Sunday 27 April 2014

Home is Home No More

It's been a year.
I look around.
I see that nothing has changed.
Except that it has.
Everything has.

People who were once called friends,
They are now strangers.
It's like meeting them for the first time.
But they're still the same.
Playing HALO 3 on the Xbox.
Giggling amongst themselves at their lame jokes.
Making fun of each other.
Yes, it's all the same.

Not just my friends,
But my family too has changed.
My sister, she has
Broken out of her tomboyish shell.
A young woman of 16,
Her actions seem obviously
More mature than mine.
My parents seem distant, stressed and cold.
What happened to the warmth, the love?
The warm hugs that used to make me feel safe
Cease to do so.
It seems robotic,
Forced onto me by societal norms.
Everything seems so dry and shrivelled up.

Home isn't home anymore.

I look at the walls.
They are clothed now
With posters of movies and TV shows.
Large and small,
They advertise, propagate.
They lure customers in.
Success will be theirs forever.
The once blank wall
Leaves no room for creative wonder.
It is quite stifling in this room.
It feels more boxier,
Defined.
Except for that one rectangle of comfort
That shall always be mine.
My bed.
The one thing that hasn't changed.
Still comfortable,
With pleasant dreams and
Moon rays falling in through the window.
And then it hits me.

What if it isn't the room that's changed?
Or my parents, sister or friends?
What if it's me?

Home isn't home anymore.

Thursday 24 April 2014

Ember of Light


I walk the lonely stairs.
Right to the top.
I look around.
No one.
Not a soul.
Empty darkness...
Just like me.
I sit on the concrete ledge,
Smoothened by paint and P.O.P.
The stark white
Blinds me.
I like the dark.
It’s been home
For 3 years,
While my parents
Busy with their lives
Told me the whats and hows
Of life. My life.
I was a slave.
Their slave.
I lived not for me
But them.
Them, Oblivion’s children.
My sister,
The sheep
Amidst all the bitterness
Was my only hope.
The only ember of light
In my darkness.
I lived only to see her smile,
Her sleeping face
Every morning, angelic,
Lying amidst
Soft thick blankets
Which smelled of strawberry jam
Or chocolate cake,
Whichever she’d eaten,
With hints of hair oil.
Until two months ago
When Death’s arms embraced her.

Today I stand
Surrounded by white
Disturbed by the brown of a ladder.
And a rope,
Rough and knotted,
Thick as my arm.
Its braids within a braid
Remind me of my sister’s life
Within mine.
How we were intertwined,
Until the fatal day.

I look below.
Happy people, moving on
With their lives.
Is the jump worth it?
I step onto the flat edge
Of the low wall.
Nothing above.
Nothing below.
It feels rough on my feet
The edge,
Like my parents have been
On me.

I stare out
Waiting for Death
A friend from the dark.
A double tap on my shoulder
Turns me around.
No one, but wait...
My sister’s face in the wall.
White, pale, sad.
A hallucination
Or a sign?
I step down,
Off the ledge
Back on solid ground.
A salty tear
Escapes my eye
And into my mouth.
There’s too much to live for.
Today, …today I live.

Friday 18 April 2014

Art Acknowledge - Reflections

The course started off with all of us talking about ourselves. We wrote down 30 things that defined us on sheets of paper, made paper planes out them and flew them around class. Then we chose one and illustrated the different aspects to the person. It was quite fun and we got to know quite a lot about the person. I wouldn't say this helped us understand them completely, but we knew a little more about them.
Later on we picked a medium we were comfortable with. We were now supposed to create a piece that would show our explorations, possibly going beyond our limits.
I chose writing as my medium, though I was thinking of choosing illustration, and wrote 'Tale from a Town'.
The writers were supposed to do something that was post-structural and on researching I found out that post-structural pieces of work were 'pro-reader'. It meant that the meaning the author intended was secondary to what the reader would have perceived from the piece.
Thus a reader could extend, interpret, even give a new meaning to the writing.
I realised this was quite challenging. It's not exactly easy to create a piece of writing that allows multiple, possibly contradictory, interpretations.
I'm not sure if I've done this unconsciously though. But I did not intend the writing to be post-structuralist.

The weeks after that were spent discussing socio-environmental issues. We were to put up an exhibition, 3 of them, on those issues. Our first exhibition, we decided was going to be on theme of 'Individuality vs Utopia'. Individuality as in the person we each as individuals want to be, being able to do, believe, practice whatever we want. Utopia would be the common ideologies of the public, usually orthodox and against the 'minorities' in the society, though they (the minority) are more in number.
It turned out to be the only exhibition we put up. We had discussions with two other facilitators, one about social issues, the other about environmental issues. What we needed was, lets say, a look at the other side of the coin. Having expanded our view on things, we were to take a stand on the topic.
The process behind putting up the exhibition itself was a learning. We learnt:
Space Design - where and how the art pieces would go, how the positioning would affect the movement of the crowd in the N3 basement (where it was being held).
Curatorial Note Writing - a write-up on the exhibition, the issue we were dealing with and the various types of work being put up, apparently very crucial for the exhibition in the sense that it was the basis for filtering received art pieces.
Making Posters and Flyers - classic example of VCD, the optimum font size, colours, size of objects and position of all the elements on the paper.
Making a Website - classic example of Graphic Design, again pretty similar to making the posters, we had to consider the size and colour of fonts, pictures, backgrounds, and the general positioning of all the elements on the webpage.

I'll admit it was quite tiresome, trying to figure out what to do and how to do it. With the talks by various people, we just got even more confused. But at the end of the day we managed to pull everything together and put up a pretty good exhibit of the work we'd received and given in ourselves.
I wrote three more pieces (other than Tale from a Town), two poems (Outcast, Shields) and one story (Knotted Infinitely), and put it together in the form of a book. I've put up the pieces on this blog just below.

It's been a pretty cool course. Quite informative on how hectic organising art exhibitions can be. But it's something I wouldn't mind trying again.

Outcast


They say we have freedom.
But from what?
We're stuck in a void
Where the only people
Who rise,
Are those who have
Already risen.
Our words are
The void we are stuck in.
Their words', absolute.
Who said we have freedom?
Who says we're a democracy?

They mock me,
Push me around,
Watch me fall.
And laugh.
I'm not a plaything, a toy.
I'm not an alien.
I'm not so different from them.
I'm no different from you.
Then why treat me this way?

They don't accept it.
"It isn't a way of life."
"It isn't normal."
Is anything normal?
'Majority wins' isn't.
It's just unfair.
My 'condition' they say
Is a 'disease'.
Snaking its way
Through the crowd
Spreading, making them
Fall at its feet.
I've fallen too.
Not at its feet.
But at their feet
Whose every word is
Framed and hung on walls,
Worshipped like Gods,
By those who've
Shunned us all.

Saturday 12 April 2014

Shields


She sat in the corners 
Right at the back. 
Though dark, she would hope 
They’d cut her some slack. 
But the light of their evil 
Would shine, find her out. 
Torture her, torment her 
Till herself she’d doubt. 
Feelings of helplessness 
Would wash over her. 
For days it repeated. 
She soon was a loner. 
It’s not that people
Did not approach. 
She just stayed away. 
Like they would from a roach. 
Running away 
She hid in a shell. 
How she was coping, 
No one could tell. 
Her parents were also 
Kept far at bay. 
They were so in the dark 
They could help in no way. 
She’d created a void 
Where her heart should’ve been. 
From The Wizard of Oz, she was 
The man made of tin. 
Though the sadists soon 
Got tired of their game, 
The shell and her ‘shyness’ 
Were not to wane. 
She wasn’t cold to others. 
She was cold to herself. 
The only love she felt were 
Words of comfort from herself. 
She’d put on a smile 
For those she called friends. 
Everyone around her thought 
She was making amends. 
Alas! They could not have 
Been farther from truth. 
She was still treating 
Herself with the same ruth 
The kids in her class 
Hadn’t treated her with. 
But what had been done 
Could not be undid. 
She felt as worthless 
Two years after. 
Sad and alone she was 
Despite her friends’ laughter. 
Her parents and friends 
Tried to break through 
The many layers around her. 
Some did manage a few. 
Though she’d allowed them 
To let themselves in, 
She could never let them 
Come deep within. 
The Scar of Difference 
Had burned its way through. 
The only way out was 
To build herself anew. 
It was quite a task. 
Would last her for life. 
The only other option: 
To die by the knife. 
Month by month,
Day after day.
Through two years
She’d found her way. 
She’d met a girl,
Her friend transformed. 
Was just like her.
Her heart was warmed.
The layers around her,
Slowly they melted.
Layered still she was though, 
In case she was pelted,
By tormentors again.
Because of difference, so cruel.
Never again did she want 
To be another tool.
She still shields herself
Keeping everything out.
To this day 
She’s walking about.