I Walk The Path of Water and Skies [Guest Post by Seema Kohli]

I was introduced to the Shakti as Goddess, or better still, she introduced me to herself when I was very young. As a family we were believers of Advaita Vedic order (monistic order of one Supreme Consciousness, with no idol worship) with secular leanings - extremely progressive in our approach imbibing, the best of all faiths.  But, at the same time there was no idol worship. 

Somewhere in early 1970’s I visited Haridwar along with my parents and bought the idols of all the three gods Brahma (creator), Vishnu (purveyor) and Mahesh (destroyer) with the Goddesses Durga, Lakshmi and a small Deepam. I felt a strange affinity with these images. So much so, that on my own, I started a small ritual of lighting the lamp; on some days I also bathed these Gods and Goddesses.  I had even borrowed a small book of basic chants and aarti of the Goddess Durga.  Thus, I developed a relationship without any communication or understanding. I was very young, maybe 10 or 11 years old.

While growing up, the more I started to hear about her, I wanted to read about her. And the more I read about her, the mystery deepened and I wanted to understand her better. It was as if someone was holding my hand compulsively and I did not want to leave that. I just wanted to wander away with her to somewhere mysterious. There was no fear; I felt protected all along.

So here started my journey to decode this basic flow of energy, the energy that makes this whole world go around. Everything is moving and is synchronized even if we think it is not, everything rejuvenating, positively recycled; in spite of the apparent death or stoppage everything comes around anew, afresh. 

Chaunsath Yogini at Mitauli, nr Gwalior, Madhya Pradesh

I wanted to understand her (the goddess) more closely and started reading, exploring and experimenting by visiting various sites of this energy, connecting to its vortex. Is it not apparent everywhere? Is it not the main source of life, breath and continuation? So then why these special sites….. I was and am still intrigued. Did I want to be comforted by the domesticated feeling of going Home? A physical place maybe, which we created to perform rituals to feel her physical presence - Temples. I visited various Shakti peeth in Himachal, Punjab Uttar Pradesh, Uttar Kashi and Bengal, in order to understand this ethereal power which they say, makes this universe spin.

Beraghat, Jabalpur, Chattisgarh

I began visiting various Yogini sites - where no rituals were taking place and also some, where rituals were still being conducted. The concept of ritual is extremely important to me as this repetitive exercise or habit helps discipline the mind. It also helps us on the path to self realisation. But, to me, these various rituals should be understood and self-created according to our perception of energy. Along with this, a study of scriptures can be used as tools.

The first Yogini site I visited was in Beraghat, Jabalpur, in 2005. I knew I had to come back here again to understand my relationship, the overwhelming power of theses circular spaces, where by just going around the circumference my own vortex seemed to align with the energy forces prevalent there. These sites are extremely calming and balance your inner space. The sense of rhythm and movement along with the deep set faces of the Yoginis is intriguing. It is one of the largest Yogini sites which has 81 Yoginis instead of the usual 64. Though there is fencing around the idols we can still get a clear view of the Yoginis. What I understand about the Shiva Temple at Bheraghat is that it was installed to “remove the flow of the negative power” of the Yoginis. The inscriptions speak about a queen mother that patronized the construction of this ‘traditional temple’ after her sons recovered from an illness.   Probably, she believed that those female creatures had negative powers. Among the many stories I have heard, some legends depict the Yoginis as malevolent creatures that could take away children, transform men into animals, etc. Some other legends talk about the benevolent qualities of the Yoginis such as teaching their followers to realize the divine enshrined within the body. 

Behraghat, Jabalpur, Chattishgarh

In most of these sites the sculptures are defaced - as is the case in Beraghat. Maybe as humans we want to check out our power by defacing and demolishing these sites of faith and reverence. Mind you, this kind of showing of power is not there only in one community but as humans on the whole.

Though I had been working on the idea of feminine energies such as Hiranyagarbha, Saptamatrikas, Dusmahavidyas and Ashtanayikas for a while, a more full-fledged plunge into the visual representation of Yogini came only after I visited these spaces in 2012 and aligned my mind, body and soul to them. For me now, the Yoginis not only exist in a mere mystical, visual form but also in a physical form. 

 All these sites have a sense of peace and calm about them. They were all built in secluded places,  hidden from public gaze. It is believed practitioners used to go to these secluded sites to perform various rituals and conduct experiments on themselves - their bodies in order to achieve self-realization. In the process they acquired certain “siddhis” where they were depicted as a certain form of a bird, reptile animal, human or endogenous form having a human body.  A power to construct, reconstruct; destroy and reconstruct the material world around them.  They could perhaps walk on water or wonder off into the skies with or without their bodies!

Chausanth Yogini at Ranipur, Jharial, Odisha

The Chausath Yogini at Ranipur Jharial is on the top of a hill isolated from the village settlements nearby. The main Yogini temple shares remarkable topographical similarities with other Yogini sites like the ones at Mitauli and Bhedaghat in Madhya Pradesh. The rocky landscape, reminds me of intergalactic space and the presence of a water body nearby seems to present an ideal setting for female mendicants to meditate and practice austerities. The circular hypaethral form of the Yogini temples is said to allow the circulation of divine cosmic energy that inhabits these sites. This idea of the “circulation of divine energy” also exists in Sufism (with the circular dance of whirling dervishes) as well as in shamanic practices. 

Bhairava at Chausanth Yogini, Ranipur

Yogini, Ranipur, Odisha

I must mention an incident that took place here while we were attuning ourselves to the space. A Brahmin priest from the nearby temple came and touched the feet of Bhairava but left without acknowledging the presence of Yoginis. Some moments later, a family from the village came - mother, son and daughter-in-law, along with a new born. With the mother leading the way, they went around the Yoginis . And they did not acknowledge the Bhairava. I asked the mother  about it and she replied saying it was each one to their own  - “For me she does everything, Pandit ki Pandit jaane”. 

At the site, I also saw the ancient remains of a once existing “maze” – a series of concentric circles - a concept that is shared by numerous belief systems such as Sufism, Christianity and Buddhism. This “maze” allows entry of two people which is not just a physical encounter but also a spiritual union with the Higher Form. 

Chaunsath Yogini at Ranipur, Jharial, Odisha

This Tantric experimentation at these sites was not restricted only to the personal realisation of the eternal self, but also to gain spiritual power that would then enable these practitioners to help others on the path. Many Kings would install idols of these female goddess, especially Saptamatrikas, to attain fierce powers to win over enemies, which, however, is not a prescribed use of this divine energy. (Ellora Temples, Maharastra)

Today, there is a move to reinstate the mysterious science of the Yogini cult. In a pedagogical sense, Yoginis were a very important thought system and practiced forms of Tantric worship that centred on the perfection of the body to achieve perfection of the soul. Even in the fiercest form, we can see the serenity and rejoicing in their posture. The presence of Bhairava is indicative of a balance of the male and female energy within them.

Lingam at Mitauli nr Gwalior

Yoni, Naresar, Madhya Pradesh

The site of Naresar, near Gwalior, Madhya Pradesh, is interesting for a unique yoni sculpture which houses 15 smaller yonis within itself; this fascinated me. The Archaeological Survey of India is trying to restore the ancient temple complex at Naresar to its former glory as a secluded spot of meditative worship. There are several carved temple blocks, which they are trying to put together but sadly without much thought. The identity of a certain God or Goddess is confused by reconstructing their temples, by installing different vahanas for different deities.

During one of these visits I went to Chaunsath Yogini at Mitauli, near Gwalior, Madhya Pradesh, the original sixty-four Yoginis have now been replaced by sixty-four cement lingams without any pedestals or yonis from which the lingam traditionally arises. The yogini idols that were once placed within the temple niches have been stolen, damaged or transferred to the Gwalior Museum nearby. Under the given circumstances, filling the empty niches with cement lingams is not only a historical error and a false representation of the cultural practices of the past but also points to a deep neglect of the feminine form. It is clearly indicative of the state of woman in today’s time. In spite of the up- gradation of woman in social order through education, reservations and apparent political equality, replacing the lost idols with smaller replicas of Yogini sculptures, would have been a more thoughtful gesture. For me, this is a “rape of the sacred site.” (Stella DuPuis 'The Yogini Temples of India' Pilgrims Publishing, Varanasi, 2008, pg 67.) 

Chaunsath Yogini,Mitauli, nr Gwalior, Madhya Pradesh

Here too while walking through the village, I asked a little girl where the Yogini is?  She replied unabashedly “Neeche, rasoi main” (Downstairs, (at home) in the kitchen).  For me too, a Yogini symbolizes the nurturing aspect of woman, creating not only spiritual bliss but also material contentment.

Chaunsath Yogini at Mitauli, MP

Panchvarahi is located about 180km from Bhubneshwar. Varahi as Yogini, is one of the Saptmatrika’s and the consort and power of Varaha, which is one of the incarnations of Vishnu, the purveyor.  We drove from Bhubneshwar and then walked, took a boat then walked again and were lucky enough to hitch a ride till the site of the temple through remote villages, paddy fields and sea drenched barren lands. The site is absolutely magnificent with an old small temple on the virgin beaches of Bay of Bengal. The sea is extremely wild here with violent, roaring and high waves that snatch the earth beneath your feet, urging you to join the sea. According to hearsay about eight centuries ago there was a violent storm which plunged the entire kingdom under water, except this small piece of land where the present day community of Savana tribes stays. So, the king installed the idols of Varahis and requested the women of this tribe to conduct all the rituals of the temple. It was felt that since she is a female deity, women would take best care of her. Even till date, one of the twenty surviving families of this Savana tribe moves into the premises to conduct the rituals and look after their beloved Varahais, in rotation, every month. A woman priest conducts all the rituals and only she is allowed in sanctum sanctorum. It’s a rare site to see this female tradition upheld today, at the fringe of the male Brahamanical order.

Panchvarahi

What really excites me about these places is the parallel in these Tantric practices and other extinct faiths such as Sufism, Buddhism or Hinduism. At a time, maybe, when the concept of codified religion did not exist or was not as compartmentalized as today, personal identities and practices were much more fluid; where a constant borrowing and exchange of ideas took place. I feel that, today, when the urge to answer “Who am I’ or “Who are we?” and “Where do we come from?” is so strongly rooted in our religious identity, we tend to compartmentalize practices and beliefs into regimented and narrow frameworks which, according to me, is a practice much in vain.

My journey does not end there, it continues in the quest of trying to find the end of that cycle. Somewhere deep inside me I do know it does not exist but the journey continues without despair.

Seema Kohli is a painter. She lives and works in New Delhi.

Genmaicha and an Uninvited Guest

Opening the window to savour the spring morning air, I settled down to write. There was a pot of Japanese Genmaicha tea by my side to accompany this daily, early morning, routine.

I hadn't been feeling too good. Things had been crowding my mind and I needed to be more sensitive to what was churning within; it had been making me nauseous these past few days. So I opted out of my usual Darjeeling tea. The caffeine in it stimulates me. And the green Sensa leaves with the roasted rice, which makes the essential Genmaicha, would help me de-toxify. Sans the caffeine in that regular cup of chai, I could hope for a subtler state of mind to observe more closely what was going on inside my head. I had also decided to fast to aid the detox process.

Sencha has a flavour that's close to that of a salt-less broth of boiled veggies and is an acquired flavour.  I like it:  the toasted rice adds such a wonderful aroma to Genmaicha and also enhances the otherwise ascetic taste of green tea.

I first tasted this in Japan in the late 1980's and revisited the flavour on another visit in 1996. The hotel we stayed in Tokyo had a supply of powder that served as green tea. You could heat the water and make yourself some. And that is what I did each day.

My taste for Genmaicha and preference for it over the Sencha green tea, I acquired on a trip to Boston in 1998, where my younger sister used to live. She introduced me to it and I carried back a supply of circular tea-bags made especially for the American market. But they didn't last long.

A lot of people in Delhi drink green tea these days and you can buy it almost everywhere - flavoured with mangoes and apples and more. But this isn't the same green tea made with the Japanese Sencha leaves. Most of it is made with young Assam tea leaves or Darjeeling - of the Camellia variety. But Mittals in Sunder Nagar always has some of the authentic stuff. Not the powdered variety but the leaf. And Vikram Mittal is ever-obliging to get some if he doesn't have it in stock.

My mornings are precious for the serenity of being awake while most people are asleep. But this morning a bird flew into my bedroom. I was charmed.

It’s impossible to capture them on camera usually, so I sat very still. I took out my phone and, was busy photographing it, when I realised doing this could go on forever and captive or not, a bird is a bird whose wings will always flap. I didn't get very good images either. This was partly because fabulous as the i-phone camera is, it doesn't have my Nikon's 42x zoom [which was in another room and I didn’t want to miss the moment or scare the bird by opening the door etc], and partly because the bird was moving constantly!

Very quietly, I got up from my bed and ventured closer. I walked slowly and without my chappals, as soundlessly as I could, but it darted here and there and kept hitting itself against the glass. I reached out to open the window wide, but when it took a leap of wing, it was always on the side of the glass that wasn't open - the wrong side.

I think that this family of birds is quite silly. They are also a nuisance for those of us living in high-rises because they crap and mate in every nook and cranny and eat almost anything, including cement and my lovely green-plant leaves. I try and get around that by feeling them bajra  every morning, which is why they sit on the ledge outside my bedroom window each morning.  Sometimes they knock on the window to remind me that I am late in feeding them, but none has ventured further than that and neither do I encourage it.

This morning, this hapless pigeon popped into my room uninvited, however unwittingly. And I was as surprised as it was. Whether or not I liked these birds, the fact was that it seemed so lost and I could sense and see that it wanted help. It was, after all, in my domain, so instead of distastefully shooing it away; compassion got the better of me.

I tried to reassure the creature. I spoke softly.  I measured my tone of voice to calm its ruffled feathers. Saying as gently as I could, "Give me a chance to hold you." I didn't want to grab it and chuck it out. And even if I wanted to I couldn’t have.

The pigeon grey with those mesmerising and constantly changing hues of teal into purple and grey, which graced its neck, kept me glued. I still wanted a picture but the pigeon felt trapped, so my priority was to set it free.

It was scared. In that state of panic it fluttered and hit the glass, in a desperation I didn’t think it should have felt (after all, I was trying to reassure it and set it free). The vicious sound of its beak banging against the glass coupled with those fluttering wings was distressing.  I became aware of a sense of fear welling up inside of me.

How would I hold it, its claws are so pinkly creepy. What if it hurts me? When living creatures, including human beings, perceive themselves under threat or feel defenceless they tend lash out and that that is what I have seen them do. So I was afraid. I didn’t know quite what to expect! I quelled my sense of unease and bent lower, as softly and as gently as I could. I stilled my mind, made it resolute to catch the bird. But I was squeamish and wondered how they caught those terrified chickens in the slaughter house. The thought of that throbbing feathered thing, struggling in my palms, in total distrust of me [I must seem like a giant to this tiny creature], began to disturb me .  I started feeling the fear in a way that was unnerving.  How could I be so afraid of a frightened bird, of such minuscule dimensions? Noting this was not reassuring for me. My own negative self-talk was beginning its rancour.

But it was trapped in my house, trapping me in my own fear and I had to do something. I kept whispering, "Let me help you, please help me set you free. I’m not going to hurt you, I‘m a friend here. Just stay still for a moment, I'll just hold you and promise not to hurt you. I just want to set us both free."

But I couldn't bring myself to get a hold of the pigeon. I just couldn't grasp that fluttering body, so restive, so scared. I moved back after a while. And it leapt up into the air, hitting itself on the wrong side of the window, yet again. I thought I should try and slide the glass and open the side it seemed to prefer. I was, however, surprised that it didn't even seem to sense the open spring air wafting in from the other side.

I had to lean over. There was no way I could do it without the menacing movement of arching my large frame over that tiny and terrified soul. And sure enough, in its defence, it lunged at me, terrifying me further. All through this I was silently chiding myself for allowing its fear to rattle me. But it did.  And I wondered if it could not sense the breeze on the open side of the window, could it  sense my fear?  Or was it too caught up in its own anxiety of not being able to return to the skies again?

It had now reached a point, where I could not get back to what I needed to do with my life until I had dealt with the bird - set it free. My mornings are precious and writing at that time is sublime, effortless and insightful. Almost as if in the quietude of mind, rested by sleep and the silence of a world still not fully awake to itself, my souls speaks easier to me. I was getting upset with the pigeon - this hapless creature that had invaded my space.

The earlier charm of capturing it on camera, getting that closer look at its feathers et al, was giving way to irritation - just slight, but it was there. I kept reminding myself, the bird was a messenger. The universe had sent this feathered friend to help me, to show me the way. I tried to look back in mind, of thoughts it could be addressing, which wasn't easy to do when I was also trying to concentrate on the task of helping the flapping bird fly out. But the idea calmed me a little. And that sort of helped but, I still couldn't bring myself to hold those fluttering wings. I was chicken and not very proud of myself for it.

There had to be a way! There was no-one else around. Mahipal would not be here for a couple of hours at least. I had to put my mind to it and get it done. This was something I had to do for myself today. And then I found a piece of card - it was always there but just then its whiteness gleamed and caught my eye. About eighteen inches or so, not quite a square, it was light enough not to hurt the bird yet large enough to encourage it to leap, guiding with its form, to fly up in the right direction.

And in that instant, with the help of that white card, carefully holding it such that it didn't touch the bird but just nudged it in the right direction, I managed to do it.  

 The grey pigeon flew out of the window. With its peacock coloured neck and that clear dot of white on its pincers and those creepy looking pink claws, it found its way out into the sky. For a moment it was stunned. Or so it seemed, for it turned back for an instant and I imagined this was in disbelief, that it was finally free.  I mean could there ever be regret for an experience where it engaged with me only in fear?

 I was relieved. I could now reclaim what was left of the early morning calm. But my sense of relief was brief. Not only had the bird disrupted my precious routine, I now had to tackle that fear in me that had been excavated in engaging with it!

Yes, excavated - not embedded by the experience just narrated.  Unknown to me, fear existed. The bird had been a messenger from the universe - a catalyst for me to be able to see this –  for only then could I set myself free.

Now that the bird had returned to the skies, it was my turn.

Journeys

Journeys of a mind, travelling
                                 beyond space and time,
journeys of trudging
                    through mush and grime.........

For me journeys are not just about travelling around the world, looking at marvels of nature or mankind, but journeys of the mind. We don’t really know the destination; experience is the journey. It is about perceptions and feelings and emotions and revelations. It is about people and places that enrich and arouse the spirit. Rising above the mush and grime of daily living to infuse it with the spirit’s passion to live another day, breathing in its grace, leaving behind the grudges of yesterday. It’s about looking at the world around you and engaging with it to find yourself through its multitudinous illusions.... at least trying to!

A recent train journey that was delayed by about five hours made me realise just how much I would have missed had the train arrived in Delhi, on time. We were supposed to reach Nizamuddin Railway Station around eleven a.m. which meant that all the places we were to have passed in the dead of night were the ones I was awake to look at: the delicately billowing sarson, miles and miles of yellowed fields waking up to their golden hue, reflecting the sun’s passion as it sharpened its rays and more. I spent most of this extended time either searching platforms for a much needed cup of tea or looking out of the train through the lens of my camera. Very much a visitor in my own country, curious about everything that the locals took for granted. In doing this I was no less of a curiosity to them, especially the chai wallahs busy racing up and down the platforms serving tea, while I chased them with my camera.

Aditya Dhawan’s collection of photographs on the metro, - Metro-tales as he calls them, remind me of just such a curiosity. In the first image – [he hasn’t named them], a rather solid steel bar divides the frame, virtually in half, vertically slicing a man’s body such that, ironically, it exaggerates his belly. He isn’t fat, but not lean either. The photographer’s focus is on this central figure dressed in a green T-shirt, printed with black letters in English, tucked inside blue jeans, secured with a black belt. He, our Mr. X is carrying a paper bag in his left hand and two more lie on the right side, as if left there so that he could hold onto the hand-stirrups above [which we do not see]. His eyes look blankly ahead – face deadpan, as if in another world, with hopefully, enough attention to ensure he gets off at the right stop. Maybe the bags on the floor of the carriage don’t belong to Mr. X but to the faux-leather-covered arm that arches across the top of the frame. A rather sinister element in this photograph because all you see is the arm.  One assumes there is a body attached to it and that it isn’t someone’s severed limb. Almost all the other travellers are in a kind of dark shadow, not because of insufficient lens exposure but because they are mostly wearing dark blue or black. This creates an aura of darkness which, however, is interrupted with the hint of a smile, gingerly peeping through heads and arms - a fellow traveller enjoying a joke perhaps? It’s barely perceptible and though it does lighten the mood, the frame is rather sombre and reminiscent of the socio-political atmosphere of the country at this point in time.

I have to confess that, I have not yet been on the Delhi Metro. But having travelled on the underground in various part of the world, I am no stranger to such journeys where everyone, including myself, was just waiting to get off at our designated stations and hardly noticing what was going on, not thinking twice about such everyday scenes. However, Aditya draws my attention to them not because he has captured something apparently significant but precisely because he has not. That is what makes it significant because, in expecting some great revelation, I look and, when I look, I see things that I would otherwise miss.

 And this is the thing that I love about art: when you look you find yourself in it through the ramblings of the mind. I focus on things I see, and let them speak to me. What did you see in that image? It is, after all, a question of perception. A lot of assumptions come into play and while I saw that happening as I looked, I decided to question them because, in reality, when we assume we actually miss what else could also be going on. The sombre mood, the arm that could be a severed limb, the dark aura because of the clothes and the photographer’s choice of lighting options [did he or didn’t he use a flash and why not?] builds up the mood for something more than the physical dimensions of the scene conjure up. It makes life interesting.

 In another image we have a child that is clearly upset. Its facial expression – the elongated cheeks, flared nostril, strained muscle on the right side of the neck, the wide open mouth and that look of longing, calling out to someone or for something that has gone out of his/her grasp, the sense of separation –conveys more than just a child’s petulant cry for a toy or comforter.

The child appears to be clad in a snug quilt-like outfit, partially unzipped. It’s placed, most likely, on someone’s lap, but without making that assumption based upon experience, going just by what I can see, it could be abandoned and maybe that is why it is in so much anguish? A hand, much larger hand, more than ten times the size of its tiny, exquisitely crafted fingers, touches as if in support. And yet the touch is tentative, there is no clasping of fingers nor does this hand hold onto the arm of the child. A thumb merely touches the sleeve. Would that be the hand of an indulgent mother, letting her child cry its heart out, uncaring of the discomfort of co-passengers? Or, is it an exhausted mother who cannot care at this point, nor really do much in the present situation? Or maybe it is the hand of an indifferent passenger, whose compassion is being awakened upon seeing the distraught, abandoned child. Yes, I am trying not to assume but question. It’s possible that an unseen hand holds the child securely and this is just an innocuous gesture and I am deliberately trying to read meaning into it.

But wait, there’s more. We have a view of this child from above. All other bodies are faceless. What we see are shoes, slipper-clad feet, a light-bluish duffle bag resting on the floor and two steel pillars rising upwards from this floor. One pair of feet is shod in white and grey Nike sneakers with the Nike logo signed off in gold.  This hint of glitter, which is not gold but a sharp shade of yellow vinyl, is complimented by a sweater in close proximity. It is knitted in an elaborate, geometrically-floral pattern, in black, white and golden ochre. Under the light in the train’s carriage, it sparkled as if embroidered with metallic thread.

Bags on the floor, back-packs, rucksacks and a woman clad in a blue-flowered, mill-printed shalwar kameez sits beside the child. An ample figure, her hands are clasped in her lap, maroon plastic bangles on a dark-skinned arm holding a black cloth bag. I catch a glimpse of a metro route map on the door of the carriage, partially obscured by passengers hovering close, possibly so they can run out as soon as the door opens at the next station. These are the additional props and figures in this scene.

What interest me above all, in this frame, are the dust drawings on the floor. These are not carefully considered drawings executed by skilled draughtsman, but drawn by shoes and slippers as feet swivel the dust on their way through the carriage. I suppose it could be called a performance by travelling companion-strangers, each adding or subtracting from the last foot-print. Their eyes rarely have a role to play in this drawing for they are mostly eyeing available seats, a place to fit their bodies or seeking proximity to the door when their stop is near. I mean, who really looks at the floor? But my attention is brought to this again and again because Aditya’s photographs appear to be not just images of motley of strangers inadvertently travelling together; they’re evocative of the very nature of life and its idiosyncrasies, most especially ways of seeing and the crafting of our perceptions. And besides, his obsession with feet and how they are shod draw my attention to the floor of the train’s carriage.

Stilled in time, in that moment, he captures not just an essence but many facets of life that lead from the physical to the metaphysical and back to the physical, quite simply because, he deliberately presents severed limbs, half bodies and two pairs of shoes that belong to three different bodies in a surreal presentation of identity or loss of it, in a crowded metro. The slice of life he presents is abstracted from the physical reality that he sees which makes these Metro-tales evocative of states of the mind - its imaginable and unimaginable capacities.

But what intrigues me is that when I try and cut out what I know and just look based on what is in front of me, it really is such an impossible task because then I cannot really define anything. I cannot really tell you what it is that I see. And yet in trying to do this as an exercise, a world of possibilities is uncovered. Krishnamurti says that to know what ‘is’ requires awareness, a very alert, swift mind..... to observe and study but not judge, to be alert yet passive.

The next image is priceless from this point of view and I am really grappling for words. The photographer shows us nothing but lower limbs of the human body and a lot of toes. In fact at one point the big toe of two feet that belong to different bodies, come so close that I can imagine them having a conversation – toe speak!

In the foreground of this: painted toe-nails, black vinyl slippers decorated with white floral embellishment and toe rings [bichoos] on two adjoining toes emerging from under bright yellow voluminous folds of what has to be a shalwar, defines the gender as female, a married woman. This lower extremity is poised in the air as if the legs have been crossed, knee over knee in a convent-style advocated lady-like fashion, a must for the genteel. The dark skin, well worn slippers, peeling nail polish implies that this woman is not used to indulgent pedicures of the genteel but the convention of crossing legs seems to have percolated through social strata and is standard social behaviour today.

In a photographically engineered footsie scenario, another foot stands at an interesting angle to this slippered matron’s foot. An expansive curve forms between the legs. This other limb, grasps between its big toe and adjoining toes, a bright cobalt blue, albeit dusty, Hawai [rubber] chappal and the leg is clad in grey denim which has visible creases of wear. I assume by the stance of the leg and the shape of toes that the wearer is male. The floor in the foreground is also grey and so is the side of the blue chappal. As the eye moves up the leg, the contrast diminishes and the leg almost merges with the grey colour of the floor which has now receded into the background. In between these two legs of opposite sexes, placed together on this journey, that form a veeish curve, there lies something that looks like a black bag. It could be dark grey but actually looks like a lump of something solid and weighty. It is identified as a bag through its metallic accessories of zip and a ring that probably holds the strap. Other details are fuzzy, at least on the computer they appear so.

What can such an image and the others before it  tell us? Aside from the esoteric idea of looking at the world around us with a sense of wonder but without judgement, at another level what are these Metro-tales really narrating? It’s actually hard to describe the images in words because Aditya has chosen very obscure ways of depicting signs of social change and behaviour patterns where so much westernisation has percolated through the various strata of society, noted through dress-codes and more.

An almost obese Buddhist monk, eyes closed, one hand placed on each knee, is wearing sleeveless saffron and maroon robes. The white head phones inside his ears could belong to an i-pod or i-phone, but is he listening to music or meditating on this crowded train? Another man sleeps, and there are tired-looking travellers who choose not to take a nap, someone fiddling with his cell phone, someone talking on one. And, a lone man, in what seems like an empty compartment, who looks as if he has lost his way in life.  The prize shot is one taken between colourful bandwallahs, en route to a wedding or on their way back, one of them asleep and another anxiously posing. Is that a selfie? 

 

Tell-tales of everyday life depicting the angst of a chaotic society undergoing change both social and economic, peppered with photographic humour of quirky shots featuring of only shoes and various patterns, in stripes and checks on shirts and trousers of male attire, on the metro. Not to forget blue-jean clad legs in rubber slippers, feet propped up on the steel pillar in front of the seat they occupied, bringing forth the question: would one not see this lack of civic sense, on public transport, anywhere else in the world?

It’s a subtle commentary, but that is what is so special about these images. They reveal, in a way, that it is your perception, drawn from your experience and understanding of the world that determines what you see. The photographer takes you on a journey of self-exploration, through the curiosity of your own questioning mind, beyond the obvious, to form an insightful picture of that moment frozen in time. The images capture within their ambit a slice of life where, paraphrasing William Blake, we can see a whole world in the unusual perspective of Aditya Dhawan’s lens. 

The American Brush - Guest Post by American Painter Kathryn Myers

As I write this on the train to and from New York, it occurred to me that, in India, it would be unfathomable that I would spend time on a train looking at my computer screen rather than out the window.  In India, even the most seemingly mundane or incidental activity could be cause for active engagement, a chance to frame and share the experience. Facebook, which I had not regularly used before, became a daily diary that allowed me unfold my story slowly, morning by night, day by day.  Usually, I come home and people ask “how was India?” and I want to say, “Do you have six months to sit and let me tell you?” Away from my regular responsibilities, in India, the internal dialogue that is often detached from what is actually occurring around me, muted by familiarity and routine, became sharpened with a refreshed and heightened attention to the present. 

 

 Without constrictions of time, I could follow unlikely paths that beckoned, or wait out a storm in a tiny chai shop not annoyed at being lost or frustrated by a seeming waste of time.  I could see everything as an adventure, an opportunity, a chance to talk to a stranger, a chapter in time which, until nearly the moment I left for home, seemed filled without end. Without reason, destination, or errands to run, mostly relying on my feet than my car, I would go out to just look, and to look again, enjoying creating categories of imagery in an attempt to organise the uncontainable. Some of these, such as the palimpsest of layered signs, something I became aware - upon my return - does not exist in the US, where a “post no bills” sign actually is obeyed, have developed into upcoming projects for my studio art classes.
 

As I continue to deepen my knowledge about India and Indian art, inspired and motivated by the Indian art course I teach at UConn and the paintings and videos I create as a practicing artist, what  I am drawn to falls  into places both rooted in prior experience and seen anew. Recognising that my students have been particularly drawn to my sense of connection with India, I began to create a series of short videos of devotional activities that I lecture about in class, things I have seen dozens of times on prior visits.  An Aarti in the Swaminayaran temple in Ahmedabad, the haunting plaintive call to prayer at the Jama Masjid in Delhi, or a lyrical sacred song sung on Ganges. In these simple pieces, I am able to speak about history and tradition as well as how I experience it, primarily that which is so unusual in the Christian tradition which my students are most familiar with - the overlay of the sacred and every day, the ghats being shared with dhobi walls, chai vendors and pilgrims. How the Adhan or call to prayer envelops the bazaar neighbourhood of Old Delhi, how generations of people, aunties and young women with cell phones, gathered for the intense body-enveloping sound of the ringing bells of morning darshan.  They also allow me to recapture in a more abstract way, the sensations, sounds and sights that arrested my senses before my intellect that, opened doors to knowledge as well as the deeper recesses of my heart and soul. 

 

The sense of the mythic and ancient that many travellers are initially drawn to in India has always been paired, for me, with the intense force of the present.  As I engage more fully in the contradictions and coalescence of past and present, I no longer find them as uncomfortable contrasts, or interferences, as I once did. In Orissa, my long anticipated view of Chauthyogini temple, the goddesses’ sacred space of power invaded by a bevy of workmen, disrupted my long sought out and perhaps naïve desire for a “moment of transcendence.”  My feelings shifted from annoyance to amusement and, in the end, it was a far more memorable experience as a marker in my own time, rather than the mythic time of the monument.  By contrast, my visits to the tiny Chausatti Devi in Varanasi hidden away on a side alley in that teeming city where one never expects to experience anything in solitude, feels like my private temple, and has to my gratitude, grounded me in times of need. It is then that I find myself exceedingly drawn to India for reviving my lapsed Catholic ability to experience the occasional moments of serenity, wonder and transformation that, in India are often just an instant away from earthly chaos. 

 Returning to places I know well, such as Varanasi, Ahmedabad or Goa, offered the comfort of familiarity, spending time with friends that have become family, enjoying shared memories and the most recent gossip over Goan feni, Indian rum or countless cups of chai. The familiar in this sense allowed for a needed sense of “normalcy”, the chance to sustain a regular structure of work time, writing, painting and video editing that, countered the exhaustion, numbness and jadedness that extensive travel can cause. Starting from a place of familiarity pushed me to look beyond what I thought I already

knew, to a deeper level of experience and observation or to look at the familiar in a new way.  New adventures such as my road trip with Pradosh (whose family so enthusiastically embraced “auntie,”) from Varanasi to Bhubaneswar on to Andhra Pradesh, through painted villages, family porches, storms and two rainbows, kept alive the addictive sense of the unknown and unpredictable, as well as contending with contradictory feelings about that which is so rapidly changing with that which seems impervious to change. Delhi is my new New York, things always going on, with an art scene I feel like I have known since its awkward adolescence fifteen years ago and have seen grow into something quite astonishing that I feel connected to and proud of.
 

Along with unstructured time to absorb, collect and create, was the sense of purpose that has driven much of my work for the past two years, my “Regarding India” video series www.regardingindia.com.  With several rewarding opportunities to show this work, I overcame a sense of caution foreigners often have in India, of seeming naïve, patronising, or “out of it”. Rather I was moved, encouraged and energised by the response to my work. With concern in respect of adding to the bulk of still unedited work, I still added a few new interviews to the series. Perhaps it was faith in my ability to sustain this work and an increased sense of confidence for I enjoyed the process more this time. My inquiry was more focused and I felt as if the artists I met - Dinesh, Waswo, Meera,  Heidi and others - had become friends.  I enjoyed as much reconnecting with people I met for the first time during the interviews, spending time with Ravi and Dorothea, and Jyotibai and Jyotsna.
 

 I felt a significant shift as India ceased to be so much about place this time, and more about people. Surprisingly ambivalent with my decision to travel north, trips I so much enjoyed in the past, when it was time to depart, I started regretting not sitting out the May heat in the studios and kitchens of friends rather than negotiating the challenges and loneliness of solo travel. Loneliness used to be my frequent and comforting travel companion in India. I grew used to weeks of internal dialogue, but now I can choose not to be alone.  Even in the very last hours before I left for home, suddenly sick with a new flu, friends came to visit me, Shelly and then Sundeep, and the night before I had experienced a convivial gathering of friends and a studio visit with Gopika, the beauty of whose work can only truly be appreciated up close, and I felt grateful for the opportunity to have this and other friendships grow.  

 

It would have been tragic to not want to come home. When it was time to board the plane I was really ready as there is always a desire to unpack the experience, to regroup and plan for the next time.  Nobody can live vicariously or virtually in another world. I have friends, family, a house, garden, job and history that I love, and love to come back to.  But through my ability to come and go, I am inspired to try and make the best use of my dual sense of belonging by bringing what I can of India back here, and what I can bring from here, back to India, including art, friends, and the excitement of ideas.

Kathryn Myers is a Fulbright Scholar, a professor at University of Connecticut [UConn] and a painter, who has been a regular visitor to India, working on a video documentation of Indian Art and Artists. The video series can be see at www.regardingindia.com
Kathryn's paintings can be found on her website-
www.kathrynmyers.org