Immaterial

 

10x13.5 inches; Pen and ink over graphite pencil on tinted drawing paper (Click on image to enlarge)

We are at war with ourselves.
Fighting for life with ‘Self Destruct’ programmed into our motherboards.
Do and die. Kill and be killed. All guts, no glory!
It is a slow burn horror flick with no survivors!
This IS civilized; we are assured. This IS progress.
The world is an orange.
We have peeled off the rind, dug our nails deep into it for oil, and squeezed out all the juices from each one of its carpels, and dumped the rest in radioactive waste.
The corporates own the seeds; also the air, water and our freedom.
The filthy rich and powerful own the corporates.
We own nothing, not even our own selves!
All of that conceit, that greed, that deceit, that unbridled need to win, will come to nothing.
The genocide, the ecocide, the hate mongering and democide will not make us invincible!
We will perish, and rot, and so will the memory of our plot.
What will remain is speculation and dust, on our toxic dreams and lust, in between the layers of the earth’s lithosphere.

Snail Trail

 

10 x 13.5 inches; Pen and ink over graphite pencil on tinted drawing paper (Click on image to enlarge)

I trace the stray strands of coiled hair
Clinging to your forehead,
Damp with perspiration.
My fingertips slick with your saliva
Blends the cool wetness,
Absorbing your attention.
As my fingers travel on your bareness,
A creeper trailing a wall
In search for lubrication,
My parched mouth nibbles your ear,
Sucking out moist moans
From the well of satiation!
My face slips onto your broad shoulder
Held in the cup of your neck,
Inhaling the aroma of passion,
While my tongue licks your caramel skin
Moving south, leaving wet trails
On a map without a destination…
I am a nomad without a planned route,
In the wild landscape of your body
Discovering terrain for exploration.
My tongue lingers on mounds and valleys,
On downy fields and musky clefts,
Heady with a sensual revelation!
When your fingers plough through my hair
With an infectious hot urgency,

I sense ecstasy in dissolution!

Thorn In My Side

 

13.5x10 inches; Pen and ink over graphite pencil on tinted drawing paper (Click on image to enlarge)

It's not guilt or a tug of war

Between the heart and the head,

Neither a moral check mate!

But what it is, is a ticking reminder

Of my most intimate dread,

Of becoming like those I negate,

Enslaved by fame, greed and power

Throttling my humanity dead!

Better to suffer this thorn in my fate

Than to become a vicious gardener,

Growing thorns in every flower bed!

Inconvenient Truth

 

10x13.5 inches; Pen and ink over graphite pencil on tinted drawing paper (Click on image to enlarge)

NO!
I DON’T want to hear about it!
I DON’T want to know!
There is no
Singular universal truth,
NO!
There is nothing
You can do
To
Deceive my mind
Into giving up my faith
In the truth I know.
You claim it is delusion!
Yes!
You liar! You spawn of filth!
No.
Your truth is not mine!
YOU are the deluded one.
You make me
Feel SO
Unsafe!
I want to throw up!
Why are you doing this
To
ME?
Are you not ashamed
Of Such disgrace?
No.
I will not break out
Of my truth!
It protects me
From the likes of you.
No b-itch!
It’s NOT denial.
Your rationale
Hurts my belief.
Your knowledge
Pricks my sentiments.
Curiosity
Is the worst temptation,
And knowledge
Shall truly be
The downfall of
Me!

Gastropoda eroticum

 

20x30 inches; Pen and ink over graphite pencil on tinted drawing paper (Click on image to enlarge)

A fantastic creature has manifested; from the class of molluscs, scientifically named as Gastropoda which we commonly call slugs and snails, blurring the lines between reality and wishful thinking. Its body resembles a human tongue, without eyes and without mouth and its shell is bulbous with psychedelic patterns. It senses the surrounding through touch and taste; flicking, licking and slobbering its way over contoured surfaces leaving a snail trail in its path. It feeds on arousal and grows on providing pleasure. If annoyed it doesn’t hesitate to sting. Sadly not available in pet stores! Not all creatures exist in reality. They are not meant to either! They exist in the fertile world of our imagination. They are manifested in our dreams. They spirit us away into the realms of myths, folklores, stories and virtual reality! A space which distorts reality to preserve the illusion which is reality. Imagination has no rules, no logic and adheres to no scientific reasoning but without its fertile grounds even science can’t grow.

Emasculation

 

20.5x28.5 inches; Watercolour, pen and ink over graphite pencil on handmade paper (Click on image to enlarge)

I am not a masculine man.

I deny to fit into that notion of a man.

I recoil from what I must become

To prove that I am enough of a man.

 

Many tried to make a man

Of what they found in me of a man!

Between my legs lay, for some,

Proof enough to define me as a man.

 

Once I was told by a proud macho man,

“Either you grow into a manly man

Or you must a man’s victim become!”

I wilted and curled into a wimpy man.

 

Teased for being the sissy man,

Bullied for not being a tough man,

I grew up to remain, for some,

A complete disgrace to the name of man.

 

I don’t care to be accepted as a man

Because that which confines every man,

I defied; to breathe my freedom,

I embody the fear of emasculation in each man.

Mohini

 

20.5x28.5 inches; Watercolour, pen and ink over graphite pencil on handmade paper (Click on image to enlarge)

I dress up for the night. I have washed myself in a bucket of water. A necessity that feels more like a luxury as water is precious. The municipal tap flows for two hours every day. We are a home of eight. That bucket of water was the ocean to me. I rose from it to become Mohini from Mohan.

I put on my makeup. The face powder, I bought with my money. A gift to myself for my last birthday. The kajal pencil, now a 2 inch stub, was generously donated by Padma. The red lipstick I stole from a shop that has pretty ladies working as sales girls. I wish I could get a job like that. Yes, I do earn a living, being a bride for one night to strange lovers, but the money is barely enough for rent, clothes and food.

I look at myself in the mirror. I admire the illusion of beauty I see there. The light from one naked bulb bathes my form in bright light and deep shadows. Like a solar eclipse when Raahu tries to devour the sun. I pluck a stray hair on my upper lip and a wayward eyelash with a pair of tweezers. I place a black dot on the left, over my upper lip, mid-way between the corner of my lip and nostril. Perfect.

I take a band of long soft cloth, cut from an old cotton saree and wrap it around the lower part of my chest. A little tightly, not tight enough to cause trouble breathing. Then I push the soft fleshy upper part of my chest from both sides near the armpits, upwards and inwards towards the centre of my chest. I feel a shiver as I see my cleavage take shape where my chest hair used to be. I adjust the tightness of the band of cloth to keep the cleavage in position.

I wear a sleeveless white blouse with a deep neckline. Deep enough to reveal the cleavage I created but not the means holding it in place. I have a pair of balloons filled with water, something Bobby had taught me. I insert them each in the two empty tents in my blouse which were meant to house soft breasts. The water filled balloons create a bounce that mimics real breasts better than sponge pads. It has its risk too if the balloons burst, but I still prefer it. I roll my shoulder and adjust the strap of the blouse checking the bounce.  

I drape a pearly white chiffon saree with conch shell design embroidered with sequins, the latest fashion popularized by the actress Bhanumati, over my bleached white petticoat. Bleach to keep the spots and germs away. I wish I could bleach away the germs inside me too but that is another story. I look at my reflection in the mirror again. I put on my beaded dangler earrings and a matching bead necklace, stolen from my elder sister, many years ago. The only heirloom I possess to remind me of the family I was born to. I begin to recognize myself now. “Me Mohini!” I whisper.

Now, to complete the transformation I pick up the wig Lakshmi lent me yesterday. She is not going out to meet clients for the next few days. She is not well. High fever with a nasty cough. So, I borrowed her wig; silky and shiny black hair styled in waves like the dark ocean raging inside me. I put it on and flip my head back to feel the hair cascade around my neck. I tilt my head, my eyes half closed as if I am drunk on the nectar of life and I blow a kiss at my reflection.

I pick up my handbag and check if I have the condoms and sachets of lube. A social worker keeps giving us these things for free. Keeps us safe from diseases, she says. There are many dangers other than diseases that come with the territory in the line of my work. I feel far from safe but at least she is trying to keep me safe from one villain. I throw in my comb, lipstick and an antiseptic ointment. I wear my flat slip-on sandals. No heels for me. You never know when you need to run. I switch off the light and I shout “I am going out!” and I step out into the night humming a song to myself.

“I am a bride for a night, every night!

A flickering flame for willing lovers

Who drink from my pot of eternal life,

Turning to dust on the bed covers

At the end of every night, every night!”