Tuesday, 9 December 2014

It's a chicken and duck problem

says the person who doesn't smoke a pipe, unlike Sherlock Holmes.

There are days when you look around and realise that every major conversation taking place in the mainstream media– be it television, books, newspapers, magazines or the social media– is taking place from the point of view of a white person– mostly a straight, white man, occasionally a straight, white woman. Pick any topic from any part of the world. That is how f**ked things are.

So what to do? Pick up the color pencils and start drawing, that's what. First a duck, then a chicken, then a duck, then a chicken...mindlessly drifting at the rate of one pencil stroke at a time. My own self behind pushing forward the self in front.*

Water color pencils and charcoals on any paper on hand.

*I asked of Destiny, “Tell me who with relentless hand pushes me on?”
Destiny told me to look behind.
I turned and saw my own self behind pushing forward the self in front.
– Rabindranath Tagore

Wednesday, 3 December 2014


A few days back I revived my Instagram account. Do look it up if you are around: http://instagram.com/anvita_lakhera
Remember a post I did on reading and how publishing is "whitest white and male dominated". Well, if you've followed recent events then you'd have come across this (among many articles regarding the same on the 'watermelon joke'):
Why is American book publishing so white: http://www.theguardian.com/books/booksblog/2014/dec/02/american-publishing-white

In other news, they are back in town. Migrant gulls in large numbers come flying over the city rivers in winter, be it the Hudson or the Thames. White darts swooshing past my windows, carrying sunlight on their wings. 
While the resident house sparrows seem much satisfied with the bounty offered by grasses going to seed. Thank you very much.
At some point in time autumn without a word to anyone, adhering to a well-clocked schedule, peaked. All before the rains came in.
Sleet on Thanksgiving brought to mind what it would be like in the coming months. Autumn is a far-away dream. Already.

“Tell yourself
as it gets cold and gray falls from the air
that you will go on
walking, hearing
the same tune no matter where
you find yourself—
inside the dome of dark
or under the cracking white
of the moon's gaze in a valley of snow.
Tonight as it gets cold
tell yourself
what you know which is nothing
but the tune your bones play
as you keep going. And you will be able
for once to lie down under the small fire
of winter stars.
And if it happens that you cannot
go on or turn back
and you find yourself
where you will be at the end,
tell yourself
in that final flowing of cold through your limbs
that you love what you are.”
– Mark Strand, “Lines for Winter”  (RIP elegant, beautiful poet.)