The Floating Bed

I used to blog on kpayal.blogspot.com. it's not cool to use blogspot anymore, people told me, so I am here. the floating bed is the name of a lovely composition by elliot goldenthal.
Also on
talesofindianfolkartandartists.tumblr.com and doorsfromallover.tumblr.com. My work Portfolio is on payalportfolio.blogspot.com (which stays on Blogspot).

A Conceit by Maya Angelou

Give me your hand

Make room for me
to lead and follow
you
beyond this rage of poetry.

Let others have
the privacy of
touching words
and love of loss
of love.

For me
Give me your hand. 

In the zone. 
At Barbican Centre, London (2013 trip)

In the zone. 

At Barbican Centre, London (2013 trip)

Collective Happiness

Oh man. What a Sunday it turned out to be. It was as insipid as so many of the last few Sundays have been, with almost everyone in a foul mood, snickering at the fact that it’s a Sunday. The sun was as harsh as it has been since the last few days. To give you an idea, it was 42.something degree Celsius yesterday in Delhi. And then my mom came to my room where I was twisting and turning in the bed aimlessly. She announced that it was going to rain. I didn’t want to believe it. I got up suspiciously after about five minutes and walked across to the balcony, with doubt and cynicism pervading through my mind and body. But then in the next two minutes, the sky exploded.

The first girl to make me believe that it wasn’t a mirage was dancing on the ground, constantly asking her mother, who was still in the clutches of her balcony, to join her. Within the next few minutes, the park downstairs was full of men, women and so many children. And finally it sank in. I ran up to the terrace, and was joined by my brother, then a neighbour friend, then her mother-in-law and then my mother and then so many other people on the adjoining terraces. And then we all just soaked in and danced and smiled and splashed and swayed to the music of the rain. I had never seen so many people so insanely collectively happy at the same time. I fucking love rains.    

I don’t want to be an ant.

Hey. Could we do that again? I know we haven’t met, but I don’t want to be an ant. You know? I mean, it’s like we go through life with our antennas bouncing off one another, continously on ant autopilot, with nothing really human required of us. Stop. Go. Walk here. Drive there. All action basically for survival. All communication simply to keep this ant colony buzzing along in an efficient, polite manner. “Here’s your change.” “Paper or plastic?’ “Credit or debit?” “You want ketchup with that?” I don’t want a straw. I want real human moments. I want to see you. I want you to see me. I don’t want to give that up. I don’t want to be ant, you know?”

Waking Life (By Richard Linklater)

At Kathputli Colony, Delhi. 

At Kathputli Colony, Delhi. 

Unemployment Notes #1

Remember how I wrote that enthusiastic post about starting out as a freelancer and then a week after a post about feeling burnt out. Well, now you will see many passionate posts about how freelancing sucks but also how this is the best phase of my life. So basically, freelancing is not for me. I went, I saw and I realised. And while I am still working as a freelancer, I am taking all the extra time to figure out a lot of other important life stuff, which is always good.

I am also having a lot of interesting experiences. The most recent one is a reinstatement of my belief that genuinely great people are always so so so humble and thankfully I have had the pleasure of meeting some of them in this lifetime. I had interviewed and met someone really senior (professionally) about 8 years back and then recently I wrote a mail to her about some work related question and to be very honest, I really didn’t expect her to remember me or to reply. But she did. And oh so graciously. Moments like these never ever fail to leave a deep impression on me. 

image

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Many people accept the idea that each of us has a certain resolute innerness—a kernel of selfhood that we can’t share with others. (Levin, at the end of “Anna Karenina,” calls it his “holy of holies,” and says that, no matter how close he grows to the people around him, there will always be “the same wall between my soul’s holy of holies and other people, even my wife.”) What interested Woolf was the way that we become aware of that innerness. We come to know it best, she thought, when we’re forced, at moments of exposure, to shield it against the outside world.

—New Yorker’s piece 'Virginia Woolf's Idea of Privacy'.

Delhi. 

Delhi. 

India Gate’s next door neighbours. Sunday!

Connaught Place, Delhi, yesterday.

Connaught Place, Delhi, yesterday.