook is done!

i do apologize for this rather dreadful post. i've finally finished all the many, many things that one needs to do to make a life run smoothly and hopefully the next post will have more gravity and substance (;-D) than the bull* here.

Night Tree

2009-11-02T14:56:00.007+05:30

My reward may just be to feel good about what I am doing, and if that is all there is, that is still a wonderful gift.
-- Robert Burney

* This is exciting photography >>>. Thanks Owen :-)
* Women's blogging

Walking through a Wonderland

2009-10-28T22:00:00.020+05:30

Legend says that if you know how to build a truck, you can get all the parts required to build it in the shops on Siddiah road. Storytellers have said that even pieces from the World trade centre on the other side of our earth have made their way here. But when I walked down Siddiah road today, I saw a lot more than just spare parts for trucks. Come with me, while I show you some of the amazing things that I saw in this strange and beautiful wonderland –

Look at The Man with Red Eyes. He called me over and asked me to take his picture.

This is The Keeper of the Green Shop

He grows his special Metal Roses here

Look at those strange objects!
This is an enormous bone of a prehistoric animal

And that’s the web of the native Siddiarantula spider which weaves its web out of glass

And these are the coloured eggs of a very rare and secret species of bird for sale, the details of which i am bound by oath not to divulge here

Yes! This place is a gargantuan installation and all those who work here are very skilled and specialized artists.
Look at this brilliant work of art!

Say ‘Ah!’ to these fascinating textures

Here is a painting in rust

And an abstraction in blue

This is some pretty mind blowing sculpture

Oh yes, I know you want to look some more, so I'll tell you how you can go there.
If you click on this magic spot right here and say 'sa mo sa', it will transport you to wonderland where you can see lots and lots more astounding objects and people of great beauty.
I hope you enjoyed your visit.
:-)

the green well

2009-10-25T20:07:00.016+05:30

Colours, like features, follow the changes of the emotions.
-- Pablo Picasso

illustration blogs that i would like to share with you:
Gabriel Pacheco
La Bloguerie
Aimar Ilustrado
samuel ribeyron
pablo auladell
peter de seve

enjoy!

*

2009-10-23T16:02:00.010+05:30

The happiness and unhappiness of the rational social animal depends not on what she feels, but on what she does.
-- Marcus Aurelius

Flying back to the Past-2

2009-10-20T15:05:00.006+05:30

Red Rice and Fish
This is a colour remake of the illustration here>>

When I was a child, I’d go off to Kerala alone and spend time with my cousin and her mother in their rambling old house. My cousin would go to work during the day and my aunt, an enormous woman with huge hands, would comfortingly dole out red rice and a big fried fish for me at lunch. We ate in silence. Occasionally when something needed to be said, it was articulated directly, matter of factly. Unlike her screechy, evil and dysfunctional siblings, my aunt didn’t speak much. She minded her own business, went about her work and let me be.
Red rice tasted different there. It was probably straight from the fields. And the freshness of the just caught fish I remember, made it taste good in the way that only simple food can. The atmosphere at the table was peaceful, the sounds outside were those of coconut trees and the scent in the air was that of the sea.

friday

2009-10-17T11:25:00.007+05:30

yes, the drawing is as always the result of excessive sugar consumption.

Click here to read an excellent article about the gimmickry that calls itself conceptual art.

happy diwali

2009-10-15T22:53:00.001+05:30

to all my blog readers :-)

a couple of drawings

2009-10-14T10:58:00.002+05:30

Drawing excruciatingly detailed works with a pencil gets me wound up to the point of paralysis. The best remedy for that is going back to charcoal and getting my hands dirty once more.

Flying back to the Past

2009-10-06T16:59:00.019+05:30

When I was eight years old I travelled to a distant and beautiful country nestled somewhere among magnificent mountains. I was taken for a walk in a garden full of breathtaking flowers, and there beside one of the flower beds, I saw for the first time in my life, a bright red poppy. The kind gardener allowed me to pluck it and I remember putting the poppy in a small vase beside my bed. I was enthralled at the beauty of this exquisite flower with its crumpled red petals and that night it was the poppy that I gazed at before I drifted off to sleep.

Many, many years later, when I was a young woman, I travelled to that distant country once more. I wandered into that very same garden from my childhood memory searching for something. I found it growing there among one of the flower beds - bright, red, beautiful. I plucked it and pressed it between the pages of my journal. It travelled across continents, back home with me.

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------

Once upon a time, I flew over vast oceans to a strange upside down land somewhere at the bottom of the world, to learn the art of making stories into images. There I encountered a wise and ancient sage who taught me what I wanted to know. The sage came from the same mountainous country that I had once travelled to as a child. One day when I found the story of a red Poppy in a library, I was reminded of the poppy from my childhood and I told the sage eagerly that I wanted to draw the flower in the story. Then the ancient sage told me that it was not enough to draw a poppy as it is. ‘The Poppy has to speak’, he told me. ‘Your image has to become something more than an image of a red poppy’.
Those years ago,I couldn't quite understand what my teacher meant when he spoke about creating images that transcended mere representation. So I kept the story of the poppy aside and moved onto other things.

Now over a decade later, when finding this red flower from my past pressed between the pages of my journal, I’ve attempted to draw it again. Memories of distant lands and beautiful gardens arise and weave their own story into the image. The voice of an ancient sage still speaks its wisdom as I draw. The truths that reveal themselves on the page when I find the courage to venture forward never cease to amaze me.
I understand what my teacher’s words meant.

Museum

2009-10-02T21:50:00.004+05:30

'First we lose a memory, but we know we've lost it and want it back. Then we forget we've forgotten it...The ruins that cause us such pain, and open the road to forgetfulness become, in the end, the lots on which others can found new dreams.'
-- Orhan Pamuk
Other Colours

Come walk with me through my museum of relics
Yes, do click on that little Buddha icon on the left bottom if you want to see the pics bigger.
:-)

Relics from the Past

2009-09-30T13:54:00.003+05:30

'The past is a foreign country; they do things differently there.'
-- L.P.Hartley

Art or Fart?

2009-09-27T23:11:00.010+05:30

Everything is judged by its appearance; what is unseen counts for nothing. Never let yourself get lost in the crowd then, or buried in oblivion. Stand out. Be conspicuous, at all cost. Make yourself a magnet of attention by appearing larger, more colourful, more mysterious than the bland and timid masses.
-- Law 6. The 48 Laws of Power
Greene and Elffers

*The elements that went into its creation (of a painting), simply add possible layers to our intuited and yet inconclusive reading; because our attempt, as viewers, to read what is in its essence unreadable merely fills the deliberate absence of a decipherable code with a meaning that we both invent and unravel.
-- Reading Pictures
Alberto Manguel

At yet another exhibition of a very, very famous contemporary artist from Bangalore, I look at the Art before me. My brain works furiously, trying to make sense, trying to recognize something, understand anything in this strange mish mash of objects and colour before me, but draws a blank.
Then I turn and look at the rest of the audience in the gallery – art connoisseurs, scholars, journalists, photographers, actors, critics. The expressions on their faces as they look at the art before them is as bewildered as mine.
I walk up to B, one of the old great artist names in Bangalore. The expression on his face as he gazes at the modern art before him is that of child lost in strange unfriendly territory. I ask him what he thinks of the work. He gathers his thoughts together immediately. “Oh this is fantastic!” he proclaims, looking away from me, “Such humour, such wit!”

Apprehensive that most of the art that I see either simply bores me with its haphazard confusion, or doesn’t even bother me enough to search through the ‘layered meaning’ that it claims to have; I borrow a book titled Reading Pictures. In it, the author Alberto Manguel tries to get me to ‘read’ the stories that pictures tell me. To be able to read, he says, we must first of all understand the ‘language’ that these pictures speak. He gives the example of the arrival of a travelling film projectionist in a remote Cuban village, who shows the villagers a documentary film about new agricultural techniques. I quote here (p24) -‘The villagers watched the bright, moving images but apparently saw nothing in them except the figure of a chicken projected onto the lower left hand corner of the screen. That chicken was all that they had managed to decipher, since they had no experience of seeing cinema, and no knowledge of how to follow a series of long shots, close ups and travellings, which in their eyes had become nothing but a jumble of shadows and light.’ The author then asks, ‘Is there a language (like the language of film for the Cuban villagers) with which the viewer must become familiar before the canvas relinquishes a meaning?’

But after several paragraphs of analysis of the language of pictures, the author says that there are some artists who need to work ‘outside language, or within the absence of language’. The author even goes on to say that when we attempt to analyse that which cannot be analysed (and he gives an example of work by this artist here), we are attempting to invent a language with which to analyse it.
From what I understand from his essay, the author says that when we are reading the story in an image, we must consider that not only does the artist not need a story, but the artist does not need a language while making an image either. It is the viewer who has to not only create a story, but also a language with which to construct the story of the picture she sees before her. (Read Manguel’s quote at top of post*).

Perhaps the images (photoshopped from my ever popular Redbook) shown with this post is not ‘Art’? Perhaps it is just what it is - a mass of squiggles?
Perhaps the image above is not Art either as a gallery person told me it was (“this is the inner you coming out!”), perhaps it is just random bits and pieces stuck arbitrarily on a page?
Perhaps most of the Art that we see around us is not Art at all? Perhaps underneath the endless justification, the hype and the clever marketing, it is just what it is?

What it is, is this - Paint splashed randomly across canvass, bad drawing scrawled over page, tacky installations, senseless imagery and gimmicks are all just that, just what we instinctively really think they are; before we are told that it is not so and we should analyse till the grey cells in our brains have collapsed with exhaustion by trying to find a language and create a language and construct a story and narrate it and get others to believe it, so that we can convince ourselves that we know our ‘Art’ all for the sake of that ridiculous looking blob of paint smeared arrogantly onto a canvas by an artist who is probably laughing all the way to the bank.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------

I have seen many memorable and beautiful works in Bangalore among the not so memorable ones. Here are a few links to works by some Tip Top, A1 artists. Some of them are from Bangalore, the others show their works in Bangalore. But whether their work is Art or Fart, I leave it to you to decide:
* Artist-1
* Artist-2
* Artist-3 (Jogen Chowdhury)
* Artist-4 (S.G.Vasudev)
* Artist-5

Mind iT!

2009-09-23T21:19:00.003+05:30

my hero. now and forever.

Sunday night desperation

2009-09-20T22:33:00.007+05:30

Just a spoonful of sugar helps the medicine go down
In a most delightful way.
-- Mary Poppins

Around ten years ago when i first started off as an illustrator, i would throw myself over my assignments with enthusiasm. These days i go into depression. I had an entire week to complete this. And the weather is not helping.
Whereas i usually don't have time for a half an hour's brisk walk every day, today i walked twice, for an hour each and that too during a mild drizzle.
All this to avoid sitting at my desk.

It helps immensely to indulge in a large spoonful of Nutella. Somehow work happens after that. In spite of Cindy cat sitting on it.

Well i've finished the blessed picture.
Now i MUST finish off the Nutella.
You are crazy!
I want more Nutella!
What was the point of all that walking?
I don't care! I'll walk some more!
NUTELLA!
No!
NUTELLA!
No!
Aiyoh! Okay, i'll update my blog and watch that film instead....

Nutella...nutella...nutella...
------------------------------------------------------------------

Here is a great link i found on Karine's blog. A must read for every artist.
What the Muse Wants

Some Good Stuff

2009-09-20T11:40:00.002+05:30

Much as i love reading words, I love reading pictures, and i enjoy finding the stories explicitly or secretly woven into all kinds of works of art - without, however, having to resort to arcane or esoteric vocabularies.
-- Alberto Manguel
Reading Pictures

Review of All About my Mother

Musings on a Rainy Day

2009-09-18T19:21:00.014+05:30

Sometimes when the things that were promised to you by fortune cookies don't materialize instantly with a bang, there are other ways to make up for it; like warm banana bread smeared with Nutella. Mmmmm....

I found this diagram below on a site called Gondaba.com
It says Pick any two.
Which two would you pick?

I would pick emotionally stable and good looking (good looking = an interesting face).
Regarding emotional stability - after having lived for years with a bunch of hysterical freaks, I want no more roller coaster rides with such people. Therefore I put emotional stability very high on my list.
Then 'good looking' next, or at least what I presume is good looking, i.e. the out of tune kind of face which makes you remember it for its unconventional characteristics. When I wake up beside a dude every day, it is so nice when the face next to me continues to interest me.
That intelligence thing? Nah! People who presume themselves intelligent are also terribly conceited without exception. And as for those blokes with the letters PhD beside their names..., don't even get me started.

Here is the last bit of banana bread with a large dollop of extra Nutella on top.

:-)

coffee

2009-09-14T11:48:00.001+05:30

In the half-dark workroom of the two-story house, the old man served an exquisite cup of silky, amber-sented coffee to the young master, which cleared the youth's mind.
-- My Name is Red
Orhan, Pamuk

piNk

2009-09-14T01:43:00.002+05:30

i made a terrarium

2009-09-08T15:28:00.009+05:30

this is fascinating. a little environment by itself within an inverted jam bottle!
after a while, the glass gets misty as the plants breathe and they end up watering themselves.
see how it is done over here >

one more picture over here>>>

Over the Weekend

2009-09-07T10:21:00.003+05:30

finished picture

rich food

;-)

Letter Writing

2009-09-05T23:23:00.007+05:30

How nice is it to receive a handwritten letter? I had forgotten the joy of slitting open an envelope and expectantly pulling out a piece of paper, hurriedly unfolding it and settling down to read the handwriting inside. How long has it been since I’ve actually seen once more, those curious symbols of handwriting that are so unique to each one of us? When we type onto a screen, we end up in canning our handwriting into an impersonal uniformity which no amount of smileys or picture icons can individualize. To hold a handwritten letter is like listening to a person’s voice speak to me with all its myriad nuances and intonations. I can hold the words in my hands and marvel that the paper, the vessel containing those words, has travelled to me, not through the ether of cyberspace but through an actual journey that takes time, days, sometimes an entire week, to land at my door. That is far too much time in today's instant world of course, but the tangible joys of receiving a letter by Snail Mail are I think, worth the wait.

My friend Kalpa once commented on Facebook (of all things) about what a joy it was to receive a ‘handwritten letter’. I jokingly suggested that if she wanted another one, she could write one to me first. Kalpa took my comment very seriously and promptly dispatched a letter to me. And that is how I got to writing, after a very long time, a handwritten letter in reply.
It is almost like beginning a new picture - I take a deep breath, remember to make sure the lines are straight, the writing legible, and after a moment's hesitation about what to say, I touch pen to paper. Surprisingly, the process is easier than I thought it would ever be!

It wasn’t too long, just ten years ago in fact, that I still wrote letters by hand and received them too. I unearthed a stash of some of them and had an absolutely wonderful time re-reading them again.
The little pink book on top right which was mailed to me was a farewell gift from a classmate in Australia. It had the names, addresses and pictures of everyone in the class. No page on Facebook can ever compare to that.

This is just some of a collection of really old letters written by my grandparents. Their handwriting was beautiful, almost calligraphic.

There is something of a ritual involved in carefully folding paper, putting it into an envelope, sealing it and recapping the fountain pen. On Monday, stamps will be stuck and the letter will be put into a post box. How different from pointing the cursor to a box on screen and clicking 'send'.

Portrait of a Woman after her Birthday

2009-08-27T10:43:00.003+05:30

At sixteen, you still think you can escape from your father. You aren’t listening to his voice speaking through your mouth, you don’t see how your gestures already mirror his; you don’t see him in the way you hold your body, in the way you sign your name. You don’t hear his whisper in your blood.
-- Salman Rushdie, The Courter

She was all of these things and of something more …It was something that had been born into her and her only – the something different from anyone else in the two families. It was what God or whatever is His equivalent puts into each soul that is given life – the one different thing such as that which makes no two fingerprints on the face of the earth alike.
-- Betty Smith, A Tree Grows in Brooklyn

Aaaah to get my hands dirty once more...!!!

2009-08-18T20:23:00.003+05:30

If you hear a voice within you say 'you cannot paint' then by all means paint, and that voice will be silenced.
-- Vincent Van Gogh

the mysterious beauty

2009-08-13T21:32:00.004+05:30

since so many of you liked the beautiful pink and purple flower in the last post, here is yet another picture of it from my files. unfortunately i do not know the name, so if any of you do, please let me know.

Pink in the Garden

2009-08-11T16:43:00.002+05:30

more colour...!

2009-07-28T19:30:00.003+05:30

while browsing through an art material section at a bookstore, i came across a pad of Canson Paper and grabbed it. it is so difficult to get such stuff here. working on a drawing pad is wonderfully convenient and Canson is a great paper for pastel and charcoal. these days instead of layering the pastel like i usually do, i simply draw with it and colour it in. this makes my style far more fluid and produces interesting results. i still have to experiment more, but here is an illustration i did for DH. just what they want - bright and colourful.
i also got some of my pictures framed and am surprised and pleased with the result. do have a look over here >>

Full Bloom

2009-07-27T22:45:00.002+05:30

enjoy!
more pics over here>

Today!

2009-07-24T09:39:00.007+05:30

My story got published in today's Deccan Herald. It is an adaptation of an earlier post on my blog, rewritten, polished up and of course, names changed. As with all my stories, it is fact not fiction.
I wish to thank all the old men in my life for providing me with plenty of inspiration and entertainment.
The story can be read on the Deccan Herald website over here.

A Gilaas of Chai

2009-07-22T19:36:00.003+05:30

Big Fat Brekkie has been rechristened A Gilaas of Chai in keeping with the evolved content and photography. The name of the blog reflects not just what good Chai stands for, but the punch and spirit that comes with it. Do have a look at the latest >

*

2009-07-22T09:39:00.001+05:30

All right, all right, here is a nice post after a nasty one - the first crocus in my garden.

Fleeing the DARK SISTERS of AUNTYHOOD

2009-07-19T22:35:00.004+05:30

Pious people have always gotten on my nerves.
-- Lily in The Secret Life of Bees

I abhor pious aunties with their big pompous bums and enormous arrogant heads who go around with an aura of nauseating self righteousness while preaching ‘forgiveness’. Their putrid sanctimony stems from the fact that they assume they’ve forgiven whoever committed whatever piddling little transgression against them in the past, so now they think it’s your turn to be guided down the same path that they once blundered through. It is just one more excuse for them to envelope you in the hug of loving Auntyhood – the older teaching the younger the right way; and to suffocate you at their gargantuan bosoms inflated to bursting point with stuffy archaic principles.
If you’ve ever, EVER been told to forgive when somebody has abused you and shattered your dignity, remember this:
If you forgive, you pretend that whatever happened wasn’t so terrible.

Look at the aunties who get all preachy about your problems! Do you really think they know what they are talking about when they advice you with their platitudes?
Do you want to end up like them, drinking lukewarm cuppas and getting eloquent about imaginary rainbows? Scratch their surface just a teeny little bit and stand back, you can watch bitterness gush out of them enough to drown at least a dozen people. Ironic isn’t it that they the great forgivers themselves are weighed down by so much nastiness?
This is what happens when you forgive - you stifle the truth, you absolve the abuser of all responsibility, you sweep the crime under the carpet and you put up a façade of perfection. Too much denial just ends up corroding your soul and Auntifying you. Just look again at those interfering old biddys and how empty they are!

"The greatest homage we can pay to truth is to use it."

The Evangelist

2009-07-06T13:34:00.004+05:30

Law – 37: Striking imagery and grand symbolic gestures create the aura of power – everyone responds to them. Stage spectacles for those around you, full of arresting visuals and radiant symbols that heighten your presence. Dazzled by appearances, no one will notice what you are really doing.
-- The 48 Laws of Power
Greene and Elffers.

Several years ago, just after the Tsunami, when one would have expected Benglur, like the rest of the world, to still be reeling with shock at the devastation wrecked around them by nature’s fury; something else happened instead. There was excitement and buzz in the air. Benglurians were far more excited about the arrival of a well known evangelist and healer, Georgie Finn. Choirs furiously practised away, churches made transportation arrangements, women decided what to wear, men discussed which route to take, countless arrangements were made by the Karnataka Government, security forces armed themselves, and the sick and the problem stricken wrung their hearts and gathered up every last drop of their faith together, because if you had faith, just one touch from Georgie Finn would make you whole and happy once more.
Shocked that I showed no interest in attending the Georgie Finn show, a congregation member from my church implored me, “At least watch Georgie Finn on TV! Georgie Finn performs miracles! And he is from Israel too, just like Jesus!”

So I watched Georgie Finn for awhile on TV. It was impressive – there was the huge multitude of people swaying in a frenzy of faith as the long, long queues of sick and suffering staggered hopefully up on the stage to be hugged and blessed and cured before they were quickly escorted away by swarthy bouncers. The heavenly lighting and angelic music was spectacular and perfectly coordinated while everything, even my TV screen, dazzled with the aura of Georgie Finn’s power.

As I watched, a couple, brought on the stage, a young girl who was impaired of her speech. Georgie Finn placed his hand on her.
Then Georgie Finn commanded the girl in the ‘name of Jesus’ to ‘speak!’.
“Say Jesus!” commanded Georgie Finn
“Wrcksurv prumffrm!” said the young girl.
“Jesus!” bellowed Georgie Finn
“Brffwsstx nxdffxrrts!” said the young girl desperately.
Then Georgie Finn turned to the sea of people, waiting expectantly for yet another miracle…
“She speaks!” he screamed, “She speaks! Now we have to teach her what to say!”
And the huge multitude of people gave him a thunderous ovation. Another miracle had been performed!

Back to Blogging

2009-07-02T19:28:00.002+05:30

First we make our habits, then our habits make us.
-- Charles Noble

and its time for a ...

2009-06-03T22:13:00.000+05:30

Break
A long one.

Redrawing...

2009-06-02T12:06:00.008+05:30

Do many more...this will show you the way.
-- Ancient Sage

Sometimes, soon after I draw a picture, I think it is perfect - the greatest picture I have ever drawn. Then when I look at it many days later, the mistakes glare at me. Changes must be done and adjustments have to be made...over and over again.

2009-06-01T19:39:00.004+05:30

Back to Work!

2009-05-25T19:03:00.006+05:30

Painting is just another way of keeping a diary.
-- Pablo Picasso

the cat is sleeping

the books have been read

dinner is over

choc has been eaten

the desk has been cleared

and work has begun!

Beautiful leaves

2009-05-23T18:48:00.006+05:30

After appreciating Delwyn's pictures of leaves, here are some of my own from my garden.
The clover in the pot has been rescued after seeing this post on Bhavana's blog.

Tidying up

2009-05-21T23:27:00.000+05:30

I dislike tidying up.

Tidying up Art

2009-05-21T15:25:00.000+05:30

...And the Cat Died. a true story.

2009-05-15T23:15:00.012+05:30

Let me tell you a story from long, long ago about a girl called Prema.
Ah Prema! She might not have been blessed with the best of looks, but she was pious, intelligent and hard working. Did you know that Prema learnt the church organ all by herself and played hymns in the village church every Sunday? For her confirmation, Prema recited the entire book of Psalms by heart. The priest of the church himself commended her for that and Prema became a shining example to all young Christian girls in the church. All who met her would hold one hand over their hearts and raise the other hand heavenward. “The Lord God has blessed her so much” they said, referring to her humility, intelligence and dedication.

When Prema grew up she studied to become a doctor! She went all the way to Vellore alone to study medicine, such a huge step in those days for a young girl mind you. She became a very good doctor you know? She was so respected at the Mission hospital that everyone went to her for their ailments. Why when young Kiran shoved a jackfruit seed up his arse and couldn’t stop screaming in fright at what he’d done, the little coward that he was, who do you think we went to? It was Doctor Prema herself who cleverly got the seed out of his rectum with a pair of forceps. Serves him right that he couldn’t sit down for three days with the pain, but I am digressing…

Well, one day Doctor Prema fell in love and got married. He was a nasty man that husband of hers. He lived off her money, never did a day’s useful work, was a drunk, and what’s more, he carried on with other women, especially one woman in particular. He decided he wanted this woman more than Doctor Prema. So one night, he brought his wife a glass of milk…
Now this Doctor Prema, she wasn’t intelligent for nothing. She suspected something amiss and poured the milk for the cat to lap up.
The cat drank the milk.
And the cat died.
Doctor Prema left her husband.

One dark and stormy night, the husband and his mistress were driving through the Western Ghats in heavy rain when lightening struck his car. The car crashed through the forest and fell over a cliff. The husband survived the crash but decided that it was more than mere luck that had saved him. He decided that Jesus had appeared to him as a vision when the car was flying off the cliff. Jesus had told him to repent and mend his sinful ways as the car was hurtling through the forest branches and plummeting downward. As the car hit the ground, the husband had said “Yes, my Lord Jesus, yes!” in the nick of time and had been instantly saved. Presumably the mistress beside him had refused to turn over a new leaf at the vision’s request and had been snuffed out in a flash.

Remorsefully the husband returned to Doctor Prema and begged her forgiveness. The hand that once held a glass of poisoned milk now held a large Bible. “I used to be a sinner!” he cried, thumping the Bible before her, “but I have now seen the face of Jesus! Jesus himself wants you to take me back…Jesus himself told me so!” He wept all over the Bible.
Doctor Prema, the good Christian woman that she was, took him back and they lived together ever after.

They read the Bible to each other every night.
Afterwards he would bring her a glass of milk…

Doctor Prema eventually became Chief Doctor at the Mission hospital.
She still played the church organ and sometimes read the psalms during Bible readings at church without needing to look down even once at the Holy book.
She was chief guest at lots of important functions where she would cut red ribbons and sit on a stage with her husband beside her, while speakers eulogized her achievements in their introductions.

But in the watching audience, whispers would be passed from person to person, row by row. “…and the cat died” said the whispers passing through, while each listener in the audience stared knowingly, first at the husband, then at Doctor Prema.
“…the cat died!” they said, passing it on.

++++

2009-05-10T19:38:00.010+05:30

“Who among us hasn't envied a cat's ability to ignore the cares of daily life and to relax completely?”
--Karen Brademeyer

After three days of scraping away with pastel, all I got was a really ugly illustration for my effort. Usually I blame the story, but this time, I wrote the facking story myself, (The Cake) so there is no excuse for a bad picture. The only nice part of the illustration was this cat sleeping in the corner.

Now I am going to finish off an enormous mango awaiting me after I click 'publish post'.
;-)

The Spirit of South India!

2009-05-07T10:40:00.004+05:30

First came the Shineboards,
Then came Tamil Pulp Fiction
And now I've found Raw Umber!
Do have a look and a good laugh.
For those of you outside the South, this is how it's done here, fingerdipped tea, cooldrings, yellow chappals and all.
Enjoy!

Facts about Furflowers

2009-05-03T11:33:00.004+05:30

Due to the overwhelming popularity of Furflower, I have been compelled to write a few facts about them.

Furflower (genus: fattus catus).

1) Furflowers grow exclusively on artist’s desks. They bloom best on delicate charcoal or pastel works.

2) Furflowers should never be watered directly. This causes the flower to wilt. Instead they should be fed large quantities of chopped chicken liver and boiled fish. Pungent smelling dry furflower food also produces beautiful large blooms.

3) When a Furflower blooms, it usually produces a deep sound from within – brrrrrrr rrrrrr rrrrrrr continuously for the length of the bloom. This is called ‘furring’. This is a sign that the furflower has been fed well.

4) These magnificent flowers can remain in bloom for ten hours or more if fed an extra large quantity of food in the morning and allowed to remain undisturbed.

5) WARNING: Furflowers can be lethal. Touching a furflower can result in a sharp thorn ejecting instantly from within the fur and drawing blood. Therefore the blooms are best left undisturbed or handled by trained Furflower experts.

Morning walk find

2009-04-30T12:47:00.002+05:30

I am drawing this simply because I don't want to draw what I should be drawing...
One more drawing here.

After the Rains -

2009-04-28T00:54:00.005+05:30

And finally, the most beautiful flower of them all -
The Fur Flower, in full bloom.

In My Studio

2009-04-27T09:48:00.002+05:30

Jigsaws and Awards

2009-04-26T15:52:00.017+05:30

The branches whispered secrets in her ears and
the fireflies danced magic like her eyes.
As the moths hovered silently,
the flowers bent their heads forward
to listen with me
as the storyteller unravelled her tale
into the night.

Some of you have asked me to write a bit more about this picture and why have I used the words 'jigsaw puzzle' to describe the process. I draw on seperate pieces of paper, cut, shift around and fit them in to create a composition. Just like working on a jigsaw. Sometimes a story comes out of what I draw. It helps to have a story because it gives mood and atmosphere to the emerging drawing.
I have written about a similar process here.

I am chuffed and happy because the lovely Tessa of Aerial Armadillo has given me an award. This is not just any award mind you. It is a RENEE award!
Now I could start writing about Renee and her blog and it would result in a million word post gushing about the wonderful stuff I find there. But that wouldn't do justice to its content. Instead I am simply going to tell you that Renee is my Million Year Friend. Yes, we have known each other for one million years and her blog will tell you all about why I treasure her friendship so. She is one heck of an incredible woman.
Thank you so much Tessa. I am honoured to be given a Renee Award!
:-)

THE CAKE

2009-04-25T09:59:00.006+05:30

One day, two aunties called Emby and Pri, decided to get an instant fix. The decided to go to the best place they knew for fixes – the friendly neighbourhood (rather expensive, gourmet) bakery.
As they climbed up the steps of the bakery in anticipation, the warm aroma of freshly baked loaves wafted towards them enticing them to scurry the last few steps towards the bakery counter.
At that very same moment the counter boy removed trays of freshly baked golden loaves of bread and tumbled them onto the counter before their eyes. It was a beautiful sight. One of the loaves jumped out at Emby and she caught it with open arms.
“Its mine!” she declared happily while Pri clapped her hands in glee.
The counter boy smiled and nodded.

Then the Head Baker in his tall white baker hat came to see for himself these two excited customers. He greeted them politely and respectfully and recommended the freshly baked Chocolate Chip Butter Cake specially made for instant fixes. The Head Baker even told them the secret proportion. “This is a one is to one is to one is to one cake” he said.
One measure of butter to one measure of flour to one measure of sugar to one measure of chocolate chips.
Both aunties decided that Head Baker’s recommendation would be best.

Back at Emby’s house, she made tea and Pri cut the warm yellow cake into thick buttery slices. The cake was as light as a cloud and the chocolate chips melted into drops of heavy sweetness on their tongues. Emby wiped tears of bliss from her eyes.
“Let’s go back and buy another cake” pleaded Emby as she carefully picked the crumbs off her plate and licked her fingers.
But Pri, ever wise and prudent in matters regarding instant fixes, suggested they wait until another day.

That night the aunties dreamt of tumbling golden loaves, friendly bakers, fluffy butter cakes and showers of chocolate chips. They smiled in their sleep and both of them woke up the next morning in an excellent, rather perky frame of mind to a lovely new day.

Elizabeth Gilbert on cReATivE GeNiUS

2009-04-14T19:34:00.003+05:30

is there a pattern emerging?

2009-04-09T14:36:00.009+05:30

Illustration done in 1997

Illustration done in 2008

Illustration done in 2009

And this:

Illustration done in 2008

Brought to me by a stork in 1994

pRiyA: Do you even care that you might be eaten?
Cindy Cat: Huh? Zzzzzzz.....

Aditi has posted about my drawings on her beautiful blog
Once Upon a Teatime.
Thank you Aditi!

Its that time again...

2009-04-09T14:10:00.007+05:30

From priya sebastian
To maya matthew

Date Sat, 2009 at 9:52 PM
subject-
mailed - bygmail.com

hey maya,
it's The Plum Tree again stopping by on my nightly web crawl.
this time’s Redbook exchange, you have a choice:

Gobi manchurian and filter coffee at shiv sagar at commercial street

or

The French Loaf
at Richard's town.

Gobi Manchurian is more recession friendly.--
pRiyA

----------------------------------------------------------------------------------

from maya matthew
to priya sebastian

date Sun, 2009 at 8:45 AM
subject Re: -
mailed by gmail.com

definitely the Gobi manchurian.
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Vineeta has posted about my Redbook and interviewed me on her gorgeous blog artnlight.

Thank you Vineeta!

Secrets from the Old Crone

2009-03-30T11:34:00.004+05:30

A real fairy tale, a fairy tale in its true function, is a tale within a circle of listeners...
--Karel Capek
(From the Beast to the Blonde, Marina Warner)

While reading Marina Warner’s fascinating account of the origins of fairy tales (From the Beast to the Blonde), I have had to pause many a time and think about the stories familiar to me, the ones that I grew up with, thanks to the Mother Goose or Old Crone, the tellers of the tales who have been plentiful in my life.

I remember listening with fascinated horror about a new bride who woke the morning after her wedding to find that her exquisite bridal sari had been ripped to shreds by jealous hands. I learnt that while her village burnt, a brave woman ran through the forest in the dead of the night, her baby son in her arms. She took refuge in a church on a hill and gave up all the gold she wore into the greedy, extended palms of the old European priest there, in return for sanctuary.
I was told the story of a young girl, who nearly a century ago, was given some money by her father and asked to leave the house and go away, so that she would not have to endure anymore, the abominable cruelty of her wicked mother.
I heard about a family’s pride turned into shame when their eldest son, priest of a village church, was found out for stealing and worse – for plotting to destroy and murder his young sister for gain! He was dragged out of the church by his own congregation, tied to a stake and set fire to. I listened to how they watched with glee, as he screamed like the madman that he was, dying his dramatic, gory death while gorged upon by beautiful orange flames.

I learnt the truth about unsolvable murders and mysterious riches. I gasped at stories of ancestors finding buried treasure and cousins ripping each other to shreds over it decades later. I watched in my mind’s eye as I was told the story of orphaned children mistreated by harsh guardians and I listened, suppressing bubbling laughter at the illicit love affairs of pompous uncles who had once sternly advocated ‘family honour’.

What I find fascinating and amusing is how the characters in these stories that one crone eulogized while telling the tale, carefully propping up, buffing and polishing with her words until the protagonist took on a God like aura, would be toppled over mercilessly with a few swift cruel sentences in a story told by another old crone. Two points of view through stories – and truths laid bare for me to select for my own.

One family’s tight knot of intense secrets was revealed over time to a wide eyed, frizzy haired descendant, who cut open the knot, drew out and examined the scarlet thread of the story with much relish before she released it into the virtual world of cyberspace, where the stories, no longer secrets, were read by people from the farthest corners of the Earth.

Stories of our lives have a pattern that repeats over and over the years of time, like the motif on a never ending tapestry, providing a rich overall picture from a distance and yet, to those who care to look closely, giving startling insightful detail into our own selves and why we are the way we are.

The Spider's Breakfast

2009-03-27T12:19:00.003+05:30

I spotted this tiny spider gorging on a rather large brilliant beetle this morning. I clicked away and did the best I could with my Canon A640's 4x zoom. The pictures are a bit grainy but I'm glad I got to capture this feast.
Since this was a 'breakfast' I simply had to put up the rest of my pictures on my breakfast blog here.
Those who don't like spiders don't go there, the pictures are pretty lethal.

Shadow Art

2009-03-21T21:38:00.006+05:30

More photographs here.

After she saw these photographs, Tessa suggested I take part in Shadow Shot Sunday. This is my first attempt.

In the Garden

2009-03-18T09:57:00.002+05:30

'The garden grew around her like a womb.
Within its depths she grew strong and flourished.
But at night
Under the full moon
Her eyes were watchful'.

Whew!

My home has been featured on Rang-Decor
Robyn has featured my work here

I must go catch up on some sleep...

2009-03-04T22:23:00.001+05:30

---- Break ------

summer evening

2009-02-27T19:37:00.005+05:30

after a day when summer heat settles on the limbs like gym weights, i look forward to a cooler evening at my desk. instead there is a power cut

therefore outside in the garden with a book (admiring chandan's pretty red card), is the place to be

with my constant companion beside me,

surrounded by an untidy tangle of leaves

until the light fades and i can read no more

then its back inside to warm up my dinner hoping that the electricity will arrive soon...

Fainting

2009-02-18T22:04:00.007+05:30

The intuitive mind is a sacred gift and the rational mind is a faithful servant. We have created a society that honors the servant and has forgotten the gift.
-- Albert Einstein

This morning, during a walk around the park, I stopped to wish old Dr. Eappen good morning. The very first time I had met him, he had given me a little introduction to himself – he had a doctorate, a PhD in some obscure stuff, he was a pillar of his church, a key figure in community and social organizations around the area and he had travelled abroad several times.

‘I haven’t seen you for many days’ croaked Dr Eappen.
‘Oh I usually finish my walk much earlier in the mornings’ said I.
Vot do you do all day? asked Dr. Eappen as he waved the palm of his hand up and down presumably to indicate a brush, ‘you do Fainting?’

Awwrrrgh!!!

For most of the ‘educated’ and intellectual elite in Benglur, this sort of trite remark made by Dr. Eapen characterizes their attitude towards art – ‘Fainting’ is always accompanied by a waving of the palm.
Of course if you invite these learned intellectuals to ‘critique’ your faintings in suitable jargon (that mysterious language that nobody understands), and if you wear suitable artist attire (crushed, faded cotton sari and big bhindi for women, khadi kurta and beard for men) and talk about how your faintings reflect contemporary social issues of the day (a euphemism for ugly work), then you become slightly more respectable than the average ‘fainter’ because:
You look right!
Your faintings are about the right subjects!
Right words are used to describe your work!
But neither I nor my work subscribe to these. I am a woman who dresses in tracks and a t- shirt and ‘works’ from home.
But then, how can ‘fainting’ possibly be clubbed as ‘work’?
Isn’t it supposed to be one of those hobby things?

A few months ago, I met a former classmate of mine, D, an artist in full bloom. What I remember of him during his days in college was his supreme confidence and arrogance. He knew his work was excellent. All these years later, mellowed somewhat by marriage and a boisterous kid, his arrogance didn’t seem apparent, but his confidence still existed, tempered by a wisdom which comes from working like a donkey at his chosen profession. We sat in his simple studio consisting of a small desk, steel chair and canvases and had a wonderful conversation about art, painting, attitudes necessary for practising artists and the art world in Benglur.

Unlike most male artists whom I have encountered in Benglur, D did not brag about his work. I don’t think he needed to since his work spoke for itself. D told me his father was a farmer in a village. By farmer, he wasn’t referring to one of those wealthy ‘agriculturists’ with opulent farm houses. In this case, he meant an average typical Indian village farmer. D went through Art college and completed his Master’s entirely through scholarships.
By contrast, I was once a part of a family full of learned intellectuals; I used to be part of a flock of stodgy academics with attitudes towards creativity (and life itself) that were as narrow as my little finger. Needless to say, my passion and profession were disapproved and dismissed. And I in turn was always rather apologetic for my choice.

I asked D, ‘didn’t your parents mind when you decided to become a painter?’
D looked so surprised. ‘Mind? Why should they mind? My parents were so proud of me when I decided to become an painter. They encouraged me every step of the way!’

Till now, I had always presumed that painting as a profession was universally disapproved by all parents for their children, (those living here will know how much emphasis is placed by parents on their children choosing one of the two elite professions - Doctor and Engineer), so when the son of a humble farmer told me that he was encouraged by his parents to pursue his choice of profession as a painter, I must admit that it was my turn to be surprised.

Green Fingers

2009-02-17T12:12:00.004+05:30

After all the many enthusiastic comments I have received for my garden posts, I must give credit where due. The man in this picture is the person responsible for transforming my garden into a haven of beauty. His name is Govindappa and he is the Maali or garderner who comes weekly to tend to my plants. He was introduced to me by Wendy who took this picture of him standing in her balcony. See how green her balcony is? It is full of well fed, happy plants tended lovingly by her Maali.

Don't be fooled by the benign expression however. That shy smile is solely for his 'Windy amma' (that's how he pronounces Wendy's name). He can be a stubborn old coot and I have had to debate furiously with him many a time. But both Wendy and I adore him and he is the main man in our lives.

Sunday Afternoon

2009-02-15T16:00:00.001+05:30

Redbook Exchange

2009-02-13T19:04:00.001+05:30

We had another Redbook exchange after a very long time and the first for this year. This time the exchange took place at my dining table. Then we went to Chung Wah and consumed a very large Chinese meal and crashed back home like a couple of beached whales unable to move.
I have finally brought my Redbook album up to date so do have a look right here to see lots and lots more work as a slideshow! You can also click on the Redbook icon at the right to see the pages :-)
Embellisher's Redbook work is here

Quelling a Monster

2009-02-08T17:38:00.001+05:30

'The garden grew around her like a womb.
Within its depths she grew strong and flourished.
But at night
Under the full moon
Her eyes were watchful'.

While constantly creating images and eternally meeting deadlines for clients, I had forgotten the joy of creating a picture just for myself. Till now, pictures that I drew for me meant the occasional drawing or a simple composition which consisted of one, perhaps two subjects; nothing overly complicated or taxing.

However, after a point, when I get into the habit of making things too easy for myself or falling into a formula with my own work, invariably a horrible creature starts stirring within me. It uncoils itself, rises slowly and engulfs my mind in a thick viscous liquid called Lethargy – an experience almost akin to being drowned slowly in condensed milk. The uncoiling creature itself is called Boredom. I can quite easily allow it to consume me slowly, numb out my senses and enrobe me in its syrupy ennui. In my desperation to keep it at bay, it dawned on me that the occasional titbit drawing does not quell this creature anymore. A stronger antidote was needed to end this misery.

Then one day, I chanced upon a blog where I saw this photograph of a girl bent over her desk creating a small exquisite picture. When I saw it I thought, ‘Hey, I used to draw like this once!’ The more I looked with longing at the photograph; the girl within invited me over, ‘Come and play!’
So I did. I picked up a pencil and drew what I knew – I drew a woman with curly hair and I gave her a cat to sit on her lap.
(The monster took a couple of steps back).
Then I waited.
The woman in the drawing wanted a story which belonged to her alone.

One night, when I was drifting towards sleep, the story emerged. It hovered before me, like a moth. I pushed sleep aside jumped up, snatched the surprised story, jammed it into an empty page in my diary and banged it shut.
Then I went back to sleep.

The next morning I read the story. I trimmed the edges, polished it just a bit more and re read it. Then I went to my desk and started drawing her story around the woman, piece by piece like a jigsaw puzzle, I created, erased, redrew and fit in, stylized, tweaked, cut, shaped and stuck…Oh the joy of working for myself at my own pace! I do not know where the journey into this picture will take me. Like life itself, I am figuring out as I go along. But a monster that had once threatened to consume me has long ago disintegrated into fine dust.

vignettes from my home

2009-02-05T14:35:00.000+05:30

since so many of you are showing pictures of your stylish houses, i thought i should share some glimpses of my home too. welcome! make yourselves comfy while i get you a cup of tea...

Tagged! The Sixth of Sixth

2009-02-01T20:39:00.000+05:30

Robyn has tagged me!
This time the tag is about showing your sixth picture in the sixth folder.
I searched my sixth folder and the sixth picture turned out to be Cindy. Had I posted it, it would have been a repeat (see the tiger in the jungle on your right). Therefore, I had to make a slight adjustment and look at (the sixth picture in the sixth folder of) my archive CD. Since I had just cleared out most of my files into this CD a couple of weeks back, I guess it was fair enough.

All right, this is a section of a picture done in 2005. It is an illustration for Angela Carter's story called The Kiss,which I was trying to make into a picture book. I had obsessively worked on it for some three years, eating, breathing and sleeping The Kiss, The Kiss, The Kiss, until someone cruelly pointed out that it was going nowhere and perhaps I should be doing more exciting things with my illustrations. Much to my indignation, someone else treacherously agreed with her. I was aghast! Since I had driven some people up the wall with this project, endlessly spoken about it to anyone who would care to listen, and since it was true that I was getting more stuck than moving forward, I had to reluctantly call it quits. But that's probably the best thing I ever did because it enabled me to move onto newer and better things with the lessons I learnt from illustrating this story ; and it enabled those who came into contact with me during that time to breathe a huge sigh of relief.

In this illustration, a man who wants to kiss the King's wife gives her three bowls to drink from. He has filled two of them with water and one with vodka to prove a point to her, so that she, the King's wife, allows him to kiss her once, on the lips.

Well, here are the six others whom I have tagged:
Gwen
Karine
Mizu Designs
Chethana
Embellisher
Sagar

Here are the rules:
1. Pick the 6th picture in your 6th folder
2. Post the story that goes along with it
3. Tag 6 other people to do the same thing and let them know.

A Poison Tree

2009-01-30T10:58:00.001+05:30

A Poison Tree

I was angry with my friend:
I told my wrath, my wrath did end.
I was angry with my foe:
I told it not, my wrath did grow.

And I watered it in fears
Night and morning with my tears,
And I sunned it with smiles
And with soft deceitful wiles.

And it grew both day and night,
Till it bore an apple bright,
And my foe beheld it shine,
And he knew that it was mine -

And into my garden stole
When the night had veiled the pole;
In the morning, glad, I see
My foe outstretched beneath the tree.
-- William Blake

In the last Lit for Life session, we were each asked to bring a poem that meant something to us. Cathy, the youngest in the class, brought William Blake’s A Poison Tree and read it out poignantly. Unlike the rest of us who had either taken a printout or a photocopy of the poem from a book, Cathy had written down the poem and made copies for all of us. I am so used to seeing the printed word constantly, even in letters written to me; I must admit that it was pleasant to see someone’s handwriting for a change.

If this poem A Poison Tree, is analysed, it falls apart completely. It does not withstand the questions it raises. I think the poem should be read and taken for just what it is – Blake being human like the rest of us, rejoices at the elimination of a foe.

a Reminder to Myself

2009-01-24T22:56:00.000+05:30

It has never bothered me a bit when people say that what I’m doing is not art. I don’t think of myself as making art.
I do what I do because I want to, because painting is the best way I’ve found to get along with myself.
-— R. Rauschenberg

movement...

2009-01-22T15:47:00.000+05:30

I never promised the universe that I would draw brilliantly; I only promised that I would draw.
--pRiya
adapted from a quote by Elizabeth Gilbert

Tagged again!

2009-01-20T19:45:00.000+05:30

jour·nal n. A personal record of occurrences, experiences, and reflections kept on a regular basis; a diary.
--http://dictionary.reference.com/browse/journal

I have been tagged again by Sylvie. This time I have to say six things about myself, so I decided to show six of my journals. Whatever the dictionary might say, I'd like to consider a journal as a book where I regularly choose to do and say whatever I want, somewhat like a non virtual blog.
While shifting house and clearing stuff, I discovered that I have always been a journal keeper long, long before I knew that books containing a mish mash of jottings, drawings and collected bits and pieces was called a 'journal'. My earliest journal dates back to 1978 where I wrote and illustrated a story very much resembling all the Enid Blytons that I then loved to read.

Here are some of my journals:

this is an early one. i have pasted movie tickets (a hindi masala movie that too) and an example of the first time i tried marbling.

I used to carry this tiny book in my purse to church on Sundays, and then when the preacher droned on during a sermon, I made these patterns. I'd bring it home and complete them. Yes, it caused a minor murmur and curious sideways glances, but no one was shocked enough to shoo me away.

This journal I kept during the time when I taught in a yuppy Art College for rich kids. They had these endless meetings where members of the faculty would expound at length on the intricacies of teaching Art and Design using bombastic jargon. Looks like something colourful and productive did come out of sitting in a room full of hot air.

This gorgeous journal is hand made by Jenny Pinto of the paper making fame. Yes, Cindy has dug her claws into the cover before I caught her on time. You can see some of the inside pages here.

I collect all the pictures that I like - cards, cuttings of brochures from my visits to museums abroad, pictures that I'd like to keep from magazines etc. and stick them as references here. This journal has its virtual partner in my Seaweed Soup blog.

I got this beautiful new journal as a Christmas gift from a friend - a formidably intelligent woman who is perhaps as direct in her speech as I am and whom I admire greatly. I love it and I will find something suitable to fill in it soon.

Two Exciting Places

2009-01-17T14:20:00.000+05:30

There are some blogs which sweep me off my feet and carry me away so deep into blogland that getting back into mundane everyday life is almost a trial.

Here is the first one:
CHAI PILGRIMAGE
Jenny and Patrick, two very brave Americans, travel through India and Nepal drinking cups and cups of masala chai along the way and interacting with tons of interesting people. The photography, the writing, Jenny's intensely colourful illustrations capture the essense of India in a journey through its chai in a way I have never seen done before.

and the second:
THE HERMITAGE
Just as I was despairing about the usualness of most blogs, I stumbled upon this treat, a jewel. Rima and her friend Tui are fellow travellers who make their living selling their art as they make their way through different places in their 'caravan'. Rima's stories are mesmerizing and her illustrations are soul stirringly beautiful. What an incredible life!

A Disintegration of Things Past

2009-01-16T16:10:00.001+05:30

Not so, my heart: but there is fruit,
And thou hast hands.
Recover all thy sigh-blown age
On double pleasures: leave thy cold dispute
Of what is fit, and not forsake thy cage,
Thy rope of sands,
Which pettie thoughts have made, and made to thee
Good cable, to enforce and draw,
And be thy law,
While thou didst wink and wouldst not see.
--George Herbert. The Collar

Tell me a Story

2009-01-13T22:33:00.002+05:30

There was an old woman tossed up in a basket,
Seventeen times as high as the moon;
Where she was going I couldn't but ask it,
For in her hand she carried a broom.
Old woman, old woman, old woman, quoth I,
Where are you going to up so high?
To brush the cobwebs off the sky!
May I go with you?
Aye, by-and-by.
--Nursery Rhyme
(Illustration for 'Yama' a story printed in 2006)

Listening to stories was something I took for granted in childhood. The personal interaction with the storyteller (usually my grandmother) and the imagery that the vividness of the descriptions conjured in my young mind was an experience unparalleled. When was the last time I was told a story? When I last gossiped with a friend over the phone perhaps? That is the closest I get to being told a story these days.
Until yesterday that is.
Yesterday was the second last of a three month session of Lit for Life during which we read through, discussed and unravelled the mysteries of a variety of poems. All of us were sitting there tired and jaded after a day full of various tasks. Then Wendy gave us copies of Tennyson’s The Lady of Shalott. Before she began the poem, she told us the story. Wendy is a passionate speaker, a very good storyteller. As she spoke, magic happened, the imagery played before me in my mind, my tiredness was forgotten and I was riveted.
Now Wendy doesn’t look anything like the old crone telling the story in the picture above, but as she was telling the story, I broke off listening for one brief moment to look at the faces of the others around me.
Their expressions were just like those of the children in my illustration.

Do have a look at Rima's delightful illustration of The Old Woman in a Basket here.

Strands of Silver

2009-01-11T12:10:00.000+05:30

when sunlight strikes, wonderful things happen.
you will have to click on the pictures and open them up to see them at their best.
a few more garden pictures here.

Gosh!

2009-01-10T08:27:00.000+05:30

This calls for a celebration: Redbook has been featured on my favourite Indian Art Blog Masala Chai. Do have a look and leave your comments.

2009-01-06T12:21:00.000+05:30

If you just set out to be liked, you would be prepared to compromise on anything at any time and you would achieve nothing.
--Margaret Thatcher

New Year!

2008-12-31T10:43:00.000+05:30

I had a great Christmas. Aside from friends cooking me a wonderful meal of roast chicken wrapped in bacon with apple and sausage stuffing on Christmas day, I had another friend (admirer) come over a day earlier with a kilo of giant American grapes and gush about ‘how talented’ I was…..aaah! I am never tired of hearing that! We had ten years worth of catching up to do.

Then Emby crashed into my house the day after Christmas. She brought me a miniature box of mints and declared that she wanted the empty box back after I’d eaten the mints. Then while swigging Kahlua and coke she wolfed down enormous chunks of booze laden fruitcake (also her contribution), while regaling me with hilarious anecdote after anecdote about the people in her life. Then she polished off two bowls of strawberries soaked in booze and pounced at a little toy auto on my bookshelf and threw herself over the floor driving the thing at top speed until it crashed into a table leg and toppled over. When Emby talks about the man in her life, she gets on a high and acts just like the guy wearing black in this video - same action, gestures and all.

Yesterday, I got a parcel all the way from Belgium. Megha, who makes the loveliest things ever, sent me this utterly charming little wreath which she made herself. I simply love the bright colours. It is so pretty. Thank you Megha! This is a gift that I will treasure and display every year.

What else? Well then its been back to the usual – finishing deadlines, cleaning the house, buying pots and fertilizer for the garden, stocking up on veggies to detox all the Christmas away from the system…New Year will be ushered in by finishing off that bottle of Kahlua and the riveting and hilarious Tamil Pulp Fiction.
Happy New Year everyone!

-

2008-12-30T21:39:00.000+05:30

back to drawing.
the illustration on top is for those usual saccharine stories written for children, this one called 'the collector of smiles'. the name itself is enough to put one off reading the rubbish. sometimes i wonder what the children of the authors of these stories must be like, living under the stress on them to be sweet, draw nice things, do good deeds etc. in the stories, each time the children do something a wee bit naughty, they learn a lesson, writhe in guilt and are told a moral by their staunchly upright elders (older person always knows best). i presume such children probably grow up to become smug, perfect, sanctimonious, humourless adults just like their starchy parents. look at the boy in the picture wearing pastel blue - all he needs is a frigging halo around his head. 'collector of smiles', bah!

the picture below is a drawing for a story that i really enjoyed reading. written for the DH school edition, it was hilarious, well written and rivetting. there was a moral to the story but it was told with a terrific sense of humour and without that patronizing undertone that so characterizes stories written for children. unfortuntely the story was put on hold and i have to illustrate yet another moralizing story. lets hope the editor changes her mind and prints this one at a later stage too.

As Christmassy as it get...

2008-12-21T21:27:00.000+05:30

Snowflakes!

2008-12-19T17:21:00.000+05:30

see how here
Big Fat Brekkie is back.

the cauldron simmers...

2008-12-19T02:18:00.000+05:30

There are some issues which refuse to be swept away. Hiding it under the carpet creates a rather ugly bump which doesn't harmonize with whatever ‘celebration’ we have this Christmas and New Year. We might choose to carry on with life and celebrating this season, but what has just happened is like a monster that has just been killed and buried. But is it completely dead? Can I still hear its heart beating...somewhere?

My friend and I had a conversation about the aftermath of 26/11 that went something like this:
She: We have to keep pushing for change.
Me: Yes, but what can we really do?
She: Make a difference individually and collectively.
Me: Yeah, sure! You know what? Unless we know specifically what to do to bring about a change, nothing can really happen. We will go on as before.
She: Cynical answers are not a solution.
Me: Do you have a solution?
She: No.
Me: If you really think about it, there is nothing that we can really do except talk in platitudes. The frustration is like hitting our heads against a wall.
She: If enough heads hit against a wall it will crumble.
Me: Yes, but then what? We realize that the other side of the wall is just the same as the side that we are on, so the entire effort is futile.
She: Sigh! Yes!

I don’t think I know how to fully express the different emotions inside me regarding 26/11. Neither do I know what to do about it. The endless rantings and writings about what should have, could be or must be done has become an annoying irritation.
The ridiculousness and bewilderment of the aftermath of 26/11 is expressed very well in this essay:

What our anger says about us
Looking back on the whole array of reactions to the horrific events in Mumbai, there is one particular statement that stands out. Not because it was silly and offensive, which it undeniably was, but because it was, well so peculiar and as it turns out, twistedly perceptive. I am referring to Mukhtar Abbas Naqvi's crack about women wearing lipstick and powder, who abuse politicians and the democratic process. What was strange about Naqvi's statement was that it made gratuitously, in response to an unrelated question, apart from which it went on to defend the presence of Ram Gopal Varma as part of Vilas Rao Deshmukh's entourage, dismissing it as a trivial incident. Now, why would a senior BJP leader feel the need to lash out at
protesters instead of the government and, in fact, end up defending a rival politician?

Naqvi's reaction reveals an underlying faultline that runs through the terrorism narrative, one that separates the enabled India from the rest of the country. The politicians live in both worlds and in stressful times such as these give away their real feelings about the world of lipstick and powder. It underscores that while we focus on the contempt the educated class has for the politician, the reverse is equally true. In the eyes of a politician like Naqvi, the elite are nothing but a pampered, self-indulgent lot of disconnected people, cozying up to politicians in times of need, and cursing them otherwise.

And while one can find many reasons to disagree with Naqvi and his ilk, going by last fortnight's performance, perhaps there is something legitimate about his contempt. The anger we saw on the streets and which news channels were quick to glorify, reeked for the most part, of a petulant sense of entitlement. Fear made us speak our minds and reveal how little we carry there. For instance, a lot of people warmed to the idea that we should stop paying our taxes till something is done and that Mumbai's taxes should be used for Mumbai. The notion that taxes are a form of entitlement which allow higher privileges for those who pay more reveals the underlying mental model at work here. The rich pay more, and like it happens in the market, should therefore get more. Now that we pay more taxes, let us flash our platinum cards and have the valet park our cars.

The endless articles that spoke of the Taj as an icon of Mumbai which apparently dandled the authors on its demure knees while tenderly feeding them pate de foie gras do so without a trace of self-consciousness. For anyone to believe that Mumbai can be encapsulated by a five-star hotel, no matter how old and how gracious, can only be a staggering act of self-deception. Just as to believe that Mumbai is represented by Shobhaa De, Alyque Padamsee, Prahlad Kakkar and sundry filmstars.

Read the rest of the article here
Santosh Desai
15 Dec 2008
Times of India