From my travel notebook:
On the way to Bundi, through villages.
...Women wrapped in red, granate saris, cauldrons, saffron... very intense, some carry their babies, some balance with elegance jars or firewood bundles on their heads. Children wearing school uniforms, blue, lead grey... monkeys stake out in groups, alert to what they can catch.
...Men sitting, huddled together watching as time goes by, in white garbs and red turbans, orange, yellow, even acid lemon, their caoba brown faces under the desert light of Rajasthan.
On occasion, tall and svelt nomadic shepherds herding goats with long poles that look like spears.
The road from Pushkar to Bundi is atrocious, no potholes but craters, we move and jump at a snails pace.
...red stains, sienna, fuchsia dot the yellow harvest fields, they live in our retinas forever...
Land of Kings
sons of the Sun, of the Moon, of Fire,
darkened night birds that hover over the canvas,
I give you the language of shadow and perspective under the patina
of a dream that slips away.
And thus, brushstroke after brushstroke we get to understand each. Realising.
In the broken yellows, the cold blue from afar that traverse
clouds spreading seeds,
weaving faces, bended backs, ploughs and
Under the same Sky, I name you with my brush broken
by the unanimous light.
And in the lake, the gouache transparent calligraphy signs the bottomless trace of time.