KNACK Magazine #74 by KNACK Magazine

KNACK

magazine 74

KNACK Magazine is dedicated to showcasing the work of artists of all mediums, and to discuss trends and ideas of art communities. KNACK Magazine’s

ultimate

aim

is to connect and inspire e m e r g i n g a r t i s t s , w o r k i n g a r tists and established artists. We strive to create a place for artists, writers, designers, thinkers, and innovators to collaborate and produce a unique, informative, and unprecedented web-based art magazine each month.

SUBMISSION GUIDELINES PHOTOGRAPHERS, GRAPHIC DESIGNERS & STUDIO ARTISTS: 10-12 high resolution images of your work. All should include pertinent caption information (name, date, medium, year). WRITERS: You may submit up to 2,500 words and as little as one. We accept simultaneous submissions. No cover letter necessary. All submissions must be 12pt, Times New Roman, single or double-spaced with page numbers and include your name, e-mail, phone number, and genre. KNACK seeks writing of all kinds. We will even consider recipes, reviews, and essays. We seek writers whose work has a distinct voice, is character driven, and is subversive but tasteful. ALL SUBMISSIONS: KNACK encourages all submitters to include a portrait, a brief biography, which can include; your name, age, current location, awards, contact information, etc. (no more than 125 words). And an artist statement (no more than 250 words). We believe that your perspective of your work and process is as lucrative as the work itself. This may range from your upbringing and/or education as an artist, what type of work you produce, inspirations, etc. If there are specifications or preferences concerning the way in which your work is to be displayed please include them. Please title files for submission with the name of the piece. This applies for both writing and visual submissions. *PLEASE TITLE FILES FOR SUBMISSION WITH THE NAME OF THE PIECE. THIS APPLIES FOR BOTH WRITING AND VISUAL SUBMISSIONS.

EMAIL: KNACKMAGAZINE1@GMAIL.COM SUBJECT: SUBMISSION [PHOTOGRAPHY, STUDIO ART, CREATIVE WRITING, GRAPHIC DESIGN] ACCEPTABLE FORMATS: IMAGES: .PDF, .TIFF, OR .JPEG WRITTEN WORKS: .DOC, .DOCX, AND .RTF

REVIEWS

KNACK Magazine is requesting material to be reviewed. Reviews extend to any culture related event that may be happening in your community. Do you know of an exciting show or exhibition opening? Is there an art collective in your city that deserves some press? Are you a musician, have a band, or are a filmmaker? Send us your CD, movie, or titles of upcoming releases which you’d like to see reviewed in KNACK Magazine. We believe that reviews are essential to creating a dialogue about the arts. If something thrills you, we want to know about it and share it with the KNACK Magazine community—no matter if you live in the New York or Los Angeles, Montreal or Mexico. All review material can be sent to knackmagazine1@gmail.com. Please send a copy of CDs and films to 4319 N. Greenview Ave, Chicago, IL 60613. If you would like review material returned to you include return postage and packaging. Entries should contain pertinent details such as name, year, release date, websites and links (if applicable). For community events we ask that information be sent up to two months in advance to allow proper time for assignment and review. We look forward to seeing and hearing your work.

EDITORS & STAFF Andrea Catalina Vaca Co-Founder, Publisher, Editor-In-Chief, Artist Coordinator, Digital Operations, Photographer, Designer, Circulation Director, Production Manager, Business Manager Jonathon Duarte Co-Founder, Creative Director Ariana Lombardi Co-Founder, Executive Editor, Artist Coordinator, Writer Chelsey Alden Editor, Writer Fernando Gaverd Digital Operations, Designer Benjamin Smith Designer Curtis Mueller Editor

Front & Back Cover Design: Andrea Catalina Vaca First & Last Spread Photography: A.C. Vaca Photography Magazine Design: Andrea Catalina Vaca

CONTENTS 10

Artist Biographies

FEATURED ARTISTS 26 38 16

Jennifer Printz

Danielle Goshay

Ritankar Mazumder

Hannah Bailey

John Greiner Ferris

Rex Parker

Abhishek Singh

QUICK LOOK ARTIST 90 Harsimran Kaur

KNACK Magazine, Issue #74

ARTIST BIOGRAPH Jennifer Printz’s art has been exhibited in numerous solo and group exhibitions across the United States and abroad, and has been included in publications as diverse as Tricycle and The Carolina Quarterly. She has been awarded artist residencies at locations such as the Cité Internationale des Arts in Paris. Printz received her MFA from the University of Georgia, has been an active arts leader in a variety of professional organizations and currently teaches drawing at Florida International University in Miami. Website: www.jenniferprintz.com

Danielle Goshay is a Canadian/American visual artist based in Toronto whose practice includes digital and film photography and experimental/ alternative process. Goshay studied at Pittsburgh Filmmakers media arts center in Pennsylvania. She has exhibited work in Pittsburgh and Toronto and has been published internationally. Website: www.daniellegoshayphotography.com

HIES Ritankar Mazumder is an Indian visual artist, university student, and documentary photographer.

Hannah Bailey is a 25-year-old Australian/Filipino poet, actor, and musician living in Brooklyn. Bailey moved to New York five years ago to attend the American Academy of Dramatic Arts conservatory program, and has been based there ever since. During her time in New York City, she has worked Off-Broadway with The Irish Repertory Theatre, MoMA PS1, and Bard City, and has appeared in numerous films with companies including More and More Productions, Bumble Bee Entertainment, and Netflix. Bailey is also a songwriter and recording artist. Her latest release Corduroy/There Soon was featured on A Moment of Your Time, a podcast by CurtCo Media. Bailey’s music can be found on all streaming platforms. email: hannahadelebailey@gmail.com Website: www.hannahadelebailey.com Instagram: hannahadelebailey 11

John Greiner-Ferris is an artist, a writer, and a photographer. He has a BFA from Ohio University, and a MFA in playwriting from Boston University. Sometimes he makes images. Sometimes he writes. Sometimes he does both. Website: www.johngreinerferrisstudio.com/paintings--drawings.html Instagram: johngreinerferrisstudio

Rex Parker is an American artist, designer, and illustrator. He created the graphically bold “Games On!” poster series for Chicago’s Olympic bid. He is releasing a new poster series “H. G. Wells a Time Traveler’s Life” to celebrate the 125th Anniversary of H. G. Wells’s first novel The Time Machine in the summer of 2021. Parker gives lectures on H. G. Wells, William Morris, and Frederic Goudy. Parker’s work is available for public viewing in a variety of exhibitions throughout the United States and abroad, including the The Rare Book & Manuscript Library at the University of Illinois, and the William Morris Society Museum at Kelmscott House in London, England. Website: www.rexparkerdesign.com Instagram: rexparkerdesign

Abhishek Singh was born to a farming family in the small town of Gorakhpur, Uttar Pradesh. After graduating with a degree in electronics and communication, technical knowledge pushed Singh towards the world of digital photography. Singh sold his scooter, bought a DSLR camera, and in 2016 joined a professional photography group. In 2017 Singh married his wife, Raj Laxmi, who has since played a significant role in the pursuit of his photographic dreams. Facebook: singh.abhishek999 Instagram: singh_abhishek999 Twitter: er_abhishek999

Jennifer PRINTZ My work focuses on the beauty of liminal realities and the ephemeral balances of life. Influenced by contemplative practices and contemporary physics, I combine disparate parts and different processes to reflect on what it means to be alive. I focus on images of the sky as a universal denominator for life here on earth. Wherever we go, it is always overhead. Clouds emerge from or merge into abstracted structures and architectural forms. Space feels concrete, but is also twisted and uncertain. Poetically on paper and with fabric, I present the universal waltz between impermanence and form.

Careful Rituals of Approach 2021 22”x15” Graphite, Collage (Epson Ultrachrome Inks on washi) on Rives BFK paper

Returning and Knowing, 2021, 15”x22”, Graphite, Collage (Epson Ultrachrome Inks on washi) on Rives BFK paper

Astonishing Materials and Revelations, 2020, 14”x13”x 2.5”, Epson Ultrachrome Inks on Cotton, Prepared Wooden Support

Next page: Lifetimes Alone, 2021, 15”x22”, Relief print with chine collé (Epson Ultrachrome Inks on washi) on Rives BFK paper

On Becoming Aware, 2021, Each Panel 21”x12.5”x2.5”, Epson Ultrachrome Inks on Cotton, Prepared Wooden Support 22

Delicate Crest of the Present Moment, 2021, 15”x22”, Relief print with chine collé (Epson Ultrachrome Inks on washi) on Rives BFK paper

Lifetimes Alone, 2021, 15”x22”, Relief print with chine collé (Epson Ultrachrome Inks on washi) on Rives BFK paper 23

Still Under the Quick Ones, 2021, 22”x15”, Relief print with chine collé (Epson Ultrachrome Inks on washi) on Rives BFK paper 24

Flotsam and Jetsam, 2020, Each 18” in diameter and 4” in depth, Epson Ultrachrome Inks on Cotton, Prepared Wooden Support

They Change Their Skies Not Their Souls, 2020, 19”x13”x3”, Epson Ultrachrome Inks on Cotton, Prepared Wooden Support

Danielle GOSHAY I employ a symbolist approach to nature, street, and abstract photography, which draws connections to universal symbols and associations, dream interpretation, and memory. With themes exploring magic realism, mysticism, surrealist automatism, and psychological landscapes and formations, my work focuses on the rise of the collective unconscious to the conscious level, and unearthing the void found in deep meditation.

All photographs: 35mm Film 2018-2021

Ritankar MAZUMDER My goal as a photographer is not simply to create individual photographs, but to create a perspective. I am interested in people and culture, to explore the unexplored scenes of society. The following photographs are partially visions of my memories, and partially visions of my imagination.

Hannah BAILEY Born out of yearning to connect with my family and heritage from across the ocean during the pandemic, my first collection of poems, Drawing Blood (or On My Mother’s Toes) explores themes of bloodline, femininity, homesickness (and home sickness), loss, hope, and an existence within the cracks and veins of colliding cultures. For longer than I can remember, I felt a conflict between the Filipino and Australian sides of who I am—it seemed almost impossible to embrace both simultaneously. More recently I’ve begun to understand the ways in which one cannot exist without the other, and how together they create an identity that is whole. As writing has become increasingly the backbone of all the other art I create and perform, I have understood more completely just how fundamental the process of truth seeking is to my work. A large part of this has been an accep-

tance of self; forgiving and honoring the place I am in, wherever and whenever I put pen to paper (or my fingers to a guitar, or my body in space). Particularly throughout this past year, the highs have been joyous—euphoric even, and the lows deeply, intrinsically painful. In many ways, these poems seek to marry the many opposing truths that exist within me, and within the world I see. The use of couplets, double poems, and thematic augmentation carry this idea through Drawing Blood (or On My Mother’s Toes), and attempt the bringing together of countless dualities. As I wade through the life-long undertaking of collecting and collating the fragments of my scattered identity, my work and words become increasingly the stitching. I hope you enjoy these poems, and I thank you for taking the time to read them.

selected works from

DRAWING BLOOD (or ON MY MOTHER’S TOES) SHOWER POEM I wrote a poem in the glass fogged up with steam and the terrors of the day leaving my body traced the letters of your name like a lovesick adolescent, naked and dripping rounding the edges to collect as many droplets as I could in one knowing line. Vanished as quickly as it was born, leaving behind nothing but its cool wet touch on the dabs of my fingers. Hollow and waiting to be felt my hand again tomorrow.

SILVER

SILK

You pulled me towards you and with all the light of the universe let me burst into one million shards of silver.

I wrap you breathlessly within cool layers of five hundred year old silk pastel pink and mint green lining the base of a new world.

Scatter me across the waiting sky. Show me night. Show me who I am.

Galleons upon an unknown sea the eastern and western limits towards generous gateways our seam in its wake. Doused it arrives in island water at your shore you fill the drum beads of silver taking rightfully what is yours. This is the agreement the emporia the consequence of touch its ancient musk lingering timeless upon our amber skin.

WOMAN

If I trace with my fingertip every inch of me my hand, a replica of my mother’s, would eventually find my feet then ground then root. If I trace with blood every inch of my womanhood my root, an extension of my mother’s, would weave its way to a land I cannot navigate and bury there a seed. If I study my women twelve of nineteen four of seven one of four I see

Volcanic ladies — eruption and reconcile, a cycle, bold in unapologetic certainty they form a path farther than my gaze and bleed through every inch of me whether I want it or not, settle under my feet so I can stand, spill over into my mouth and mould my words so I can speak, hide themselves between my bamboo bones and set off sparks so I can start fires. If I trace the ground every inch until my fingertip finds root and follow it across oceans farther than my gaze I find them buried in my dusty skin the seed throbs bleeds and reveals itself Woman.

EXPATRIATION AS TRAIN TRACKS She draws a line down the middle its jet black border smudging as she works to unsep– arate the two faces upon which she wears her humbly emanating life. The dog’s pulse tickles gently through his scruff against her left wrist her right sweeping parallel lines his eyes follow back forth as she unfolds their world onto the page. Arriving gingerly the suit– case she carries beating heart– like weighty within her grip despite the world around her the train rumbles, murmurs the dog grumbles at her feet steadily she is borne from nothing to nowhere

barrelling on the bear winter itself to her Cradled guitar rooibos she tries spell the the suit– by figure notebook parallel but can the “How much” “–to untie from either but it is steel pressed to with the all man to lodge own tandem. silence can breathe cold glass other

like into the ink escorting her seat. in saxophone spilling again to contents of case figure onto her of lines not find opening. she asks the rope side?” not it is immovable the ground strength of clasping down each their world in Dueting a only she upon the of the life

whirring by tries hands to one to fasten in prayer opposed like oil out of onto she cannot braid them spine of make herself) whole. she swelling onto her brass buckles God–like bursts the of two feathering upon eyes pulling to

she with bare haul the other together but still repelled almond slipping grip linoleum tonight into the her soul them (or bindingly

Bereft heaves the case aching lap unclasp, in marvel confetti worlds kindly down shuttered her finally safety.

WINNOWED

BAPTISM

What remains: the PHILIPPINE TRICYCLE mug and a word my Lola spun: bilao (bila-o). Sifted through a distant mind one stronger than the sum of my parts winnowing away freeing the grain from its chaff soft wood smooths my hand although I do not hold it somewhere along the way they threw the rice into the sky before the dirt before the wind my hands weaving the wood, the rice remaining.

Beneath the stars she treads from here to the end of the earth leaving behind a wake of weary footsteps across broken snow, and every few yards, tiny pools deep crimson crumbs for the raven as it drips, all, from her fingertips. A dress and a pair of well-worn boots unlaced below the last silver birch lay icy and calm as she leaps with empty elegance into the furnace of night. Finally, she sighs her bare skin warmed at last.

OBLIVION (or DREAMSCAPE) I looked at the world, and it was suspended in soft light just for me. A blazing orange ball climbed down the side of the Empire State Building closing in on night. There is nothing that can unmake this I do not want to. When I wake, I am one of two conscious minds walking this dreamscape. The weight of seven Earths fills and floods me and I find myself spilling onto the hardwood floor gasping to be touched again, again. lay me in cool water, If I asked to be found, would you seek the living or dead? Today we have heat immediacy, but death is eternal and I long to be infinite with you. Would it be delightful to bury me, knowing we are only beginning? so this dream is given life, We have crumbled many times over, falling to the same sweet dust through which we sow the silk. What is one more death? and becomes the bearer of all things.

I CALL MY LOLA She answers on the fifth ring Apologizing for unbrushed hair Her unmade face Straining towards the screen She beams my name Stretching the vowels As if trying to hold them in the air Longer than anyone should She is beautiful She tells me she is reading the letter I sent slowly She tells me about foods my blood knows Foods I’ve never held on my tongue Bihod and balut and bulalo She tells me she likes the new president She tells me I am pretty My Lola asks, once again, if I believe in God Tender hope clinging to her cheeks She is soft, pure as silk and I cannot forsake her

I tell her Yes I tell her of afternoon light Sweeping across the pier I tell her of snow I tell her of the ocean in August I tell her of hot water on Cold hands I tell her of sand And of rain And of the autumn forest I tell her of sunrise I tell her of long winter shadows I tell her of music at night And the mosaics in the museum And the steaming tea And the crescent moon And the endless sky And the sound of quiet And I tell her again of light of light of light. My Lola smiles She does not believe me This time, there is no need.

STORM Distantly the street light spills thick blizzard dust onto Grand. Invisible ink the torch reveals the wind more courageous than we ever care to notice. The cloud plunges low into our bellies her swallowing me squeezing her. The pendant they brought shivers stiff and ghostly clinging to shards of light reaching for kindness. Slide the door along its track until the room is inside out snowflakes falling to my bare feet. ***

DAILY GRACE (or MONDAY) after Ross Gay

The wind hisses through fissured silicon and the clementine segments lay waiting, splayed out like gardenia or the beginnings of my mouth. In the cold stairwell snow gathers at the ascent drifting penniless down through a cracked skylight aria on empty stage an echo below.

The pot plant gasping beneath her winter fate. Mimì!... Mimì!... Mimì!...

In the morning I unfold my body by the window that frames everything I carry with me as I draw yesterday’s unanswered questions from my neck, and out of my shoulders December’s blistering cold, I hum the early notes of today’s tune unknowing of its end arch my back which may one day ache with the burden of life, stretching the hollow space below my stomach that arranges itself a bed of promise for agonizing joy I curl my hands around my toes – those given to me by my mother, that we will give again to the child whose laces I’ll tie Monday after Monday and after, unfurling onto my back I let idle breasts fall to either side in silent substance waiting patiently to be stormed by many unsharped mouths there is work to do ferrying warmth in, out I feel the fall of this breath which may inspire in time inside another, reaching, folding, waiting far from the body that once we shared then, as I rise, like I will moonsoaked and heavy to quench tears I too shed long ago, I’ll blow soft daybreak’s promise and begin the unravelling anew.

DRAWING BLOOD The room is bare, my footsteps echo off the hollow walls. I sit before the window – thin film separating me from endless possibility. I reach out to touch the view, today, a little too hard; a little too curiously I press and press into my faded reflection until it shatters around me, leaving the wind suspended and gaping. I fall among the broken shards, scattering my limbs across a field of small knives. So numb from the whirring of the world that at first I do not feel wet lesions running over my spine. I wrinkle, the craters filling with crimson ink. Emerging from the glassy bed, I push the broken pieces together into a pile on the floor, leaving a space for my cross-legged form to nestle quietly amidst the ruined hope. I finger the sharp edges, feeling the weight of each heavy through my fragile bones. I close my fist tight. The glass forges shallow pits along the planes of my palms, drawing from each lifeline the mud of endurance. I begin, gathering the small prisms into unlikely pairs – sorting joy with sorrow, anguish with laughter; coupling the duelling truths of my heart into jagged parallel ribbons. As I breathe over my work, the two spines slowly wake.

They find each other and slither soberly into a knotted silhouette. They move as one, snaking towards my feet and up my legs. Twisting, spiralling; the beast of antithesis wrapping me in a scathing embrace, engraving course truths along my skin. A dyadic inscription of rivalry mapped onto my flesh... I wake to birdsong and the trembling sound of wind against empty glass. The serpent waits, its heads rest lazily upon stray dust. It unfolds itself as I stagger, once again, to my feet, dried blood tight on bare legs. Motioning towards the open frame, it uncoils itself a passageway; inversed lovers yielding the path for my weeping soles to tread. I nod, stepping into its wake. I scan the emptiness once more, and it slithers, infinitely out.

John GREINER-FERRIS I am an artist who does not believe that life, and therefore art, is a spectator sport. I am informed by the theater. You don’t lean back in a theater seat and say, “Entertain me.” For the actors to do their jobs well, the audience has to be just as involved as the actors in order to give something back for the actors to respond to. Nor do you walk into a gallery and just look at paintings on a wall. Pictures are something you engage with. I have something to say as an artist, but I’ll make you work to find it. I want the viewer to earn a personal relationship with my work, and therefore, a personal relationship with me. I am inspired and influenced by street art. De-

cay. Torn wallpaper in an abandoned house. Tarnished mirrors. Tattered posters glued to a wall. Graffiti art on freight cars. Paint rags. The seemingly haphazard/purposeful/spontaneous nature of paint buildup in an art studio sink. I don’t like slick and polished (sorry, Jeff Koons). I need to see the hand of the artist and the mark of the tool. I value spontaneity during the painting process for what it allows the materials to reveal, and I value ambiguity for raising questions in the viewer’s mind. So, put down the damn phone. Or if you can’t, before you take that selfie, put this into Google Translate: Un mauvais cas de puces. Dites-moi quelque chose que je ne sais pas déjà.

The Mirror 2021 14” x 11” Acrylic and Graphite on Board

L’automne en Amerique, 2021, 12”x9”, Mixed Media, Acrylic, Collage, Charcoal on Board

A Bad Influence 2021 12” x 9” Mixed Media, Acrylic, Collage, Pastel on Board

You’ve Been Warned 2021 14” x 11” Mixed Media, Acrylic, Collage, Pastel, Charcoal Dust on Board

LxWxH 2021 18” x 24” Acrylic and Graphite on Board

Clockwise from left: Quelle merdouille (Reveille-moi quand ce sera fini), 2021, 12” x 9”, Mixed Media, Acrylic, Collage, Colored Pencil, Marker on Board Juste Tais Toi, 2021, 9” x 12”, Mixed Media, Acrylic mixed with Charcoal, Graphite, Crayon, Collage, Colored Pencil on Board Va Dans Ta Chambre, 2021, 12” x 9”, Mixed Media, Acrylic, Graphite, Colored Pencil, Collage on Board

Genesis (triptych) 2021 3 Boards, Each 16”x 12” Acrylic and Graphite on Board

Un Mauvais Cas de Puces 2021 12” x 9” Mixed Media, Acrylic, Graphite, Colored Pencil, Collage on Board

Dis-moi quelque chose que je ne sais pas déjà 2021 12” x 9” Mixed Media, Acrylic, Collage, Graphite Pencil, Colored Pencil on Board

Rex PARKER The following pieces are from my newest fine art print series, titled “H. G. Wells: a Time Traveler’s Life”. This series commemorates the 125th anniversary of H. G. Wells’s first novel, The Time Machine. My Art Deco inspired illustrations transport us back to the world of Wells and his thrilling era of iconic designers, writers, scientists, space explorers, world leaders, and one Invisible Man. I hope to showcase the fascinating personal connections between H. G. Wells and other timeless giants of his era—William Morris, George Bernard Shaw, Henry James, Oscar Wilde, among many others.

My homage to Wells also includes the “Time Traveler in Tinseltown” print series, showcasing the intriguing connections between Wells and the top movie stars of Hollywood’s Golden Age. These prints not only offer a fresh look at luminaries of the past, they trace the magical influence of Wells on pop culture in modern novels, films and television. More than a science-fiction author, Wells’s endless curiosity about the world around him and its fascinating inhabitants made him an explorer in his own right.

Opposite page: FDR & H G Wells

Alvin Langdon Coburn & H G Wells

Henry James & H G Wells

Eleanor Roosevelt & H G Wells

Theodore Roosevelt & H G Wells

George Bernard Shaw & H G Wells

Albert Einstein & H G Wells

Orson Welles & H G Wells

William Morris & H G Wells

Upton Sinclair & H G Wells

Time Traveler in Tinseltown

C F A Voysey & H G Wells

Abhishek SINGH The Yamuna River has become the mirror image of our superfluous lifestyle which perpetuates itself in complete defiance of nature and climate—focused on quick comforts and ignoring its long term consequences. This will cost our coming generations their future. Just a few decades ago, Indians across the country would walk down to the local stream or river to collect drinking water, wash clothes, take a bath, or just to swim and enjoy themselves. Doing any of this now is simply out of the question, or else comes with serious health consequences. Unlike most other rivers around the world, India’s rivers—which have always been given a place of respect and sanctity in Indian culture—have now unfortunately become polluted bodies of water.

But we cannot turn away from these rivers! They are the lifelines of the nation. The future of India is tied to the health of our rivers. Fortunately, this is a solvable problem which can be addressed with the help of technologies that already exist. What is needed are stringent laws and the necessary determination to implement them. We do not have to go and clean the rivers forever, for if we stop polluting them, they will clean themselves in one flood season on their own. The increasing pollution, a decline in river water flow, and the decreasing groundwater level in our cities have made the revival of our rivers a non-negotiable need. The solution is in cleaning the rivers—not in parts, but as a whole.

Quick Look Harsimran Kaur Harsimran Kaur is the author of The Best I Can Do Is to Write My Heart Out, I am Perfectly Imperfect, and Clementines on My Poetry Table. Currently a senior in high school, she is a record holder under the India Book of Records and Asia Book of Records for her first publication at fourteen. She is also the founder of Pastlores, an online club dedicated to literature, and an arts organization called The Creative Zine. When she’s not writing or reading, she can often be seen teaching invisible students. Website: www.harsimranwritesbooks.com

Translations And Meanings Sat Sri Akal – A greeting used by Punjabi Sikhs Gurmukhi – The official script of the Punjabi language Gurudwara – A Sikh place of worship Baisakhi mela – the Baisakhi mela/fair marks the Sikh New Year and is a spring harvest festival celebrated mainly in Punjab Sassui Punhun – Punjabi folklore Kada Prashad – One of the delicacies that is served in a gurudwara langar – community kitchen of a gurdwara, which serves meals to all free of charge, regardless of religion, caste, gender, economic status, or ethnicity jalebi, barfi – Indian sweets tuk-tuk – auto rickshaw phulkari – an embroidered veil worn by Punjabi women jutti – traditional Punjabi shoes Sarson da Saag – Punjabi cuisine Makki di Roti – Bread eaten in Punjabi cuisine chullah – a burner or a stove made of clay salwar-kameez – traditional attire of Punjabi women Bhangra – traditional folk dance of Punjab Sutlej, Chenab, Beas, Ravi, and Jhelum – tributaries of the Indus (river) that flows through Punjab. (fact: Punjab derived its name from these five rivers)

A Divided Punjab is Not a Euphemism I’ve pulled up beside the terrain of an empty field—the silence is so heavy here that it’s almost deafening. The trees are naked with the ashes of the people of my Punjab. I eye each one of them because they are here, and they matter. I was too petrified to come here to my father’s now empty field. It’s been a month since I stepped on the grounds of the land that I no longer trust—no longer want to see. Coming back home from the airport in a cab, I saw fires and firefighters through the left side of the window. I saw people with bald heads whose turban was once their utmost tenacity and pride. I glanced the other way—still unaware of the extent of the atrocities. “Look both ways, and you’ll see destruction.” My cab driver told me. He was bald and sad. I tipped him extra rupees. He then broke down and put his right hand on my head—declaring a blessing. He said Sat Sri Akal to me after a moment and certainly headed back to his two-year-old daughter. He died a few days later after they took him to the camp. When the tiny Indian villages slept against the yawn of the black night, when the trains didn’t make a U-turn from station number eight in Jalandhar, my Punjab was beautiful. It was beautiful like a mother, like art, and like the smiling brown faces poking out from behind the turbans every early morning. They’re an erotic poison—the dirty flecks of staleness in my Punjab: the new flags, the new anthem. The flags have white noise all over the little cloth—a bleak representation of my vivid Punjab. The new flag looks as infertile as if it had recently digested mourning. “Don’t write in Gurmukhi. Don’t speak in Punjabi.” They tell us. They divided my Punjab yet again. They’ve locked the Gurudwaras, the extensive grounds of the Baisakhi melas, and burned the lush green fields. They’re tearing the pages of Sassui Punnhun too. In current Punjab, guns are firing all night long—the anarchy reminding me of silence. Sleep dismantles me, so I’ve been kissing every inch of my house the whole night—another cuticle of my Punjab that will no longer be mine in a matter of a few days. The land of Punjab belongs to its tillers. To the turban-wearing brown faces. To the women who still wear juttis, not as a fashion statement, but because juttis were once a part of a Punjab that gave Kada Prashad (and later langar) to the attendees of the Gurudwara Sahib. Punjab belongs to its Punjabis. This reminds me of when I was a girl and was hesitant to put “farmer” in the “occupation” box under my father’s name. He, who once harvested this tre-

Half a million people of my Punjab, who had moved to the West in the 21st year of the 21st century (just like me) never came back to the land that raised them. mendous golden field (as broad as the size of his heart,) now sleeps angrily at the cemetery where all the other farmers are buried in the soil that he had disseminated with his bare hands. Let me be straight here—they killed my father because he chose not to be subject to the Punjabi diaspora. I can’t bear the weight of the unhinged silences and the now-dead streets that were earlier brimming with confidence. The jalebi makers, street vendors, barfi sellers, and the occasional tuk-tuk drivers have all gone. An abundance of them have migrated to the West—they’ve demonstrated that their Punjab will no longer be theirs. They’ve disowned their properties, sold their gold and their machinery. The salt and the jaggery makers have either been guillotined or held in the camps. Half a million people of my Punjab, who had moved to the West in the 21st year of the 21st century (just like me) never came back to the land that raised them. Eating microwaved mac & cheese and taking high doses of caffeine in the odd hours of both day and night tempted them. They were oblivious of the Sarson da Saag and Makki di roti that the women of my Punjab made on a chullah. Even if they packed one salwar-kameez in their metallic bags before moving and kept them, unopened, nonchalant in their lake houses, their heart knows that they don’t deserve to wear the colorful phulkari. They talk about Punjab in their dinner table conversations, with their foreign friends, with everyone who didn’t know about Punjab. They cry about it on video calls that they make on their machines back home to the little extended lost families they’d earlier denied. Why are they now regarding it with so much admiration? Is it because they’re sure about their pessimism that the Punjab they knew will never revive? They disown, forget, and lose the existence of their entire civilization. They follow the diaspora and get seduced by the amenities of the West. Then they cry after their Punjab is dead? Then they prepare long eulogies? F*** them. Punjab was never theirs. When I was seventeen and recently enrolled at a university in the West, I didn’t expect to return after twenty years only to find my Punjab mortified, ridiculed, murdered, senile, handcuffed, and moribund. Punjab was never perfect. But now, it lacks the poise and the charm. It’s fallen in the abyss. More often than not, I see petite figures laden with melanin and all smiles, but sad eyes, deprived of blood. It makes my heart thump and my lashes wet. I thought I owed them nothing, but I owe them the lost seconds and the lost years. The days I was too busy to eat in Chinatown—only to know that the children back home became more dor-

mant as the sun and the moon passed every single day. For seventeen years, Punjab had kept me in its shadow, cajoling me, preventing me from unfaithful patterns of sleep. Punjab made me sleep and wake me up as well. However, I let my Punjab drift to sleep forever. I murdered my Punjabi, the Bhangra, and the Sarson da Saag (that I hadn’t tasted for years because I certainly don’t deserve it.) The rivers of my Punjab lost focus. They divided the holy water of my Punjab too. I’m the murderer who drifted across the Atlantis and the Pacific in the night like a robber. I’ve sinned. It’s hard to breathe now in the air of my father’s empty fields that were once green, that he once used to show me on the video calls, with pride in his big eyes. My mother had insisted that we both move to America and start all over again. So here’s the thing: in the most anglicized version of reality, I move to America and marry an American and have kids and raise my own family, just like my father raised his (with affinity), and die after getting sick of dementia. But in this universe, unlike other parallel realities, I die in the embrace of dead fields and robbed Gurudwaras. The Sutlej, Chenab, Beas, Ravi, and Jhelum will flow. They couldn’t pressurize the water not to whisper the secrets of my land to the Indus. The water obeys no one. It has an acquaintance with everything and everyone. You can entice the blood to fall into the water, and the water, the deity, will consume it. Under my feet, the ground of the empty field is nourished with dried crimson. I touch it. It makes my fingers go numb because there is so much pressure. The cosmic force is real out here. My fingers stop moving, and I feel withering. There is death in front of me. I see it emptying the space from his latitude. It’s moving slowly towards me. I hear voices in my head telling me to sleep. I see white noise, and now it’s all over me. The day is sunny. There is a labyrinth of camps as far as you can see. There are no green trees in Punjab. They ate it. They are undeniable. They are consuming the air too. My throat has gone so dry that I have no audacity left to utter a single word. The words are stuck inside my tonsils. Just like its people and the lush fields, my Punjab is no more.