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Two happy dogs welcome her with wagging tails as she walks into our home on a pre lockdown Saturday morning.Prapti screeches with laughter as she jumps around in what seems like a scared-of-pets special performance!Well, we lock ourselves into a room because we don't believe our furry homies should be! So for a while, we have this conversation with her in a locked room! Haha! A writer by profession she ventured into content creating with videos that tickle your funny bone at the same time hitting issues that need to be talked about more often!(In Lawn Butter Chanderi Dress)Taking me through her journey, she tells "I have always been a writer, videos just happened to me. Idiva was shutting down the department I was working in and as they liked my writing they asked me to try being in the video team. I said why not!...
Chapter 01 "Art has no gender And neither do artists" Priya wears our Pyaari Baalis Says Priya Malik in her recent poem.A true influencer who is art personified from the way she speaks to the way she carries herself around.Holding her ground in contemporary poetry and spoken art, she spins magic with words.She portrays the collective conscience of women who turn their passion into their careers.With anti discriminatory causes, she doesn't bite her tongue against biases.A millennial who enjoys cooking, is fierce and gentle at the same time.She has found her calling in performing spoken word and is living a slow life. When asked who she is as a person? And how she would tell the poet in her apart from the person in her?Priya smiles softly.The Sun falling on her illuminates the swift change in emotions."As a person, I am someone who pours her heart in everything I do. I think the poet and the person are intertwined.Both together define who I am.I believe in spontaneity, change and continuity.I let myself be absorbed in the current emotions and let them take over to express myself best.I often say that I press the rewind and pause buttons of my life more than the play or forward ones....
Music is the food of soul"- Anonymous.Well said!! But also food for thought!If we begin to think how much time we spend listening to music, one would be surprised. As per various studies an average human listens to music for 1-2 hours per day, which amounts to 3-5 years of one's life. So, shouldn't we all be conscious of what we are feeding to the soul?Let that sink in.The life as such is drowned in sound....
Shivani worked at Nomad's Dehradun unit for a year and a half as a craftsperson.She took up working because of her artsy spirit and an urge to create the best world for her 7 year old son.The freedom to spend her own money, the newfound respect in her household and the joy of self sustainability inspired her to evolve further.Two months back she was with me to conduct a toy making workshop at Wynberg Allen boarding school in Mussorie.Recently with our studio being shifted to Delhi on a permanent basis, she was disheartened with a worry concerning her career.Dehradun is not a place where skilled craftsmenship is in demand. It is rather an education hub and a tourist spot.I remember telling her the day I left Dehradun “Tum schools mai apply Karo! Tumhare paas itna talent hai ki tum auro ko bhi sikha sakti ho”, She blushed. “Nahi Didi!, school mai kese karungi Mai”!I was overwhelmed with her innocence.She kept in touch over call and I was in sync with her dilemmas.Seeing her amazing learning caliber and an appetite for teaching herself new and newer things, I made a point of pushing her to apply for art & craft positions in various schools. “Tum mere kehne pe kardo....
I often wonder looking at a person talking, my eyes follow the movements of their hands and so many untold stories spill out.The shy hand tucking her hair back into place when talking of a lover, the nervous hands with fingers entwined giving away confessions, the animated hands jumping with excitement perhaps telling of an adventurous trip. I look at strangers and concoct stories. Trying to understand the language of hands. Haven't you ever looked at your hands and wondered how the nerves form patterns, patterns that is YOU. Some fingertips swollen or flat, a callous here or there like a storyteller telling tales of years of writing, typing, making, painting, scrubbing, molding, ..creating.....
Jamila looks at the vibrant scene from the rooftop. Streets are lit with fairy lights playing patterns. People flocking the streets, roofs, balconies looking at the sky with hopeful eyes.Kids engage in mirthful banter, sometimes in play and sometimes running off to Ammi asking when will the moon be sighted.The June evening lingers longer as thousands of people wait for the pious moon to break their fast of Ramadan and greet their friends, relatives and even passer-bys a happy 'Eid Mubarak'.Jamila and her friends have made out all sorts of cloud shapes in the sky fabricating stories out of them, but the moon is yet nowhere to be seen.They stroll off to another corner of the roof to see a puppeteer crossing the street when joyous sounds of "Taqabbal Allahu Minna Wa Minkum" 'May Allah accept from you and me' "chaand Raat Mubarak" erupt all around. People are laughing, hugging, celebrating, there is a happy conundrum overall.Jamila looks at the sky to see a sliver of the moon playing peek-a-boo and rising high as if in answer to the prayers of the ramadeens to shower them with blessings and love. She runs off to her cousins to greet them with muanaaqah, greeting Eid with the three hugs....
As the cartons unpacked and contents started tumbling out, one after the other, a sense of hollowness mixed with anticipation engulfed me. The life I had left behind had not left me yet. The remnants of life in the busy city of Delhi lay in heaps on the floor. I took a look at the empty house....
Ayesha, a 34 year young mother to Kabir, 13, arrives at NOMAD studio on her Scooty every morning. Masked in mulmul under an old helmet, tough and gentle at the same time. Her hushed yet energetic presence has, in two years, become firmly established inside studio walls.When I decided to pen down an ode to Mothers, she was my obvious choice. Why?...
Cleaning a switch board smeared with gunk from a zillion fingers. I scrubbed and scrubbed like a zombie as if I was curing a part of my soul. Time stopped and a certain relief came with creamy surface outshining from below.It was AHA!The music from my scrubbie was interrupted with a familiar monotonous sound. The rhythm taken aback by a phone call from a customer asking for size chart.“ You may click on the icon saying size chart, Hmm.. We are happy to customise the fit for you.. Blah blah and blah”… I answered well and why not?, it now runs in my blood.I regained consciousness only to lose it again into detoxifying the space I now #live in....
The post I shared on a dim, cool morning of September 1st urged me to go back and look into my actions.“Hands are a Vital Communication tool, arguably more than Voice, says Tim Booth who has been photographing hands and telling stories through them in his series “The show of Hands”.The gestures our body gives, the signals we retain and interpret from the minutest of our conversations.Are these mere words we synthesise and conclude?Certainly Not!In the fast paced world today where each one of us is short of patience. Untimely drawn conclusions are inevitable. But what is possible is, “pausing and re-living our moments with its full movement.There is a great deal of power in the set of fingers that join together to make a fist.. the only difference is in its formation.Hands are a doorway to the outside world as much or more than the vocal cords....
The workshop has suddenly come alive! As soon as the announcement is made, Ayesha rushes off to the chest. The wooden drawers hold all the precious paraphernalia that add magic to NOMAD. The silken threads, the colorful beads, gota patti, ghungroo…....
The drive back home from work is perfect mayhem! Every inch of space on road is taken up, rendering it invisible, as it gets lost in a sea of vehicles. The restlessness & edginess of the occupants announced through horns as everyone plays their part in the “Symphony of Cacophony”. I survive the madness & make it back to my abode....
