Your lips are chapped, it’s the gift of the leaving winter you eat something sprinkled with coarse grains of salt the salt is now on your lips, and it tingles, hurts just a little, you should probably remove it with a napkin, but instead you take some lip balm and rub it gently on your lips so that the salt remains right there
Before death, the only one vital question:
have you tasted salt on the cracks of your lips?
Franz has fallen in love with a doll reading a book on the balcony. Swanhilda must now remind him of reality. So, she disguises herself as the doll – and starts dancing in front of an almost unconscious Franz.
In illusion, there is no space for reality. In reality, there is enough space for illusion.
Swanhilda is herself and what Franz imagines her to be.
Understand the secret. Find the key with your own hands.
The prophecy must be fulfilled.
It is indeed accurate that when Frida Kahlo met with the most devastating accident at the age of 19, she lay on the street with an iron rail inside her abdomen, covered in blood and the gold dust that was carried by another passenger.
Don’t you want to be that dying girl on the street covered in gold? Don’t you want to kiss her? Be kissed by her?
Don’t you want from life something a little more than life?
Don’t look to the West for any answers, my mother said to me today.
Love falls under the Sringara rasa, and thus must include all elements that make it so. It’s simple chemistry, if you change the composition, it becomes something else. In ancient Indian poetry, love without an earthly reality is devotion. Devotion, then, has two branches: devotion to something that has form (saguna); devotion to something formless (nirguna).
Rasa, that elusive Sanskrit word that has baffled generations of scholars, therein lies the answer. Essence, taste, the underlying composition. The ancients of the subcontinent called its alchemy, Rasāyana Shāstra. The path of rasa. Even now, this is the modern Hindi word for the discipline of chemistry.
Dear India, hold my hand. There is no one else.
Absolute darkness surrounds me. What is the way, the way out of this, and where does it lead to?
One thing I realize is that I am not a true artist: in the sense that I don’t look for incompleteness, the ephemeral, the evanescent.
What do I look for then, if not beauty and the ever present brokenness of life? Peace.
My leanings, then, are more spiritual than artistic. I am not, and never will be a writer.
Born in a small village in Rajasthan – so small that the world doesn’t know its name.
Forced into a marriage at a young age to an older woman – a common practice in rural desert. Son at the age of 21.
Lying on a Sufi shrine right next to his house, where he learnt to smoke chilam, he often thought his life was over.
Then : Jaipur. To study literature, on a scholarship. Sometimes, no money even for food. Not even for cheap bus rides.
That’s where he met my mother. That’s where he wrote some of his best poetry.
Someday I will go to that small little village where he grew up, where most of his family still lives – where his new life was never accepted – where he first learnt that to make marijuana more effective, one should have some hot tea
I will go to that little village, and maybe beyond the barrier of time and space, I will find that little boy who would in the future give me a heart that doesn’t tremble.
The little boy won’t understand anything when the strange, mad girl from the city would ask him:
Baba, show me where you first found courage.