Friday, June 28, 2019
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.
Friday, June 21, 2019
behind the veil
a glimpse of red
by a white cloth
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.
Monday, June 17, 2019
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.
Friday, June 14, 2019
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
Sunday, June 09, 2019
Monday, June 03, 2019
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