Let Silence Prevail

As humans, one of our basic instincts is to communicate. Whether it is with the retailer to whom we need to intimate of the items to be billed from our cart, or the vendor on the street corner from whom we buy veggies. Whether it is a friend who we see daily or a mother, who flies down from afar once every year. The measure of our conversations varies from being transactional to a prolonging one in nature depending on the circle of participants we are with. However, whether a gesture of one’s hands or flexing one’s lips, there is no doing-about without conversing. Either way, our need to talk about even straightforward and random contrivances signifies of a codependent ecosystem we – as humans – belong to. Irrespective of how many of us flaunt that faddish tag of independence.

Communication can happen in clusters in a crowded area like a bus stand, in a closed group at a cafeteria, or face-to-face over a coffee break. Every human is privileged with an ability to communicate in some way or the other. They’re endowed with freedom to express just about anything. All one needs to do is unbolt the passage that leads from their lip to the throat, produce a sound, beat their tongue against the gums and set in motion their jaws. Or, work their fingers in a manner so flexible that the movements seem as graceful as that of a swan gliding over a lake. A conversation holds the power of articulation and reciprocating to such  eloquent expressions. It authorises a spark within, igniting an influential aura with the potential to convince someone. Into believing. And following that system of belief.

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Photo: Hemu’s Art Blog

But, of course, with great power comes great responsibility. With a blessed privilege comes a cursed abuse. Where there is freedom, there lies a liability too.

Of a misused birthright.

If not for a one-on-one, most chit-chats that happen in closed groups by default bear at least one leading conversationalist. Sometimes, two. Or three. The others pin their ears and are content with pitching in and emoting time after time. They secure a sense of belonging that way. It is like wanting to be a part of the sky, even if it means getting to silhouette the skyline. An unexpected moment of receiving the baton to carry on the conversation further leads them into a spot of discomfort. They attempt in all consciousness to be concise of their points of views and pass the baton back to the chief addresser or another member at the first unused opportunity they can seep through. As dubious as it might sound, such people are either uncomfortable in groups or are misfit talkers. Or both.

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Photo: Shiva Krishna

The key communicator(s) meanwhile, relish the attention they receive. Faces turn their way, all eyes are on them, heads nod, and little clucking noises fill the air occasionally to signify of the listeners’ sync into the verbal awareness that’s presented. One can’t help but feel awestruck the modes such communicator(s) apply to engage their audience. Their fluency and prowess over the language are worth falling for. They speak, and not one interrupts. They catch-up with a select few in the group, and somehow retrieve the magic wand back into their court to speak some more, time and again. Over time, they substantiate their thought-process with archives or profound parallels, much so that after a while the attention of some listeners begins to ebb away. The mask of their disjointed belonging begins to go out on a limb. Their attention wavers and boredom starts to set in. When this process begins its rounds of repetition every time, or probably over days, weeks and months, the interim listeners crave to be handed with the baton just one more time. Because then, all they would have ideally liked to say would have been – Shush, I have a headache.

After all, with great power comes great responsibility. With a blessed privilege comes a cursed abuse. Where there is freedom, there lies a liability too.

Of a misused birthright.

Photos: Kashi Art Cafe & Mill Hall, Kochi Muziris Biennale, Kochi

What an Irony, Dear!

Most cities in India house at least one neighbourhood that flaunts of affluence. Pavements flank the roads which for once, entertain the purpose they’re meant for, instead of the customary sighting of labour-saving parking. Mahogany and mulberry trunks line up the streets intertwining in lacy roots at the base, thickening and broadening on their way up, demonstrating a continual and relative coolness. The otherwise peaceful routes sense occasional vibrations as a luxurious automobile cruises through solidified tar in leisure, making way to its destination. Row houses, duplexes, independent houses and buildings embodying tasteful flats pile up in neat rows. Except for a periodic rustle from the mutual kissing of the leaves in the air, there is pin-drop silence. Once in a while, a resident walks by in attire fashioned by a global designer label. Those with a fitness conscience pervade the elaborate pavements in late afternoons or evenings.

Such neighbourhood(s) outcry of silence, bringing to life new-age concepts of seclusion and privacy. They feel like desolated territories so much so that an ordinary passer-by can feel threatened of encroaching upon a haunted stretch.

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Cochin Club in Kerala was once accessible only to colonisers. In its early days, the club’s membership was restricted to Britishers. It eventually transpired into a management run by Indians for Indians. The upscale coterie facing the Arabian seafront is situated in a well-known tourist area, Fort Kochi. To the extent to which a naked eye can observe, the club is done in tasteful measurements. Gold emblazoned letters spelling C.O.C.H.I.N. C.L.U.B. adorn a side of the main gated entrance. Aesthetically potted, pruned, and planted into-the-earth greenery fawn the building’s circumference, a one-storied structure coated in a tinge of crème fraîche. Either side of the tinted windows on the first floor stay obstinately shut. Everything about the club seems fathomable except for what happens inside it. To the extent, that even the door to the building is on another side – away from a passer-by’s prying eyes. Once in a while an Audi or a BMW halts, even if for a moment, before making its way to the valet parking. A bouncer flanks the gated entrance for scrutiny, an access that’s otherwise meant for members only. He stopped me from entering the premises of a building to which I was misguided, as a potential location for the Muziris Biennale. He pointed me through to the outer perimeter of the club, a side that ran a narrow strip leading to the beach. And there it was, the usual signs of the distinct Biennale – its official logo with details of the art on display.

As I pored over the elucidation of the installation, I felt a prick at the nape of my neck. Leaves from the adjacent mulberry tree caressed the hot afternoon as though soothing its crudeness with a reassuring lullaby. A rhythmic ‘click’ of a stiletto accompanied by an unrelenting banter to settle-for-nothing-but-pasta-for-lunch rented the air. Strollers and tourists alike searched for a ‘cafe to grab a bite’. The midday sun played the gold to its advantage by shining right in everyone’s eyes. Mine wished to weaken to the tunes of the breezy sway in the background, as an account of this exhibit evoked within a sense of sudden despair. A bungalow and a posh structure fringed the club’s vicinity, these gated edifices a zebra cross away. And here was an art display at one of the town’s prime venues that talked about an ‘informal’ community in eastern Mumbai.

Annabhau Sathenagar.

A community that believes in existing without boundaries. Figuratively. Literally.

Here is a community that offers a living space to dogs and flocks of hens per their wishes. Here is a community where utensils are mopped, and construction bricks are laden in the same area. Here is a community where residents conduct business from home – bringing to light a renewed seal to the concept of ‘work from home’. Here is a community that converts rooms into a sleeping area, living space and a kitchen at the wave of a magic wand. Here is a community where dwellers attend to nature’s call in its faithful surroundings – amidst nature. Here is a community where hose and steel pipes, and motor sets run amuck within the abodes, the only chance of survival being to live with them. Here is a locality where clothes hang in the open, are stacked inside steel drums, or dumped in polyethene. Here is a community where a lazy Sunday could mean entertainment on &Pictures watching Apna Sapna Money Money. Here is a community where they bring up toddlers with the happiness of being unaware of a tomorrow. Let alone living in anticipation of what it holds for them.

Overlooking this Biennale Pavilion on one side is Cochin Club and on the other, a slice of the Arabian Sea. Although a stark contrast to the source, both are lands (or waters in the case of latter) of riches, nonetheless.

Affordability is subjective. And so is affluence. In a diversifying land as India that buries a treasure trove of such-and-such stories, there is no dearth of ironies.

Fort Kochi Beach

Photos: Cochin Club, Kochi Muziris Biennale 2016

Redo Your Exit, Grandma

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A Deathbed, or someone’s Karma playing its card on them?

Pachai’s paternal grandmother passed away a week back. In the four years we have spent in our marriage, my acquaintances with the eighty-six-year-old lady dot rather scatteringly. Except for the past six weeks, when we brought her home to take care.

Paatti, as we called her, which incidentally in Tamil means granny, was diagnosed with degenerative Alzheimer’s. A condition that loosens the brain’s elasticity. Along with a detailed list of antibiotics to help control the pace of her advancing state, paatti’s other prescription was comfort care. Over days, we helplessly watched her lose touch with humanised conducts and mores. Each of us had braced ourselves to face any circumstance for we did not know when were we to be hit with the worst. Faithful to the prescription, paatti’s need for comfort care was evident. As a result of her brain’s indisposition, veins in the temporal lobe that are responsible for creating and retaining memories began rupturing. While she had no troubles recalling long-term memories especially those from her childhood, she had her blues while recuperating her grandsons’ names. Sometimes even her offsprings’. Her short term memories whizzed past like an occasional breeze on a hot afternoon, no more. So much so, that she was unable to fathom the food laid for her in the later stages of her mental discomfort. As paatti’s state of imbalance progressed in phases, she became increasingly unaware of the orbiting ecosystem she belonged to.

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Wall of Fame, or a Wall of Frame?

It was as if she had detached herself from the human territory of instincts into something above and beyond. She neither emoted nor displayed sentiments of attachments. She breathed, ate, peed and shat. A few relevant tokens of existence, except which she defied signs of belonging to the mortal world.

Paatti no longer identified the place she was living in or the people in there that took care of her. Except for her eyes, she could pilot her sensory organs no more; not even for her needs. She didn’t know she needed to go to the bathroom to bathe, urinate and defecate. She failed to react anyhow whenever any one of us addressed or spoke with her; we didn’t know if she was listening. If she listened, we weren’t sure if she could comprehend. If she comprehended, we didn’t know if she’d respond. If she’d answer, we knew we had to besot her reply with a benefit of the doubt. Every single time. When we fed her her meal, she lost the sense of processing it. A morsel would dance at the tip of her tongue, sometimes a grain or two kissing her lips. She did nothing to wash either of them away. She couldn’t. Her brain refused to send her signals about the course she had to take next. Paatti did not register the act of chewing, excreting saliva and swallowing. Even if we instructed her to do so. She forgot that her jaws were a ready weaponry to help her devour, ingest and gulp. All she had to do was command them to move. Sadly, she felt astray from any control. As if she had shed her powers even if to work her body.

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As a ray of light barges through the window, which colour do you choose?

Paatti might have had a light or a ray of sorts approaching her — an inhibition her observers sensed a few times in these six weeks. For she began to tangle herself into arguments with an invisible energy at times. An energy that only she discerned. About how He must be merciful and pick her up at the earliest. About how He was being inconsiderate by not beckoning her to join Him in His land already. The tussles began with a request followed by periodic pleading. She moaned, wept, brawled and admonished the energy for being ruthless and a brute to leave her in a state of limbo. She was angry and relentless. She kept mumbling throughout the day. Criticising. Reprimanding. Rebuking. And scolding. Traits she was least associated with when she belonged to a rising generation.

At certain junctures, paatti may have lost her will to live, but she didn’t share a similar sentiment on all days. She avoided sleeping at every single cost. She tried with her might and limbs to stay up whether in daylight or darkness. Irrespective of the clock striking one after midnight or midday. At such times, she sought solace in kith and kin. Though her senses of recognising near and dear ones had failed miserably, a gesture of humanity nevertheless, reassured her otherwise. The inducing warmth of placing a hand over hers, or while taking hold of her palm encouraged her to lay her eyes to rest. To shut them and sleep. A simple touch of the fingers dispelled her worst confirmed fears of having been taken away to a different world. Of having slept permanently.

Paatti may have chosen to depart in Pachai’s company in her final days, but that was all I needed to know about her. While there were bouts of convalescence courted with the medicines she was on, it was bizarre getting to be with her at the stage I’d gotten to know her. Her chapters of initial existence unfolded in bits and phases as Pachai’s parents reminisced one incident after the other. What had she been like as a mother when she brought Pachai’s father, her firstborn, into the world. What had she been like when Pachai’s mum entered their household as a newlywed. That was all there was to know about her. It took one look at her helpless frame of fragility for any cacophonic vibes to vanish. For, she was one of the first people who opened up to me with chit-chatters of kinsfolk adding a postscript, everyone has their reason for doing things the way they do, every time. For, she was one of the first people to support me while I learnt the mannerisms in Pachai’s household.

When she invited me in before marriage, I was the only granddaughter to have been urged by her to sit on her lap. Moments in advance to her passing away, I was the only granddaughter to have served her a sip of milk before she left behind her mortal remains with us. The two incidents I am content to have been a part of and recollect at any given point in time. Bearing the prerogative of having been the one granddaughter in paatti’s introductory and showdown scripts.

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When she passed away, little did I realise that feeling distressed would turn out to be an understatement.

Photos: Kochi Muziris Biennale; Kochi, Kerala

What is Home?

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I have thus far failed to fathom the reason humans prevail in verbal violence. A spurt as such causes recollecting unpleasant memories, a series of nonconforming what-ifs and blame games topped with enraging outbursts. Dubious clarifications, immaterial explanations and involvement of peripheral audience surface to eke out a living. Factors that fetch nothing but irrelevance. Because the issue at hand is either bygone or has failed to exist in person. Perished to depart to the heavens.

Is this a home?

Individuals with deep-throated vocal cords acquire an upper hand in such disputes, for the brawl is oral. While remarks go unheeded in the heat of the moment, the limit does not exceed beyond oral declarations. Strenuous mentally, but in no way physical. The door to the adjacent room gets unlatched from the inside meekly. An eyeball peeks out trying to discern the crown of the mortal combat this time. No doubt, this isn’t their first time witnessing the issue. Or fights at home. Along with killing the partakers’ hours, laughter in the neighbourhood seems ill-timed. The tap water animating off the steel container from the squeaky hand pump is noisy. The door-to-door sales(wo)man bearing a basket of veggies strikes as someone belonging to a mind space from another planet. The bell of a cola-selling cyclist on a scorching afternoon is unwelcome. He is scurried away without as much as a second glance. In exchange of ice sticks that might have helped ease the otherwise parched throats. And moods. A neighbourhood is laid to rest in peace, however temporarily. Because the issue at hand demands the primmest attention.

Is this a home?

Their world around lies forgotten, including the people that are residing with them. For the layout is that of a joint family’s. Members’ emotional states are dissolved. As a result of arguments that lead nowhere, it does not matter if a mother feels piqued or a son has threatened to visit his relations never again. Mundane ventures as ensuing headaches or sitting for the afternoon meal become secondary. The pleasure of tuning out from a tiring cause and attuning to fighting for the television remote sounds alienating. That, or besieging an argument over why a particular movie is atrocious or admirable. All in the eagerness of making jarring verbal impressions upon one another.

Is this home?

Squabbles over the last ladle of rice or for that dribble of ghee glued to the container’s curvy corners are but little memories. Speaking to each other so much as once a year is for a reason. Get-togethers and gatherings even for festivities are now stories beginning with a narration of once-upon-a-time. Incidents of resettlements, shifting and shunting between towns and cities, having to settle under someone else’s roof because of the lack of having one’s own and being there for people are relics from an earlier era. Catch-ups even amidst siblings is taxing for there hangs in the air an uncomfortable silence. What was once a case-in-description of solid brotherhood is now an omitted chapter from the syllabus.

Maybe, this is a home?

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A king-sized bed that once squeezed six siblings to induce warmth that no comforter could provide lies today in a coating of dust. The sun penetrates its glow on that mattress the same way it did ten years ago. All that remains of the bedding is the dust that has gathered momentum off the sunburn, and slits where stitches and wad of cotton wool have given away.

Maybe, this is home?

A dwelling bearing secretive memories. Walls and pillars of which echo with countless souvenirs. And rooms bear testimonies to once-upon-a-time togetherness.

Sure. Home. At last.

(Photos: Students’ Biennale – Mattancherry, Kochi Muziris Biennale, Kochi, Kerala)

In Black & White

Simpler times existed in the black and white era. No more than three shades – white, grey and black – elucidated the canvas. Relying on one’s eyesight to spell colour(s) beneath the self-willed tinges of grey was sheer guesswork. Perspectives and debates of tonal balance and their underlying impact were open-ended and varied. The blues could pass as greens, the pinks as reds. Oranges could have been yellows and violets blues. At the end of the day, a difference in opinions was recognised rather welcomingly.

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Source: Quora

The induction of colours into all things in print and behind screens entered our sophomoric civilisation with jazz. From comics to cover pages of publications, stamps to photographs, and lip-smacking cookery shows to technicolour movies, colour became a part of our social mores naturally. It breezed in with a dominance so high such that its presence felt customary. As if they had never been absent, neither in sight nor on a medium. Monochromatic shades in greyscale that seemed content in their world of a threesome had now a task to attune to umpteen palettes. And permutations and combinations. Fuchsia and magenta are two distinct pinks, as are cyan and turquoise in the ménage of blue. Talk of having to make a choice on the basis of technical differences!

I have a soft corner for black and white monochromes. Especially when they’re composed of photographs or art. I connect with them naturally. Even if the culminating picture is a clump of tangled cables. Or a fractured switchboard. The portrayal of sentiments in a black and white representation feels raw as if it is letting hang a tale. It feels like creators want to entrust their interpretation(s) to the onlooker. Or, they just gave up. The midriff of a black and white portrait is layer-free; there are only two colours on it. Points of views are straightforward for the finer features on canvas have nothing to hide behind. The candidness of a sketch, carved or printed, is undisguised. Vehement and sore. All that there needs to be on canvas is on the canvas. Art for art’s sake. There is no camouflaging one’s illustrations or notions under protective colouring. Expressions, whether facial or arrested from a chawl’s corner, if absolute or abstract, appear vivid making it easy to imagine its backdrop. Its context. Its existence in the larger picture. Starting with a black and white collection to look at, sets a rather sunny precedence for my day.

Coincidental irony.

Last week, I was at the Kochi Muziris Biennale where I chanced upon stills and artworks in black and white. At different venues. Call it a trickery of lighting, the stills’ positioning or the display room’s composition, there was an unadulterated vibe around these. Like a lull of Gustavo Santaolalla in the air. The portraits by Sandesh Bhandare and KR Sunil influenced attachment to cultures and commercial aspects of the Indian households. While the former caked his collection with socio-economic status and the latter challenges of the contemporary, their core fastened to repositioning. In the era of globalisation, in the age of cultural degeneration, and in times of declining arts and crafts.

A peculiarity of Brij Mohan Anand’s works is the use of a pin. A die-hard socialist, his scribbles highlight the fascism trying to penetrate Asia. At the Biennale, his collection is on scratchboards. The base dyed in black ink, Brij Mohan Anand has carved his pictorials with strokes from the sharp end of a pin. A slight touch of the forearms or the elbow, or a mistaken jut on the scratchboard could mean having to start from the pavilion’s end. Or, accept the misprint. As a precaution, Brij Mohan Anand placed a board of sorts in front of the scratchboard to rest his elbow. Despite which, there could be slip(s). A sign that observes he too is human.

There was a bed of stones crowned with a cushioned pillow at one of the Students’ Biennale. Its configuration was a potential lead to the reasoning of karma. Of the unceasing cribbing and moaning. Of futile discrediting and critiquing. Of how we no longer identify our boundaries to put an end to our whining. From the daily traffic to the oh-so-sunny days. From a slapstick response by a colleague to pressuring timelines at work. We find things to be either unfair or offensive. Here is to hoping that we do not live to see a tomorrow delivering us a bed of stones to knit our dreams on. Could this silhouette alternatively be someone’s last bed?

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Karma reknitting actions, or someone’s deathbed indeed?

The vicious cycle of karma or the end, once and for all? Rebirth or moving on? Abstract or absolute?

Let there be light.

Get Stuck or Choose to Stay

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Shards of Memories, Chunks of Souvenirs & Fragments of Echoes: Someone’s Journal on Display?

Maintaining a personal journal is a painstaking virtue. Images feed within one’s mind space tumbling one over the other, each eager and in a rush to be spilt out. The thought owner speeds up his otherwise ebbing pace of the ink dripping onto his diary’s page. He is equally browbeaten about missing to note of his day’s deeds and sentiments, lest his flow of thoughts supersedes his writing’s momentum. As a character inscribed into the pages of a diary, its penman is labelled to individual tags already. Some bestowed by societal norms while others acquired as a result of fusing a bunch of unsurveyed circumstances. A son, a spouse, father, an employee, a frequenter at the town market, a swimmer, a weekend chef amidst a handful others. Records under ‘Dear Diary’ swivel in a vortex of such quotidian tags regardless of anomalies. Well, almost.

When heaved by a catapult into a land of unfamiliarity, the process of self-discovery sets to a virgin. There is a chance, however slight that dreams translate into fidelity, aspirations glide within one’s grasp, and expectant titles become a reality. Everyone you cross by is at first a stranger, an acquaintance later. They’re convinced by ways you describe yourself. They accept your roles and titles the way you ask them to believe. Your conviction renders convention. More into yourself, than into those whom you confided in.

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The Chest of Secret Diaries: Confessions to a Doctor or an Artist? In a Bunker or a Sand Bag?

Early this week, I was at the Kochi Muziris Biennale. As a novice to travelling solo and visit all things artsy, there came across acquaintances with whom I shared a thing – our presence at the Biennale. Conversations made way, some small time and others relatively sizeable where I was asked of my profession. Here lay a chance to be an individual bearing a blank slate. Here was an opportunity to shed the past of my association with a multinational corporation and establish myself into the creative space. Because this is the dream. The best part of the approach was the credibility and validity of it all without dubious questions or scrupled reservations.

Discerning listeners’ expressions was an experience when I introduced myself as a writer. A few pairs of eyebrows shot up, their portrayal of encouragement and (in some cases) scepticism vulnerable. At times they knit together as a stretch of poorly done stitches as if the listener was not sure of what they’d heard. Some brows stayed neutral for they’d either come across a writer as often as they lunched, or had wanted to understand the extent of the craft’s practice. A conversation went on to confess if I did anything aside from writing. Pursuing my other interest of learning music invoked him to refer to me as an artist. La La Land, indeed.

These brief escapades of self-establishment were a great deal. Not because they were meant to boast but because they are someone’s unrealistic tags in their now. Itsy-bitsy conversations allowed them to believe in a world of interpreting their dream-like label(s) into a grounding fact. These were individual moments that reestablished someone’s conviction in that blindfolded leap of faith they had taken despite their world turning its back on them.

Mine.

In the course of the Biennale, reaping perspectives and drawing parallels was irrefutable. But tripping over a self-actualised title – a surreal first.

Know the Road, Not Without You

I despise not travelling. It feels like being bound on an island surrounded by sea water. The beauty of nature set apart, one knows that there are no means of rescue except for having to wait for it. It is upon the stranded to discern flanks for arranging edibles and drinkables. As literal as it gets, to travel is to make a journey. That is universal agreement. The distance is where its impression becomes subjective. One’s idea of travelling could be to take a trip that covers a considerable distance and time. An itinerary complemented by a rail journey or one in flight could be a preeminent bottom line; however, a trip made within limits of one’s residential city is very well an option. Like the one from suburb to the library in the town’s centre or a journey from outskirts to the heart for a concert counts as travel. You devote time to getting from one part of the city to another, are quartered at your destination for a few hours, and indulge in an activity that is worth your time, before heading home. An outing of a kind as such demands a sizeable chunk of attention from one’s day. Maybe a whole.

I am fond of travelling in my city. Because of its intimate familiarity, the benign patterns of its naturally-ageing roads, its alternative and shorter beats and most of all, for the reassuring repute of arriving home at the end of the day. There is nothing that tops the balmy awareness of coming back to someone. Irrespective of a day well-spent. Or otherwise.

I travelled to Kochi in Southern India earlier this week as I wanted to visit the much heard about Biennale. The prospect of going solo first time after my marriage to Pachai was both
exciting and anxiety-ridden. I hoped the Biennale to supplement my otherwise collocating writing skills by helping me broaden the thought-process and draw parallels. As much as the visit was to seek stories through visual nodes and all things artsy, the vacationing mindset was a forbidden fruit. But of course, things do not always happen according to one’s way of thinking. Especially, when there is an itinerary.

Kochi Muziris Biennale

The first day turned out to be a bouncer, for there was to visit a political official of national importance. Biennale locations close by were refrained from opening up to the public. Call it a day wasted, or the lack of finishing one’s homework before planning the visit.

It wasn’t a feel-good sentiment, on having been turned away from the venues.

The sun had only crept overhead, and there was nothing to do. The prospect of returning to the inn was looming and particularly disengaging. I left for a view of the well-knit sea overlooking the Kochi Port and Harbour. For a novice, the fishermen working their nets in this belt is remarkable and intriguing. The afternoon sun reflected pebbles of diamonds on the facet of the curling salt water. The surface of the sea bounced and gleamed, enduring its blueish-green sheen for as long as one’s eyesight extended. Waves upon waves crashed and burned each other in pursuit of making it to the shore. They could have been either fiercely competitive or were only playing as a team. It was hard to discern. Or decide. A far end of the sea held lofty sailing vessels as its hostage, the lineup building an impressive spectacle. The shore played a breezy tune to the kink in its strand. The view drifted seamlessly into the horizon as a well-conceptualised three-dimensional model, but it didn’t add up. None of it did.

Something was amiss.

The Blues & the Greens: Caged, Framed & Moored 

Travelling without Pachai, if not for an agenda of research and learning, isn’t my favourite kind.