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Ramkinkar’s Take on MK Binodini

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Ramkinkar Baij (1906 ‒ 1980)
MK Binodini (1922 ‒ 2011)
------------------------------MK Binodini, the elegant and legendary lady whom we used to call Emasi, was the muse of Ramkinkar Baij. With due respect to Emasi and as a tribute to Ramkinkar Baij, the father of modern Indian sculpture, I have created this collage from the photos I have taken from an exhibition, which was held at the National Gallery of Modern Art in Delhi from 8 February to 31 March 2012.


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Baij’s subjects were the people he met, including an Indonesian girl who was visiting Visva Bharati. A series of paintings have his student and muse, Binodini. “One doesn’t know what relation the two shared; she appeared in several of his works, often nude,” says Radhakrishnan (the curator of the present exhibition). Hailing from a princely family of Manipur, when asked why didn’t she marry Baij, Binodini had replied, “He was a good artist …

The Housefly’s Eyes

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Out of the intense tangent
of the revolution
of a big bad world,

How unfortunate I have
touched down on this dark land
where they fight for land.

As dirty men shoot and loot,
women lose their charm,
—slowly, the drape falls.

And slowly they go down the road
And slowly their hands and lips move
And slowly they indulge in filth
And slowly they leech others’ blood
And slowly they killed each other

What’s wrong, folks, with these people?
How can they walk so slow?
As if time is theirs.

Let me take you on my wings
Fly you across the world
Would you not like it?


Kings, Teachers, Rebels and Wise Folks

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In our kingdom-conglomerate
There is a story so bizarre
I was dumbfound when I heard it
And I was dumbfucked when I saw;
All of us are playing a role:

Inside a grey wretched cycle
There is a black and damp burrow
In the darkness where we become
Quacks who can turn the land into
A brothel—all of us drop by.

As they chronicle the stories
The teachers tackle, tagging it
The narratives of lame people,
Saying we must read and talk about.
—Your books are my toilet papers.

The lone thing we share with the world
is our stupidity that scares;

Hear it as long as you are keen
As we are shackled in some quest
As in some Sisyphusic toil.
This is the tragedy, not inked
But which we have been crying foul.




Natural Selection?

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★   ★  ★   ★   ★   ★   ★  ★  ★  ★   ★  ★  ★  ★  WE NEED NO REVOLUTION WHAT WE NEED IS EVOLUTION ★  ★  ★  ★   ★   ★   ★   ★    ★   ★   ★   ★  ★  ★


Change Is Uncertain on Insomniac Nights

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Inside the night’s swaddle,
and as if there is but only these place and time
—money flutters, it betokens it is what makes
people beautiful.

See the photos of the film stars framed
as masterpieces of humanity on the silent wall.
Insomnia waxes, alas,
when we glance through
the clipped photos of the stars from newspapers
when they were not stars.
See, Oprah Winfrey.

What is more serious is
some light to beat this cold so merciless.
Beauty has nothing to do
with the frigid, restless hours.
On these biting winter nights,
smoldered by the charcoal container on fire,
regardless of the pride in its halcyon days,
the cold is hiding in ebbing embers as
summer lurks like a Peeping Tom.

As the bed bugs and badgers,
there is a desperation for change.
Change is revolution.
But revolution is the art of lobbing hand grenades.
The more it paralyzes the people,
the more the art has become revolutionary
And our misery for this art and poverty
have shooed away the artists
fr…

What’s in a name?

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What’s in a name? That which we call Bolywood By any other word would stink as the shithole in Slumdog Millionaire; So India would, were it not India call’d... 
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Last week, two ministers of an Indian state were caught watching porn on a cellphone while in the assembly. It has taken parliamentary decorum to a new high. The two farts also remind me of a local elder, who used to carry three 4GB phone memory cards: two of them for storing porn clips which he grouped according to the country a video belongs to, and a third card which he used for his personal photos and videos, though not necessarily obscene.

The cameraman had done what he must. Imagine his sinister smile while capturing the shots, as if he has nothing to focus his machine on, but he did well mixing…

Thank You for Smoking

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A cigarette is the only consumer product which when used as directed kills its consumer.



         INSIDE THE ROOM          

•They stream through filters
Like marching bands of army
I play the piper

•Slowly it consumes
Helpless airs of lungs, the whiff,
nicotine-stained lips

•In the smoking room
We wear jackets of smoke and ash
The butts cry for fire

•with empty pockets
with compulsion to smoke oft
with biri i walk

•she fagged while i humped
i caught my breath when she said:
‘Are you done, my boy?’

•the picture scares me
it’s a government mandate
to spoil ciggy packs
         NO SMOKING ZONE          

•it’s time for a smoke
you can wait here for a while
no smoking zone sucks.

•take your butt outside
my buttock? i kick it out;
they mean the ciggy’s.

•As the dark lungs cough
the liver smirks; the heart wails:
Thank you for smoking.


         PAMPERED WITH CHOICE          

•from Moreh they come
smacking Burmese and Thai's lips,
Win, Classic, et al.

•Old folks they say they
prefer Bandor to Mantu
Easy on the throat.

•Whic…

Mirror, Mirror

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See the sea of souls
on the mirror, meditating on the meaning
of the reality, aroused by their own reflection,
and accepting it is accurate.

In wealth and high rise;
Nowhere else there’s a picture
Of style and substance

In whisky bottles
Lies the nature of artful;
Redefine babble

In others’ image
Lies our likely photographs,
Our real snaps stink

Revolution chimes
In tune with the excretion
Of displaced people.

Mirror, mirror on the wall
Which is the fairest of all
— the wealth or its illusion;
the whisky bottles or its effects;
others’ reality or our dreams;
the revolution or the excretion?




Active Evil

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........................................................................................................................... You are not clever enough to know all the evil you do  You are neither no god that you will not see, hear, speak, do evil  ...........................................................................................................................




A Life Rolled in Haiku

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Stage 1 whimpers, mother’s voice; is the world, in truth, so good —just milk and potty? perhaps i’m still blind my ears can hear but a sound i can tell nothing Stage 2 let me play a game a simple game, not your crap, —reason defying toys and all playthings are only we wish we have; you shape us with guns Stage 3 why should I follow your deeds and dreams so hollow? i have my credo. guns and goons galore does the pen have more power? reality sucks. Stage 4 teenage dreams are done if not for my killer crush what has life for me? the government kills why is the world so fucked up? smoke and take a rest Stage 5 the joke is on me gunshots have become berceuse; backache and lost dreams once upon a time i was unsure about life; what happiness is Stage 6 in the pale blue dot besot with skepticism drink rum as potion.
will this be the end with life with a wife and kids? too old to muse on
.......................................................................................................  T H E   …

To a Scarlet Amaryllis

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In one gloomy corner of this room,
You are standing like the wild
but tamed elephant at Shamumakhong,
With your soul shackled in an unsung plant bosom,
Your tall legs tied forever
to the confining tiny land—tell me,
Do not you envy the white ibises
their flight of freedom.
Your wildness is in crimson, unblushing bloom
in your holier-than-thou countenance,
in the red rage, as if you have been mindful
of the mindless bloodshed of my tribesmen;
Be cheerful, Amaryllis,
Be your yellow siblings tho’ in this nook
You will see them never,
Imagine how they are delightful
Even in the deepest winter
They can dream of an impending spring;
Leastways, be a tinge of yellow;
In this alteration and your new self only
will people write of you,
Putting aside the gods and guns and goons,
But appreciating you
Your unspoken joy and your cherry eyes:
What life is made of, but wild celebration.


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