The Alipore Post Zine Issue #1//June ‘17
POETRY + ART
Artwork by Nandita Ratan
The Inside of a Painting by Mehernaz Jila I am in a painting. All around me, soft swirls And ripples of a dark, night grey sky. Sitting on a wooden chair, looking up, There are no stars in the sky. Maybe the grey is all stardust. Stars burnt so bright, they lost their sparkle and
died into an ashy sky. On the chair next to mine, he sits. Still, static like the rest of the painting. Head turned away from me. It’s comfortable, but not familiar. I get that. Turn away. Looking left. A star appears. Blinking red. Blinking red. Not a star. An old dream, floating smoothly, noiselessly in the painting. Old dream teasing me. The painting comes with music. Eyes open and close. Legs tap and then don’t. Heads tilt and bob. I hear you, my hear
Artwork by Sourav Roy
To Aleppo by Navamita Chandra And when the dust settles, the smokes start to clear out, the destruction becomes a sight, and bodies, just another piece of rubble to dispose offwill we be welcomed by silence.
We'll land up with cameras in hand, pens that have no purpose but to serve "the latest" on a platter, dig up amidst the debris and death the syllabus for our next set of education and teach our children how war is badand look the other way whilst an entire generation never gets to grow up, buried in the pits of history, to become history. Just another anecdote- a horror, a terror, A lesson never to be learnt. An entire people- like you and I, of flesh and bones, of dreams and hopes- blown away from existence, never even given the choice of survival. And we'll hold up the sign of peace write two lines of shitty poetry and tell our children- Make love not War. Because children like you have been martyred to act as examples. And examples will they becomeOn a white, Dove-y, sheet, our ink scribbling half-hearted answers as we never really understand the question in the first place. And may be in that silence, the one that pricks through your eardrums and drives you insane, Will you know that your idle hands were just as responsible as the hand that pulled the trigger, the hand that signed on dotted lines- the hand that rained bombs, shells, pellets and bloodand made humanity, obsolete.
Artwork by Jennifer Sharmila
I do not know what love is by Don Mihsill I do not know if this is love or what love is or if love's a thing, if it can be worn like an old coat, or felt like harsh fabric on naked flesh, or if it is a sensation, like that first time the brakes of my bike failed while riding downhill or the climax of masturbation, or if love is an invention, and we all manufacture our own versions some bright, some dull, some marbled, but all with labels and stickers that say: this is love. I do not know what love is or if I can say what I think love is, could be or should be. If we were to ever sit on the marble floor, on one of those dry, electricity free, 45 degree Delhi nights, sharing a drink of Old Monk's and I were to tell you that this is love, slap me for I would either be drunk or a liar. and if i were drunk, I won't be drunk on love or your loving for I don't know what love is or if it can be known. Maybe, one night, after thirty years of searching for what love means, we will sit outside you and I amidst the debris of our meanderings,
our bent backs resting on the rusted iron railing, our skin pimpled, throats scratched from prayers uttered to absent gods and we would be in love and believe that love is this: love is all the spaces, non-events, the unspoken words and everything in between the first second of these thirty years to this. Love is this.
Artwork by Rachna Ravi
Portrait of the poet as young woman by Chandramohan S Her hair Freshly harvested dreadlocks Unedited gospel of love Off limits to combs. Tresses like streams Of eternal fireFrom the arsenal of her body. Poems conceived in a celestial tongue When stars align with cesarean precision. It is our own language. Her verses Are neither left nor right aligned Time zones hinge at every line break Like sunflowers- UN-aligned to the scorching heat. Every evening, on her terrace , she lets her hair down and flies kite, Her verses tell vivid stories Stitched together in myriad colors. Her verses gurgle like rivers let loose. She never braids them With her bare hands
Before a poetry reading. When her poems are read No boyfriend or pimp is allowed Inside the reading hall. Her kite, untethered to her surname, Soars high, till it gets entangled with the stars. Attempting to translate her poems Is like making love to a capricious mistress. Her curly, kinky stream of verses Sway to the rhythm of her gait Untamed by the clanging of her anklets. Her book of poems, a treatise on disheveled hair and tresses on fire.
Artwork by Swetha G Nambiar
Three by Prateek Kuhad Those clunky, rose and blue hues matched intensely with her shockingly furry royal navy blue coat, fitted with an almost militaristic precision. The black figure beside her was whispering humbly in strange foreign verses seemingly intended to comfort her. Those goofy, orange, striped stockings make me wonder.
Tinkling colors strewn clumsily across the floor surrounded by smudged crayons orange, pink and blue reminding me of a world I might never see. Makes me wonder how might I have been when I was three.
Artwork by Medha Kulkarni
Inheritance by Darsana Mohan My mother sang poetry to me as a child She slipped it into lullabies and evening prayers Between gulps of boiled milk and brittle rusk Like biscuits that melt into tea There are pieces of my memory, forever lost to native poetesses warning me of the world to come. I had told her how I wanted a sister How I didn't know there could be another
Until I saw neighbours tying ribbons in their hair I wanted the secrets that hand-me-downs whispered And the grip of a hand as I walked home from school When she laughed and kissed my cheek I would learn and grow up learning that there are no answers Only poems. The last time I was home We spent an evening reading Sugathakumari On a front porch that knew few steps My tongue slipped clumsily over malayalam rolled into song And she held my hand to pick up the words I had misplaced She will always be carrying me. When the world tries to tell me what I must be and do as a woman I will go back to this evening Of the stories of us When I see strength in myself and others In the daily protest of how we live I will pick up remnants of lines she sang to me and Recognize them for the secrets they were That We are built from scarlet letters and scarecrows Looking up and sideways Into a camaraderie of shared yet different circumstance
Artwork by Johnny Invisible
The Commute by Arul Kacker ludovico told me it's dangerous i'm afraid he was right a man's acceptance of his own domestication will roll him into an idiocy that has no past no one can hear your radio everyone has their own thoughts and CDs they're all fumes on the gravel under the engines and the horns you should have never come home they took the lanterns down years ago nobody strolled underneath them everybody drove
Artwork by Rohini Sant
3 Trivenis by Sambit Kumar Pradhan Absence The ink insists upon verses, The paper waits for stories, In Your absence, all's blank. Old Malady Words sometimes just won't stop Old malady of the subconscious Do tell me if I begin to bore You. Still... Merely a piece of ink marked paper Yet holds within it a touch, a scent Your postcard from years ago, still...
Artwork by Janhavi Sharma
Is It? By Akanksha Arya There is a fury of orange mingled with the ash of your cigarette, but of course, only for now. Someday, honey, the walls will break and the flood will hit you, but, of course, that isn’t for now.
VISUAL ARTS
Artwork by Viplov Singh
Screen print by Sreeja Basu
Artwork by Shreyaa Krritika Das
One line drawings by Javed Imthiaz
Artwork by Rucha Dhayarkar
Collages by Sarah Kaushik
From Mohini Mukherjee’s ‘Roommate Not Wanted’ series
Artwork by Sambit Kumar Pradhan
Artwork by Saatchi Sadwelkar
Artwork by Poorva Goel
Artwork by Nayanika Bhatia
‘Portrait In Green’ by Jai Ranjit
PHOTOGRAPHY
What’s Held Sacred by Prabhakar Duwarah The Khasi Tribes of Meghalaya are indigenous to the eastern side of the Indian State and are scattered across some parts of bordering Assam and North of Bangladesh. Before the Welsh missionaries arrived, bringing with them Christianity and advocating a script for the indigenous group comprised of Latin alphabets, the Khasis had their own belief system rooted in animism and nature worship, having a very strong association between nature and U Blei (the almighty).Traditions, beliefs and customs were inculcated orally, through folktales, stories and myths. Environmental consciousness was rife in the culture of the people; and to protect their lands from deforestation and environmental degradation, the subtribes of the Khasis residing in the highlands denoted a few forests, which host very rich ecological systems, as Sacred Groves or ‘Law Kyntang’. Often, monoliths or Mawbynnas, would be found near these sacred groves, representing the sacredness of the area on which they are found. Swer is a village 30kms. from the state capital of Shillong where one of these sacred groves can be found. The people from this village are literate, in the sense that most of them have completed a certain level of education but employment opportunities are scarce in these parts. Due to such problems, the leaders of the village have decided to let the area be open to eco-tourism and to construct systematic foundations to let people from the outside to indulge themselves in their culture and the beauty of their land but under certain conditions. The project will be overlooked by the locals, themselves, so that they can make a self-sustainable environment in which they can thrive from their own economy and land. The only catch is that whoever visits this area will have to maintain the sanctity of the land, which is the least that the people expect. -Dabormaïan Jude Kharmawphlang These are the people of Swer- on the brink of complete assimilation into what is the modern world, still holding on to whatever they can of their culture, albeit gracefully. This is some sort of virtual gratitude to them for the hospitality I received as an outsider. -Prabhakar Duwarah
FIN.