For a few days now my mind has been a block of turbulence, quietness and silence float occasionally like fragile paranthetical phrases. Today I decided to take an hour from work and visit Vasant Vihar (J Krishnamurti Foundation) to sit there quietly and watch thoughts and emotions rip my mind. 

It was a warm late morning, heat settling on the grass like a whisper. I sat silently listening to the bamboos rubbing each other as breeze pressed them together. The birds and the insects were silent, they always are in the morning and turn garrulous in the heat of the afternoon. The blue of the sky was electric, this gave a crispness to the morning light.

I picked my sketch book and started painting the rock, the tree besides it that had branches in a supplicating attitude, the cluster of bamboo on the right, and all the greenness and brownness before me.

The painting, activity and process, was an extension of my meditation, the style even more so because it paid attention to the state of my mind. Recently my painting has acquired a more expressive style, and is less realistic. I am looking beyond colour and forms to express the state of mind, emotions and feelings.

I have used a wet on wet technique in this painting. This was the place where I have listened to J Krishnamurti some 30 years ago.

I have used dry brush strokes in this painting. What is comforting about expressive style is you do not groan with anxiety over when to stop painting. Technique is secondary to expression.


Just as the day was breaking, when the aroma of freshly brewed tea filled the morning I left for a three day retreat to a place a little away from Chennai .

During the retreat I remained preoccupied in examining relationships that I see as urgent and important, the energy that they generate, if they are destructive or nurturing.

We engaged in dialogues and meditated. I came to my room every night and looked at these in this manner.


tell me
what is it like
living in a body

shredded by desire
lust like heliconia
wet on the lips

its sharp edges
helpless as
bee probes

his palms
sweaty, saline
on my tongue

petals full
breast soft
with pain of  touch

Places of Love

Your breath chokes my lungs
elastic with years of sick love,

lay your hand against my face
press the nerves converging

like cloudbursts under the skin.
Rake and turn the leaves

to bare a ripe fruit glowing
with a warm smell.