Of Sentimental Breasts

(The poem is now part of the I:OBJECT exhibition at ArtKonsult gallery, Lado Sarai Delhi. The solo show is by artist Megha Joshi. for more details:https://www.facebook.com/events/1527247950846830/ )

Let us begin with the structures of adoration.

Excited brass tips atop the

Domes of a mosque.

Perhaps a poet sits on them

Carassing and tickling them

Hardening them further.

The visual is blasphemous.

Perhaps then,

The  ‘skull caps’ are needed

Twin and wired, finely laced helps.

All of it's architecture

embroidered in inches.

Multifarious sentimental goosebumps

Peek through the perforated design.

I begin a private revolt

Along with that poet brandished atop domes.

Against Alignment

Against crowd in the balcony of my chest.

Against the homogeneity.

Towards dialectics

Of anatomy and anonymity.

Against the Synthesis of

Wire, lace and concrete.

Against Gandhari's[1]

Blindfolded boobies.

Only a plain garment

On a plain chest.

because Nakedness is not as threatening.

I intend to begin with a quiver.

And let the garment quiver.

The volume, density and the circumference

Intends to quiver.

Muster up a rich lather of movements.

Yes sensual and appealing, but only

In preliminary thoughts.

Equalling Almost Ghalib, in character.

Tits those defy gravity

Are inversely Almost Ghalib.

Ghalib was a sentimental breast,

Droopy and dripping,

Going nether, a follower of carnal gravity.

Sucked on for an invisible nectar.

All lovers crave and suck for an invisible nectar,

Only in preliminary thoughts.

Press on passionately for the taste of nothing!

Look at Qais[2] drinking deep

The illuminated wilderness,

For a taste of nothing!

The quiver, then as I intend,

decodes the nectar

Into Putna's[3], dark dangly aerolas

Supplying forbidden potions.

She promises to be witness,

To what is to come.

Her sentimental breasts look most promising.

Her bosom only contains her breasts,

The manufacturer of Hemlock. and

Maybe a stronger motherhood veiled in a secret

and cups full of visible poison.

Visible, Tangible, Material for a child to relate to.

Dark Putna, mother of the Dark Krishna.

Yashoda[4], the worshipped one,

How you lure all feeding privlidges

With your empty sentimentality!

The grand owner of sagging bags,

My granny, stored all kiddie-money

In some contour of her blouse.

A little cajoling and magic was reproduced.

But on the inside was grotesqueness,

I would never forget.

Chamunda Devi[5] had killed two monsters:

Chanda and Munda.

And their carcass was entrusted upon my granny

To be carried on her chest.

Now let us go back to padded-realities

No lace, only a wine coloured polyester

A firm hold like hands hold an offering,

Knowing well the moulding surface-tension,

For an order of things, For an order of things!

Ask a dancer of sculpted reality,

Ask the stick figurine in Bronze,

The Dancing Girl[6],

if she forgot to put on her padded bra,

and stood there just in defiance,

a reluctant fist on her waist!

-Zooni Tickoo

November 26, 2014

Email: tickoo.neha@gmail.com

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[1] In the story of Mahabharata, Gandhari is the Queen of Dhritrashtra, the blind king of Krukshetra. Gandhari decides to blindfold herself for all her life to be equal as her husband.

[2] Qais (Majnoon) is the lover of Laila. Inspired from Ghalib’s couplet “Nafs-e-Qais se hai chashm-o-chiragah-e-sehra/ Gar nahi shama-e-seeah khana-e-Laila, naa sahi.” Translating to: “the vast deserts are illuminated due to profound desire of Qais, so what if he cannot witness the lights of Laila’s private chambers”

[3] Putna is a demoness sent by King Kansa to murder infant Krishna. She decides to do so by feeding the infant with poison from her breasts. Although her plan is unsuccessful, it is believed that she witnesses a reflection of cosmos in Krishna’s mouth, before she is killed by him.

[4] Yashoda is the foster mother of Krishna.

[5] Chamunda is the fearsome mother goddess, believed to be a manifestation of goddess Parvati. She is called Chamunda because she destroyed two demons, Chanda and Munda.

[6] Dancing Girl is a bronze statuette dating around 2500 BC, from the Mohenjo-daro site of Indus Valley Civilization. This statuette is frequently referred to in south-asian Dance history as well.

Art and Culture: Good Health may be found at the Museum

If you thought visiting art museums and attending cultural activities is highly boring and a sheer waste of time, then you seriously need to think again. Rather, think about the times of the earliest hunter/gatherers, the Early Man and what he did in his free time. Yes, maybe in his leisure time, he went to work on his spinning logs inventing tools and building fires or simply hunting! But have you ever wondered what really occupied his free time? The earliest artists were the hundred thousand year old Neanderthals, paintings the walls of their deep dark caves. So, don’t we need to rethink – Are the human beings progressing as a specie or simply undergoing metamorphosis into machines? Has this got to do something with the ever shortening leisure time on our hand?

In these times, for most people, caught up with their mundanely stressful lives, leisure time does not include stuff like developing a sense of appreciation for finer art. Work related problems and tensions make you mechanical enough to ignore the creative and aesthetic aspects which the humankind possesses. However, in such a rat race, it is increasingly becoming important to slow down and enjoy good and beautiful things around you.

A recent research study seems to support the above mentioned statement quite well enough. The study points out that men and women who engaged in artistic-cultural activities on a regular basis were more likely to recognize with the emotions such as happiness, contentment and healthfulness. The study also stated that a more developed taste in art is directly proportional to your personal healthy lifestyle.

Increasing participation in cultural groups and social activities can also dramatically lower your stress levels and instill you with a deep sense of well-being. A healthy sense of well being is highly necessary to function well as a normal, feeling-perceiving human. Naturally, this strongly prevailing sense of well being helps lower the levels of depression and anxiety.

Creative tasks like joining crafts or baking/cookery classes and activity clubs like swimming, photography, music etc can give you the much needed break to introspect about various facets of life. Similarly browsing through an art museum and gazing at numerous styles of paintings while absorbing their exquisiteness in detail can stimulate those cells in your brain which have been dulled over time. Certainly, this helps to invigorate you internally and you begin to look at life in a positive perspective.

However, this cannot be restricted to artistic activities solely. Amongst women, the study reported, increased involvement in religious gatherings and events could be associated with life satisfaction. Religion apart, sports also held a positive factor for women, since most of them tended to be fitter and happier if they watched or participated in games and sports. Volunteering for social work and community help also can lead to believing in the goodness of your self.

The aforementioned research study may bring out a very obvious truth about importance of leisure but some aspects of the study partly require further analysis. For example: The study would hold true mostly in western or European nations only. In the eastern oriental nations, leisure and cultural sensibilities may vary. Also this does not seem to be a longitudinal research study so one cannot be sure about the future life situations and reactions of the participants. Clearly, more in depth research is required that will re-furnish the almost obvious truth. This can result in dramatically higher number of people involved in leisure activities and thus happier, relaxed, and less stressed people.

The healing characteristics of involvement in both perceptive as well as participatory art and music are now being taken ahead and developed into full-fledged therapeutic sciences. These involve clinically approved methods aiming to heal neuro-generic as well as hypochondriacally associated disorders. But these severe conditions are highly avoidable provided you learn to nurture your life with the wonderful zest for skills and talents. Nevertheless, in order to pursue a normal and healthy lifestyle fulfilled with cherish-able, pure and blissful happiness, it is important to retain the element of curiosity and adventure. After all, living life fruitfully is also an Art and all you need to do is try and become its good Artist.

OUR OWN STRANGE MAN (a sketch)

The winter chill pierced his

tattered coarse blanket which refused

to part from his naked body.

He exuded certain warmth,

Which the grey blanket

Fully absorbed.

Both his body and his blanket

Existed the other way round.

And for me,

The winter chill never just pierced but

It also, especially groped and pinched me…

Oozing foggy clouds from my mouth.

And my numb fingers grumbled and

Sought refuge into some warm

Contour of my well muffled form.

And, “Ah, Respite!”

In those mumbling grumbling

Ways of mine, his credulous composure

Never missed my eye.

People pass him, paying grim glances,

While the Lord spends gleefully

His grubby blanket days.

His spectacular round belly

Seemed to me a like donation box

For all the curious gazes he lives off.

Graduating winter cold saw him

More and more stark and contained.

Absolutely, a beggar in meditation

With his poverty and peace.

His holy abode is the lonely, humble,

Local Bus stop erected over the footpath.

Yes people, god is finally accessible!!

All that his ravishing presence seeks is

To mark our consciousness with

A mark of an indelible vermilion, in the

Color of his peculiar physicality.

Vermilion is passé, so he must have

Spilled sunshine over me.

And caught me in a trance.

To me he resembles the humid summers

Settling thick, rendering opaque, like glue.

His nakedness is often candid in the

obvious glow of Innermost visions.

Oh, his Earth face-

Oval, partly dark, highly vegetated,

Sometimes moist with salinity and

Inhabited by baser organisms.

Only this Earth, that he resembles,

Seems happier!!

Nature undergoing regression, maybe??

His gait isn’t madly masculine.

But Gullible and sublime.

Tells the protrusion of his belly,

“he ate himself to Salvation”

And I reply, “it reflects”.

On this the blanket gives way

And the belly button wriggles,

in possible anticipation, I presume.

His feet chuckle, I almost hear

Something in a dust laden,

Mud soaked voice.

Then his matted locks

break into an unsettling dance.

And his ruffled beauty is like magic.

Every moment growing in freedom,

Just like his own insane will.

Freedom, like himself

deconstructs structures and shrines .

Shrines are like this local Bus stop,

Humble yet Resurrected.

And gods are like him

Discomforting!

Himself, like freedom

He moves on and on and on

From here to there to nowhere!

Neha Tickoo, 2011

ON MY HAPPY BIRTHDAY!

I have cried frivolously,
In a way to dramatize
The time of my birth.
Past few birthdays flew
In doing just that…
Imitating my Birth.
But, why is birth pompous
And death discreet?
And why must we swing
To-and-fro, in-between.
So, I choose to defy this…
The matter of contradiction.
To have my death joyfully
Declared to myself.
Or to weep a tumultuous sob
To mark my day of arrival.

Since death is busy
Going about in its usual
But passé ways,
Attending many other and
Better souls,
I shall lament grandly
Lament my own birth.
And in the same
Act of dramatization,
Play myself over and over again
In these re-runs
Year after year.
And I play the role of a
Tear drop rolling un-noticed
Gushing along with
The pungent sweat
Oozing from the dark polished
Skin of a rickshaw-puller.
And EXIT
In next scene, I play
The trickle of musky sweat
Rolling from the fair hide
Of a plump girl, languishing
In her balcony,
Watching vehicles pass by
But to intrigue all contradiction,
The sweat rolls to merge in
The ocean of tears she spills,
on the eve of her birthday!


24-06-2010

STRUGGLE FOR DETACHMENT

Detachment – it hangs as the status

Of my virtual socializing site,

Mostly with me out of sight!

It hangs as my status - the state of my mind.

Hangs like a noose, exclusively blind.

It rolls from my eye, struggling, stifling.

Like a stone, on a dead, silent, street.

A stone, a tool, a weapon

Not merely a pebble.

But suddenly a laudable commodity.

Yet a stone, like cold icicle,

When gushing over my pale cheek.

To evade, to cut, to severe

Is not detachment

But to obstruct, to de-construct attachment -

All obtrusive and conclusive.

To construct detachment is a fission reaction

Its is more willingness and less stillness

It is more about the free flight

Than those nestled dreams.

Detachment sings more of Freedom

A song dipped in bitter-sweet confidence.

Of a gala insanity, very desirously inked

With blood in one’s will

A Will, incapable of inheritance by any heir.

A Will, earned, if need be, by a revolution.

There is utter denouncement of all bonds.

The vilification of all that restiveness.

It is movement in all directions

Culminating in amorphous Dance,

Neatly splitting the body of this nomadic soul.

Detachment is a puzzle

Which sets free each jig from every saw

Part by part, entity by entity, atom by atom.

"BEEP BEEP"

Hello I am an sms.

You know what they call-

The Smooth Mumbling Shine

I love to mumble, murmur,

Moan, mutter, and also mediate.

Like bridging gaps and

Filling the vacuums.

Heart to heart, Phone to phone,

Soul to soul.

Whoever said our youngsters

are cold and lack skill verbally !!

Hah! You would be amazed

Of how highly they regard me.

Of my value they pen poems, ballads.

And hail me on the idiot box

Or in newsprint,

Superimposing my invincibility.

Oh, and go ask those distant lovers,

How much they await me…

Night after night, conveying complaints,

Dreams, Hopes, desires all unabashedly.

Ah, this almost makes me blush. Sigh!

So, this is how I mediate. And

This fortune of delivering Shine,

I inherited from my great grandfather:

The Postman. Hope he rests in peace

In his grave of lost, undelivered letters.

What pride would swell in his heart for me

Making the world smaller by the day!

How amazingly I became the catalyst for

The invention of the new “txt lingo”.

‘shrnkin’ all emo talk in2 160 chrctrs’,

I tell you, It is no mean task.

But, sometimes I also Meditate.

In the ‘silent mode’

Only vibrating my soul a little,

About who am I

After all, it is so fashionable

To be ‘existentially damned”.

Thus, I think I am suffering from

The “Mid-life crises”.

But of course I am so much loved,

So much needed by all.

Then why would someone want

To ban me, me of all!

Barb my freedom in this land

Blindfold my Shine in this land,

Fracture my constitution in this land

This land – the furnace of revolt.

Dismiss my existence all in all,

And rub away my traces however frail.

Yes, such a deep crisis to me it is!

They, some of those heartless, tech-less people,

Who oppose “azaadi” – basic freedom,

All that those vengeful demons do

Is kill people and impose Armed Acts,

Acts of inhuman obscenity,

Which disarm me and

Rob me of my only fortune

Of delivering Shine,

Unbound and unobstructed!

How I long to roam in the

Veins of that deranged Valley

From one phone tower to another.

From one heart to another.

Sending across signals of

Intimacy and what not!

I have known of texting carnivores

Devour all sorts of ‘interesting anecdotal’

Jokes about anatomy and the ‘bird n bees’.

How often they have evoked giggles

Frowns, and loud roars of curious laughter.

I have listened to those amateur poets,

When no one else would have dared to,

Impart their fragile craft of words.

To be honest, when I fell in this valley,

I fell straight into Love.

I have known all sorts of people,

Businessmen, housewives,

kids, students, unemployed youth,

Retired elders and lovers blah blah.

But in this Valley, angels reside.

Cooing and echoing their hearts divine.

Somewhere sobbing, sloganeering at other

Shedding streams of tears while

Somewhere Showering trails of stones.

These are people of wonder mysteries.

Their bereavement, their agony and eagerness

To mumble, murmur, mutter, and moan

in the smoothest and the most suave ways,

has been banished and causes heartache.

How can I not mourn then of my exile?

This separation, this abandonment.

Such coldness, such struggles of the land and heart!

I no longer dream, but see gory nightmares…

Of those lovely people asking Agha Shahid Ali

To reinstate the dead Postman out of his grave,

Into the existential Post office.

And in another I saw, young boys and women

Hurl their hearts filled with cold emotion

At the oppressor, again and again,

Conveying in blood all of their sadness..

And then another, in which I get my tongue

Trimmed, sewed, clipped, stomped and burnt

Only to be left as deranged as this Valley.

Able to “beep” but never able to sing of its joys.

Muted, gagged, silenced and hushed

Sobbing still in sleep, awaiting the end of

This long daunting slumber. Maybe

Till dawn breaks and ends this spell,

Mumbling smoothly its Shine into

Every demon of my nightmares.

Dreaming Of Sleep

I decide to defy sleep.
And I decide to defy the caffeine
Gushing in my veins too.
Ah, why must lullabies
Rant in my ears as if bucketing in me
The mystery of this dark night.
My limbs tremble in rest.
They ache to tread further...
Till the eternity of this tunnel.
Oh, I hear trinket bells.
Are they a part of some conspiracy?
Or is it a symphony my earrings sing?
I collapse under the sway of this noise.
It scatters over like fine dust,
And then inhabits itself on the remote
Contours of my awareness.
There is a vital stir,
A rhythmic quiver.
And this dust dances and
Shimmers into gold.
Pronouncing the arrival of eternity,
Bathing in severe yellow,
Shunning away all mysterious vagaries.