Playing Holi

These are my friends, or boys living downstairs from our terrace barsaati, in Calcutta. The little boy on the left, longing to join in the fun, is my brother Bhupen, seven years younger than I am. I am using a borrowed camera, as usual, and trying to keep it, and me, well away from the water and mess.

Waiting for the Catch

Shroud

behind the veil

a glimpse of red

a cover-up

blood

by a white cloth

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Anonymous wrote:

My heart sinks at the sight of the shroud and its text. It reminds me of the red frock of the child in Schindler's List. The sharpness of the creases holds such a rigid finality... it is chilling rigor mortis.

Father and Child

Another very old picture, taken in Eden Gardens with a box camera. 

My own father wore a kurta, dhoti and Gujarati topi, and I certainly never had such swanky clothes. Still, the child's trust and pleasure at looking far, far up into his father's face must be familiar to everyone.

Gateway to Oblivion

for a man who did not want to be born

and having been born

wanted life to end early

and who continues to shout

about these or at least one of these

to unceasingly pry

into the origin of all possible life

in all possible parts of the vacuum

in which on a piece of a minor star

mostly called the earth

I am still alive

the path is alluring

the gate is blindingly illuminating

enough is enough

has been already forever

time to go

Barefoot in Calcutta: Going to School

Through the Curtain

A Painting in a Palette

Note the subtle use of colour in the upper right hand corner, suggestive of a pale sunset.  Is the figure on the right wearing a jester’s cap and bells? It is reminiscent of Poe’s story, A Cask of Amontillado, with the vengeful killer on the left, and the sad tinkle of bells as his walled in friend calls out faintly, « For the love of God, Montresor! »

Read A Cask of Amontillado