Winter Floriography

Posted on by The Zoya Project

The blooms
That blossom
Under the winter sun
Are the most beautiful.
They unfurl
Their petals
Under the last dregs
Of sultry sunshine,
Soaking in the heat
That is sparse.
The frail poinsettias,
The vibrant ranunculus,
The golden hellebores
Like fire in the fields,
Fanned to glory
By frigid winds
And cold, hard soil.
But then I see
Mauve blooms of
Monkshood,
The soft blues of
Periwinkle blossoms
And the blush of
Camellias,
Their cheeks rosy
In the winter wind,
And I wonder which bunch
Is prettier,
So I might adorn
My curls
With the blossoms
That survive
The weather.

A Winter Lullaby

Posted on by The Zoya Project

I wonder
Where the swans
Croon,
Their lullabies,
When the lake frosts over.
Do they find shelter
Amongst the soft crocuses
And lavender cyclamen?
Or do they
Nestle,
Within
The bloody roses
That bloom like wounds
On their bodies?
How do they
Find warmth
When the waters
Are icy
And the air
Is chilly?
Or do they
Lie
With their mates
And warble
To the mellow moon,
A swan song
To skate upon the lakes
Until spring.

Rebecca – A Review

Posted on by The Zoya Project

I was sent by my high school for a competition, in senior year (2017) a literature festival of sorts, the theme of which was mystery and thriller. There were a number of events (in which I am proud to announce we won a position in every single one). But for our main presentation my best friend and I chose to use the novel Rebecca. With the release of the 2020 film, it seemed only right I revisit the book.

Rebecca is a mystery written by Daphne du Maurier and published in 1938. It follows the life of the narrator (The second Mrs. DeWinters) as she meets, falls in love with and marries Maxim Dewinter, the owner of the great estate of Manderley. It is within the magnificent walls of the estate that one meets the titular character, Rebecca, Maxim’s first wife and the original Madame of Manderley

“last night i dreamt i went to manderley again”

~~ Rebecca, Daphne du Maurier

While reading I was reminded of Wuthering Heights by Emily Bronte. The setting is similar, with Manderly playing a parallel to the haunting moors. The writing is sinister. It reads like a lullaby. Soft and subtle language that flows into a crescendo. The writing takes the reader through a number of dips and highs. I myself not being a fan of mystery found my heart racing as I turned on all the lights, suddenly afraid of the shadows.

The characters seem to come alive on the page like shadows. And while the book is named for Rebecca and narrated by the second Mrs. DeWinter, the true star is the old housekeeper, Mrs. Danvers. She seems to be lurking in all the dark corners of the house, watching and waiting for the narrator to make a mistake. And in her desire to please, the narrator becomes cowed by the old housekeeper. And so while she might be in name Mrs. DeWinter, it always seemed to me the true Madame of Manderley was Mrs. Danvers, her loyalty strictly given to Rebecca, and her aim to get rid of the narrator as quickly as possible. She was a perfect character, with the balance between disloyal and psychopathic written to perfection.

Rebecca, remains a classic Goth mystery. It is the cream of the genre. The writing is haunting enough to border on horror. The characters are complex enough to teeter on the thin line between devoted and obsessed, naive and doormat, there and not there. The characters whirl in and out of the writing. It felt to me like the book was an intricate dance of sorts. Waltzing to the tune of the writing until the last few chapters, where everything is revealed in quick succession. The build up is phenomenal.

I haven’t had the pleasure to watch the acclaimed Hitchcock movie of the 1940’s (aside from the fantastically chilling suicide scene), and nor have i watched the 2020 adaptation. But having reread the book, I’m looking forward to watching both and pinning down the similarities within the novel.

Winter Winds

Posted on by The Zoya Project

I have sat at my window
Today
To see the sun rise…
The golden fairy lights
Are draped
Over the trees
Like golden blooms of
Late fall bougainvillea,
And they twinkle out
Fading from the night as
Sunlight showers the ground.
A typical October morning
With smoggy skies,
Filled with
The fragrance of Diwali
The morning sparrow
Flits through the air
Drunk on frigid dewdrops
Like a lady
On fine wine,
Begging the stars
To stay
Just a few moments
Longer,
Before
The cold winds of winter
Rush to fly
On their wings.

Reading My Way Through Delhi

Posted on by The Zoya Project

Complimenting my previous post Shades on Delhi~ (https://thezoyaproject.com/2020/10/21/shades-of-september-discovering-the-color-of-delhi/) and it’s artwork here are the books I read, to understand the character, history and secrets of my beloved city. Delhi isn’t just a city, she is a character, just as she is in my life.

Delhi, by Khushwant Singh

Khushwant Singh’s version of Dilli is startlingly accurate. He describes the age old city as a whore. She is not always beautiful, more often than not the city is a hub of ugly manners, mistakes and misdeeds and yet Dilli has her own appeal, her own allure. No matter how far one might go they are always pulled back. The writing is stark, no ugly truths are hidden about Dilli, in this book in fact they are openly flaunted. So much so, that I an ardent lover of this city steeped in Mughal history couldn’t help but cringe at the blatant truths being explored. Bhagmati is utilized as the human depiction of the city, she is that human that Singh has used to explain the subtle nuances of the city in tart language. Perhaps Dilli is the equivalent of an Indian Wonderland. A hub of madness and curious things some ugly, some beautiful. But as Lewis Carroll once said, the mad people are the best ones, and perhaps that’s true of places too and if so, perhaps there is no better place to live in than colourful Dilli.

Twilight in Delhi, by Ahmed Ali

I have always looked at this era we currently live in with a slight air of disdain. Always wondered what it would be like to live in the Delhi that history has written stories of. From Indraprashta to the Delhi Sultanate to the reign of the great emperors of the Mughal Dynasty to the era of oppression. Twilight in Delhi, pulled me into the Delhi only history and dreams have told me about. The city is painted with history in decadent brushstrokes, color and smell jumping off the pages with vibrant and descriptive writing. It was the Delhi who pays homage to the poets, dreamers and lovers. The Delhi where there is barely any pollution and the stars shine at night. Where the aazaan echoes in the gallis. Where the tea stall Uncle doles out milky brown chai and gajra is slipped onto slender wrists with sly smiles and requests for coin. The poetry adds a lyrical sweetness to this book, aiding the striking imagery Ahmed Ali has created. The story builds slowly, creating characters who roam your mind for many hours after you have finished reading, the small moments of their life, happy and tragic, seeping into your thoughts. And amongst these, the city itself breathes. She has had life given to her in this book, her heartbeat echoing the readers with each turn of page.

The Heart Has Its Reasons (Dil-o-Danish), by Krishna Sobti

Sometimes I wonder what we as highly educated Indians lose when we lose a language? It is a great point of shame for me that I am unable to read and write in Hindi and Urdua as fluidly and beautifully as I am able to in English. I felt that sense of loss acutely while reading Krishna Sobti’s ‘The Heart Has It’s Reasons’ originally penned in Hindi as ‘Dil-o-Danish’. While Chandni Chowk came alive, shadowy silhouettes of it rising up off the very pages as I read, I can’t help but feel I am missing out. The experience remains incomplete. The sharp zuh in razai that slips between the teeth, the soft, mellifluous fuh that caresses the tongue when you whisper kulfi, feel lonely amongst the rest of the posh English words. But the story remains rich in content, an affair in the Dilli of the 20’s, and in no other place but Chandni Chowk. Where pearls are sold at corner stores, saris are accompanied by shiny, gold brocade and salwar kameez’s are adorned with thick embroidered shawls. And amongst the khan-khan of stacks of churiya and the fragrance of fresh chaat are the intricately woven characters trying to balance love and sex with the shackles of family, rules and a life in Dilli’s Chandni Chowk in the 1920s. Characters that have so much depth, I can’t help but feel my heart race at the reality of it all. Kutumb and Mehak possess a strength beyond words, a strength that resonates with me simply because it is the strength that lies in the essence of being women. One plays the beloved, the other the wife and both remain betrayed. The heart has its reasons, Sobti says, and I wonder do they hold any merit in front of life as we know it? Perhaps they are the only reasons that matter and we still aren’t able to see them for what they are…

Delhi is Not Far, by Ruskin Bond

I first read Ruskin Bond when I was nine years old and I fell in love almost instantly. His books brought alive India for children. I have sailed down the Angry River with him, found an inexplicable desire to buy only Blue Umbrellas and desired a Room on the Roof of my own house. To this date I blame the Rusty series for my lifelong dream of one day possessing a tiger (who I will name Timothy in honor of the series of course!) as a beloved pet.
 
‘Delhi is Not Far’ is a small novella that was my first foray into Ruskin Bond as an adult. It details the life in the small town of Pipalnagar just a few miles away from Delhi just a few years after the long sought independence, when the 5 year plans were the newest thing the country had seen and the aftermath of Partition was still felt rather viciously. The characters are figures who come alive, but so well narrated that I found myself watching what unfolds for them from their eyes. The epileptic Suraj who is the child torn asunder by the violence in 1947, and the barber Deep Chand so alike the parlour ladies who do women’s waxing today. The writing is subtle, building slowly into a crescendo that washes down upon the reader in soft waves as they reach the end of this book. The story while not set in Delhi itself, discusses the dream that is the capital city. A dream for so many in this country, from towns big and small, villages and dusty places we might never even have heard of. Everyone dreams of Delhi. To make it to this city that looks like pictures painted on stained glass, that has stories on its walls and magic in its air, that has history in its gallis and trinkets in every corner and crevice. The dream of Delhi, that elusive bubble that we and every character in this book tries to catch before it pops. And perhaps, we are all fools, those of us who still dream of dirty Delhi, with illusions in our eyes. We are those fools who dream of one day walking a pet tiger named Timothy down the lanes of Chandni Chowk, through the amalta covered roads of Connaught Place and stroll past the artwork of Lodhi District. And for those yet to arrive – Bond does say, ‘Delhi is Not Far’, you need only dream…

City of Djinns, by William Dalrymple

There would be no other way, for me, to end this series but with this book. I read it when I was in high school, and it is perhaps the reason I fell in love with Delhi. No other book can capture Delhi the way ‘City of Djinns’ does. William Dalrymple writes a travelogue to this city of Sufis and history, the very heart of India. He weaves together history so effortlessly and in such a manner that reading it becomes more like reading a story. And perhaps it should be classified that way. What pulled me into the pages far more than the city could, were the characters. They are a variety of characters that Dalrymple encounters and within their small lives he narrates the largeness of their stories. We remain ignorant to the story of the men and women roaming the streets, driving taxis, selling gol gappas, painting the walls of the city… And that is what Dalrymple  manages to encapsulate within these pages. The history of Delhi is visible more in the people that populate it than the buildings of immense grandeur and beauty that tower over us on the streets. That is what I take away from this book every time and that will always remain my understanding of Delhi. It is far more than just a city of history. It is the city of the djinns that Dalrymple hears about, the city of those who have suffered and those who have survived, a city of magic and above all – it is the city of stories.

Discovering the Color of Delhi

Posted on by The Zoya Project

I have been born and raised in Delhi. It’s a city of contradictions. Here the magic of Mughlai history is paradoxical to the dirty streets and gol-gappa vendors that you know hold the chance of painful food poisoning within the teekha paani. It’s messy and polluted, and steeped in an array of cultures all while being a hub of history. It’s home…

sunscapes ~ a Zoya Project term used to coin all the visible features of an area of sky, wherein the sun is either setting or rising resulting in colors other than insipid blue. Often considered in terms of their aesthetic appeal. These hues often bring to mind the softer side of the harsh realities we currently live in…

I’ve had a long term obsession with sunsets. Anyone who knows me can attest to this. To me, a beautiful sunset (or sunrise should I be lucky enough to wake up) is like eating your favourite food anytime you want without worrying about weight gain. It’s that pleasurable. The sun is the best artist to me because he paints such beautiful things across the clouds. The soft red of the inner curve of a mango ripened by summer heat. The deep gold like mounds of haldi waiting to be applied to the arms of a bride. The softer brightness of kesari milk, someone spilt among the clouds. The soft orange of candlelight on whitewashed walls. Pale pink reminiscent of a new-borns cheeks and the deep blush tinting the contours of rose petals. Sallow purple, soft like crushed lavender bouquets. Every day sees a sunset or a sunrise but only a few dusks and dawns see sunscapes, and those are the days where, I like to think, something spectacular is happening. A small moment of fleeting beauty…

Being someone who travels, this year has been an anomaly for me. Where ever I travel I look for that perfect sunset, so I can capture it the best I can on my camera. What this year has, however, given me is a variety of ‘sunscapes’ in my beautiful Delhi. With the onset of September and the end of August, the monsoon becomes erratic. Sometimes a simple pitter-patter barely providing any relief to the heat and sometimes that grass ruining, pounding baarish that gives a slight reprieve in the moment only to give way to sticky humidity that hangs heavy in the air. And what usually arrives at the end of each bout of rain are beautiful sunscapes. So I set out to discover the sunsets and sunrises of historic Delhi But the sun is no man’s slave, and while I couldn’t find only perfect sunsets I did discover the splashes of color that Delhi has to offer. Upon finding that perfect spot, seemingly brand new art in an aged city, I realized it was art that has the power to tell stories. So here is my ode to rediscovering the colors of Dilli, amidst beautiful sunsets and Dilli ki baarish and hardcore research. An ode to color. An ode to autumn. An ode to stories and sunscapes. An ode to Dehli. Dilli. Delhi…

Determined to find some character in my beloved Delhi, I set out early in the morning to skip the traffic and reach Lodhi Art District. Nestled quietly in the streets of Lodhi Colony, one isn’t expecting anything out of the ordinary in these streets. Old apartment buildings stained with age and the messy mix of shops in the neighbouring Lodhi Market. Barely anyone is awake and I wonder to myself whether this is ordinary or whether it’s a side effect of Corona that has turned into a new norm. The roads are populated by only the lone cyclists out for morning exercise and the sabzi waala arranging his cart in an array of colors. And among this lonely atmosphere, the air not as heavy, light breeze rustling the grass and trees, are the walls of the district splashed with a myriad of colors creating a variety of artwork and graffiti sprawled across the colony. Art is a magical thing, it’s stories without words. And it is in watching this artwork that I found myself wondering what stories that the artists are trying to tell Dilli. And in turn what stories does Dilli tell us, the viewers. Does it tell us the stories of chaos portrayed by this riot of color surrounding the word in the devnagari script? The metallic feel of the joint characters surrounded by a bedlam of reds and yellows, pinks and turquoise. Or perhaps it reflects on the people we find in the most unexpected places. Those characters who burst with life, or have the most entertaining stories to tell. The earring seller at Dilli Haat hawking his wares at unsuspecting foreigners, the raddi-waala roaming the neighbourhood back bent over the handles of his cycle, the dhaaba-waala with his cigarette in his mouth as he hands thaals of bread-pakora and thandi lassi to people, the peon at Miranda House college greeting different students every day at the gate. Perhaps this is an accurate representation of my Dilli. That colors can bloom in the darkest corners of this city in the bleakest times…
Indian’s have a unique way of stifling romance, with the rules of culture and sex that we are bound by. Kisses are stolen, hand holding frowned upon and sex is out of the question. At least as far as society goes… Yet I see a romance here, painted on this wall. Perhaps this is a story of love lost? The look of longing on the boys face, the forlorn expression stretched across the girls face. The movement in separate directions. The pale plum of regret draped over the skies where they stand. Or perhaps the romance of a meet cute? A bump of shoulders and an annoyed glance back that turns into a look of wonder. The feeling of sparks exploding on that tiny spot where their shoulders and arms brushed. The bright lavender of a new beginning tinting the air. Or perhaps the romance of unrequited love? The desperate craving for reciprocity. The pain of the constant pining. The insipid purple surrounding them in a cloak of despair. Which was the artist trying to depict? All our hidden love stories with only one meant to be painted on this wall in Delhi? Or perhaps to each lover it will represent their own secret flirtations. A sprinkling of romance in a city of practicality.
While walking after a particularly heavy outpour of rain, I found myself strolling through a sticky humidity. But a sunscape is misleading. The sky promises cherry blossomed winds and the coolness of fall. The shades of pink that feel tinted with saffron at the end. So many subtle pinks it’s hard to tell where one hue begins and the other ends. There’s the taffy, that looks like wisps of thin candy floss ready to waft down into the hands of little girls at carnivals. The insipid crepe drifting into the azure sky ready to turn into the silver clouds that veil the moon. Carnation and rose blooming from the clouds. The feathers of a flamingo unfurling towards the setting sun. And whilst everything seems unendingly pink, there’s the gold glow of the sun so soft, that even the birds fly toward the heat in a drunken fervour. Trying to catch all the pinks and golds before the blues and soft lilacs of the sky turn murkier. Chasing the next sunscape before the night catches it’s wings and everything is dyed deep, dark black.
I wonder whether this was a strategic decision. Did the artist paint a woman around the TATA Sky Dish, or did the owner plant it in the wall after the painting had been made? Perhaps the person who did couldn’t help but think that a woman’s mind is the greatest entertainment one can have… If a man painted this perhaps it could be considered insulting, if a woman painted it perhaps it could be considered interesting. Or would we consider it the same way? Or vice versa. Or perhaps it was done with no thought. Painted because that was the available space, planted because that’s the only place that will get good signal… A thought provoking insight on perception.
As fall descends upon Delhi, there seems to be a lack of color around the city. There are no red, orange and gold leaves that make the city look as if it is on fire. Colorful sweaters aren’t pulled out until winter has set in, and as Diwali seasons sidles her way into the year, a grey haze sets upon the city. Smoke and fog. A mix of the two, the former being far more present in the air. So with the sparse tree cover and dense pollution, there’s barely anything to see except lacklustre beige and browns alongside dark ashy grey smoke and silvery fog. But I can’t help but feel, that the colors used in this mural are a way to represent all the fall colors we miss out on in this city. There’s that rosy pink of the sunscapes that are disappearing with the smog. The fiery orange of autumn leaves that barely fall. There’s the deep blue of the skies once the dusk has passed and the stars have just begun to twinkle. The green of the trees that disappears as everything turns muddy brown and grey. There are even yellows and rusts and reds to represent the spirit of autumn. And perhaps the best way to end the reverie this bird brings about with her multitude of colors, is the brown and grey window sitting atop her bosom. Dark and unforgiving. City of dreams, city of darkness…
I wonder if this was a catharsis of sorts. In my mind I call it, The Apartment. I can see the artist gathering his supplies in the sanctity of his Delhi flat. The windows open to serve as a reprieve from the heat, because every morning from 9 am to 2 pm there is a power outage. The neighboring Aunty on the same floor is singing the latest Bollywood hit. The notes belted out in a nasal harmony alongside the sizzling tawa, her voice quivering as it hits the high note. From his balcony he can see the Uncle Ji from two floors above doing morning vyayayam on the footpath. He rotates his shoulders in enthusiasm, his tight fit cotton shirt straining against his torso, a sliver of his rounded stomach poking out from the space where the shirt hikes up. Every few minutes a bellowing laughter is heard as Uncle practices laughing yoga, clutching his belly and throwing his head back to stare at the clouds. He claims it is because of this that he’ll outlive everyone else.In the building across, the 14 year old daughter of the tenants stares at the Artist with a shy smile. She twirls the end of her ponytail (her friends tell her that’s far more ‘hip’ than braids these days) as she watches. Averting her eyes every time the Artist catches her looking. Inevitably her mother will whack her on the head, using her hand or chappal depending on her mood, telling her to stop daydreaming and get back to her studies. And after encountering all this, there remains the old lady who sits on the ground floor. As the Artist locks up and makes his way down he sees her, in her rumpled sari, pure silk of course, with her wrinkled sun-brown skin. And she sees him. They exchange no words, but she watches him as he walks away, her eyes stare at his form as she cuts a mango. And he feels her gaze on his back, till he turns the corner. Walking away from this small Delhi building, filled with such colorful characters, he has no choice but to paint them somewhere…
Symmetrical sunscape. There’s the bright gold of sandy deserts, The Sahara or the Arabian perhaps, in the center that seeps into an amber. Amber that reminds of honey dripping from fat bee hives hanging on the branches of green tree. It fades into the coral colored reefs of Sharmal Sheikh and the pale watermelon of fish that swim in the waters surrounding the Galapagos. It’s a different way of travelling, but a sunscape possesses that ability to transport the viewer anywhere in the world. Paint me a sunscape, paint me a window to the world from my little home in Delhi.
One of the biggest perks of living in Delhi is the food. Street food here is considered as good as any gourmet delicacy. It’s a culmination of Indian culture that comes together across the roads in dhaabas, corner stores and roadside restaurants. Kathi rolls, momos, gol gappas, chole bhatture, samosas, aaloo chaat, an endless variety. But perhaps greater than all of these are the handmade Indian sweets. Mithai. Soft, fragrant and found in large variety – mithai. Laddoos squeezed and sculpted in hands that smell of jaggery, nuts and ghee. Gulab Jamuns translated literally to ‘rose plums’, fried in sugary syrup with the faintest fragrance of rose, it’s almost not noticeable. When you bite into them, delicious golden syrup will drip down your chin leaving trails of sticky sweet goodness all over your hands and clothes. Kulfi, cold as ice pulled fresh from the thin metal mould. And of course the most favoured – jalebi. Sugar and besan piped into piping hot oil into curvy shapes. Golden-orange jalebi, fresh off the streets of Delhi, is a bite of heaven itself. What did the artist want us to see? Perhaps, a young man selling his wares, balloons and small flutes, that little children will point towards and beg their parents to buy them. A cow roaming the streets, this is his home, he sits and watches the people shopping with curious eyes, as they step around him and haggle with vendors. Baskets of golden marigolds, deep red roses and fragrant mogra sitting atop vibrant dhurries, embroidered fancifully. But among these, the mithai-waali will have the largest crowd. She sits amongst the smell of stale sweat and cow dung in the humid air, with the lovely fragrance of mithai. People will buy dabbas of barfi and laddoos for loved ones sitting at home. They’ll buy crisp jalebi wrapped in yesterday’s newspaper. A bite of mithai, a bite of happiness, a tiny bite of Delhi culture wrapped in besan, ghee and sugar.
I can’t help but wonder who these characters are. They seem to be lovers of sorts. Or perhaps given the traditional garb they are simply courting. That shyer, far more modest stage of infatuation, that Indians seem to have a trademark on. Or perhaps it is a representation of the old Courts of Delhi. The seat of the Indian Sultanate and then a large player in the Mughal Courts. Perhaps they are simply figures from that era. An advisor, the larger his moustache the greater the respect he could garner, and his wife, dressed in fine silks, her ghungat worn demurely, to keep her izzat secure under her pallu. Or perhaps they don’t know each other at all. A man of the English way, with his hair coiffed back like the Brits, watching a courtesan roam the streets of Dilli in the 20th century, her odhni used to hide herself, for she knows how to sell to all customers. Forbidden fruit is the most delicious. They might be from the old legends. A lone gopi collecting water from the well and the river, her hips moving with a ladylike swing as she walks by, with the matka balanced on the crown of her head, only to be teased by the young village swain, hoping for an annoyed smile. Or perhaps they are two characters simply passers-bys on the streets today. They fight over an auto on the streets of Delhi, and then are on their separate ways, never to see each other again in the many, many convoluted gallis.
There’s something strange about golden sunsets. In my mind there’s an inkling of frustration that there are no deep crimsons like the clouds are bleeding or the pinks of watercolor paintings. Only yellows. The color of the sun itself, infusing the sky in shades of gold. But at the same time there is a sense of warmth looking up to see the sky a rich healthy shade of gold. The clouds tinted in shades of gold fleece, pale marigolds – the ones thrown out of wedding malas because they aren’t bright enough, melted butter for maple syrup pancakes and banana bread, butterscotch ice cream last of the season before it’s too cold in the city to eat any. The warm breeze caresses our cheeks and as the sun sets behind flaxen clouds I am reminded of daffodils and dandelions, honey and amber, kesar and haldi, lemons and pineapples all under a hot Delhi sun. Too far to touch, but just a look away, floating in another sunscape.
Who is the prey and who the predator? Predatory humans are so common in Delhi, and how I wish they weren’t. They frolic amongst us like smiling tigers, waiting to snarl. It’s a hub of conflicting ideologies that are Indian, and amongst all the diversity there are the vicious beasts dressed as humans ready to destroy and kill for there being differences. At least we can justify wearing masks because of COVID19 when they really should be worn for fear of being infected by religious, casteist or sexist toxicity. I wish I could see anything else in this mural. But that’s Delhi I suppose. Shrouded in darkness now, for future eras to learn from…
There’s such a lack of blue in Delhi. The brightest skies here are a dull grey with just a tint of blue, because our skies are so polluted. The Yamuna that should frolic and wave like lithe teal ribbons with colourful boats embroidered throughout it, stays a stagnant black, the fumes scaring away those who dare near it. Even the bougainvillea flowers bloom fuscia and white. There are no blues. But when I see this, this inexplicable blue marble, I see all that is missing from this city. There’s the sky represented at the top of the marble. The sky painted baby blue with iceberg clouds. The flowers that can’t survive the heat of Dilli air, cerulean hydrangeas, mayan cornflowers, royal blue irises. And most of all the Yamuna. The prussian depths of it teeming with fresh water fish swimming in hurried excitement, the lapis lazuli tinted tips of the small waves glinting in the sunlight, the rippling sapphire and frothy white that would come into view as the oars of the reedy boats made their way towards the horizon. The blue we so desperately should want in our Delhi, the blue that has faded away into dingy, dirty black, the same way this mural has. Perhaps as a city we are completely incompetent in protecting our blues and in doing so, we don’t deserve to have them.
Lodhi Art District is just a stone throw away from Lodhi Garden, where history from the Delhi Sultanate comes alive. The greenery surrounds, old historical structures from the Tombs to the Athputla to the Mosque. The park has it’s own distinctive style, of old browning stone, aesthetic arches and larger than life domes. And two blocks from the main entrance of this beautiful park lies this modern and trendy complex, filled with a plethora of wacky artwork. With the perfectly painted walls of the exteriors and the stained, crumbling of the interiors this piece is a  homage to the decay that surrounds Delhi history.  The arch that is so typical of so many of the Delhi monuments. The color of the stone, fading pinks and browns. And inside the yellowing apartment building so distinct from the fresh paint coating the outer walls. Decaying history dipped into the modern era and still we try so desperately to grasp onto our past, our history that even our artwork is a reflection of it.
I wonder whether other people felt the same as I did when I walked past this mural. The heavy judgement falling upon my shoulders as I stood in front of him.
 
A watchman of the youth. He’ll look at young couples holding hands and laughing and shake his head in disgust, ‘aaj kal ke bacche’ he’ll mutter in disgust. Then he’ll go and complain to his wife and children while eating thaals of hot naan and butter chicken. His own children will sneak out late at night to drink beer with their friends of course. Or an Uncle Ji at one of the elaborate Delhi soirees where everyone who is everyone is invited. My mother will nudge me in a show of manners and ask whether I’ve said hello, and I’ll politely mention that of course I have greeted Uncle Ji, whose name I cannot remember. He’ll look at me and smile maybe hand me a crisp five hundred rupee note all while thinking how shamelessly short my clothes are. Or perhaps it is me. Judging a man who I have never met, nor will, but judging at face value. Judging him on the basis of him being a Delhi Uncle, if that’s even what the artist meant to paint. And perhaps I can’t help but wonder if the judgement I felt earlier, was my own, for a Delhi man. A Delhi Watchman. A Delhi Uncle.
When I see this I often wonder if this mural has captured Delhi the best. The constant bustle of people. Rushing. Rushing to be here and be there. Rushing to see this and see that. Rushing, rushing, rushing. The metro crowded with people at rush hour the smell of sweat unbearable. The women’s compartment filled with ladies, some talking on the phone, others with watchful eyes to see if any man dares wander into their sacred territory. And if they do, they will be beaten with handbags as they cower saying ‘Sorry didi! Sorry didi! Galti se ho gaya…’ They may not be safe in the rest of the city but this is their territory. And amongst corona the rushing seems to slow down a bit, a motorcyclist in the heart of this city making his way in a city that has slowed down in the face of a pandemic. A lovely oxymoron to have captured as a memory…
Another rain and the last in my vault for my Dilli Sunscapes. Well, for now at least. But this one is particularly my favorite of them all. An amalgamation of desires. It reminds me of blood red amaryllis for the radiant beauty of autumn, crimson asters for the devotion of the sun to the sky and of course cerise chrysanthemums in full bloom. Red fades into orange, as all rainbows do. Tangerine begonias and milky coral butterfly weeds fill the sky like crackly autumn leaves falling from the trees, the titian ranunculus and apricot dahlias burn the sky softly with a mixture of heat and lukewarm breeze. Oranges fade into pink as any well suspecting spectrum ought to in my opinion. Light pink roses, pale pink carnations, starlight pink asters, cherry blossoms and of course the evergreen bougainvillea. When I took this photo, I saw only the sky and when I came back to look upon it I saw the gardens of the sky. Watered by August rains and fed by the last sultry dregs of summer sunshine. And when it fades into the deep black of night, I’ll see the white mogra twinkle through the clouds in a mimicry of the faded stars.

American Royals – A Review

Posted on by The Zoya Project

I quite enjoyed this book by Katherine McGee. Her previous series lost me at book one, but that might have also been the fact that it took three years for the entire series to come out. So I’m glad I picked this up right before I picked up Majesty.

This was a very new concept. An alternate reality, set in the USA where the democratic system never existed and instead a monarchy was established by King George Washington. I thought it was a fairly unique concept and was interested to see how it would be carried out. The story follows four young women in this alternate reality, Princess Beatrice soon to be queen, Princess Samantha the second sister who has always been the Spare to Bea’s heir, commoners Nina who has a flirty fling with Sam’s twin brother Prince Jeff and charming Daphne who may have filed her claws into fingernails but still keeps a close eye on Jeff, her ex-boyfriend.

While the plot is a bit thin, the book is mostly character-based. It focuses on the trials these four girls go through, Bea struggles with trying to stay true to the path of becoming regnant while falling in love with someone she isn’t allowed to. Sam seems to go through boys like candy, trying to attract as much attention as she can. Daphne has her eyes set on becoming a princess and she’s viciously guarding secrets that could take that dream away from her. And Nina is plagued by an inferiority complex as she falls in love with Prince Jeff.

So as I said, the plot does seem stretched thin, but at the same time, the characters had enough personal drama going on that it allowed the book to roll almost effortlessly. I was most invested in Bea’s romance as well as in Daphne’s manipulations. Both of them were complex characters and I really enjoyed seeing both of them struggle through their problems through the book. Sam and Nina were more boring in my opinion, but it worked in the book’s favour allowing the reader to be able to choose which of the four girls they were backing in the larger dramatics that connected all of them.

The romances between all four girls and their beaus seemed destined to fail. They were written in a charming high school fashion and were light romantic flings, but they all seemed doomed. It was actually interesting because most YA romances see the leads falling in love and staying together forever. It’s highly unrealistic that a first love would be the love that remains. So I’m especially interested in seeing how these pan out in Majesty especially when they’re already falling apart by the tail end of this book.

This is a pretty light read, but I enjoyed the slight romance and sprinkling of drama. The alternate universe is well thought out and it’s actually the novelty of the concept that drew me to the book. It’s safe to say I will be picking up Majesty!

Constellation Chronicles

Posted on by The Zoya Project

I have seen
The stars,
And all the stories
You have embroidered
In their arms.

I have seen the sirens
Hanging on the tips
Of the moon,
Singing a bewitching melody,
For the sailors
Roaming the skies.

Those
Who drink rum
And those
Chasing
Dragons
With fiery breath
That pursue
Falling stars
To the ends of the earth
Dancing a ballet,
In graceful dips, swings and turns.

Stars that shed their light upon
Mermaid eggs and pirate kings,
Dragons coiled around towers,
Courtesans selling sex and
Little girls searching for adventure.
So one day lovers on riverbanks
Might point
And write
The adventures of romance
They have seen hidden
In the skies
While they counted stars.

Cassiopeia ~ the vain queen

Posted on by The Zoya Project

CASSIOPEIA ~ the vain queen

They cut my features
From the cosmic brilliance,
Of every beautiful thing
The world had produced.
The blood gushing around my body
In whorls of white,
Like the salted tips of
Every ocean wave
Pulled towards the night sky.
Will they tell you the stories
Written by winners and stars
Who lack my shine?
Of how they sent me
Spinning into the cosmos
To cling to the light of the moon
And all the other celestial bodies,
For disobedience.
When everyone knows
Some stars are too beautiful
To shine among
Mere mortals.

Featured artwork: Sana Hassan 

Andromeda ~ the maiden of sorrow

Posted on by The Zoya Project

ANDROMEDA ~ the maiden of sorrow

They must have examined
The light bouncing off
Teardrops,
Before they placed me
In the sky.
That tiny glimmer
Of white light
In a single drop
That gleams gold and silver.
A single drop
Of molten stardust
Extricated from mortal bodies
So unlike
The sea spray
From the angry waves.
Tied down,
The only escape
Was through
Sorrow trickling
From my
Eyes.
The starry look
Of despair
Turning into a look
Of heart-sickness,
That glimmered
On my cheeks,
Little trails of light
Upon dusty planes and
Stormy clouds,
Which they point out
In the twinkling skies,
And call
Shooting stars.
Unable to see
The galaxy
I have held
Within my arms,
A sea
For all your stories
To sail in.

Featured artwork: Sana Hassan