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.

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!

Dhatura / Datura

 

29.0 x 9.5 inches; Watercolour, pen and ink over graphite pencil on handmade paper (Click on image to enlarge)

Your face caught in the moonlight

Becomes a moon to the moon,

Two starry eyes glint,

Like pieces of flint

Striking up a fire.

 

The beauty of heat burns my night

My Moonflower trumpets croon.

Your hypnotic gaze

Drags me in the maze,

Fanning my desire.

 

Shadows fold us into earthy delight

Of bodies finding touch, we swoon

Drugged by the nectar,

In each-other’s spectre

Of sensory mire.

 

Psychedelic dreams burn bright

Stinging like thorns of a boon.

Urgency of our need

Scatters the seed

Dousing the pyre.

 

In parting you retreat from sight

No promises of “see you soon”,

Just a lingering heat

Of a shared heartbeat,

Fading strains of a siren’s lyre!

Narcissus

12x16 inches; Watercolor, Pen and ink on acid free textured paper (Click on image to enlarge)
SOLD. In private collection

Narcissus

Reclining by the pool’s end,

You stay lost, gazing at your own face.

Your mind unable to spend

The reasons for such beauty to grace

This unworthy world around...

No, nothing is worthy of you,

No one is good enough for your love!

Trampled they lay like the dew,

Hurt and broken like the arrow shot dove,

Scalded by disdain in you they found.

A love sick sigh escapes, coral lips

Parted in a moist need to kiss the twin

Reflected in the dark pool which sips,

Licks and nibbles at your heart to ruin

And bleed vanity out aground.

Does remorse strike you now?

Remember Ameinias... Echo, you recall?

Feel the sweat gather on your brow

While you await the torment to befall,

Same as a stag cornered by the hound.

No matter how many times

The sword of Ameinias opens you up

Or your cries echo like the chimes,

Your love will not fill your empty cup

Or in your embrace be bound.

You slip into the watery bed

Imagining love waits there with open arms.

Tears of pain and rapture you shed

While being consumed by the siren’s charms,

A flower floats ashore and kisses the ground.

- Rudra Kishore Mandal

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 2 - Apas (the waters)

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

The Message In A Bottle

The thirst flows through us.

In our veins,

Yours, mine, ours...

The rivers,

Tributaries,

Waterfalls,

Lakes,

Seas and oceans

Alive with life.

The tides form a cycle

Like life itself.

High then ebbs,

Washes the shore

Breaks

And flows...

Carrying the burden

Of sunken ships

And decay.

‘Pure spring water’ says the label

On bottled paranoia

Served chilled

For quenching thirst.

Free of microbes

Causing diarrhoea,

Added  

With extra mineral...

Life guaranteed.

Water bodies choke with litter.

Discarded

Empty bottles

Of ‘pure spring water’,

Toxic waste

Marinated in acid rain,

Chemical cocktails

And oil spills

Alive with death.

Numerous plastic bottles,

Float out

To sea,

Carrying a singular message:

‘If water turns to poison,

Life will cease

Without hope for recycling,

A discarded empty bottle

Floating in the sea!’

- Rudra Kishore Mandal

Desire And Despair

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

Those cards

Boxes of chocolate

Smell of your soap

On my birthday

The touch

Under the blanket

A strand of your hair

On my pillow

The movie ticket

Our hands

In the dark

Mouths

On the roof

Sultry afternoons

Rain drenched

Like the crows

Sound of

Punctured bicycle tyre

Of pleasure

Maybe guilt

Surely Pain

Caught under

The mosquito

Net

Of desire

To learn French

Do French

Seduction

Wine on our

Skin

Thin veil

Of modesty lost

Liberation

In a bathtub

Dancing

Naked and sticky

‘Baby skin’

Whispered

Tickling my ears

Leaving behind

A trail

Sorrow

Of holding

Hands

In public garden

Eyes flirting

Mouths watering

A shared cup

Of ‘Irani chai’

A bite

Of jealousy

On my nipple

Dripping

Honey words

Poetry

Of laughter and

Longing for

Despair

Heart break

Distrust

‘Dry your tears!’

Bitch

The world

Never ends

To the music

Of dance beats

Sweat

Circling

Measuring

Teasing

Pulling each other

Groin to groin

‘kambakht Ishq’

Old monk

In my vein

Passion

In our loin

Kissing

Till the faithful

Are summoned

Morning prayers

Warm embrace

Enchanted sleep

Deception of

Separation

Distance untraveled

Unwanted

Complications of being

Uncomfortably numb

With failure

Dejection

‘What went wrong?’

Nothing went right

Expectations

Stifled and buried

Dreams

In between

Right and wrong

Flows a river

Of longing

Infested with

Ghosts

Drowned possibilities

Piranhas

Of guilt

And a leaky boat of

Salvation is slowly

Ferried by despair.

- Rudra Kishore Mandal

Promises of Promiscuity

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

Our eyes avoid meeting

Like moths evading darkness

But words keep spilling around

Leading us by the hand

Into meandering alleys

Dead ends...

Of old forgotten cities.

We recognize the charade

Yet, we indulge

For the sake of appearances

A fleeting glance meets

Catches flame!

We see each in the eyes of the other

Burning, a mirror of mutual shame.

Don’t take off that mask of words

The fine web of silk will tear

Revealing the dark circles

Under our smiles.

Cracks will show

In the walls of our hearts

The emotions all piled up in a row.

Keep the doors and windows barred

The curtains down, shrouded...

For fear our precious image gets tarnished.

A masterpiece so carefully crafted

With half truths and ruse

By the dust of dreams, the bile of regret

And spotless virtue, as our muse.

- Rudra Kishore Mandal

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

Water Ballet

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

The first time I had seen a swan was in a depiction of Goddess Saraswati, sitting and playing the veena on a beautiful white bird, in a calendar image. I had fallen in love with the milky whiteness, the curvaceous neck and the beautiful depiction of plumage. Somehow the image of that bird got stuck in my memory. Somehow that bird symbolized serenity and grace for me. The story of ‘The Ugly Duckling’ only enhanced this imagery in my mind. So many times I have scribbled the letter ‘S’ and transformed it into an idealized design of a swan in my school books. I kept seeing the swan in logos and designs on packets of sweets. The logo of Ramkrishna Mission was very attractive to me once. I have only seen a couple of swans once at our local zoo, and yes I was mesmerized by the way they were gliding around in the artificial pond. Then I watched the ballet ‘Swan Lake’ on television and I was completely enamoured with the beautiful concept. The beautiful imaginary tale ignited my passion for the graceful bird once again. I also read a story about Zeus taking the form of a swan to entice and impregnate Leda, quite an erotic tale it was.  Today, when I look back at my obsession with the lovely bird in my growing years, I feel I was searching for the swan in me all through those years. I guess we all have our swans hidden inside us and only a few can perceive them when they look at us and hence what is ugly to the world becomes so beautiful to a few chosen beholders. I am not yet sure if I, ‘the ugly duckling’ have matured into a swan yet, but this painting is my humble offering to those birds who glide and dance in water captivating me with such beauty, grace and tranquility. 

Amba

12x12 inches; Watercolour and Pen drawing on executive bond paper with (Click on image to enlarge)
SOLD. In private collection

Unwanted

Uprooted

Patronized

Tolerated

And yet unwanted

Bounced

From court

To court

Invalidated

In Love rejected

Undesired

Of being

Of soul

Denied

Defined Of existence

Limited

Constrained

Mutilated

Defamed

By vows and absence

Embraced

Consoled

Nurtured

Rejuvenated

Blooming in self love

Revolting

Offending

Sacrificing

Disregarding

What’s dictated from above

Defying

Denying

Slaughtering

Castrating

What’s accepted as respectable

Amba stands

Unchallenged

Yet vulnerable.

- Rudra Kishore Mandal

Breakfast Joint

20.5x28.5 inches; Pen drawing on acid free textured paper with watercolour wash (Click on image to enlarge)
SOLD. In private collection

Embarking on a long journey in the sleeper class of a train, tucked in the side lower berth (of course sharing it with a stranger for half of the journey) is how I like to travel. The swinging rhythm, the strange interactions, the plethora of smells, the books with pages curled at the corners, the variety of food, the beggars, the hawkers, observing the behaviour of co-passengers and the sleepless nights... everything has a veneer of adventure. My favourite pass time is to watch the view outside, through the windows of the train. Everything races by in the opposite direction as if fleeing at the news of our arrival. The cities, towns, villages, stations, hills, lakes, rivers, trees, farm lands, bridges, clouds, sun, moon, stars, people... everything rushes by. But sometimes when the train stops, unscheduled, at a remote place between cities or towns and villages, one gets to occasionally observe the undisturbed beauty of nature. Nothing is more refreshing to me after a fidgety night, than the sight of green fields broken by the deep blue creeks dotted with pearly white herons and cranes gathering for their breakfast, washed in the early morning sun light. Sitting huddled on my berth with a cup of steaming tea and a plate of lukewarm ‘puri bhaji’, watching these birds search for their early morning meal in the wilderness is an experience I cherish. 

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!

Resurrection

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

‘As a man abandons his worn-out clothes and acquires new ones, so when the body is worn out a new one is acquired by the Self, who lives within.’

- Bhagavat Gita, Hinduism

Lament

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

‘If you love me,’ you said,
‘You will want me for me!’
‘If I love you,’ I said,
‘You will love me for me!’

What remained unsaid
Were the threads unseen
Which sew the wounds,
Built the bridges,
Webbed the blanket
Shielding me from me,
You from you
Lost on the way
Trying to keep alive
A myth called ‘We’.

‘You are no more,’ you lament
‘The one I knew and loved!’
‘I am no more,’ I admit
‘Me!’

- Rudra Kishore Mandal

Redemption

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

Wonder, from these thousands of 'me',

which one am I?

Listen to my cry; do not drown my voice

I am completely filled with the thought of you.

Don't lay broken glass on my path

I will crush it into dust.

I am nothing, just a mirror in the palm of your hand,

reflecting your kindness, your sadness, your anger.

If you were a blade of grass or a tiny flower

I will pitch my tent in your shadow.

Only your presence revives my withered heart.

You are the candle that lights the whole world

and I am an empty vessel for your light.

- Rumi, Sufi Mystic