Posts from the art category.
There are books you read, and there are books that read you. I didn’t expect that a quiet-looking hardcover with a nostalgic photograph of Mussoorie nestled on the cover would do that to me — but the moment I cracked open Mussoorie Montage: Tales from the Hills by Divyaroop Bhatnagar, I felt something shift. It was like stepping into a fog-thick morning on Camel’s Back Road where everything feels ...
There are books that arrive quietly, like soft rain tapping on a window. And then there are books like Wellness — that kick the door open, sit across from you in the dim light of a late-night café, and ask the kind of questions you’ve been trying very hard not to look at directly. The kind of questions that feel like staring into a mirror for too long.What if love isn’t something we fall into once...
Some stories don’t knock politely before entering your life. They walk straight in, sit across from you like an old friend, and before you know it, they’ve moved something inside you that you didn’t even realize needed shifting. Whispers in the Mist: Tales from a Himalayan Hamlet by Prerna Dewan was one such unexpected visitor. I began reading it on an ordinary evening, thinking I’d finish a chapt...
I still remember the first time I heard Piyush Mishra live — his words flowing like a river that refuses to be dammed, each syllable carrying the weight of years, pain, joy, and unrestrained passion. The air itself seemed to hum with his energy, each note and gesture leaving invisible ripples that lingered long after the applause. Holding Tumhari Auqat Kya Hai now, I realize reading this book is l...
Sometimes a piece of music, something that you love dearly but just haven’t heard in a while comes on. And it puts a smile on your face. The playlist while waiting for Ne Obliviscaris (another band I adore) to get on stage for their set went from one gem to another. And then we were reminded of this piece of art and the genius that was taken from us too soon. Never got to see Cynic live and witnes...
Somedays, I used to ask my father to draw something for me. And he used to. At least, that’s how I remember it . Or, it’s highly likely he might have chosen to try his hand in drawing himself. I don't remember to the point now, but he did draw for sure pretty enthusiastically.When in school, I loved drawing, sketching, painting. The dining table would turn into my art studio, with brushes, pencils...
This thoughtfully created paper bag rekindled my childhood days. I owned one of such book with all this cartoons and used to keep reading the same story again and again. It was fun to do such activities with no track of time. The very instinct that I had after seeing this was to colour it. What else could be the best activity to do on Children's Day!
Some books don’t knock — they slip into your life like a whisper behind your ear. Relics was that kind of whisper for me, the kind that makes you turn around in a crowded café even though you know no one is there. I picked it up on an evening when the world felt a little too ordinary, a little too predictable, and within a few pages Tim Lebbon reminded me why I fell in love with fantasy and horror...
I remember the first time I walked through Dharavi — not as a tourist, not as a spectator, but as a quiet observer trying to make sense of its heartbeat. The lanes were alive with motion — children darting between tin roofs, the hum of machines from leather workshops, the scent of wet earth mingling with chai and sweat. Amid that pulse, there was something else too — an invisible current of resili...
