The Self Portrait

I blame the Oxford Dictionary for the 'selfie' craze. IF THEY HADN'T MADE IT A LEGITIMATE WORD OF THE ENGLISH LANGUAGE, IT WOULDN'T HAVE BECOME AS PSEUDO-COOL AS IT IS TODAY.

Gone are the days when photographers took the effort to be creative while taking pictures of themselves. They would use remotes, self-timers, reflections, locations, height and depth to create an image of how they perceived themselves. Perhaps what I love best about self portraits is how uncommon they were. How each one I came across had a different style, a new approach toward expression.

Self portrature is an art that came about from photographers having brilliant ideas and no subjects. Or, photographers who weren't conventionally shy about being in front of the camera. Or photographers who knew that no one else could encapture what they had in mind and who decided to take their own photographs.

Example:

In fact, I think self portrature is a beautiful way to experiment with camera features, light settings, to learn about composition and planning and to develop ideas and check how feasible they are.

It is important to understand that a selfie is NOT the same as a self portrait. And my indignation doesn't come from thinking they are synonymous. What it does stem from is the realization of how selfies are littering people's phones and the internet and how they are replacing the very thought of creating what could be art.

I don't think I will ever truly understand how people can be okay with being exactly like everyone else around them. Being a clone has been a haunting thought to me always and I feel uncomfortable when I cannot distinctly define myself within a group of people. Selfies have become more than a trend- they've become a way of life. They've become the purpose of outings, get-togethers, journeys, meals, festivals, new clothes, pets, life. There have been times when I've walked up to two people trying to take a selfie and offered to take the photo for them- but have been refused. It isn't a photo together that people want, they want a selfie. And they'll keep taking them until they get it right. Whatever 'right' means.

I'm not a selfie virgin. Far from it. At a time like this, when majority of my friends gather around and take pictures, I'm inadvertently squeezed into them and thus, into that culture. But I'm never okay with it. Somehow, my intestines twist whilst taking a selfie even more than they do before a final examination. I've tried both portrature and selfies and I must say, the former has been far more successful.

I really don't know what the purpose of this post is. But what I do know is if I see another selfie pop up on my Facebook feed again today, my shoulders won't have a head to support anymore- because it would've gone through the roof.

ALSO, I THINK POLICE FROM AROUND THE WORLD SHOULD CONFISCATE SELFIE-STICKS AND USE THEM AS CANES TO BEAT PEOPLE WITH.

fin.

2015 (I lost count)

I want to be a boulder in the sea

Just toward the waters’ edge.

I want to wait patiently till high tide

For the waving messengers of the world

To come crashing down upon my heated surface

And drench me of my vacant mind.

I want to listen quietly to the tales from lands below and afar

And I want to be soaked

In the sea’s tireless endeavours

To pour into the land

That I unfortunately belong to.

A Wallflower, Maybe.

A flash of orange moving about the foyer was all she was to this college. Her smiles settled down on the people as though dusted from a bee’s wings. The woods and the conversations they held painted the thought bubbles that floated over her head as she walked barefoot inside confused socks. She was convinced that her life was created by a wandering mistress who knew not where she belonged. She was put there, upon the petals of a garden that smelled of passion by a dewdrop who compelled her to find answers. 

“What questions do I answer?” she asked, to which the dew replied, “Your own, including that one.”

She rests her head upon her knees and silently observes the land. She sees so much that she cannot leave a moment untouched. Everything is too precious and priorities are impossible to maintain. She keeps a log of everything she feels, hears, smells or sees- completely oblivious to how much she’s missing every time she puts pen to paper. She loves the world and wants it to embrace her- tighter and tighter every year, until one day, it smothers her and claims her as part of itself. 

But she fears the people around her and people as a race. And so she wonders if she should fear herself. She can’t decide whether to live within a giant bubble, buffering her from every distraction or whether to burst it, letting in the slightest beating of wings or pleasant humming- allowing them to saturate her senses, leaving no scope for her to move or assimilate. She wants to learn and read and study- as long as she lives- but she wonders if knowing so much would someday stop her from being fascinated by her surroundings. She wants a life of knowledge and wonder and can’t quite grasp whether they can survive in each other’s arms. 

So she falls asleep each night to the sound of the still air and the smell of her dusty curtains and the touch of her cat’s fur against her chest and surrenders to her dreams which she knows will amaze her more than her own imagination.

Holi Hai, kya?

I hated having to bathe. When I was in school, I would wake up late just so I could skip bathing- and in the evenings, I preferred homework to soap. At times, I would go days without a bath until my mother pushed me into the bathroom and threatened not to leave until she heard the water running. Perhaps I took her too literally. One such day, when it had been so long since I bathed that you could smell me before you saw me, I was pushed into the bathroom. Indignant, I turned the shower on, hummed particularly loudly and waited. I made faces at myself in the mirror, climbed up on the toilet, bathtub, basin and danced around. I mixed facewash and handwash and watched the mixture bubble under the tap- but I refused to stand under the running water. A good 45 minutes later, I decided my bath had lasted long enough. I proudly undressed, wrapped myself up in my towel and turned the water off. I came outside looking particularly victorious and announced, “I’m done, Ma!” She came and took one look at me and hit the roof. There wasn’t the tiniest droplet of dampness on my body and my hair was as bouncy and dusty as it would’ve been had I spent the last week in a sweltering desert. I was never very smart when it came to getting away with things.

 

Strangely enough, for someone who hated bathing as much as I did, I loved Holi. I would count the weeks and months to that one day when ALL my friends would gather in the building with their pichkaris and gulal, ready to plaster each other with colourful insanity. I would wake up from dreams of merriment earlier than any other morning of the year and slip into old clothes and sit at my window waiting for when my friends came downstairs and called out to me. I would run out the door with packets of colour, water balloons and a big bucket with Oliver, my lab, trailing behind me with exited panting. The next few hours would fill the air with our cacophonic laughter, stain the compound with our colourful concoctions and drench us down to our bones until we shivered in the hot sun. It was the most fun we were going to have all year and we were going to squeeze every bit of enjoyment out of it.

When I shifted to a new building, I was afraid I’d lose the magic of Holi, but I found that my new neighbours were just as much fun as my old ones. In fact, the new building came not only with colour- but with food too! I loved Holi so much that I didn’t even mind oiling my hair before playing or washing the colour off afterward. That one bath of the year I looked forward to, for the warm water running down my body uncovered the dry colour and painted my drains- reminding me of all the fun I’d had that day.

Then, I grew up. As did all my friends. I ended up becoming one of those animal-loving, environmentally-conscious, borderline-activists. I began to realise how much water people waste every year. I began to read about strays and cows choking on rubber balloons and plastic. I began to realise how adults drink till their sloshed while they plaster each other and how the innocence of Holi dissolves away, just like the colour from my body. The magic of Holi, was disappearing.

For the last few years, I haven’t known whether to answer the knocks on my door or ignore them. I haven’t known whether I support the one festival that painted my childhood memories or disapprove of it.

My principles lay before me on a platter, wondering whether I’ll keep them to myself or turn them to powder and cover others’ faces with them. This year, a cold kept me home in a blanket- safe from damp and decisions. Next year, once more, I’ll be faced with my heartstrings tugging at my memories and my brain trying hard to reassure me of how my childhood tales will remain safe even if I don’t relive them. Holi has become the day that reminds me of the fact that I’m moving on, growing up and finding a personality. It reminds me of the fact that the opinions I have need to be practiced and cannot remain words on paper or signatures on online petitions.

I always knew I was growing up, but today, I felt old.