The soft bun smothered with butter, the aloo tiki in the middle, the green and brown chutney, the slightly fried chillies, now wearing hues of green on the side. The platter redolent with flavors on my palm. The congregation of the most potent/lethal of us all!!!
The street food!!!!
#streetfoodindia #vadapav #kachorichat #foodgasmic
The artist and her paintbrush had an unbreakable relationship. She trusted the brush more than her own hands.
Every morning they embarked on their journey together, ready to overcome ordeals of the day.
The brush was beautifully adorned with hues of pink, white and black, her favourite colours. A small ceramic bowl, with beautiful, dainty trees meticulously painted around the brim, filled with water, slightly mixed with leftover colours from the previous day.
They always assumed their position near the french window on an old rosewood bench. Basking in the morning, sun they went about their job, peacefully.
Art for art’s sake.
What an obnoxious idea?
A beautiful painting on the wall, picturesque setting, soothing colours, a simple tree standing alone amidst nothingness.
For a connoisseur of art, it can have multiple meanings. Each and every minute detail can have different meaning, both overt and covert. It is a text that can be read in so many ways, various perspectives. The painter’s subconscious mind could have played a role in the colours that he chose, the mood that he created etcetera. The nothingness could be projecting the existentialism of the generation. The tree could be a longing for something frufitful, the deep longing for a tomorrow that is selfless. Maybe the painter wants his painting to be a beam of light amidst the darkness. And so much more. The technical aspects can not be ignored.
If I were to look at that painting and admire it for its beauty and nothing else, the world would term me a philistine. The sophistication that the word connoisseur carries ever so elegantly will be denied to a savage being who can’t see anything beyond its beauty. What is beauty? We can’t deny the fact that beauty can be defined in multiple ways. The definitions of this word can and should be accepted like the petals of a beautiful flower.
What happens when we dig deep and criticize a work of art?
The long slender arms gracefully holding a heart made of crystals perhaps, shining, almost blinding..
Designing ,her hobby. Beautiful gown, cut into beautiful triangles, hanging elegantly on her waist. The rainbow colours radiating luminescence.
Her breasts, not as per the expectations of the male gaze. But evermore beautiful. The scars, the stretch marks, the bruises, all have a story to tell. A white linen cloth cut in the shape of a diamond, holds them, as they flow freely.
The luscious hair, parted in the middle. Half grey and the other half black.
Slightly wet, bright, filled with rage looked straight into mine.
This world , it does not deserve forgiveness. There is no place for the weak.
She placed the heart shaped crystal next to me and disappeared.
Left a note.
A beautiful stream, clear water, leasurely flowing over carefully laden pebbles of various sizes and shapes. They look as if they were moulded by an expert, intricately designed to attract the human mind.
Deserted, tranquil, far away from the hustle of civilization. The only sound that one could hear is that of the birds, the wind and the water.
On a small rock, under the tree, I can picture myself sitting, slowly being engulfed by the existence and the coexistence of all , every living being.
Not too bright, quite cloudy, cold, but not freezing. A small camp fire and a kettle .
The wings, on either side, like an Angel’s wings, fully spread, against the rustling wind. Greys and whites.
The lake is drawing
beautiful twirls on its surface. A painter. The greens and blues.
The tree resting on the bank of the lake , home for many of them, as happy as ever, bathing in the morning sun. Slowly caressed by the wind. She chuckles, and the birds “cucuud”. It is symphony to my ears.
The tiny white birds fluttering their wings, tiny drops of rain on my window
Tiny paws on my lap purring and snuggling
The wind that brings me a cool message, not very shy
The whites, browns and greys among the greens are not welcome in my world
Says me sitting in an ivory tower, far away from the greens
Only the wind, my messenger
Somethings don’t need any form of description. Rain, a beautiful word apt to draw the tranquil nature that it has , rather inscribe it onto our minds, travel deep into our soul, like a creeper, green and full of life.
Each drop, satiating anything and everything that it touches. Even the eyes, human or otherwise. There is always a sense of warmth. A sense of home, remembering, ruminating upon our childhood. You see, nothing is lost, or forever gone. There are small things around us that can bring alive those things that we deem lost…
The darkness has set in, the night, she knows, an artist that draws her brushes along the curves, the broken selves, paints them , hues of black.
Today I took a stroll down the park. The park I often go to has quite an interesting terrain. You can look at it like a ride that takes you in circles except for with elevations on either sides. It is a good thing though, dont get me wrong.
The weather is just beautiful today. So, as I was walking I noticed a tiny feather, it was black in colour with a tiny hint of white at the bottom. The firs time around I walked past it. Then I saw a similar one, but, this one was quite long, it looked as if the wind had played a malificient game with it!!! Slightly torn, disfigured, yet beautiful. Now, the wind is quite a good artist!! You see she never tries too hard, and yet, she achieves such magnanimity.