aag - the fire

so i met this chap. who liked his food steaming hot.
reasonable demand i'd say.
so i said hello. and advised him to stay off the mint-o-fresh.

the living dead

i hate my solitude.

ten to taaq

taaq turned ten. i got to do the pics. yay. some misplaced sense of arrival this. but i'm happy.

the flowering viola

while my dreams
should be made
of things profound
like glowing amethysts
in the amber sky
of my perennial dusk.
rather worryingly
my dreams today
harp, chew and mull
over how the hell
i'm going to get past
my next mission
in gta vice city.
i've got the bug gamer
from jack the ripper
it's quite a bummer.

circa circus

while the kids roared in the aisles, sister philomina giggled. while the kids squirmed in their seats at the slightest hint of carnal love on stage, sister philomina giggled. while the curtains came down on one super grand visual feast, sister philomina giggled. and i strongly suspect sister philomina giggled well into the night and into sunday as well. and between hail marys, sister philomina giggled.
more pics. more slander. it's all here.

because...

...monkeys and i go back a long time.
because hari, recho and pearly are staring from behind me right now.

one cat please

all you peoples.
make one face.
at your cat.
today.

patch-e-derm

thondan ganapathy
kumbanda kundi ki
thirikitte
thirikitte thirikitte thirikitte thirikitte
piniyum
thirikitte thirikitte thirikitte thirikitte.

lakshmi takes a dip. we watched from a boat. as stories were told. of the elephants before.

high art or dusty file?

i don't know how it has come to be. but the camera has fascinated me for longer than anything else. pipped crayons, pastels, air guns, video games, pyromania and other habits of the past, to my choice of distraction. i've never really idolised (z?) anybody. and all of a sudden it occurs to me that bresson and capa and the others occupy a bigger part of my conscience than i have ever cared to admit. as i go to bed every night, when i should ideally be thinking of matinee sirens and lost love and the like, i find my adled brains engaged in a heated near academic debate on whether photography qualifies as art or it just remains a mere chronicle of our times. a dusty file?

and then before slumber takes over, i'm reminded of bresson's wisdom.
"with my open eye i look without.
with my closed eye i look within."

and i know then that it is neither art nor instrument of history. and i'm glad for the buddies out there (hari adi, jack and the like) who understand what i mean. i'm glad. i'm glad.

when simba found nemo

what things does a fish think in a fish tank?
if a fish could think in a fish tank?
does she worry, fret and frown?
or does she smile, blessed with a memory
that doesn't ever let her think
that she's actually in a fish tank?

my deepest nadir...

... i know will be flooded with photons. for isn't too much light, darkness too?

and now for...

the big Q. are you a believer?

majestic manjunath

village idiots have always fascinated me.
this one here, pretended to die, kill, laugh hysterically, cry until the tears dried up, fall, fly and vapourize into thin air for the benefit of jack's camera.

i must make a certain private confession public. i want to be a goat herd too.

cycle mart

pa.
i remember you drilling bernoulli's into my head. i was five?
i'm sorry, i'm nothing you wanted me to be. but know that i'm thankful for all you taught me. and not just the stuff about aeroplanes and planets and carpentry and diodes.
i remember more than you will give me credit for. i remember most of all that one day you refused to hold my hand as we walked to the vegetable market.
and i'm thankful.