The Flying Feather

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In memory of Chris Marker

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Video diary entry / Feb - March 2021.

Abhisekh with his son Kunu at Abhisekh’s place, Guwahati.  

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Click in the link to find more images made in November / December 2020

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Click in the link to find more images made in September / October 2020

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Click in the link to view photographs taken during my stay at my ancestral home in Mahadevpur, Assam for my cousin’s marriage 

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A study on early films of Chantal Akerman.

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While I tried not to think

An old soul pinged me in the afternoon she loved the poem I shared, she said It reminded her of our old conversations which I failed to remember

It was after months that we spoke and not for long but it brought relief of late summer wind which brings hope along

When it ended I did not stare at the screen scrolling up and down. I was quiet and then I was quieter.

Just before she pinged my cat whom I could not feed in the morning, hungry when he saw me serving food started jumping all around the room and ended up pushing his bowl out of the window which fell on the cemented floor and broke.

He did not look concerned, like always.

I served him in another. He ate while I was chatting with her and then without bringing it to my notice he quietly came down from the window and lied next to me and slowly went to sleep.

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I wait for yesterday’s evening

A million of fragments each with it's own essence taking shapes and giving forth a sense I cannot rely on.

Imagery has stopped working for me.

They repeat each other No progression. I sit back in search of new meanings from the same blowing wind and falling leaves.

At times they don't make any sense. Probably, they are not suppose to.

Leaves fall because it's time. The one thing that we fail to accept.

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Shorts | 2016

At the end of the beginning on looking back I found few lost assurances and a vague face

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Strangely on the day I found love again I started talking of death

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Slowly and quietly our beliefs disappeared leaving behind footprints of our early childhood and first love

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Attempts of sounding profound again and again took away the possible collisions, exchanges and almost all the realisations about a world where we exist just like everyone or perhaps a little less

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Beyond the setting sun and the freezing wind love exists for you and me and for everyone else who never cared for such things

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Gently shaking tuni lights in rhythm with ululation from far away

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The dog barks back to his echoed voice while the crickets sing uninterrupted

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Duranto | West Bengal | April 2017

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Polythene bag blowing in pre-monsoon wind

Last time when I met you you were with your new lover.

  Masculine and played music that makes today's kid crazy.   All I could do was judge him. You always looked older when you were with me lying quietly reminding me of the potter's face back in my town while resting between the shifts and how he would give shapes to fragile things.

  I didn't notice how you looked that day All I could notice was how you held his hands It looked so physical that it filled my head with images

You were happy to see me you said I don't remember if I believed it

That day words spoken by you carried no specific reasons to be remembered but many to be forgotten.

Still.

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Morning of Early Monsoon

As the lady from my neighbourhood in her light blue night gown walks on her wet courtyard to pluck flowers the rain starts again. She doesn't try to cover her head. Instead she pulls her gown a little up and starts walking on the green field beside the cemented road which now on being wet reflects the sky few electric wires in between and a cuckoo sitting on it which flies away as the rain becomes heavier and I choose to stop writing this realising that I lost my rhythm

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People

people I no more fall in love with you.

I pity you judge you I preassume your actions and don’t care to listen.

even when I listen I talk to myself.

I read a lot actions, postures, expressions all of them and associate them with your intensions.

I try to know all of it I ask you about your infatuations and insecurities and assure you my sensibilities but all I am doing is stripping you, in every possible way.

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Photographs clicked during a workshop on Art Direction and Visual Design

Click in the link to find other images made during the workshop.

[shortfilmmasterpieces]

Skhizein

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Displaced !

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अनियमित

नवम्बर के बर्फ में सारे रंग सफ़ेद हो गए ।

कुछ पत्ते गिरने से पहले तक हवा से लड़ते रहे ।

मेरे गाँव का घर अब बस तस्वीरों में है ।