Wednesday, November 4, 2015
Wednesday, September 16, 2015
Ahmedabad : A Sketch a Day Project
We mostly realize the value of something once we lose it. For me, I realized how much I loved the city of Ahmedabad weeks before I had to leave. School was over. My heart was breaking. Sketching helped.
Also, just in case it isnt obvious, I love modernism, and concrete, and Corbusier, and Kahn, and Doshi, and calling out on hate bluffs by architecturally challenged anti-modernism shenanigans, and everything else that comes with it. And Ahmedabad. Concrete Capital.
Also, just in case it isnt obvious, I love modernism, and concrete, and Corbusier, and Kahn, and Doshi, and calling out on hate bluffs by architecturally challenged anti-modernism shenanigans, and everything else that comes with it. And Ahmedabad. Concrete Capital.
Thursday, May 21, 2015
Excuse the Doodling #9
Hidden in the rocky crags of Paro, the Tigers' Nest Monastery crouches at the approach of you footsteps.
Excuse the Doodling #8
Meta Haiku for Amritsar
Beech raat, jor haat, chanting shuru,
Headscarf be slipping,
Sikh aunty be flipping,
Waheguru? Waheguru.
Excuse the Doodling #7
It is difficult enough to say goodbye to people. How does one keep a straight, solemn face and hug strangers? Promise to keep in touch through eternity, across distances too large for even technology to traverse? How does one fake heartbreaking friendship against years of mere nonchalant acquaintance? It is difficult as it is to say goodbye to people.
At least there is verbal communication – a distraction taking the focus away from the authenticity of the content.
But how do you say goodbye to a building? That too to a building that you have grown to genuinely love?
In the absence of expression, only sheer pain remains in a hollow heart.
I walk in on an early Sunday morning, lugging my instrument of choice – a Nikon. I reach as the sunken-eyed student drag themselves home after a long night in studio. I walk in before the squirrels have been perturbed, before the fallen plumeria petals have been crushed under listless sandals. The first rays of the sun have only just hit the immodest green, dewy lawns and I am determined to capture every angle of the building at every instant.
It is a losing battle.As my shutter becomes frantic, echoing my palpitating heartbeats at the futility of my attempt, I realize CEPT is mischievous that way. Behind the apparent simplicity, regularity and tailored frames, it defies the very essence of stillness, and thereby photography.
Every point behaves like a node. Every point in itself is in motion. A passageway to your left with an inviting red wall, a peek-a-boo Corbusierian door to your right, an array of steps ahead, series of raw concrete columns and beams defining passages everywhere, lines of the brick masonry converging at infinity... CEPT doesn’t let you stand, rest or stagnate even for the briefest second. If the architecture itself doesn’t intrigue you enough, the artwork left by generations of students on every perceivable surface does. Adverts that inspire you, art that mirrors you, graffiti that questions you and Dud Faces that stare at you with toadish eyes, making you self-conscious of your idle existence.
I stand in despair at the very centre of the ground, the sun beating down mercilessly on my face. “How do you say goodbye to buildings?” I ask again. CEPT surrounds me, engulfs me and smiles down at my naiveté. As the breeze picks up, I hear whispers in the wind, “You don’t”, they say, “You take us with you.”
I brave the blinding white sky and stay on. The air is still and stifling around the forbidden dome and only the audacious seven sisters break the silence in occasional bouts of enthused chattering. The brick paving beneath my feet get scorched beyond endurance. They start climbing up the walls of CEPT and settle in the rare, shady nooks, content on being bricks on the wall -- as long as the walls are that of CEPT.
My school changes color from dusty red to grey to black. The concrete frames, still warm from the relentless summer day shape the clearstory windows, ablaze now with light – eleven friendly beacons to sleepless architecture students all over. The sinuous curves of the North lawn greens give up on their perpetuity of contrast against the boxy reds of the buildings and decide on peaceful co-existence till dawn breaks. The campus heaves a sigh of relief.
It has been a long and exhausting day. While CEPT stays unwavering in its promise to produce brilliance till eternity, I bow out. I am an architecture student no more. As I walk home, ready to surrender to sleep, all I carry home of CEPT is the heady stain of crushed grass on my clothes and dust on my feet.
Tuesday, July 8, 2014
Excuse the Doodling #6
Yesterday I spent the whole day by the river Ganga at Chhote Laal Ghat. I had seen the river many times, at many different places before – from its origin at the Gaumukh Glacier to its confluence at the Bay of Bengal. But yesterday was the first time that I saw it, heard it, smelled it and felt it till I could swear that I had it grasped in my fist.
It rained as I sat gazing. Little kids that had been playing in the ghats came and took shelter under the same gazebo as me. They made a lot of noise, peered over my shoulder, dripped water on my sketches and then coaxed me into adding more, and more birds.
And when the rain had stopped, and the sound of traffic over the Howrah Bridge took over, the kids disappeared. Only I was left marvelling at the vitality of the river edge, at what has been, still is and always will be the liveliest part of Calcutta.
It rained as I sat gazing. Little kids that had been playing in the ghats came and took shelter under the same gazebo as me. They made a lot of noise, peered over my shoulder, dripped water on my sketches and then coaxed me into adding more, and more birds.
And when the rain had stopped, and the sound of traffic over the Howrah Bridge took over, the kids disappeared. Only I was left marvelling at the vitality of the river edge, at what has been, still is and always will be the liveliest part of Calcutta.
Thursday, July 3, 2014
Excuse the Doodling #5
"The monkeys sang sorrowfully to each other as they hunted for dry roosts in the fern-wreathed trees, and the last puff of the day-wind brought from the unseen villages the scent of damp wood-smoke, hot cakes, dripping undergrowth, and rotting pine-cones. That is the true smell of the Himalayas, and if once it creeps into the blood of a man, that man will at the last, forgetting all else, return to the hills to die. " - Kipling
Excuse the Doodling #4
Desperately Seeking Shade
Wandering through the dry, dusty fabric of the old city of Jodhpur, a traveller will often find himself in one of these cul-de-sacs leading off from the many chowks spread across the neighbourhood of Bramhapuri. Amidst the scorching, sun struck streets, the overlapping of centuries of organic building activities has managed to achieve intimate shaded urban oases of otlas, jharokhas and multitudes of staircases that welcome one to relax a while, enjoy the calm of the unexpected shade, admire its contrast with the hustle and bustle around and breathe in the aroma of the architectural wonder that is the Blue City.
Wandering through the dry, dusty fabric of the old city of Jodhpur, a traveller will often find himself in one of these cul-de-sacs leading off from the many chowks spread across the neighbourhood of Bramhapuri. Amidst the scorching, sun struck streets, the overlapping of centuries of organic building activities has managed to achieve intimate shaded urban oases of otlas, jharokhas and multitudes of staircases that welcome one to relax a while, enjoy the calm of the unexpected shade, admire its contrast with the hustle and bustle around and breathe in the aroma of the architectural wonder that is the Blue City.
Tuesday, July 1, 2014
Excuse the Doodling #3
When we crossed the threshold of Arunachal at Bhalokpong, a thin mist was creeping down the slopes of the fern and orchid clad hills. By the time we reached Bomdila, night had set well in. Apart from the halo around the story book chowkidar's lantern at the circuit house, the rest was nothingness. Imagine my surprise the next day, as I opened my eyes to the undulating green blue vistas of unending forests, punctuated by green roofed cottages and fluttering prayer flags.
Some mornings stay with you for life. This particular morning of speed sketching at the balcony of the Bomdila Circuit House, in the company of a number of Tibetan mastiff look-alike strays and cups and cups of the strong, sweet Assam tea would definitely be one of them.
Some mornings stay with you for life. This particular morning of speed sketching at the balcony of the Bomdila Circuit House, in the company of a number of Tibetan mastiff look-alike strays and cups and cups of the strong, sweet Assam tea would definitely be one of them.
Saturday, June 28, 2014
Excuse the Doodling #2
Who are you really when nobody is watching?
Do you smile at bad things? Do you wear your halo atop your horns? Take pleasure in your scars?
When does the shadow hovering above your head cease to be startling?
When do you let it become your friend?
Do you smile at bad things? Do you wear your halo atop your horns? Take pleasure in your scars?
When does the shadow hovering above your head cease to be startling?
When do you let it become your friend?
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