at (and around) the indian art festival, hyderabad
the question sits on my eyelids like a detached eyelash,
unwished over, as i gaze past the rest of the paintings.
so many stupid paintings of benares. i get it. it's old
and exotic and your glorious heritage. stop it now.
a golden leaf, each crease a legend on a strange city's map.
a yellow taxi jumping out of a black and white calcutta.
red legs crawling out of a box, red hands playing with a cube.
are you guys artists? the question bubbles into more questions:
are we artists? why did i say no? why did he ask me of all people?
after exiting the gallery we wait for the auto to arrive.
the sky is a mixed-media artist: look at that arrangement
of overcast cotton and brilliant water.
we eat afghani chicken and garlic naan at shahji's dhaba.
on the way back we see murals painted on every metro pillar
and every electric transformer: one was a snarky panda
with sunglasses and bamboo for a selfie stick.
there were many freedom fighters and a few revolutionaries.
a car has a saffron sticker of angry hanuman but just below it
also in saffron the face of che guevara. on sitaphalmandi road
i see on the back of an auto, in red, the words of george reddy:
jeena hai to marna seekho / kadam kadam pe ladna seekho
(if you want to live learn to die / on every step learn to fight).
we get off at the end of the flyover, buy a pack of cigarettes,
walk back home, and the only thing on my mind are questions:
guys, are we artists?
guys, why did he ask?
~ ajay
11/6/2024
