Toast for a Fruity Summer

Dil, akhir tu kyun rota hain?

Jab jab dard ka badal chaya.. Jab ghum ka saaya lehraya

Jab aansu palkon tak aaya

Jab yeh tanha dil ghabraya

Hum ne dil ko yeh samjhaya, Dil akhir tu kyun rota hain?

Duniya mein yuhi hota hain-

Yeh jo gehrein sannate hain.. Waqt ne sab ko hi baate hain

Thoda ghum hain sabka kissa

thodi dhup hain sakba hissa

Aankh teri bekar hi namm hain,

Har pal ek naya mausam hain -

Kyun tu aise pal khota hain - Dil, akhir tu kyun rota hain?

Eyes on Fire

Fume and smoke almost never lifts its veil here.. the far stretched rugged landscape unites with the beige and brown mud township, any other color here seems to stand out hurting the eye. Its impossible for someone who doesn’t live here to find anything at all in this maze.. Luckily however for him, the long wait was finally over, she was granted the permission to meet him. Was this the moment of truth? He followed the crowd, heart pacing..

17 long years ago, in Nasir bagh refugee camp, Pakistan, he spotted her in the sea of tents. 

"Inside the school tent he noticed her first. Sensing her shyness, he approached her last. She told him he could take her picture"

Since that day, her hauntingly beautiful green-eyes have captivated the world.

Yet, she had no name. No one knew her story, not even him.

As they wait in the courtyard, a woman comes out of the house, with a baby in her arms. Alam bibi – the girl of the world, so rightly resembled the photograph in his hands that it was uncanny. However the eyes lacked that blaze. Eye color may change in very rare situations. He was hopeful. When his research team confirmed that this was not the woman he was looking for, he sank into despair again. How would he be able to find her? In a place where lives change with the shift of sand.. How would he know if the little girl has even made it into womanhood?

While walking through the Nasir bagh cemetery, passing through thousands of unmarked graves, he decides to continue his search and see the end of this. New leads take him back to Afghanistan, to the mountains of Tora Bora. Sharbat Gula, a woman now a mother of 3 children is said to perfectly match the description of the girl he is looking for. “She remembers the day the photograph was taken” she says.. pointing at the red shawl wrapped around her head that got burnt. The reunion between the blazing green eyes and the photographer was quiet. She must not look - and certainly not smile at a man who is not her husband. She did not smile at him.
"Her expression was flat. She cannot understand how her picture has touched so many. She does not know the power of those eyes"

The face that has inspired so many to give now has a voice.

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This is the story of the famous “Afghan Girl” who made it to the cover of the National Geographic Magazine” in 1985 with her fiery eyes. Taken by photographer Steve McCurry. http://ngm.nationalgeographic.com/2002/04/afghan-girl/index-text/1

Heres the documentary that made me cry profusely and promises to touch everyone too.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=kQyTgIWQbiU&feature=relmfu

New Spring Palette

As winters arrived, I quickly wrapped myself up within the comfort net and absolutely refused to buzz. This year it being especially cloudy with occasional showers did the trick even easier. But as the sun slowly came lightening up the balcony, I peeped out to see the colors the new season had to offer. Spring had always been my favourite!

Hence, my rampage with the camera and paint in documenting the ‘New Spring Palette’

I’ve always been fascinated with the thought of a change. Now whether or not they have worked for me or against is a different question. Nonetheless I am always hopeful.. 

Finally the hibernation is over, or as I would like to believe. 

Bird at Prey

Hand in hand with fiction

Grey water rushed through the ridges on the brick road to join the trench. Making patterns in an unknown urgency. Clenching her father’s arm, the little girl made a brief leap lest she breaks the mysterious trail. A familiar tingling of a bunch of metal keys caught her attention; round the corner uncle Rustam was bent to open the shutters of his ‘ladies tailoring’ shop. He gave her a warm smile and immediately broke into a dry cough. Post the short afternoon nap, the shopkeepers had started arranging their shops for the evening rush. Street lamps shone brighter with the setting sun. A rusty blue train screeched to a halt at the station nearby to let go of a crowd of strangers. Sounds of freshly made snacks left in hot oil to fry ringing in her ears as her stomach churned. Scared to ask papa for a stop, she walked on.

The street had started getting busy.. clusters of women around vegetable shops, haggling over increased prices, middle aged men rushing back home from work, a few young boys scoffing at each other over the lost gamble, faint trail of a 60s popular song playing from an old radio.. constant whirling of the sewing machine.. flicker of colourful glass bangles in the yellow street lights, a black-yellow taxi honking to make its way.. brushing of uncountable feet against the hard grounds.. friends laughing.. hawkers screaming attractive offers.. colourful clothes, new shoes, smell of old books, strange stares clubbed in to form a silent lull. She glanced through the crowd to get a glimpse of the known face, but in vain. Fear gripped her entire existence. “Am I lost?” She thought to herself. Stuck in the moment, unable to think of a way to move ahead or turn back.. until a tug at her elbow got her back from the reverie. She turned back to her husband. “Where are you going? You are supposed to keep to your left!!” he scowls. Relief!

Monsoons in this city has a strange tune, it stops for no one. She glanced at the clock ticking away.. half past nine. The wait seemed endless. The radio had not stopped yet. Rain lashed against the window pane as she walked towards it to look down. Apart from a couple or two black umbrellas hurrying through once in a while, the street was empty now. She had started worrying. How long has it been since he left? The shopkeepers had all returned home, tucking their belongings in layers of blue tarpaulin. Smoke rings in air, from a stranger taking refuge under the shed, stranded with his last cigarette.

A sharp knock at the door woke her up.

The rains had left.

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** Hand in hand with fiction, inspite of being purely fictional has a resemblance to all our lives. As we grow up in a very directed sense of lifestyle, its natural for all of us to lose ourselves on the way sometimes, being lonely, looking for constant support in the form of parents, friends, lover, husband, children and sometimes even strangers. While only the journey and its memories remain real.

In love with the canvas again