tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-22199640602399955582024-02-18T17:44:35.465-08:00A Treehousein the urban forest.somesh kumarhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05645887325138759957noreply@blogger.comBlogger204125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2219964060239995558.post-16319089105637924332015-08-15T03:32:00.003-07:002020-09-13T12:28:18.793-07:00Moving on<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgbPmZC88VQpWfGXDKg45vNXi8YWSnHdpFQarveykh1Jz00DB1DdX7M8QqZW2NkIpWLcBw3AHBabrtQYjfPbrhjBa3AUNPc0H3m33KIaX0PwIAHBFIR01r88Q6heq3m6QDjW_OIbO3BcXkb/s1600/favicon+tumblr.png" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgbPmZC88VQpWfGXDKg45vNXi8YWSnHdpFQarveykh1Jz00DB1DdX7M8QqZW2NkIpWLcBw3AHBabrtQYjfPbrhjBa3AUNPc0H3m33KIaX0PwIAHBFIR01r88Q6heq3m6QDjW_OIbO3BcXkb/s400/favicon+tumblr.png" width="400" /></a><span face="Verdana,sans-serif"> </span><br />
<span face="Verdana,sans-serif">It has been a long and beautiful time using this blog but I will be posting now on <a href="https://www.somsesh.com/">www.somsesh.com</a></span><br />
<span face="Verdana,sans-serif">Hope to see you there. </span></div>
somesh kumarhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05645887325138759957noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2219964060239995558.post-87243926444964452572014-09-21T00:55:00.000-07:002014-09-23T02:28:18.504-07:00Gyaffing Around<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I finished reading Rahul Bhattacharya's second book, The Sly Company of People Who Care, last week. I haven't read his first book, Pundits from Pakistan. Perhaps the title of the second book intrigued me more. It's a fictional piece about a Cricket reporter who decides to take a year off to stay in Guyana. The first few pages took me some effort to get used to his style of writing. He moves from descriptions of the place, people and culture so freely, interjecting each with conversations and anecdotes that it takes you some time to sleep and wake to the multitude of understanding you are drinking in. You slowly grow into it and then the Guyanese heart, faces, landscape, songs, stories, politics and all the gyaffing just seeps in an osmotic fashion. The writing is visual and linguistically so connected to the place that the vocabulary works as a tool to make you more Guyanese. After all, 43.5 percent of Guyana is of Coolie's blood, labourers from India. There is a Bihari dish called <i>Chokha</i>, you can find its more spiced up version in <i>Bharta</i>. This book is almost like savouring that dish slowly, morsel by morsel, under the humid air of sea and rain forests and a few bites as the last survival food at the end of a long journey, but most importantly, it's the unshakable feeling you are left with when that dish is over, and all you have is an empty tiffin box to stare at and remember the person who packed it for you.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Here are some excerpts from the book that I bookmarked for myself. </span></div>
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<i style="background-color: white; color: #333333; line-height: 20.7900009155273px;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">The mood was very different now. One escapes one's life, for however long, seeking adventure--I think of the Hindi word dheel. This is what kite-flyers in bombay shouted when they wanted the spooler to let loose the thread. I could not fly a kite, as unnavigable to me as chopsticks, but I liked giving dheel, and I liked very much the thought of dheel. So one escapes one's life seeking adventure, and with enough dheel and some luck, that happens. But the thread is anchored. You can only go so far. The impulse must change. Instead of adventure one seeks understanding. It comes with heaviness. The only way to be exempt is to resolutely not ponder, but I was given to pondering. </span></i></div>
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<i style="background-color: white; color: #333333; line-height: 20.7900009155273px;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">They were whipped to tens, hundreds, and up to a thousand lashes though few bodies still remained alive. The whips were pickled in brine or chilli. Their body parts could be mutilated. They had no rights of any kind: not to family, to language, to names, to faith, to social order. Obliteration. When horror is of such scale, it begins to feel like fantasy, and fantasy is the easier to digest. </span></i></div>
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<i style="background-color: white; color: #333333; line-height: 20.7900009155273px;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">'Hear wha'happen, brother,' Chabilall said to me after. 'Rafi you ain got to unstand words. Rafi in we blood.'</span></i></div>
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<i style="background-color: white; color: #333333; line-height: 20.7900009155273px;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">'Kishore?'</span></i></div>
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<i style="background-color: white; color: #333333; line-height: 20.7900009155273px;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">'A great man. But hear wha'happen. When Rafi sing a dance song, you dance. When he sing a sad song, you cry. When he sing a love song, women get fever. Rafi get inside of you, he become you an you become him.'</span></i></div>
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<i style="background-color: white; color: #333333; line-height: 20.7900009155273px;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">He went to a line from Suhaani Raat.</span></i></div>
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<i style="background-color: white; color: #333333; line-height: 20.7900009155273px;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">Tarap rahe hain hum yahaan, tumhaare intezaar mein.</span></i></div>
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<i style="background-color: white; color: #333333; line-height: 20.7900009155273px;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">'Hear how he play with the syllable. He make ten from one. Now that is feeling.'</span></i></div>
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<i style="background-color: white; color: #333333; line-height: 20.7900009155273px;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">'You know what it means?'</span></i></div>
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<i style="background-color: white; color: #333333; line-height: 20.7900009155273px;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">'Part Part. But I feel it, my brother, I feel it. Let me tell you one story, my brother. When I was in school, I get suspended one time. because why? Because in the patriotic song I replace "guyana" with "India".'</span></i></div>
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<i style="background-color: white; color: #333333; line-height: 20.7900009155273px;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">The bliss of the city is when it awakens--not the dawn hours haunted by the middle-aged shedding fat or burnt out adolescents returning home, but a little after, when the cleaning machines have brushed away yesterday's evidence and the fresh day is falling crisp as golden wafers, when reasonable people with reasonable habits are coming out of their holes to dot the world with their strange faces, their gestures, costumes, voices, until bit by bit, by living magic, the grand tapestry is made. </span></i></div>
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<i style="background-color: white; color: #333333; line-height: 20.7900009155273px;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">An hour or two in this ambience is enough, You've got the nourishment you need. You've been doused in a particular mood, felt a particular brightness not felt before, been reassured that there are small wonders in the world, and further familiarity is liable to ruin things. </span></i></div>
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<i style="background-color: white; color: #333333; line-height: 20.7900009155273px;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">I learnt her suspicion extended to detergent. She held that it coloured water grey to fool people about how much it cleaned. her suspicions were not to be misunderstood. I was realizing that she believed in things. She believed in top-loading detergents vs front-loading detergents vs hand-washing detergents, in garbage liners as opposed to plastic bags. Arguably no escapery in her. Her quitting the job, that wasn't to be misconstructed. Her ambition was different from mine, not the flimsy ambition of journeys but of destinations. In five years I wasn't sure if I would be anywhere, but she probably would. She was formidable. She knew childbirth. If we were in battle I suspected I would lose.</span></i></div>
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<i style="background-color: white; color: #333333; line-height: 20.7900009155273px;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">She was prepared to tackle the world because the world to her was not absurd. To think the world absurd is a privilege. Those who do so consider themselves enlightened. In fact, it only means their struggles are shallow. Sooner or later the real world will rain down upon them. That, or we shall go slowly mad, or seek recourse in meditation, narcotics, writing. </span></i></div>
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somesh kumarhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05645887325138759957noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2219964060239995558.post-30023143521192895772014-08-02T03:53:00.002-07:002014-08-08T23:15:53.175-07:00At Least He Never Walked - Haruki Murakami<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I was never much of an athlete. In my school days, my sporting diet was limited to the regular cricket games. For a change I would play football, basket ball, volley ball and table tennis, but I was never really good with any of the games. I used to chuck when bowling, carry when recruited in the front row of volley ball court, and in football I was always a defender who would kick the ball out whenever a forward would come close. Although, I wasn't so bad at table tennis but the ball put in the back hand area of my table used to make me nervous. I wouldn't label myself a complete disaster, I was good enough to be around and play my humble part in these games but never too good. I was also quite chubby as a kid and everyone knows what a fat kid has to go through in school. If you were fat, you got ridiculed. If you weren't, then you were the one ridiculing the fat kid next to you. Your sports teacher would grill you as a sloth being served for breakfast. Even the neighbours who themselves were popping pills for their cholesterol levels would take a dig at you. As a kid, I would secretly wish that I was in a place where everyone was so obese that no one would dare to say even a word to me. In the country of the blind, the one-eyed man is king. But you still had to grow up with all this banter constantly knocking you out.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">During my middle school, I was transferred to a school in Air Force Station. That place had acres of land with just trees, bushes and old runways. It was there that I started running in the morning. Either it was the running or just the change in my hormones, I grew taller, lost quite a bit of weight, but by the next year I had moved to Patna, a city where the daily commute and traffic washed away the morning run regime. Years passed, I finished college, switched a couple of jobs and now I am running a design studio with my friend. Like many people in the city, I too spend a lot of time at my desk sitting and working. The lifestyle can not be called healthy and you can easily put on weight and develop a few posture problems. Having been through the trauma of being called a fat kid, I definitely didn't want to go back to that. More than anything I felt the need to be fit because I do want to live long and put tick marks next to the unfinished ideas and aspirations that are right now hibernating in the end pages of my planner. Sometimes you have to find solace in this hope of living long because time is forever slipping away and the days are never enough. It was in late 2010 when I slowly started running again. I would do four rounds of the government playground near my house in the morning. I was working from home then and it was easier to get it done on a regular basis. In 2011, I had to take up a job and running took a more intermittent route. I would run consistently for few months and then resign myself to the desk and chairs. I quit my job in 2012 and with the privilege of being more flexible with my day's schedule, I brought running back to the morning hours. My stamina was extremely poor though. It felt like all these years I have been running on the same level I picked up at. I was doing 2.5 to 3 km every alternate day and kept continuing with that. I used to run on treadmill and would often find it extremely boring because you have to keep staring at a blank wall and run with your pace constantly being controlled by the buttons you push. It never felt natural enough. I guess it could be one of the reasons why I was not pushing myself much. In March this year I decided that it's time to measure my efforts but outside the gym confinements. I downloaded an app on my phone and the first day pushed myself to do a 5km run. I was surprised that I actually managed to do it. It's an exhilarating experience, to push yourself to get somewhere you would like to be. Since then I have been running quite consistently and pushing myself every other day but also being respectful to my body's response. Yes, on odd days you risk your legs too much to achieve what you want but then long distance running is about pain and that's what makes it so special. There is a whole lot to running than just the physical endeavour and endurance. It's a melting pot of thoughts and emotions which cleanses you out of all the junk (not just referring to fast foods here) that you can do without in the present moment. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Now, to get to the real reason behind writing this post. I picked up this book called What I Talk About When I Talk About Running written by Haruki Murakami. Few friends had mentioned him and his book over conversations about running. I had a vague idea about him as the author of Sputnik Sweetheart. I haven't read the book but got to know about it through a short film in Paris je t'aime. What I talk About When I Talk About Running is the novelist's memoir but through the eyes of a runner. He picked up running at the age of thirty three and still continues to do so in his early sixties. When you have run for more than three decades, you have seen it all, the exuberance, the pitfalls, the rainy days and the shimmer of the sunshine. There are parts in this book which are so relatable that it feels like in those moments the author and I are traversing the same mental landscape. The beauty is that one doesn't feel the connection only as a runner but as a person standing and observing the many others who are passing you by. </span><br />
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<i><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">"As I mentioned before, competing against other people, whether
in daily life or in my field of work, is just not the sort of lifestyle
I’m after. Forgive me for stating the obvious, but the world is
made up of all kinds of people. Other people have their own
values to live by, and the same holds true with me. These
differences give rise to disagreements, and the combination of
these disagreements can give rise to even greater
misunderstandings. As a result, sometimes people are unfairly
criticized. This goes without saying. It’s not much fun to be </span><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;">misunderstood or criticized, but rather a painful experience that
hurts people deeply.</span></i><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"><i>As I’ve gotten older, though, I’ve gradually come to the realization
that this kind of pain and hurt is a necessary part of life. If you
think about it, it’s precisely because people are different from
others that they’re able to create their own independent selves.
Take me as an example. It’s precisely my ability to detect some
aspects of a scene that other people can’t, to feel differently than
others and choose words that differ from theirs, that’s allowed me
to write stories that are mine alone. And because of this we have
the extraordinary situation in which quite a few people read what
I’ve written. So the fact that I’m me and no one else is one of my
greatest assets. Emotional hurt is the price a person has to pay in
order to be independent.
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"><i>That’s what I basically believe, and I’ve lived my life accordingly.
In certain areas of my life, I actively seek out solitude. Especially
for someone in my line of work, solitude is, more or less, an
inevitable circumstance. Sometimes, however, this sense of
isolation, like acid spilling out of a bottle, can unconsciously eat
away at a person’s heart and dissolve it. You could see it, too, as a
kind of double-edged sword. It protects me, but at the same time
steadily cuts away at me from the inside. I think in my own way
I’m aware of this danger—probably through experience—and
that’s why I’ve had to constantly keep my body in motion, in
some cases pushing myself to the limit, in order to heal the
loneliness I feel inside and to put it in perspective. Not so much
as an intentional act, but as an instinctive reaction.
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"><i>Let me be more specific.
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<i><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">When I’m criticized unjustly (from my viewpoint, at least), or
when someone I’m sure will understand me doesn’t, I go running
for a little longer than usual. By running longer it’s like I can
physically exhaust that portion of my discontent. It also makes
me realize again how weak I am, how limited my abilities are. I
become aware, physically, of these low points. And one of the
results of running a little farther than usual is that I become that </span><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;">much stronger. If I’m angry, I direct that anger toward myself. If I
have a frustrating experience, I use that to improve myself. That’s
the way I’ve always lived. I quietly absorb the things I’m able to,
releasing them later, and in as changed a form as possible, as part
of the story line in a novel." </span></i><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"><i>"There’s one thing, though, I can state with confidence: until the
feeling that I’ve done a good job in a race returns, I’m going to keep running marathons, and not let it get me down. Even when I
grow old and feeble, when people warn me it’s about time to
throw in the towel, I won’t care. As long as my body allows, I’ll
keep on running. Even if my time gets worse, I’ll keep on putting
in as much effort—perhaps even more effort—toward my goal of
finishing a marathon. I don’t care what others say—that’s just my
nature, the way I am. Like scorpions sting, cicadas cling to trees,
salmon swim upstream to where they were born, and wild ducks
mate for life." </i></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia;"><i><span style="font-size: large;">I just run. I run in a void. Or maybe I should put it the other way:
I run in order to acquire a void. But as you might expect, an
occasional thought will slip into this void. People’s minds can’t be
a complete blank. Human beings’ emotions are not strong or
consistent enough to sustain a vacuum. What I mean is, the kinds
of thoughts and ideas that invade my emotions as I run remain
subordinate to that void. Lacking content, they are just random
thoughts that gather around that central void. </span></i></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">There are too many excerpts that I can quote here but as I finished reading this book I was framing my very own understanding too. Lately, I have been feeling a repulsive taste to the amount of self help books, feel good quotes, gibberish profoundness and articles that would make you feel better in ten ways. I am not saying that all of these things are worthless. Sometimes you do chance upon a few good things here and there. It's the voracious appetite for these things that creates the stench. We are constantly talking about bringing the focus back to ourselves and trying ever so hard to achieve it as a mode of thinking. I do not underestimate thoughts and their importance but I do emphasise the point that you can forever be soul searching and the black hole of thoughts would keep sucking you in. Running for me banishes the not needed thinking part. You resolve to get up, tie the shoe laces and head out for a run. You decide to do something and sometimes that's all which matters. In Murakami's words, the void, the very lack of obsessive consumption of feel good is the space I strive for. Running affirms the undying will to do what you want to do, to struggle, to battle with pain and overcoming it with your own efforts. That's a feeling which you have to train for. You will hit road blocks but you have to keep adding fuel to yourself and that's what long distance running is all about. One more thing, it's also about respecting your privileges. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"><i>"Whenever I feel like I don’t want to run, I always ask myself the
same thing: You’re able to make a living as a novelist, working at
home, setting your own hours, so you don’t have to commute on a
packed train or sit through boring meetings. Don’t you realize
how fortunate you are? (Believe me, I do.) Compared to that,
running an hour around the neighborhood is nothing, right?
Whenever I picture packed trains and endless meetings, this gets
me motivated all over again and I lace up my running shoes and
set off without any qualms. If I can’t manage this much, I think,
it’ll serve me right. I say this knowing full well that there are lots
of people who’d pick riding a crowded train and attending
meetings any day over running every day for an hour."</i></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">The world is unfair. There are some of us who have to wade through troubles and struggle endlessly while there are some who have many more privileges. There are some who can eat a lot and still stay skinny while there are some who can add calories over stale bread. To struggle and get somewhere is a virtue mastered through the willingness to act and to appreciate what you have. At times it feels that there is no substitute to the path which will test your spirit. A journey through such path is inevitable for one's humility. It makes the end much sweeter. If you have any support, well wisher, help or anything that makes the ride easier then you ought to do better. You owe it to them and to yourself. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I am still learning and growing and it will take time but right now, at this moment, I do feel that it's all about doing what you can, to give it your all and then to know when it's time, accept your defeat graciously. To know your limits and still pushing them. It lies somewhere in between aspirations and acceptance. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">To end the post, here's a line from a song in the movie, Udaan. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="background-color: white; color: #292f33; font-family: 'Gotham Narrow SSm', sans-serif, Arial; font-size: 16px; line-height: 22px; white-space: pre-wrap;">दमक की ग़रज़ है, सोने में अगर
तो जलना भी मंज़ूर है। </span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #292f33; font-family: 'Gotham Narrow SSm', sans-serif, Arial; font-size: 16px; line-height: 22px; white-space: pre-wrap;">- उड़ान </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">If gold has the wish to shine, then even getting burnt is acceptable. </span></div>
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somesh kumarhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05645887325138759957noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2219964060239995558.post-75516208756722542692014-02-17T20:28:00.000-08:002014-02-17T20:47:10.540-08:00Bhauji No.01<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgs0aeO2HAgGvkDWn8U78VQ6eBi_z1SiuR9UZFMa7h3xxI5XMESFbPLmVLpRlIsXoF5PvZYKuct0GFslw60hIE5k0pP0ch6tRcSWdVD6ArtBolZq6w-y9FVo4IcXWNqXPl9a-f01Ii3BAR-/s1600/Bhauji-No-400px.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgs0aeO2HAgGvkDWn8U78VQ6eBi_z1SiuR9UZFMa7h3xxI5XMESFbPLmVLpRlIsXoF5PvZYKuct0GFslw60hIE5k0pP0ch6tRcSWdVD6ArtBolZq6w-y9FVo4IcXWNqXPl9a-f01Ii3BAR-/s1600/Bhauji-No-400px.jpg" /></a></div>
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I know it's been quite some time since I last put up a post here. There is no excuse for it, but then sometimes you need only a small excuse to take time off work and make a birthday card. Here's one I made for my sister-in-law. The titles are set on the note of Bhojpuri films. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">It was after a really long time that I sat so long on one piece of work. It was done in a rushing and gushing storm of a deadline, so strong was the stress that I ate a bag of chips and skipped my tea. You can gauge the intensity with the sacrifice I just mentioned. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Hopefully I get to do more of such stuff. It's always nice to do work for people who are around you but our profession keeps us away from not even paying a token of appreciation. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">You can see the poster in a larger dimension <a href="http://i.imgur.com/FZX5F2k.jpg">here.</a></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Thank you, Aditi Goenka for the title suggestion.</span></div>
somesh kumarhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05645887325138759957noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2219964060239995558.post-26162376614651956102013-12-08T19:53:00.002-08:002013-12-08T19:56:43.634-08:00पिल्ला<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
सुमन के हाथ यूँ तो पन्ने पर कलम को लिए फिर रहे थे पर उसकी आँखों के पटल पर वह दृश्य रह रहकर दस्तक दिए जा रहा था। एक नन्हा सा शरीर कैसे पुराने मैले कुचले कपड़े कि तरह सड़क पर पड़ा हुआ था। थोड़ी दूर से ही देखा था पर सुमन के अंदर का भय सच्चाई बन धराशायी हो चूका था। पास जाकर देखा, छोटे छोटे दाँत जमीन से घिसे हुए थे। शरीर पर के रोएँ भद्दे और एक लाल सुखी नदी कि चरमराती रेखाओं कि तरह बिखरे हुए थे। शायद थोड़ा वक़्त बीत चुका होगा। कुछ दो दिन पहले हो तो इसे देखा था। एक दूकान के सामने यह भूरे रंग का पिल्ला ऊन के गोले कि तरह ढ़िलमिलाये दौड़ रहा था। गाड़ी के खिड़की से सिर्फ पल बाहर के लिए ही देखा था पर बस दो सेकंड के झलक में ही जैसे गहरा सम्बन्ध बन जाता है इनसे। कई यादें भी तो जुड़ी है। बचपन में सुमन के पिताजी ने काले और भूरे रंग का अल्सेशियन पिल्ला लाये थे। उसे याद है वह उचक कर आईने में देखता हुआ अपने दाँत साफ़ कर रहा था। आँखों के किनारों से जब पापा के हाथ में उस कुलमुलाते हुए पिल्ले को देखा तो उसकी ख़ुशी का ठिकाना नहीं था। याद भी नहीं कि कुल्ला किया कि नहीं। उसका नाम लूसी रखा गया था। सर्दी का मौसम था। लूसी को रखने के लिए लकड़ी के क्रेट में बोरे और फूस को बिछा कर नर्म बिस्तर बनाया गया था। एक रात जब लूसी उचक कर क्रेट से बाहर गिर पड़ी थी तो सुमन ने अपनी माँ के गोद में सर रखकर आँसू भी बहाये थे। सुमन अतीत और आज के आना तानी से तंग आकर उसने काम छोड़ वापस उस पिल्ले को देखने के लिए निकल पड़ा। कुछ दो घंटे पहले जब वह घर आ रहा था तो रास्ते पर उस पिल्ले को पड़ा हुआ देखा। माँ को गाड़ी रोकने के लिए कहा और तुरंत नीचे उतर कर पास जाकर देखा। उस ऊन कि गोल शारीर में कोई जान बाकी नहीं थी। नज़रें उठाकर इधर उधर देखा पर उस गली में बसी दुनिया में कोई भी हृदय की हलचल नहीं दिखी। पर वह जानता था कि उसे इसकी उम्मीद भी नहीं थी। पास कूड़े के ढेर में से एक गत्ते का टुकड़ा उठाया और पिल्ले को सड़क के किनारे कर दिया। सुमन अपने आप को समझा रहा था कि कम से कम अब कोई गाड़ी इसे बार बार तो नहीं रौंदेगी। पर घर जाकर भी उसकी मनोस्तिथि उस पिल्ले के साथ सड़क पर ढ़ेर थी। वह जानता था कि हर जीवन का अंत सुनहरे लिबास में लिपट कर नहीं होता। अपने आप को समझा रहा था कि चील कौवें उस पिल्ले को जीवन मरण के गोल चक्र के आड़ में ले लेंगे। पर मन तो उतारू था कहीं और। आख़िरकर जब सुमन ने पिल्ले के आस पास कहीं ज़मीन खोजनी शुरू कि जहाँ दफनाया जा सके तो उसे निराशा ही हाथ लगी और कुछ अपने अंदर कि कायरता भी। निराशा इस बात कि कहीं भी अब नर्म मिट्टी नहीं मिलती। हर तरफ या तो कूड़े करकट का ढेर नहीं तो नयी इमारतों को बनाने में लगी गिट्टी बालुओं का द्वीप। कायरता इस बात कि लगी कि क्या वह अपने प्रयास में उतना रुझारुपन पा सका। चीटियाँ अब अपने काम में जुट चुकी थी। सवेरे तक जब गंध फैलेगी तब ही इस समाज कि नज़र इस तरफ पड़ेगी। शायद यह सबूत ता उसके आँखों के सामने कि किस तरह इंसानों के समाज की परिभाषा सिर्फ इंसानों तक ही सीमित रहती है, उसमें जीव सिर्फ मनुष्य है और जन्तु वर्ग गायब है। अपने आप को हर श्रेणी में सबसे ऊँचा दर्जा देने कि ऐसी आदत सी लग गयी है कि बाकी सब कुछ एक निरर्थक भार है। सुमन इन सब से जूझ ही रहा था कि बगल में पटाके की आवाज़ आयी। एक हफ्ते बाद भी दिवाली अभी तक गयी नहीं थी। उस शोर में अपने आप और इस समाज से बस वह इतना ही कह सका कि मना लो अपने बर्बादियों की आतिशबाजी पर मेरे समाज में तुम्हें बस दुत्कार ही मिलेगी। <br />
<br />
- <i>ख़ुफ़िया कातिल </i></div>
somesh kumarhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05645887325138759957noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2219964060239995558.post-87721223402367153932013-12-01T12:28:00.002-08:002013-12-01T12:39:41.924-08:00सूरज का सातवाँ घोड़ा <div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
कई दिनों तक वह अपने आप को समझाता रहा -- <span id="goog_1032580249"></span>मत चेत उस लहर को जहाँ तेरा पाँव पिछला है, यह सागर की रेत है, यहाँ हर कदम छिछला है।<span id="goog_1032580250"></span> वह समझा क्या रहा था मानो खुद को कोई मंत्र रटा रहा हो। एक ऐसा मंत्र जो उसके मन पर कसे रस्सियों कि गाँठ ढ़ीली कर दे। पर मन तो वह कुआँ है जहाँ दुहाई या सच्चाई, दोनों ही रसगान बस मेढ़क की टर्र-टर्र बनकर ही गूँजते है। इसे मानवीय प्रवित्ति कहें या कुत्ते की दुम, इसे हर बेचैन पल से निकलने के लिए कोई ना कोई प्रवचन कि आदत पड़ जाती है। हृदय के अंदर चलती उथल पुथल में अपने को डूबता स्वीकार करना जरूरी नहीं समझा जाता क्योंकि सारा ध्यान सिर्फ शब्दों के बने बाँध जोड़ने में लगे रहते है। इसी जाल में फंस कर उसने अपने आप को अब यह रटाने लगा -- मत चेत उस लहर को, तू रेत नहीं धुआँ है। ना मथ उस सागर को जब तुझमे ही कुआँ है। अपने आप को ऊबारने की कोशिश में वह इस कदर बेचैन है कि उलझनों का दलदल उसे खींचे जा रहा है। हताश हो उसने अपने झोले में से एक किताब निकाली, शीर्षक था 'सूरज का साँतवा घोड़ा'। कुछ पन्ने वह पढ़ चुका है। सच बात तो यह है कि उसने यह किताब अंग्रेज़ी अनुवाद में लगभग बारह साल पढ़ी थी। सर्दी की छुट्टियाँ थी और छत पर धूप में चटाई बिछा कर करवटें बदलते हुए उसने पूरी किताब को अपने अंदर घोल लिया था। इतने सालों बाद कुछ याद नहीं कि किताब में क्या था पर एक मीठा दर्द भरा एहसास था जो कि अभी भी याद था। एक एहसास जिसने उसे जीवन के दो मूल रूप का परिचय दिया था। आज, इस वक़्त, इस भीतर कि लड़ाई से जूझता वह उस किताब को फिर पढ़ रहा है पर किसी उपचार के रूप में नहीं। पन्ने बस पलटते गए, मन भी उलझनों को छोड़ माणिक मुल्ला (उपन्यास का मुख्य किरदार) के दुनिया में विचरण करने लगा। कुछ पन्नों ने तो बस थाम लिया और जब विदा लिया तो इस कदर कि अब शब्दों के बाँध ध्वस्त लगने लगे। लाख समझा लो, पर इस मन को बाँधना आसान नहीं, इसे फुसलाअों उन किताबों, कविताओं, रचनाओं से जिसने आज भी बारह साल के गर्म धूप को नम नहीं होने दिया, वह धूप भी एक एहसास है।सिर्फ लहर, रेत और कुआँ, आखिर कब तक इन उपमाओं और अलंकारों में अपने मनोदशा की तस्वीर खोजे? हाँ, कदम है तो ठोकर खायेंगे ही और खाना भी चाहिए। पर हर एक ठोकर के लिए एक मल्हम ज़रूर है। उसके नुस्खे अपने है और उसकी रीत अपनी है। शायद इसीलिए जब भी वह रिश्तों और परिवेश के जोड़ और नाप से विचलित हो जाता है तो अपने कर्म के ही शरण में जाता है। यह कर्म ही उसके रथ का सातवाँ घोड़ा है क्योंकि जब उसने सारे छः घोड़ो को बोझिल कर दिया तो सातवें घोड़े ने ही इस मन को भूलभुलैया में घुमा कर नयी दिशा दी। शायद इसलिए अब रटने को कुछ है नहीं बस एक एहसास है। वह इस पल में आगे बढ़ रहा है। ना दुहाई है और ना सच्चाई है अर्पित करने के लिए। कुँए के मेढ़क भी थोड़े शांत पड़ गए है। भूलभुलैया में भटक के अब देखा जाए। <br />
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- <i>ख़ुफ़िया कातिल </i><br />
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'सूरज का सातवाँ घोड़ा', धर्मवीर भारती की लिखी हुई उपन्यास की कुछ पंक्तियाँ --<br />
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somesh kumarhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05645887325138759957noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2219964060239995558.post-45372166200571015142013-11-23T00:10:00.000-08:002013-11-23T04:30:37.877-08:00सागर की रेत<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
कितने ही दिन बीत गये है, वह आज भी वहाँ आ जाता है, उस लहर को चेतने। कितनी ही बार समझा चूका है खुद को पर बहकने के लिए बहाने हज़ार है और बहलाने के अलावा उसके पास और कोई रास्ता नहीं सूझता। यह तो ऐसी खाई है जहाँ आँखें मूंदना और नीचे झांकने भर का फर्क है। खैर, अब वह आ ही गया पाँव गीले किये हुए। उसे पता है पानी छिछला होते ही जा रहा है हर दिन के साथ। उस लहर को चपेटने कि कोशिश में भी तो उसका पाँव भी तो पिछला ही रहा है। कुछ चीज़ें होती भी ऐसी ही है, हाथ से निकल जाए तो ही अच्छा है, वरना हाथ में आते ही मुट्ठी बाँध हम उसे नया रूप देने लगते है। समुन्दर के सवेरे कि फैली धुंध है या इस अंतर्द्वद के जंगल में बझी हुई सांसें, यहाँ आहों से ही सहारा मिलता है। रेत आकर उसके पाँवों को छूकर वापस लौट जा रही है। उसने कहा 'मत खेल मेरे साथ, हर दिन ही जंगलों को काट काट कर मैंने बाँध बनाये हैं। पर तेरा यह रिझाता हुआ आकर्षण हर बार ही रिसती हुई दरार बन जाती है।' बचपन में कहानी सुनी थी किसी कि जिसने अपने शरीर को बाँध पे लपेट कर बाढ़ लाने से रोक दिया था। पर मैं, मैं आज भी लकड़ियाँ काट रहा हूँ। उसने नीचे झूक कर लहरों कि रेत को सराहा, न जाने किस युग कि होंगी। ये तो हर पल ही दस्तक दे चली जाती है। उसने एड़ियों को मोड़ कर नयी तराशी हुई रेत को रोक लेना चाहा। अंगूठों से भी घेरा लगा लिया। पर सतह के नीचे भी सतह है, कितने सतहों को वो माप लेता? सरक कर सारे कण पानी कि साथ चले गए। आँहें लेकर फिर सोचा 'क्यों चेतता है वह लहर जहाँ तेरा पाँव जी पिछला है?' असल में यहाँ सवाल अब पूछना नहीं पड़ता, अब तो यह हर भीतर के संवाद का मुद्दा और मदद बन चूका है। वह जानता है कि उसके मोड़े हुए एड़ियों के नीचे बस एक गहराता हुआ कुआँ रह जायेगा। वहाँ ना लहर आएगी, ना सागर की रेत, बस एक गोल आकाश झांकेगा। बस आदत ही ऐसी है कि सच्चाई को भी दिशा भ्रमण से बचाना होता है। याद रखना पड़ेगा 'मत चेत उस लहर को जहाँ तेरा पाँव पिछला है, यह सागर की रेत है, यहाँ हर कदम छिछला है।' कोशिश करेगा कि भूले नहीं, शाय़द मन को हौले हौले बहलाना होगा। पर वह क्या करे, अपने भीतर के कालिख को वह दूसरों पर रंग बना कर तो नहीं पोत सकता ना। थोड़ी देर लहर के साथ चला, अपने आप को भीतर ही कसा और कहा 'तुझे चाँद ही बाँध सकता है, मेरे लिए तू मुमकिन नहीं।'<br />
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<i>- ख़ुफ़िया कातिल </i></div>
somesh kumarhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05645887325138759957noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2219964060239995558.post-78723827284018454742013-10-17T08:27:00.001-07:002013-10-17T09:24:43.952-07:00बस स्टॉप<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
रास्ता सवेरे की भीड़ से खचाखच भरा है। बस हिचकियाँ लेते हुए बढ़ रही है। सुमन पीछे की सीट पर बैठा अपने बाहिने तरफ के खिड़की से बाहर झाँक रहा है। सीट ऊँचाई पर होने के वजह से आस पास की गाड़ियाँ कीड़े की तरह रेंगती नज़र आती है।<br />
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'यह देखो मोटरसाइकिल वाले को, बस स्टॉप के पास से कोई गलत तरफ से ओवरटेक करता है! उफ़! इंच दर इंच का फासला लेके ही चलना आता है यहाँ सबको।'<br />
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रोड को मसलते हुए यह विशालकाय लाल ए.सी. बस बस स्टॉप के थोड़ा आगे रुकती है। और जब रुकती है तो ऐसे लगता है जैसे की कै करके सब उलटी कर दे। सुमन सीट को सख्ती के साथ पकड़ लेता है। इस बस का टिकट ज़रा महँगा पड़ता है, वरना उस नीली बस में कदम रखो तो जानो, वहाँ झटके खाने के लिए जगह कहाँ? लोहे के ढाँचे में जैसे मानव चटनी पीसा जा रहा हो। गहरी साँस छोड़ते हुए बस का दरवाज़ा खुलता है। सैनानियों की तरह तैयार उतरने वाले यात्री एक एक करना अपना डब्बा और बस्ता दबाये उतर जाते है। कुछ ठीक उसी प्रकार के यात्री वापिस उन खाली सीटों को भरने आ जाते है। तभी हाथ दिखाकर एक बूढ़ा आदमी बस को रुकने का इशारा करता है। सुमन को यहाँ की भाषा को उतना बोध नहीं है पर बूढ़े को कंडक्टर से इतना पूछते हुए समझ गया कि यह बस कहाँ तक जायेगी और उसका भाड़ा कितना पड़ेगा। इतनी जानकारी लेकर वह कुछ पल की मोहलत माँग बस स्टॉप से अपने हाथ में दो झोला उठाये आ जाता है। सुमन टकटकी लगाकर उसकी और देखता है। बूढ़े आदमी ने अपने दोनों झोले को कोने में टिका कर एक खाली सीट को खोल उसपे अपनी जगह बना ली। उसके बाल चांदी की लहर की तरह करीने से सीटे हुए है। चेहरे पे धब्बेदार काली छिटपुट झुर्रियाँ बिखरी हुई है। दाढ़ी भी अधकटी फसल की तरह बिछी हुई है। उसके खूँटी समान गले पर एक ढीला खादी का शर्ट, बोझिल नेहरु जैकेट और घिसा हुआ गमछा, तीनों ही तीन मटमैले केसरी रंग के भेद में लटक रहे है। इसके अलावा रुद्राक्ष, मोती और धागों का जंजाल भी गले पर बसा हुआ है। एक पीले रंग की सीटी भी लटकाई हुई है। एक हाथ में सोने के पानी चढ़ी घड़ी है। दूसरे हाथ में लटकी चीज़ों की जाँच करने में सुमन को मुश्किल हो रही है, बस हिचकोले खाना बंद जो नहीं करती और वह बूढ़ा आदमी भी थोड़ी दूरी पर है। आँख को और नीचे ले जाकर देखा, पैंट पर दोमुहरा मोड़ है। और नीचे। पाँव में मिट्टी के रंग के सैंडल है। नज़र उठाकर फिर से जाँच पड़ताल शुरू की। सुमन को बैठे बैठे पात्र विश्लेषण करने की हमेशा से ही रुचि रही है। रेलवे स्टेशन पर भी घंटों बैठे उसने अपने आस पास के उठते बैठते लोगों को एक अनजान रचना का किरेदार बनाने में देरी नहीं की है। जब नज़र दूसरी बार फेरा तो बूढ़ा आदमी अपने पॉकेट में से भाड़े का पैसा किफायती और संभले हाथों से देता दिखा। पैसे को वापिस हिफाज़त से रख उसने अपने गले में टंगी सीटी को निकाला। वही सीटी जो स्कूल में स्पोर्ट्स टीचर लिए कोहराम मचाते फिरते है। कायदे से सीटी के धागे को लपेट कर एक हाथ में रखा और दुसरे हाथ से अपने पॉकेट में से एक छोटा सा बटुआ निकाला। उसके अन्दर से एक मुचड़ा हुआ पॉलिथीन का तिनका निकालकर उसे खोला। सीटी को उस पॉलिथीन में लपेट कर फिर उस बटुए में डाला और फिर जेब में। सुमन की टकटकी में अब ज़रा और रस आ गया। फुस्स… बस फिर से लड़खड़ा कर रुकी और दरवाज़ा खुला। बूढ़ा थोड़ा अचकचा कर उठा। इधर उधर नज़रें तानी और कदम बढ़ाये सुमन की तरफ बढ़ने लगा। सुमन के सामने वाली सीट खाली है, शायद बूढ़े को नीचे वाली सीट पर दिक्कत आ रही होगी। पर बूढ़ा सुमन की बगल वाली सीट पर बैठ गया। सुमन के अंदर एक हल्की शंका की लहर दौड़ गयी।<br />
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'कहीं इसने मुझे घूरते हुए तो नहीं देख लिया था? या फिर किरेदार खुद कहानी बनने आया है?'<br />
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पर बूढ़ा तो सुमन के मन तरंग से परे सीट थामे बैठा हुआ है। सुमन ने बूढ़े का दूसरा हाथ देखा। उसपे भी उसके गले के तरह ही कई धार्मिक मालायें लपेटी हुई है। एक स्वस्तिक भी बस के उथल पुथल के साथ झूल रहा है, हाथ में। सुमन ने आँखों के किनारों से ताका, शर्ट का ऊपरी जेब कागज़ पत्तर के गठरी से ठूसा हुआ है, दो कलम भी खोसे हुए है। बूढ़े ने अपनी पैंट की जेब में से कुछ खुले नोट निकाले। सौ के भी एक आध नोट है और दस के नोट थोड़े बिखरे तरीके से रखे हुए है। थोड़ी देर तक नोटों को उलट पुलट कर देखता रहा। दस के नोटों को सही कतार में लगाया। एक पांच का नोट भी है। उस नोट को हाथ में दबाये उसने बाकी सारे नोटों को वापिस जेब में सुला दिया। अब पैंट की दूसरी जेब से उसने मोबाइल फोन का खाली खोल निकाल लिया। खोल गुलाबी रंग का है और रेक्सीन का कपड़ा लगा हुआ है। सुमन की आँखें वापस चौकन्नी हो झाँकने लगी। खोल में से कुछ सेफ्टी पिन चमकते हुए दिखे। बूढ़े ने दुसरे हाथ में थामे पाँच रुपये के नोट को खोल में डाल कर, हाथों से थपकी देकर जेब में डाल लिया। अब ना चाहते हुए भी सुमन का ध्यान एक ललक के साथ बूढ़े के ऊपर ही मंडराने लगा। बूढ़े ने इस बार हाथ शर्ट की जेब में डालकर दस का नोट निकाला और दुहराई हुई आदत के साथ उस नोट को उलटने पुलटने लगा। सुमन इस सम्मोहन के कारनामे से अपने आप को बाहर खींचने के लिए खिड़की की तरफ देखता है। उसका बस स्टॉप आ गया है। वह बूढें की और देखता है। बूढ़ा नज़रें नीचे किये, नोट को पकड़े सूमन के निकलने के लिए जगह बना रहा होता है। बस खुरचती हुई दम तोड़ती है। सुमन बाहर उतरकर आखिरी बार बूढ़े की और देखता है। सीट की आड़ में एक छुपा और झूका हुआ चेहरा बस के साथ आगे बढ़ता चला जाता है। <br />
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<i>- ख़ुफ़िया कातिल </i></div>
somesh kumarhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05645887325138759957noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2219964060239995558.post-83382349615858562532013-10-06T08:13:00.000-07:002013-11-23T00:13:47.038-08:00संदूक<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
आँखें खुली ही है। अँधेरा ढल चुका होगा। भीतर की चरमर करती आवाज ने रात भर सोने नहीं दिया। करवटों को बार बार पलट कर खोजा पर कुछ मिला नहीं। रेत की बोरी की तरह रिसती हुई आँखों से खिड़की की और झाँका, क्या अँधेरा ढल चूका होगा? पर्दे हटाये। बगल के घर की दीवार पीठ दिखाकर खड़ी है। कभी यहाँ से सब कुछ दिखता था। अब ईटों से रास्ते बाँट कर कोई कैसे यूँ सो लेता है? अपना शोर दूसरों के घरों में छोड़कर? पर दीवार ने कुछ नहीं कहा। झुँझला कर पर्दे वापिस खींच कमरे में देखा, क्या अब यहाँ उम्मीद भी नहीं आती है? दरवाज़ा बंद है। ताले पर कुरची हुई जंग लग गयी है। कुछ घंटों में यह सवेरा जो दिखता नहीं ओझल हो जायेगा और रात फिर बिना बताये आ जाएगी। क्या रात क्या सुबह! मन की बड़बड़ में गुम पाँव कब जाकर पुरानी संदूक से टकराये पता नहीं चला। पर दर्द ने बता दिया। ठीक कमरे के बीचों बीच रखी हुई वह पुरानी संदूक। कई सालों से वही पर है, बस अन्दर झाँके ज़माना बीत गया है। पाँव पे लगी चोट को सहलाते हुए उसने एक हाथ से संदूक को खोला। कुछ पुरानी भूलों की मिट्टी है, उसपे फेके हुए पत्थरों का ढेर और छ: फुट खोदे हुए गड्ढों से बची हुई कुदाल। एक चाभी भी कोने में पड़ी है। दरवाजे की है। यह भी पुराने संदूक में रह गयी थी, पता ही नहीं चला। ताले में डाल करके ऐठा पर कुछ अटक सी गयी। शायद जोर ज्यादा लगा दिया होगा। हौले से घुमाया और दरवाज़ा खुल गया। बाहर झोल और धूल बैठी है। शायद भूल गयी होगी की किसी सुबह यहाँ भी दस्तक होगी। न जाने दरवाज़े को खुला देख उसके मन में क्या चला वह संदूक खींच कर बाहर निकल आई। संदूक भारी है, ज़िन्दगी में कुछ भूलना उसकी आदत जो नहीं रही। संदूक को घसीटने से धूल की परत ने एक लकीर में दम तोड़ दिया। उस लकीर से ज़मीन पर बिछा अभिमान झाँक रहा है। उससे कहने लगा कुछ कदम ही सही, तय तो किया। तेरा रास्ता तुझे खोजने कभी नहीं आया। तेरा रास्ता तो इस कमरे में बंद संदूक में इंतज़ार कर रहा है। अब बना ले इसे। मैं जानता हूँ थक के यहाँ लौटेगी, इसलिए इस धूल में तेरे पैरों के निशान छोड़ दिए है, इसे मत भूलना। इसे वापिस अपने संदूक में रख लेना जब रास्ता बन जाये, जब समय थोड़ा बीत जाये। अँधेरा ढल रहा है, अँधेरा फिर आएगा, पर अब सुबह भी आयेगी। <br />
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<i style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Trebuchet, 'Trebuchet MS', Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 20.796875px;">- ख़ुफ़िया कातिल</i> <span id="docs-internal-guid-1bc542a3-8e59-68ec-6437-911fdac69fe0"></span><br />
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somesh kumarhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05645887325138759957noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2219964060239995558.post-18037198339988844262013-10-02T03:16:00.001-07:002013-10-02T03:17:15.851-07:00चिनगारी<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
दुनिया फूस बटोर चुकी है,<br />
मैं दो चिनगारी दे दूँगा।<br />
<i>- कविवर हंसकुमार तिवारी</i><br />
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somesh kumarhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05645887325138759957noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2219964060239995558.post-39292416699073923102013-09-19T22:17:00.000-07:002013-09-27T05:27:28.352-07:00फिर से <div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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वैसे तो तुम्हारी याद कोई तारीख देख कर नहीं आती है. जिस तरह धूल एक बंद घड़ी में रास्ता ढूँढ उसके पुर्जों पर बैठ जाती है, उसी तरह मेरी यादों के कस्बों में तुम्हारा आना जाना एक मुक्त घड़ी की ताल हो गयी है. कहने को तो टेबल पर एक तस्वीर मढ़ कर रखी है, पर अफ़सोस यह व्यस्तता उसे ओझल कर देती है. पर ख़ुशी इस बात की भी हैं कि अभी तस्वीरों का मोहताज नहीं हुआ हूँ, पर होने का डर जरूर है. आज फिर से अपने आप को किया हुआ वादा पूरा करने का प्रण किया है. यूँ तो खुद से हारने की आदत गयी नहीं है पर अपने आप को हर दिन खोता देखना भी रास नहीं आता. आज फिर से कुछ ठाना है, उम्मीद है इस बार निराश नहीं करूँगा, खुद को. तुम बस आते जाते रहना. </div>
somesh kumarhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05645887325138759957noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2219964060239995558.post-51979223927898561522013-09-13T21:01:00.000-07:002013-10-06T11:40:38.631-07:00भस्म<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
कुछ चिंगारियाँ ऐसी भी जिन्हें हवा दे दूँ तो सब भस्म हो जाए।<br />
<i style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Trebuchet, 'Trebuchet MS', Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 20.796875px;">- ख़ुफ़िया कातिल</i></div>
somesh kumarhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05645887325138759957noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2219964060239995558.post-65198068417754998182013-08-13T23:08:00.001-07:002013-08-14T04:09:18.031-07:00By Two "______"<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">It was the month of July, last year, when the seed of <a href="http://perchproject.tumblr.com/">Perch Project</a> was sown. My friend, Hazel Karkaria and I slowly and steadily watered the seed, and made it into a sapling. While working on Perch, we had this hope within us that one day this project would shape up as one of those giant trees, and its very roots will be the haven for the animals and birds. A year passed and we are still nurturing that hope. But Perch wasn't the very first act for both of us working together, we studied together and we had worked on many projects before. We churned out an identity for the college graduation in a time when everything seemed done and dusted with our efforts. We worked on <i>Ramabi</i> Book Project where we spent hours shuffling from studio room to Library, interjected with tea breaks at <i>chai</i> <i>kadhe</i>. There were many other projects where we jotted days and nights of work without any compromise. We could work well together. Be it our shared understanding, ethics and thoughts, when put together, it rewarded us in measures that left us satisfied and humble. Time passed, but we sustained this precious hope of working together someday. With Perch, we realised that it's time to shape the ideas we had preserved for so long. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">We knew what we had to do, but putting a name for it was an ordeal. To sum it all up in a few words and make it the name of our studio was no easy fish to catch. We grappled with it for months, feeling dejected and perpetually caught in a cycle of thesaurus rant. We would walk down streets just to catch a local flavour for our name, sit with rounds of tea and coffee, hoping that some caffeine would brew the omnipotent name. All failed, and we had to look back at the end of the tunnel, catch the smell of Rava Dosa batter spreading on the steaming stove and how fondly everyone 'by two-ed' their coffee. 'By Two', the phrase that encompassed it all for us. We always took pride in the fact that it's two friend working together, two people who would stick around through thick and thin. We found that meaning in 'By Two', it was grounded, it was us. Once we knew what to call it, rest was an easy ride. By no means I am underplaying the current of this long tumultuous ocean lying ahead. But we have a boat, we just have to row and grow. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">'By Two' is not only about working together. It's about what we see each other become through this journey. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Do check our work here - </span><a href="http://bytwodesign.com/"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">bytwodesign</span></a><span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> or drop us a line </span><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">bytwodesign@gmail.com</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Do read what Hazel has to say about it - </span><a href="http://halfchai.tumblr.com/post/58227653194/bytwodesign" style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">By Two</a><br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-Zk00rNZcr0k/UgsWwCyRqRI/AAAAAAAAELs/sZ-pglNt_Dk/s1600/03.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="266" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-Zk00rNZcr0k/UgsWwCyRqRI/AAAAAAAAELs/sZ-pglNt_Dk/s400/03.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhD9P59JcsEV4avRoh7HrugWm4YkeE84EBfVCFY_o1Ezxn7o5n4GD6lpHy6eVjHh5b9hFBsNi5H5eiPoXJf8fXjP0yZzY487h2rJwqLBD1YqWSYWS5fELgIYCwi45pFfLhFVx2ssmnyRpz7/s1600/06.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhD9P59JcsEV4avRoh7HrugWm4YkeE84EBfVCFY_o1Ezxn7o5n4GD6lpHy6eVjHh5b9hFBsNi5H5eiPoXJf8fXjP0yZzY487h2rJwqLBD1YqWSYWS5fELgIYCwi45pFfLhFVx2ssmnyRpz7/s400/06.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiGnTi31BK2EQAwZL9ggXklWS69zPBwtnLeaLCqMBWPZDuqpOQeFkPzKOI2vW3n8EFbFbGTc5z66vOcGBbcPThYeubFmqPRcito9b2MtFVCBYwSJ2nMOBtSi0joXx-4xgrt_XvEpUVeAA2J/s1600/08.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiGnTi31BK2EQAwZL9ggXklWS69zPBwtnLeaLCqMBWPZDuqpOQeFkPzKOI2vW3n8EFbFbGTc5z66vOcGBbcPThYeubFmqPRcito9b2MtFVCBYwSJ2nMOBtSi0joXx-4xgrt_XvEpUVeAA2J/s400/08.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhqc9JcOh4BgYMzMyj8elBalewbDFQDBiCjg8hhhn4uSRBhBv8Yd-8XGoCEgl4R1wPCtYpabY6r_4uNRyp7r9eBBmL15WJpFEGnFpH7M3S38vHKj4NmZNPXZK7OrBb7FD78HJ5Vv3T6O1JZ/s1600/09.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhqc9JcOh4BgYMzMyj8elBalewbDFQDBiCjg8hhhn4uSRBhBv8Yd-8XGoCEgl4R1wPCtYpabY6r_4uNRyp7r9eBBmL15WJpFEGnFpH7M3S38vHKj4NmZNPXZK7OrBb7FD78HJ5Vv3T6O1JZ/s400/09.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
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somesh kumarhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05645887325138759957noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2219964060239995558.post-86227375546352112812013-08-07T08:34:00.000-07:002013-09-13T21:04:07.218-07:00स्वंय मर्दन<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
तू बन सँवर<br />
बना वो भँवर,<br />
पोंछ डाले हर उफ़ान<br />
तू है वहीं लहर।<br />
<br />
तू अनेक नहीं एक है<br />
उसमे भी विशेष है,<br />
इस इकाई से ही तू श्वेत है<br />
ना भटके वो रेत है।<br />
<br />
करते है तो करने दे वार<br />
पुतलियाँ नहीं बाँधती संकल्पों का सार,<br />
वो क्या मापे तेरा हृदय गार<br />
सब छल लेंगे पर तेरा भार।<br />
<br />
क्यूँ टटोले अंधे बर्तन<br />
इस शोर का ना ले कंपन,<br />
तुझमे ही तेरा दर्पण<br />
यह जीवन तो है स्वंय मर्दन।<br />
<br />
<i>- ख़ुफ़िया कातिल</i></div>
somesh kumarhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05645887325138759957noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2219964060239995558.post-48108121453467878112013-08-04T09:54:00.001-07:002013-08-04T10:22:11.220-07:00Tales from Indian Classics<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">It has been a terribly long time since I blogged about something substantial. This time of the year is going pretty cramped with work and deadlines, so much that putting blog posts have gone down on the planner pages. But I guess one can only keep up with the untiring wheel as long as the cog lasts.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I went home in June and visited Ara for a few hours. The memories it brought back could be measured in inches of dust settled on the furniture. It weighed me down and then to embrace it further I opened the doors of <i>almirahs</i> where souvenirs of days bygone were preserved. I knew which memory I was scratching the surface of. My father used to do most of the book purchasing from Patna Book Fair and would then carry the lot to Ara. In one of the trips, he must have got this picture book called 'Tales from Indian Classics'. The book had short stories from <i>Mahabharata, Ramayana, Vedas</i> and <i>Upnishads. </i>One of the stories was on an <i>Bhasmasura, </i>an <i>Asura</i> who met his plight by putting his right hand on his head while dancing with <i>Mohini</i> (an <i>Apsara</i>). To mention it as a common experience for most of us, there are some illustrations from picture books read at a younger age that always gets pinned into the visual memory of our brain. It would usually be an artwork that had an unusual imagery, a moment to creep us out, scare us or even make us laugh because it had something beyond the ordinary to it. I took the book out and quickly flipped open the page which had the illustration of <i>Bhasmasura</i>. I wished to see if it could still amuse me, and it did. I wonder if it was just the nostalgia at work or some unknown logic driving my senses.</span><br />
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<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhoU3hsjrE_35Yys3aFv3a_Yjb6-wuhdOeF0ASh5sfJKbRhu5jjS-u0q1kjLnIe327e-uooGFOx5drdQ7Av5w6r8BwS0YPbj_Lz5OF-BgzUN0v13T8JeENH1NveUSfidS1Q9dhVrS81NB2S/s1600/08.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhoU3hsjrE_35Yys3aFv3a_Yjb6-wuhdOeF0ASh5sfJKbRhu5jjS-u0q1kjLnIe327e-uooGFOx5drdQ7Av5w6r8BwS0YPbj_Lz5OF-BgzUN0v13T8JeENH1NveUSfidS1Q9dhVrS81NB2S/s1600/08.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Bhasmasura</i></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">To freshen up the inspiration index, I have scanned a few more pages from the book. The illustrations are done by <i>Pulak Biswas</i> and <i>Sukumar Chatterjee</i>. When seeing work of elder illustrators, the faith gets restored on how the very lack of options is often liberating to the skill and enjoyable to the senses.</span><br />
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<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-1s5fg0syuo4/Uf6EEHICJ0I/AAAAAAAAEKA/6QkJjzp1QFU/s1600/01.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="271" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-1s5fg0syuo4/Uf6EEHICJ0I/AAAAAAAAEKA/6QkJjzp1QFU/s400/01.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Opening Page</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhM2FMX29F77WlslzRtYEzOk5LBrdXXa-jaglTxgfVclePZpp9VeSmujb7CgPHURdBSnWx1ZQvMqJO5MELHBzQAzpgzOvAuuGddLgqWFZLX8KSIq4pxwmNozypUrenmqKmGlgXjQmClIW0H/s1600/02.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhM2FMX29F77WlslzRtYEzOk5LBrdXXa-jaglTxgfVclePZpp9VeSmujb7CgPHURdBSnWx1ZQvMqJO5MELHBzQAzpgzOvAuuGddLgqWFZLX8KSIq4pxwmNozypUrenmqKmGlgXjQmClIW0H/s1600/02.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Inside Page</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-SggqYz6U9CU/Uf6EDoV5nNI/AAAAAAAAEJw/31Z4oJExlLc/s1600/03.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-SggqYz6U9CU/Uf6EDoV5nNI/AAAAAAAAEJw/31Z4oJExlLc/s1600/03.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Ganapathi</i></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjw1OusV_0OshrCnJCBA4t7neu8Qo1vZ8nyVF8Yxpyl6IUcJ1nQnl8TdP_2hcbabVDvkHobgmK-O6BfV1lGcjQbqNb16E_KAzMSPtcKb8N2l7wuuTVkrjFXSNv_Thv3KJtJli1RIxN7kNJC/s1600/04.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjw1OusV_0OshrCnJCBA4t7neu8Qo1vZ8nyVF8Yxpyl6IUcJ1nQnl8TdP_2hcbabVDvkHobgmK-O6BfV1lGcjQbqNb16E_KAzMSPtcKb8N2l7wuuTVkrjFXSNv_Thv3KJtJli1RIxN7kNJC/s1600/04.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The House of Lac</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiPJhslDopRUBJpH_iYcXFd4JCVvIE5NsKpj5CmaDanTmWG5_0FodNJr9ERtvrxfmiGGb7NZLzFS2HoQYw-kFSyRKxNoRJrLBnZ_ucD1za-xvHNU_zY50sS5JSkvDJx59mMZRokKyfnfvMg/s1600/05.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="270" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiPJhslDopRUBJpH_iYcXFd4JCVvIE5NsKpj5CmaDanTmWG5_0FodNJr9ERtvrxfmiGGb7NZLzFS2HoQYw-kFSyRKxNoRJrLBnZ_ucD1za-xvHNU_zY50sS5JSkvDJx59mMZRokKyfnfvMg/s400/05.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Bhima</i> and <i>Hanuman</i></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgq3QCjY44Qxu4O3XXJFzk4f5kBpxem3pnHh3BhEAAxE7qYa-fgcPvytAEAQINoHq9NdFe6pRdy3lXwCA_557sUxUPhahg78lDz7maSXcFyrMHGyh-UkjtVZukfz0h8L7zEZKXAE0P2PQJ1/s1600/06.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="270" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgq3QCjY44Qxu4O3XXJFzk4f5kBpxem3pnHh3BhEAAxE7qYa-fgcPvytAEAQINoHq9NdFe6pRdy3lXwCA_557sUxUPhahg78lDz7maSXcFyrMHGyh-UkjtVZukfz0h8L7zEZKXAE0P2PQJ1/s400/06.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Cousins and Enemies</td></tr>
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<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-_rPC-p9odv0/Uf6EF6Ed2XI/AAAAAAAAEKk/OcJV4-FvOOc/s1600/07.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="268" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-_rPC-p9odv0/Uf6EF6Ed2XI/AAAAAAAAEKk/OcJV4-FvOOc/s400/07.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Bakasura</i></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjbZPRdnQ9-gY2fvhohVl50ErNx7GJgoTHQ2B0KBTM82oUj0qk_le87AMoh7eIRzVwYiOzUlv68SRGlCDvFJqDpVxbh0QFdQXgpt-vvt1LoAiTdUKBG_Wq1UJi3kVJ8O8vM1-XNSfEqpYZB/s1600/09.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="268" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjbZPRdnQ9-gY2fvhohVl50ErNx7GJgoTHQ2B0KBTM82oUj0qk_le87AMoh7eIRzVwYiOzUlv68SRGlCDvFJqDpVxbh0QFdQXgpt-vvt1LoAiTdUKBG_Wq1UJi3kVJ8O8vM1-XNSfEqpYZB/s400/09.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Gayan</i></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjo_t_1u-kNrFSkfmxWxO5D_q45j6opNbOcdMabid1GR6gbPP3QlkbyarXbvgQUF690XVdy8o-aCsiPq0-TvoRSMmyuH9lnQSleRtozzRU3_M_zKwt_bRbym5NKgztQqMjv1ABGyg03S6WR/s1600/10.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjo_t_1u-kNrFSkfmxWxO5D_q45j6opNbOcdMabid1GR6gbPP3QlkbyarXbvgQUF690XVdy8o-aCsiPq0-TvoRSMmyuH9lnQSleRtozzRU3_M_zKwt_bRbym5NKgztQqMjv1ABGyg03S6WR/s1600/10.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Kacha</i> and <i>Devayani</i></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-LgKuXoRaq8Q/Uf6EG1o9RYI/AAAAAAAAEK0/34IATBjgrUU/s1600/11.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-LgKuXoRaq8Q/Uf6EG1o9RYI/AAAAAAAAEK0/34IATBjgrUU/s1600/11.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Sundan </i>and <i>Upasundan</i></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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somesh kumarhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05645887325138759957noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2219964060239995558.post-6196292150103778682013-07-26T05:31:00.001-07:002013-10-06T11:40:21.796-07:00मैं तैयार हूँ<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
अगर जूझना ही है तो मैं तैयार हूँ<br />
बस मुझसे मेरा गम ना माँगो ।<br />
<i style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Trebuchet, 'Trebuchet MS', Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 20.796875px;">- ख़ुफ़िया कातिल</i></div>
somesh kumarhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05645887325138759957noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2219964060239995558.post-66289473638405614602013-07-05T10:13:00.000-07:002013-08-07T08:35:47.742-07:00मर्तबान <div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
अब बस, अब बस<br />
अब नहीं बनता इरादों का मर्तबान<br />
किनारे पिघल चुके हैं<br />
काँच के टुकड़े पड़ गये धुंधले<br />
अब इनसे नहीं झाँक पाते मेरे पैमान<br />
कोने अब खोखले <br />
पूछते हैं मेरा पता, मेरा सामान<br />
शीशियों में छोड़ नहीं पाता कुछ<br />
गले की धारियों में ही बसते अरमान<br />
कई दरिया रखे थे स्थिर<br />
धूप में सेका था कई सालों को<br />
पर कुछ चींटियों ने आज भी याद रखा हैं मेरा कल<br />
अब बस, अब बस <br />
ढांचों से जोड़ने को अब कुछ नहीं बाकी<br />
अब बस, अब बस<br />
अब नहीं बनता इरादों का मर्तबान<br />
-<i> ख़ुफ़िया कातिल </i></div>
somesh kumarhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05645887325138759957noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2219964060239995558.post-33577507753922525582013-06-09T20:23:00.002-07:002013-06-10T19:30:17.699-07:00Parle G<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I wonder if the makers of Parle G biscuit realise their brilliance at catering to the universal appetite of animal kingdom. We all have tasted this glucose enriched two rupee pack of baked brick with our tea cups, but to see animals also having a go at it is something else. Yes, dogs can lap it up any day, but squirrels, cats and Myna, all pecking on it day after day, I think we just found a leveling ground in the ecosystem. The most awkward part is Mynas picking up Parle G, even when their <i>Jowar Bajra</i> kept in a bowl. I took a few photographs of the animals coming at my window to munch on some food. Mynas are too camera conscious to let me click a photograph. Here are the fat squirrels (in short, Squatty) and the white cats (there are two of them and both are referred as <i>Mausi</i>). </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Watching them eat is one of the selfish reasons to keep the food out. Squirrels roll the Parle G crumbs and <i>Jowar Bajra</i> grains in their tiny hand while running their teeth like a saw on it. You can hear the crackling sound of the grains chipping off into their mouth. A cat on the other hand seems to toss the biscuit in its mouth while eating, each munch of it is like an act of saving the food from falling out of the mouth. They provide a good company through out the day with their wholesome act of eating and getting involved into power games over who gets to eat how much and when. As I type this, I imagine the squirrels hanging out on the window wall like one of the stealth mission of spy movies, probably four of them, waiting for the clearance call on <i>Mausi</i>. And then, they will have a sumptuous breakfast. </span></div>
somesh kumarhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05645887325138759957noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2219964060239995558.post-91749881338180513292013-05-16T05:36:00.000-07:002013-05-16T05:41:44.031-07:00मनेर शरीफ़ की सुबह <div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
एक सफ़र की परिभाषा सिर्फ उसके मुकाम से नहीं होती, रास्ते में टूटती मूंगफली भी यह जानती है जब तक सड़कों को छोड़ पाँव पुराने ठिकानों को नहीं याद करेंगे तो वह सफ़र बेराग हो जायेगा। कभी पीपल के पेड़ पर धागों की उलझन देखी हैं? अगर पीपल का पेड़ एक राह है तो धाँगे की हर एक गाँठ कुछ परिचित अपरिचित ठिकानों का मुंडेरा। बचपन की बात है, सपरिवार हम जब भी आरा से बरौनी का सफ़र अपने मारुती 800 में बैठे तय करते थे तो पापा अक्सर ही मनेर के बाजारों से परे बने एक दरगाह पर गाड़ी रोक देते थे। गाड़ी से पाँव बाहर रखते ही एक छोटे से तालाब में सूफी संतों के दरगाह की लाल प्रतिबिम्ब तैरती दिखाई देती थी। तालाब के एक परे सैलानियों के लिए छोटी सी कैन्टीन थी और उस परे दो सूफी संत - मखदूम याह्या मनेरी और मखदूम शाह दौलत की छोटी बड़ी दरगाह। वहाँ आंधे घंटे बैठ कर चाय-कॉफ़ी पीना और तस्वीरें खींचना, बस इतना सा ही था उस ठौर का आकर्षण, पर सफ़र दर सफ़र वहाँ पल गुजारना एक आदत सी बन गयी थी। कई सालों के बाद मैंने एक बार उस दरगाह के पत्थरों से सजी ज़मीन पर पाँव रख अंदर मौन उन सूफी संतों की मजार देखने की ठानी। शायद उस से पहले ज़रुरत महसूस नहीं हुई थी। वक़्त का दोष था, हालात बिगड़े थे, ऐसे में इंसान मूक सेजों से भी फूल माँगने लगता है। आज भी उस धुप में अपनी परछाई उन लाल पत्थरों पर रेंगती हुई याद है। कई दबे शब्दों से गुजारिश भी की थी पर सब बिखरता ही रहा। मैंने फिर भी उम्मीद बाँध एक बार फिर वहाँ कुछ सालों बाद कदम रखा। वह दिन भी याद है, उस दिन आसमान कोयले से पोती हुई भींगी रुई थी। उस बारिश की मार भूलना मुमकिन नहीं। पर धीरे-धीरे उम्र और परिस्थितियों ने समझा दिया था कि दोष और उपकार मूक दीवारों में दफना कर तसल्लियों पे जीना एक धोखा हैं। पिछले नवम्बर मैं और मम्मी मनेर शरीफ गए थे। हवा में धुंधली सी ठंड थी पर कई सालों बाद दरगाह को देख रहा था। कुछ दीवारें काली पड़ गयी थी। वापस उन लाल दीवारों को सराहा पर इस बार कुछ माँगने के लिए नहीं आया था। शायद बस अपने डर को बतला रहा था की आज मैं हार के भी जीत गया हूँ। आज माँगने के लिए कुछ नहीं है। वहीँ बैठ कर मम्मी के साथ उस दरगाह को स्याही की लकीरों में बाँधी, चाय पी और वापस सफ़र पर निकल पड़ा।<br />
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somesh kumarhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05645887325138759957noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2219964060239995558.post-54042033256166036482013-05-11T23:08:00.000-07:002013-05-27T03:15:11.845-07:00Table Tennis<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<i style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Some days I think fondly of some creation and others I grimly accept that it's not very good. It's hard, you want so much to produce good and meaningful work but it can never possibly live up to your own expectations. Every work is ultimately a failure. How could it be anything but? The only work that ever succeeds is someone else's.</i><br />
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">- Seth, <a href="http://www.comicsreporter.com/index.php/cr_sunday_interview_seth/">CR Sunday Interview</a> </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">The lines above sum it all up for me. Making comics is an arduous task, many find the short format of it difficult, but for me it's the idea of making a fat book which frightens me. Ten months back, a good share of enthusiasm and belief made me compile 25 pages of my comic, but it took me only a few months to be dissatisfied with it. I had taken feedback from people, while most of it was encouraging, I, myself could see the lack of narrative discourse on the pages. The use of language in the comic was slightly off, it felt like sitting in an office wheel chair while working on a mahogany vintage desk. Language is a big cultural parameter, finding its substitute in another language is not an easy pie for novices like me. We need to leave the task of a professional to a professional. Another question which rang in my head was "How do we remember our past? Is it with characters, objects, songs or events?" To me it's events that connect the dots. Objects and characters are fragments of the event, they add decor and flavour to the anecdotes. The past is always dissected as thread of events in our memory, we just see it as a stitched fabric. Having done 25 pages already, I decided to move ahead with the comic and then rework the finished pages later. Some of the key decisions taken with the comic are - </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><b>1. </b>To make smaller comic strips for each event, this will come together to form the larger picture. It will provide freedom in making the closure for the story, and altering the drawing style. It will also take the pressure off from doing a brick shaped thick book. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><b>2.</b> Use Hindi as the language for the comic. It will help in serving the story less unadulterated, although it can be translated to English later on by a good copy writer to make it available for a larger audience. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><b>3.</b> Draw the way you like to draw. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I am sharing the very first page I created with all these thoughts in my head. This is for the comic strip titled 'Table Tennis'. The type is hand drawn, working with Devanagiri script is surprisingly easy for me than the Roman one. I have used India ink for the inking, and then coloured it digitally.</span><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"> </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">High res file <a href="http://i.imgur.com/dpyzcGU.jpg">here</a>. </span></div>
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somesh kumarhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05645887325138759957noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2219964060239995558.post-71565496397996690822013-05-07T23:32:00.000-07:002013-05-08T00:16:26.522-07:00Flume<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">It all started two weeks back when I went to Avenue Road and Commercial Street for some stationery shopping. It was a long pending task which I had ignored for sometime because of work overload. As illustrators, one of the basic ingredient of our work should be to use the right medium fit for the task, using the right paper, ink, brushes etc. is the salt of a good artwork. I roamed around the busy market streets, managed to get a good stock of paper, india inks, thin tipped brushes and other miscellaneous tools. I bought all these specifically for working on the pages of my comic, but when you own good equipments, your responsibilities increase towards its usage. Every gsm of the paper weighs you down to be good, it demands justice. When I was done pencilling a page, I realised that I better to do something else before inking the page. I had to be sure if the ink and water consistency will work well on the page. I needed a warm up exercise, so I picked a song to dedicate this artwork to, it's called <i>'flume'</i>, performed by Bon Iver in their very first album <i>'For Emma Forever Ago'</i>. I had heard a few tracks of Bon Iver before, but it was only two months back when I got hold of their first entire album. Thank you, Mr. Kunal Sen for this. I was busy with a big project then, and most of my days would just go sitting in my room and working. This was when I started listening to their album from beginning to end, one song to another. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><i>Flume</i> was the first song on the list and with each repeated play it kept growing on me. It had an eerie wailing calm to it that complimented my lone days with work. I then read about the history of this album, Justin Vernon wrote and composed the entire album sitting in his father's cabin which was nestled into the woods. He was recuperating from an illness, a broken relationship and band that got dissolved months back. All these things must have created a void for him to fill up. I have often believed that the finest work of a musician comes out from nurturing a wound. <i>Flume</i> as a song is the sapling of that wound that is being healed and protected. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Now, getting back to the warm up exercise (which I knew would not be a short one), I had a visual image in my head for the song. I believe it picked the references from the interview and articles I read about the album, but the image was not built as a forced chain of thought, it was a spontaneous result that got framed with no particular intent. </span><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">At one point of time I had three different live versions of <i>Flume</i> running on Grooveshark while working on this artwork.</span><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> </span><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I started sketching it on paper, fleshing out the idea visually. Since it started as a doodle, I sort of strayed away from the clarity of information being conveyed. I was eager to use the inks, so I rushed towards the second step of process, which compromised the appeal of the artwork. Anyway, here are some photographs of the process and the final artwork - </span></div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Click <a href="http://i.imgur.com/wWY88so.jpg">here</a> for larger size.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-M0yvmaUWFu0/UYnrW6kqhII/AAAAAAAAEB8/1g4dWKZMKSI/s1600/Flume-01-for-blog.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-M0yvmaUWFu0/UYnrW6kqhII/AAAAAAAAEB8/1g4dWKZMKSI/s1600/Flume-01-for-blog.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Click <a href="http://i.imgur.com/feZMRUd.jpg">here</a> for larger size</td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">There's some text hidden in the trees, please let me know if you figured what it is. I think I failed in doing a good job with it. Anyway, enough talk on warm up exercise, I should start work on my comic now. Although, I hope I have paid my debts to this song for keeping me company in my room.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: x-small;">If you feel like sharing this artwork around on the web, feel free to do it, but please put the credits on my name with a link to the blog. </span></div>
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somesh kumarhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05645887325138759957noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2219964060239995558.post-52075643753198701732013-05-03T20:15:00.001-07:002013-05-03T22:20:07.883-07:00The Fuschia Tree<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-gpT_E3xa59o/UYR9FGGIzcI/AAAAAAAAEBc/QSoNLZjpGLI/s1600/Screen+shot+2013-05-01+at+11.32.51+AM.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="250" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-gpT_E3xa59o/UYR9FGGIzcI/AAAAAAAAEBc/QSoNLZjpGLI/s400/Screen+shot+2013-05-01+at+11.32.51+AM.png" width="400" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">My friend Sanjana Kapur recently did an interview on me for an online magazine called <a href="http://thefuschiatree.com/">The Fuschia Tree</a>. She asked me some very interesting questions about my childhood and the <i>sketchcrawls </i>that I go for. You can read the interview over here - <b><a href="http://thefuschiatree.com/578/Drawing-through-Life/fullview">Drawing through life</a></b>, it's archived under their new issue - <a href="http://thefuschiatree.com/page/582/editor-note/INERTIA-BEING-BOTH-TWICE/fullview">Inertia, Being both Twice</a>. Thank you, Sana.</span></div>
somesh kumarhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05645887325138759957noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2219964060239995558.post-53845580814640203112013-04-30T22:10:00.002-07:002013-05-01T20:26:55.651-07:00full.fill<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">It's summer officially with the calendar page flipped to 1st of May, and Perch Project finally has its poster up on the site encouraging people to share a bowl of water and some grains for the birds. I think we don't even need to wait for May to realise how hot it is outside already. Birds feel the pinch of it especially, to help them we did a DIY on making a bird feeder using plastic bottle and tetra packs, you can see it over <a href="http://perchproject.tumblr.com/post/48102174245/diy-feeder">here</a>. The poster followed the DIY post with the hope of people spreading the word around. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Now, a bit about the making of the poster - from the very beginning, we were very inspired by the work of Charley Harper, his approach to simplification and construction of a complex visual with simple shapes intrigued us. I think we tried to borrow that sense of simplicity in our poster, the idea was to create the form of a drop with tied up shapes of different birds. The process started with sketching out a rough placement of elements that would come together, and then shredding down those elements to its basic beautiful form. The treatment had to be uniform for all the elements, yet communicate the species of birds we worked on. Here are some of the sketches that went into the simplification process. </span><br />
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<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-XnMpzzbK_JY/UYCUK6G_vRI/AAAAAAAAEAc/5iFfVuPIRtY/s1600/04.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="266" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-XnMpzzbK_JY/UYCUK6G_vRI/AAAAAAAAEAc/5iFfVuPIRtY/s400/04.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Once the shape of birds came on the artwork, we filled the empty spaces with elements that are associated with birds, for example - the fruits they eat or the flower they suck the nectar from etc. After putting together the elements, we contemplated on whether to fill in the elements with solid colours, but just the plain strokes communicated the form of a drop better. Here's a trial version of the one done with fills.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">After long chain of emails, we finally churned out the poster just in time. You can see the poster on Perch </span><a href="http://perchproject.tumblr.com/post/49165657347/full-fill" style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">here</a><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">. If you feel like sharing it - You can use the high resolution file from this </span><a href="http://i.imgur.com/uj4s3Ch.jpg" style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">link</a><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Please keep a bowl of water out for the birds, this tiny effort would do them a lot of good. I have one out near my window for the squirrels, it's such a joy to see them come and quench their thirst.</span><br />
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somesh kumarhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05645887325138759957noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2219964060239995558.post-32354586344718406442013-04-24T10:32:00.001-07:002013-04-24T10:32:43.708-07:00Kavalier & Clay<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">It has been a terribly long time since I last blogged. A month long vacation takes its toll in many ways. For the past three months I have been awfully busy on a long project, the details of which will come out soon, but the project just soaked me in so much that I had to turn a blind eye to the ticking dates of the last blog post put up. Now that the project seems to be reaching its end, I can afford to take a breather and talk about the book I finished reading last night, it's called - <i><b>The Amazing Adventures of Kavalier & Clay</b></i> by Michael Chabon. The book revolves around the life of two jewish cousins in New York city who made it big in the booming comics industry of the 1930-40's second world war era before getting scattered away. It's a long read, and although it's a work of fiction, it's very well woven around the facts of comic book genre's behaviour during the two decades. Apart from being a well written novel, the author has really seasoned his two protagonist well with each passing pages, you sort of end up believing that these two cousins really existed back then. One of the cousins, Josef Kavalier is shown as the comic book artists who treats his medium as a weapon to fight against the evils of Hitler, at least that's how he begins with it, but slowly he gets engrossed in the beauty of the technique, the breaking of panels and his rendering of precise brush strokes. Comics become his escape door to fight wars first and later on a refuge for his own stories. With each descriptions of his crafted comic book pages, I really felt an urge to see them. In fact I searched for his name on google to see if there are any samples one could see of what these comic book pages must have looked like. Comics, considered a degraded art form back then, had an easy to afford liquorish charm to it. Through this step child of an art form when the two cousins live their belief and secret passions, one realises how strong its role is in a society where war rages on each day's account. Michael Chabon has rightly used Harry Houdini as the metaphor for comics. Here are some of my favourite parts from the book - </span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white; line-height: 19.1875px;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><i>"Forget about what you are escaping from," he said, quoting an old maxim of Kornblum's. "Reserve your anxiety for what you are escaping to."</i></span></span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white; text-align: justify; text-indent: 26.1796875px;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><i>He and his father had in their jocular, gingerly fashion loved each other, but now that his father was dead, Joe felt only regret. It was not just the usual regret over things left unsaid, thanks unexpressed and apologies withheld. Joe did not yet regret the lost future opportunities for expatiation on favorite shared subjects, such as film directors (they revered Buster Keaton) or breeds of dogs. Such regrets would come only belatedly, a few days after, when he made the realization that death really did mean that you were never going to see the dead person ever again. What he regretted most of all just now was simply that he had not been there when it happened; that he had left to his mother, grandfather, and brother the awful business of watching his father die.</i></span></span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white; text-align: justify; text-indent: 26.1796875px;"><span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">For the last three months I have been strictly away from my graphic novel work, but my appetite seems right now to get back to it. Like Houdini, we are all tied up in our heavy iron chains of everyday obligations and rituals, and we all search for the golden key. The scam gates and rape cases bog the newspaper headlines making you feel like dead soldiers rotting in trenches of an eternal war. We all need a key, an escape... a superhero perhaps.</span></span></div>
somesh kumarhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05645887325138759957noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2219964060239995558.post-78220506462051313932013-03-15T07:52:00.000-07:002013-03-15T07:52:28.701-07:00Flower Market<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">The wanderers (Sana, Nimmy and Me) decided to go visit the flower market at six in the morning on my birthday. We got slightly delayed because of the cab arriving late to pick us up, but we made it in time to witness the colour riot of flower market near Avenue Road. Like Sana said, there were flowers stocked in all shapes, especially sausage shapes. We also took a walk inside the <i>sabji mandi</i> and shops selling ways and devices to please the mighty lords. The tarpaulin wrapped lanes nested all the decor and earthy needs of a middle class Bangalore. I was carrying a sketch pad and sat for a while drawing a man sitting on the side of the road waiting for the market to finish its day while the rest of the city was to begin theirs. </span></div>
somesh kumarhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05645887325138759957noreply@blogger.com0