Narcissus

I look down
That is me
Sunk in the water
A vine grows from my eyes,
A flower blossom
As I spread my hands
With temptation
It cries.
"Spread your hands not!
Boatman, from where do you come?"

The temptation of
our forefather
And
his great gift for us
Lust and Desire;
Thus exists
The need for darkness
And the art of theft.

Narcissus

Nurcissus, as a mostly celebrated theme for painting is re-presented in this art work. The treatment with fine black and white lines is inspired from the pre-modern etching prints. The entire image is created in Photoshop.

"I see not only the eye of an other; I see also that he looks at me." That is, what is SEEN is not only a thing, a dead object, but also a responding subject, an intention even. If a LOOK can be seen, then empiricism and all the reductionisms that are associated with it are destroyed. But a look CAN be seen, not only the face, but another face's glance at my face.
Jaques Derrida
Derrida quotes Scheler in his essay "Violence and Metaphysics: An Essay on the Thought of
Emmanuel Levinas”, Writing and difference.

The Disposables

What we were talking about

Just before sometime

Now, there is no word, no sound

Only a white noise of radio fills the air

Just before sometime

We were sitting here,

And the bonsai orange plant grew up to a tree,

Its leaves and branches reached out of the window

And it was all orange and

An afternoon in orange colour...

Now I see you standing below the street light

The city is wrapped in dusty fog.

From my sky high balcony I look at you

And the clock, hanging from my wall,

Melts down...

Just before sometime

A ball of thread dropped from my hand

And rolled down,

Like a little girl hopping through the staircase

Enmeshing me in a web of thoughts

A spider spins a web on my window

And a yellow butterfly searching for its way out

Just got stuck…

A noisy bird sitting on the electricity wire

Flew away, just before sometime

I cannot recall its name...

Just before sometime

The smoke coiled up;

Coiled up to the sky

And in a tempest

Everything blew away.

Everything… my bed, my table, my roof...

The wind rushed in through the window

And blew away the words from my notebook

The sodden floor got littered with words...

Just before sometime

A ball of thread dropped from my hand

And rolled down the staircase,

Following you…

         

I did not see you leaving

I can only smell the fragrance of your absence.

From here, I see the train leaving

Like a snake going inside a tunnel

Carrying the boxes of cacophony...

What we were talking just before sometime

Please try to remember; I got nothing is in my mind

Let us try to get back to our conversation

What we were talking just before sometimes...

Landscape: Khowai

Heart kept in the cup of my palm
Turned red with rust
The meandering route snakes
Through my body greyed with dust.

Now from the branches of eucalyptus
The crescent moons are hanging.
Thousands of moons
Fall and fill to bury me up
One by one

Each moon turns into a drop of tear
And flows away like a stream
A rain of moon:
Rain and rain,
Rain washes and erodes the flesh
from my rusted heart,
lump by lump

Rains, more it rains
And I sink in each rain drop

A Moment with You

Like the way we sit sometime
Faceing each other
Like the way a tree of silence
Grows with each breath...

POEM

What a great invoking of darkness
I have enamoured.
The magical riverside, where you stand waiting
Delicate yet mysterious your breast
And the crescent moon is eager to see them...

I want to bathe you with darkness.
Your sorrow forlorn the night
Grieves of the ages reflects on your face
And the stars float in the dream

This is the secret hymn of love in void
I have kept you as a prayer in darkness.

Conversation

What is there to regret?
In my thresh wrecked hut
There was never a door, nor a window.
You walked in,
Took a seat,
Resting your head on my shoulder
You sang a song,
Your tears wetted my violin.
And very quietly...

As if we told a fairy tale to each other
With pure intimacy.

the Ancient Stones

And…
Like the night, falls an ancient stone ;
Rolling across the villages and the valleys.
Spreading its roots at the threshold of a temple,
The temple of sun and the gods of all arts.
Erecting the majestic gateway of civilization…

The ships of Babylon are anchored there
Brought by the wings of the flying cranes
A murmuring crowd steps up on the stone.

A multitude of men
With bag full of words;
Crowd in the markets
Dealing in bustling tales

The world shrivels up into the womb,
And devoured into Mayadevi’s dream
Where moaning are condensed into a fossil

On the ends of my fingers
Numerous eyes have sprouted like grass
Running them through, I can see
Manuscripts of Dilbar Dosai

Embracing the towering pillars
That reach beyond the sky
I hear the Yakshi of Sanchi,
And her melodious lullaby.

Extending my palms I gather
Rain drops on plantain leaves.
A fear of the wilderness
Advancing like a mighty stream
Instilled by the monsoons

Lumps of flesh
From my heart
Crumble into the flowing stream
And the wide field is devastated
Where the bones of my ancestors germinates

My love and earth…
For numerous time I have lost my memory
And from the crux of the stone
I have excavated repetitively /insistently/persistently
Hanging them all around
I create the art of the primitives.

Here, it’s all yours, everything I leave behind
My eyes, my voice, my hands.
Piling one on another you will build
Palace, bridge, dam, roads and harbor

With your touch you will see
The faint tune from far
In a kiss you will find the abandoned road
Covered with tall grass.