We are Chhinnamasta

 

 (Click on image to enlarge)

 

2020 was a year of creative collaborations. Such collaborations were a respite from the depression and anxiety which the COVID-19 pandemic pushed us into, and also helped me to deal with the pain of losing a loved one.

It was the year I lost my mother. She had been confined to her bed for more than 6 years after she suffered a cerebral stroke. Her left side was paralyzed and she never recovered completely. She suffered another stroke in 2019 which left her in a comatose condition. She could only open her eyes and stare blankly at us all. Nothing more. We could not tell what was going on inside her. We did not know if she could hear us. Her body did not respond to touch. She was with us in this condition for nearly a year. She passed away on 23rd August.

During that time I got introduced to this wonderful human being, James Strazza through Instagram. James is a talented musician and poet, who is battling disability and chronic illness for a very long time and he has been mostly confined to his bed and room for most of his life. His creativity has kept him afloat. His poems are thick with raw emotions and deep thoughts. 

The struggle of my mother and James, their fight for survival provided me with strength and made me realize that the confinement I was facing due to the pandemic was a minor discomfort compared to what my Ma had to go through or James has to withstand every day. It made me painfully aware of my privileges and helped me to make peace with the emotional turmoil inside me.

All this was instrumental for me to revisit the theme of 'Chhinnamasta'. It was meant as an illustration for one of Jame's poems, for the book 'Lyrical' which is a collection of his poetry. But of course it evolved beyond that and became a symbolic representation of what the eternal mother was teaching me through all the pain and suffering. 

We are Chhinnamasta! Each one of us.

Pancha Mahabhoota 4 - Tejas (fire)

12x16 inches; Pen drawing on acid free textured paper (Click on image to enlarge)

Fire

This life that we call our own

Is neither strong nor free;

A flame in the wind of death,

It trembles ceaselessly.

And this all we can do

To use our little light

Before, in the piercing wind,

It flickers into night:

To yield the heat of the flame,

To grudge not, but to give

Whatever we have of strength,

That one more flame may live.

- Dorothea Mackeller

Pancha Mahabhoota 3 - Kshiti (earth)

12x16 inches; Pen drawing on acid free textured paper (Click on image to enlarge)

The End Of The World

Here, at the end of the world,
the flowers bleed
as if they were hearts,
the hearts ooze a darkness
like India Ink,
& poets dip their pens in
& they write.

"Here, at the end of the world,"
they write,
not knowing what it means.
"Here, where the sky nurses on black milk,
where the smokestack feed the sky,
where the trees tremble in terror
& people come to resemble them. . . . "

Here, at the end of the world,
the poets are bleeding.
Writing & bleeding
are thought to be the same;
singing & bleeding
are thought to be the same.

Write us a letter!
Send us a parcel of food!
Comfort us with proverbs or candied fruit,
with talk of one God.
Distract us with theories of art
no one can prove.

Here at the end of the world
our heads are empty,
& the wind walks through them
like ghosts
through a haunted house. 

- Erica Jong

Pancha Mahabhoota 1 - Marut (wind/air/storm)

 12x16 inches; Pen drawing on acid free textured paper (Click on image to enlarge)

Subway Wind

Far down, down through the city's great, gaunt gut,

The gray train rushing bears the weary wind;

In the packed cars the fans the crowd's breath cut,

Leaving the sick and heavy air behind.

And pale-cheeked children seek the upper door

To give their summer jackets to the breeze;

Their laugh is swallowed in the deafening roar

Of captive wind that moans for fields and seas;

Seas cooling warm where native schooners drift

Through sleepy waters, while gulls wheel and sweep,

Waiting for windy waves the keels to lift

Lightly among the islands of the deep;

Islands of lofty palm trees blooming white

That lend their perfume to the tropic sea,

Where fields lie idle in the dew drenched night,

And the Trades float above them fresh and free.

- Claude McKay

Guilty As charged 7 - Gluttony

8x8 inches (unframed); Watercolour and Pen drawing on Executive Bond paper (Click on image to enlarge)

Gluttony is an emotional escape, a sign something is eating us.

-Peter De Vries, American author and editor

Guilty As Charged 5 - Vanity

8x8 inches (unframed); Watercolour and Pen drawing on Executive Bond paper (Click on image to enlarge)

‘Vanity and pride are different things, though the words are often used synonymously. A person may be proud without being vain. Pride relates more to our opinion of ourselves, vanity to what we would have others think of us.’

- Jane Austen, Pride and Prejudice

Guilty As Charged 4 - Envy

8x8 inches (unframed); Watercolour and Pen drawing on Executive Bond paper (Click on image to enlarge)

'The flower which is single need not envy the thorns that are numerous.'

- Rabindranath Tagore

Guilty As Charged 1 - Sloth

8x8 inches (unframed); Watercolour and Pen drawing on Executive Bond paper (Click on image to enlarge)

"I am overcome by my own amazing sloth…Can you please forgive me and believe that it is really because I want to do something well that I don't do it at all?"

-Elizabeth Bishop, Poet Laureate of the United States from 1949 to 1950, the Pulitzer Prize winner for Poetry in 1956, the National Book Award winner in 1970, and the recipient of the Neustadt International Prize for Literature in 1976.

Tiny Deceptions 4 - The Golden Fawn (Mirage)

3.5x5.5 inches; Watercolor and Pen drawing on executive bond paper (Click on image to enlarge)

Under a sheepskin, a wolf may hide

Under a flower, a snake

Yet the fault lies in our pride  

If we can’t spot the fake

- Rudra Kishore Mandal

Tiny Deceptions 3 - The Red Herring (Fallacy)

5.5x3.5 inches; Watercolor and Pen drawing on executive bond paper (Click on image to enlarge)

Ruthless mind brimming with unspoken words

Misleading glances hide cruel intent

Cloaks make the cuts deeper from pointy swords

Reality hurts when dreams are spent. 

- Rudra Kishore Mandal

Tiny Deceptions 2 - Two Faced Snake (Double Speak)

3.5x5.5 inches; Watercolor and Pen drawing on executive bond paper (Click on image to enlarge)

Tell me this and tell me that,

Don’t reveal the fault

But riddle it with fat.

Serve it hot with a pinch of salt.

- Rudra Kishore Mandal

Tiny Deceptions 1 - The Little Birdie (rumor)

5.5x3.5 inches; Watercolor and Pen drawing on executive bond paper (Click on image to enlarge)

Words waft in the wind

Like dandelion seeds

Searching for a fertile mind

To germinate into cruel deeds.

- Rudra Kishore Mandal

The Stigma Of Being An Ostrich

13.5x20.5 inches; Pen drawing on handmade paper with watercolour wash (Click on image to enlarge)
SOLD. In private collection

‘Ostrich Syndrome’ is a term used in psychiatry to define a situation of willful ignorance towards uncomfortable situations. It is the refusal of acknowledging something which is blatantly obvious, because one does not want to deal with it. The syndrome is so named because one human, somewhere, believed that an ostrich sticks its head in the sand when faced with danger and the rumor spread like wild fire! Historians believe the saying may have risen from the writings of Pliny the Elder who wrote "...they imagine, when they have thrust their head and neck into a bush, that the whole of their body is concealed" Yet, there is evidence that this is not true. Fact is Ostriches do not stick their heads in the sand or bush to ignore danger (They might do so while looking for food!); we humans do, metaphorically speaking. We are equipped with a defense mechanism called ‘willful ignorance’ which kicks in whenever we are faced with something which threatens our position of power, control or invades our comfort zone. We ignore and wish the threat away and when this does not work, we find a scapegoat to dump the blame on for all the misfortune that has befallen us and scream for retribution. The ostrich surely does not care (And for all we know it might be laughing at our dim-witted behavior) but what about other humans who become victims of stigma, violence and prejudice due to such ignorance? In this era of communication and information boom, it is criminal to remain willfully ignorant. It does not hurt to say, ‘I don’t know but I can find out!’ Awareness is just a click away, and all we do is withdraw more into our wells of ignorance. When we should be inspired to reach out and form more strong human bonds through informed human interactions, all we do is isolate ourselves more within our own castles protecting ourselves from imagined demons! Curiosity seems to have given up its ghost because the answers are so readily available! The power of our collective willful ignorance cannot be overstated and the poor ostrich (along with many other species including humans) is still victimized due to this ‘Human Ignorance Syndrome’! Ironic, isn't it?

Kundalini

13.5x20.5 inches; Pen drawing on handmade paper with watercolour wash (Click on image to enlarge)

Sleeping coiled like an embryo,

In the hollow of my crescent body,

You are distant and yet so close!

I breathe in your scent,

You breathe out my longing

Uncoiling in my loins, like a rose.

You hear my distant call,

A whistle of a train far away

On a silent night it echoes.

You stir and reach back to fumble

Deep into my throbbing memories,

Between my third eye and my nose.

You tingle and travel up my spine,

Igniting the seven spheres of my being,

Bliss like a cold fire in me grows.

You slither in my head like goose bumps,

I open my eyes and receive your lips,

A lotus of thousand petals blows.

- Rudra Kishore Mandal

My Heart Has A Mind Of Its Own

20.5x28.5 inches; Pen drawing on handmade paper with watercolour wash (Click on image to enlarge)

SOLD. In private collection

If opposites attract,

Virtue will find vice

While truth lies.

Love will court hate,

As good opens the gate

For evil to slyly embrace

And Kiss the face.

The strong will seek

Power over the weak,

But weakness will turn

To strength and burn

The effigy of power,

Like a ghost in the tower.

Fear will flirt

Under the skirt

With the noble and the brave,

As beauty will crave

The caresses of an ugly mind,

So utterly unkind!

Grief will explode in bliss

As control will fearfully kiss

The lips of careless choice,

And the civilized voice

Will call out to the wild

Like a disobedient nagging child.

Morality will creep

In bed to sleep

With the wicked and wanton

In complete abandon,

While pity will swell

And with cruelty dwell.

If opposites attract,

Believe, for a fact

Familiarity will breed contempt!

And you will forever attempt

To preach and to disown

 My heart which has a mind of its own.

- Rudra Kishore Mandal

The Dance

20.5x28.5 inches; Pen drawing on handmade paper with watercolour wash (Click on image to enlarge)

Dance of the light

Through the darkness,

It takes flight.

It is just but a transcended motion,

A bliss in the illusion of an heightened emotion.

As the momentary emotion stills

Tearing down the illusion

With a bliss called nothingness it fills.

- Kayomus Kamakhan

Cause And Effect

20.5x28.5 inches; Pen drawing on handmade paper with watercolour wash (Click on image to enlarge)

A moth... beautiful with silky golden wings outlined in dark brown velvety down, fluttering in my room and suddenly caught in a spider's silky web, is unable to understand why its flight was unexpectedly interrupted. It flutters a little more pulling at the fine silken threads and unwittingly informing the predatory spider that a victim has just landed on its net. I see the spider progress towards the helplessly struggling moth, cautious enough not to break any of the threads, which holds its victim tangled. Pity suddenly swells up in my heart for the moth, knowing that a thing of such beauty and full of life is going to meet a painful and slow death. I intervene. I reach out and scoop the moth out of the web, scaring the spider away which scurries away deeper within its own web as if to protect itself from me. The moth flutters in the cup of my hand with renewed vigor as if trying to celebrate its new found life force. I look adoringly at it for a few moments and take it to an open window. I set it free... and it flutters away towards the mango tree... its wings shining like a spark of sunlight on this cloudy day... and then nothing....the spark is extinguished in a blink. A finch snatches the moth away in mid flight, perches itself on a nearby branch, looks at me, mocking me as it devours the moth entirely. Life and death, the cycle of cause and effect!

The Lure

28.5x20.5 inches; Pen drawing on handmade paper with water colourwash (Click on image to enlarge)

I set my eyes on yours. The opening to a primal dance of desires burning on eyelids, a toe less tango of wits. It’s an invitation which entices and liberates notorious hope into a magical trance. You play elusive, I play right into it. I try to learn by heart, every fluid move of yours; the mocking arch of an eyebrow to the smug curling smoke at the corner of your lips. I devour your words like the tempting apple of Eve. I scoop up a handful of your shadow and breathe in the aroma of a lonely bed. I brave indifference, aided by the allure of your vulnerability. You panic like a child in a dark room, left alone with a fantastic monster under his bed. I pluck you up and hold you to my brotherly chest, caressing your frowns away. My chest expands to house the triumph of taming the devious stallion. I grasp you in a sickly sweet embrace. My tentacles coil around you in a possessive knot. You mimic my act and I believe you reciprocate. We build a cocoon with the fragile silk of imagined sanctuary, a delusional sense of power and invincibility in each other’s arm. All worries fall like shooting stars. I am lulled into a state of bliss, my hunger satiated, like a python after a huge meal. My inertia renders my thoughts impotent. I slowly sink in your quagmire, ignoring the odour of deception swirling around me. When I am neck deep in the bubbling cauldron, realization dawns like the last breath before death; you have led me through this dance, a sacrificial goat to be beheaded at the altar of love. I go under and am engulfed in you. I disintegrate in your cruel hands and experience a perverse pleasure. I had set out as a predator and ended up being the prey.

- Rudra Kishore Mandal

The Sphinx

9.7x13.7 inches; Pen drawing on paper with watercolour wash (Click on image to enlarge)

Enigma

Are you?
Secrets play like dew
On lotus leaves,
Your riddled spirit
Mercurial but true.

Is it your will?
A charade,
To keep us in shade,
Lest we break
Your fragile heart,
Vulnerable but afraid?

Treacherous
They say,
Is your way,
Like a mirage
Igniting passions
Leading lives astray.

Is it your will?
Devising lame
And misleading game?
A trial of faith,
For the lovelorn souls
To drown in shame?

Merciless
To behold,
Is your heart so cold?
A sharp dead stone
None dare melt,
Not even boldest of bold.

Is it your will?
Being cruel,
Using malice as fuel?
Haunting with dread
Of torture and heartache,
While your own self, you duel?

- Rudra Kishore Mandal

The Phoenix

9.7x13.7 inches; Pen drawing on paper with water color wash (Click on image to enlarge)
SOLD. In private collection

Your nest is your pyre.

On a bed of myrrh,
Strewn with ageless suffering
The sepia Cinnamon twigs
Form a fence of memories,
Fading…
Entwined with the Spikenard,
Gathered from the lost Eden
Of love and yearning,
You breathe your last…
Igniting the inferno,
Devouring the past.
The purging flames grow
Into unmarked wings,
An unbroken heart
And you are born anew
From the ashes of desire.

- Rudra Kishore Mandal