During the nationwide uproar over the Singur and Nandigram incidents, Kaurav was still in school, and the opposition party in West Bengal had only one member in the Lok Sabha. Kaurav’s world was small, unaware of how deeply politics could permeate every aspect of life. However, his sympathy for leftist ideology was inherited from […]
A Memoir of Kaurav (Part 9) Read More »
Exactly sixteen days later, when Kaurav was having lunch at Bangabhavan in Delhi, the ruling party of the state was announcing its candidate list for the Lok Sabha elections in a press conference. On a certain prominent news channel, which claims to stay ahead and keep others ahead, Kaurav saw the name Aparna Ghosh
A Memoir of Kaurav (Part 8) Read More »
Kaurav now somewhat understands the meaning of his name. He realizes that “Kaurav” is not singular but plural; it represents a group, a collective—a child born of blind passion. He is defiant. The guardianship that nurtures people into ease, he abandons. Instead, he runs toward what is Bhima—a symbol of strength and rebellion. He
A Memoir of Kaurav (Part 7) Read More »
The Eleven Natya Sangraha encapsulate the profound wisdom of Bharata, providing a structured yet dynamic framework for Indian classical theater. Each element—be it the emotional resonance of Rasa, the evocative power of Bhava, or the intricate interplay of Abhinaya and Swara—contributes to the holistic experience of performance art.
Exploring the Vedic Basis of Bharata’s Natyashastra Read More »
The Eleven Natya Sangraha encapsulate the profound wisdom of Bharata, providing a structured yet dynamic framework for Indian classical theater. Each element—be it the emotional resonance of Rasa, the evocative power of Bhava, or the intricate interplay of Abhinaya and Swara—contributes to the holistic experience of performance art.
The Last Adolescence I fail to grasp this bohemian life, wandering aimlessly all-day seeking refuge. Sometimes resting upon your shoulders, there finding solace, at times escaping into myself, primarily stifled breaths; now in the blaze of this evening, seated with wounds inflicted. The fatigue of adolescence spreads through the body like dandelion seeds carried by
The Last Adolescence Read More »
All through last night, a chilling wind swept through my dreamscape. I witnessed a hawk perched atop the Taj Mahal’s dome, gazing towards Delhi’s Lotus Temple. I observed some khaki half pants, draped like mourning banners in a Muharram procession. All these scenes unfolded before me. Gradually, they merged into your dream. There, you embarked
Know that time has healed your wounds, Yet you dread the scars. Even today, as the Baul sings,In your morning disarray, there lies only silence. Whom do you now call your beloved?The abyssal tramlines, or mere the death?
Not just on zebras, Even on your body, there’s a patchwork of stains, Which gets busy on any green signal. Traffic police, Thus, indeed, waves their right hand, Left hand too. Engulfed in comments-likes-shares, Days are passing divine, ‘One week goes by, then comes another week.’ That’s the fun of the buffet system, You can
Is it the mural of Ajanta or India’s map, the debate was about whose artistic qualities were greater? Sumanta was naturally inclined, as he spoke of Chaitya, effortlessly spanning over five hundred and thousand years of history, his eyes brightened; yet, when it came to speaking of the country, I could hardly move an inch
From Ajanta to 1947: Unfolding India’s Independence in Verse Read More »
