UNSUPERVISED thoughts #2

At the end of day, it is in the lap of words that I find my sense of completeness, my sense of an unadulterated ‘me’. 
Writing ‘UNSUPERVISED’ has revealed to me unique perspectives of looking at and understanding the world around. And most importantly the slogan ‘The personal is Political’ (which has given me quite a few sleepless nights before)

UNSUPERVISED Thoughts #1

Any kind of ‘creation’ is a very solitudinal activity, and dealing with words more so (as my personal experience has been). Yet the whole process of writing UNSUPERVISED’ felt like I was in the midst of a thick crowd - a crowd that seamlessly melted in and out of the various time periods and spaces simultaneously, taking me on a journey hitherto unknown. 
Non fiction has its own set of challenges to tackle - ‘who and what has decided history as we know it and how and why should I trust it ?’ being one of the main ones in this particular collection. But the solution revealed itself to me during the process and the words found a solid ground; and I couldn’t have been more eager to share it with all of you.

Pre order your copies here -https://www.amazon.com/dp/B07BSP97RY?ref_=pe_2427780_160035660

UNSUPERVISED

Delighted to share with you all my brand new book 'UNSUPERVISED - Global Narratives through a Feministic Perspective', out on June 28th Worldwide on Amazon.

The book cover painting is by yours truly, which has been fabulously designed into the cover below by my dear friend Kasinatha Rao.

You can pre-order your copies here - https://www.amazon.com/dp/B07BSP97RY?ref_=pe_2427780_160035660


'UNSUPERVISED' is an intellectual and emotional investigation into the fascinating journey of humankind through a feministic perspective. The myriad political, social, and economic conditions continue to be highly influenced by the presence or absence of women's role in them. This perspective might just be the path to help achieve a universal understanding - a poetic, political, and philosophical solution to contemporary global narratives'.

Global coherence

Mutual exclusivity is a myth grown stale. 

The inter - connections within ourselves and with others is morphing slowly (but insistently) into a singular vision. 

And how glorious is its reflection on our lives! There is a blend of color, a blend of thought, a blend of voice textures. 

It isn't without any opposition, of course, but in a way this opposition does carry forward the path to coherence. When it brings up a 'why', there is no choice but to answer it. When it brings up a 'why not', there is no choice but to gloriously achieve it.

Just to make my own post more coherent, yes I am talking about the globalization of the world in all aspects and the globalization of our own identities. No matter where we are or who we are, we cannot (and we need not) claim a monotony over our names and cultures and races anymore. And yet its representation - whether it is in the arts or in entertainment or in sports or in politics - is something that is still being resisted. Everyday local scenes at schools or grocery stores seem largely open and uncomplicated - common people are really not bothered much about these infidelities. It is only on the higher platforms that the police pop in with their moral duties, which seems ridiculous considering they are supposed to be the 'higher' platforms.

"What can be done?" is a question which has to be answered on a personal level by everyone, and that will automatically lead to a melting pot of resolutions.There are policies and amendments abound everywhere, yet the fight for more representation of women continues; more representation of all races continues; more representation of all skin colors continues; more representation of all orientations of all types continues.

Sometimes it is worth pondering if our sensitivity to all these factors - of gender, skin, nationality etc speaks of our awareness (because we are aware and 'sensitive' about it) or if it is a curse in disguise because we STILL take these outward factors into consideration. 

Awareness is one thing, differentiation and marginalization based on that awareness is quite another.

And so the fight still continues, in this era and this age, and THAT is kind of absurd and unacceptable.

Or is it?

Image - Radhika Prabhu

'Untitled', Mixed Media on paper, 2014

 www.artbyradhika.wordpress.com

'Because I am made up of sea - dust, sprinkled with the sands of a timeless shore

YONDER - A (short) short story

Since he came to know he was soon going to become a father, his only hope was for his child to have the gift of sight.

Blindness had engulfed him from his 11^th year. It had confused him if he ought to be happy that he had at least some memories of sight to fall back on, or feel frustrated that a rude joke had been played on him. It wasn’t frustration at not being able to see anymore, but frustration at knowing how it was impossible to see any more, any further. Now, as he listened to his child's heartbeat as he placed his palm o the womb, all his frustrations from his life metamorphosed into helpless pleads, a helpless begging for his yet unborn child.

But months later, the day he held her tiny form in his hands and was assured that she could definitely see him and was probably forming her first memories and sensations of her father, his deepening sorrow knew no bounds.

He realized he had absolutely no control over what he wanted her to see in him.

In between clenched sobs, he secretly wondered if he could lead her to see into him too one day.

 His fears were very soon assuaged, though.

A few days before her eighth birthday, she complained to him that she got really tired of looking at the same patterns on her bedspread that stared dully at her every night, and asked for plain white spreads as a birthday gift. And within weeks after receiving it, she began telling him about the amazing images with exotic stories that were born on the white every night.

She told him how she could see into the white, and it had blood in multiple hues.

She enjoyed cutting through the reflections. Through the obvious into the myriad.

That night, as he lay patting her head, he knew that his prayers had been answered, perhaps a bit too generously.

He felt a throbbing sadness for her and her life; for she could see beyond the white but not the white itself. And because she could see more, she would, for the world which reveled in repetitive patters, remain utterly blind.

Just like him.

Winter Past

Footsteps.

Fog steps.

Fog. Steps

in, leaving behind its tangible, melting

coat. Voices all muffled,

scuffle amidst the fireplaces.

Gently. And
outside,

the bloodless, dense limb wraps

the grey city of doll houses;

squeezing it, caressing its

green pools of hazels and birch.

Crumbling crusts of brown sticking out

like tongues mocking at the absence of

snow. It is quiet. Still. Till someone,

inside,

sips, in the middle of their hot

supper, its frosty fingers sunk somewhere

in their murky soup.