Category Archives: IdeART

Sculptors of Emotion

We are raw from sharp experience
Carrying knives of words
& chisels of pain

My jealousy is smoothly curved
And you stick pinpoints of insight into it
Leaving them to harden overnight

Then, as I ripple its edges
with vulnerability
You fill the holes with trust

I chip away at your craggy, unformed notions
And sand-blast the flinty surfaces
left behind, with airy politics

You let residual memory wash it over
And together we sun-dry the lot
with our smiles

We make such wonderful sculptors of emotion.

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If you liked this post, you’ll want to follow the Facebook Page and the Youtube channel. I’m Ramya Pandyan (a.k.a. Ideasmith) and I’m on Twitter and Instagram.

Watercolours & Words

The last month has been a stern and worried cleanup, possibly triggered by the death of my friend’s parent to COVID. I haven’t jumped on the Marie Kondo bandwagon, I was always tidy. This has been an emotional cleanup with books as a metaphor for my mind.

First I read Last Chance Saloon again, a book that I must have sensed that I’d need to grow into since I didn’t read it again but followed its author into her entire bibliography, finding other favorites along that way. I found insight, inspiration & even guidance in her other books. Yes, she writes books that are found in the section called ChickLit. But ‘Watermelon’ showed me strong women get hurt by men too & embodied what it looked like to rise above that. ‘Anybody Out There’ gave meaning to the sometimes inexplicable path to healing. And if it hadn’t been for ‘Rachel’s Holiday’, I would never have recognised the aftermath of a nicotine addiction and the manipulation & escapism that are par for every addict’s course. I loved the characters in these stories and their adventures became my lessons, the kind that I didn’t have the fortune to receive from an older sibling or relatable mentor. Re-reading Last Chance Saloon let me see exactly which wounds felt exposed in this story but also showed me how much I’d healed & was able to turn the page. Some of the reviews of the book are unsympathetic to the character in an abusive relationship. I’m now at a place where I can see that this comes partly from ignorance & mostly from a vague fear that this could happen to anyone. Because it does happen to anyone, not just weak/spineless women. Shaming is an attempt to deflect onto someone else’s issues because it feels to painful to face one’s own.

In the past few years I’ve been reading books that I loved as a child, then as a teenager. Many of them are bringing up ‘insights’. But more likely, they’re helping me process long buried memories & emotions from the times I first read them. And by that, I seem to be up to my 20s now. It felt right to pick up my first Marian Keyes again. It prised loose a number of things. For one, I rediscovered blogging. I’ve been writing for Instagram engagement for a couple of years and reposting to my blogs. But writing in the Compose screen of a blog – that’s an unparalleled feeling for me. I guess it’s akin to some writers who say they prefer writing pen to paper. Sans the character limit, without an eye on the engagement stats, there are entire worlds of me that come up and say “I exist!”. These are the worlds that I got to explore in the safety of anonymity as IdeaSmith when I first began blogging.

Propelled by this, I picked up another Marian Keyes that I’ve avoided after the first read – This Charming Man. I read this in March 2008. I was on a very rare-for-me holiday visiting a family home in rural Tamil Nadu. After being relentlessly independent my whole adult life, I’d fallen prey to the comfort zone of the rat race. I was also returning to a family vacation after many years. I took this book along as my vacation read. It was disturbing but I finished it. A year later, I would fall into a relationship that would end badly for the same reason (even if he wasn’t charming). It’s like Keyes foretold some of my futures.

Since I was untangling my past via books, I couldn’t any more ignore a certain stack that has been nagging me from the back for years. Books that I associate with people who hurt me deeply. Books from the ex. A book from an ex friend who love-bombed me then implied that I was unstable & ghosted me. Books with inscriptions carrying words that sound hollow, sentiments that seem fake now. It’s a very upsetting sight.

I haven’t been able to bring myself to dispose of them. So much of the last few years has been about coping with people exploiting my tragedies. Shaming about the failed relationship, bullying over lies spread by ex friends. Each of those strands of poison have grown tentacles & threatened to strangle me at every turn. Sending these books out into the world felt like I’d be giving them even more ammunition to hurt me. I could not bring myself to tear or burn a book, no matter how horrible the associated memories. In the last decade, I’ve had to learn to do and be a lot of things I never thought myself capable of. But I always knew that if I made myself a person who tears a book, I’d hate myself forever. When I do that, I consign myself to the same hell of violence that these people belong in. None of them are worth that.

So I’ve lived with the festering wounds between these pages, hiding them at the back of my bookshelf, scattering them across different stacks so as to space out the negative energy (sort of), leaking some of my hurt in a line in my poem Paper Plane (“A page from a book that was a gift from someone you don’t want to remember”).

Some time ago, I spoke to a friend and explained this. And immediately she said, “Just send them to me.” I breathed a big sigh of relief. Finally the poison would be away from me and disposed off safely. Still, I delayed sending them to her. At first I thought I’d scribble over the inscriptions so her kids wouldn’t inadvertently chance upon something they shouldn’t. Then I thought how nice it would be to paint over the inscription instead so they’d have a pretty book (even if it was slightly mutilated by this). And in this, I’ve struggled so much.

Painting used to come really easy to me, honest. Before I wanted to be a writer, before I was even noticed as a performer, I found my home in colour & art. I was frequently in trouble for scribbling all over my notebooks or drawing when I was supposed to be answering questions. I once won an art competition whose judges called my work innovative as I sweated buckets for my messy colouring beyond the lines. When I fell into an abusive relationship, by happy chance I also discovered fabric paints. And for two years through assault, violence & body-shaming, I turned out teeshirts, kurtas & shirts intricately hand-painted & good enough for people to stop me on the road and ask where they could buy one.

But yesterday, I was a mess. Buoyed by the energy of the Keyes’ re-reading, I decided to tackle the pile and set up my art station, paintboxes, brushes, everything. And nothing. The inscriptions leered back at me, laughing at what a fool I’d been to think they were true. Then the words took shape & I found myself wondering if maybe things had not been so bad. Almost immediately I’d hear the jeering, the cruel barbs and taste the blood flowing down my face. On the page, my brushes only left weak streaks that muddied the white but didn’t hide the writing. I tried, again and again. My hands shook and my eyes blurred. Once upon a time, my rule-breaking techniques, my line-breaching colouring were my artistic superpowers. Now with my confidence gone, I felt riddled with holes. The paint was leaking and the inscriptions were rubbing salt into those wounds.

I realised I couldn’t send this on to my friend. It felt filthy and wrong, as if I was parceling my vomit and pretending it was a gift. With a lot of shame I messaged her an apology for my delay. As I said that, I realised what I needed to do. I couldn’t have her hiding the poison for me. I had to heal myself. And healing, like cleaning, is messy. So I took the smudgy streaked books and I put them in the discard pile, where they will be sold to some anonymous reader who may notice that there are words under the messy watercolours. They may try to decipher or not, they may assign meanings & build fictional stories about the messages passed in that undecipherable inscription. But that’ll be their stories to make and tell. Nothing to do with me. It’s not poison I’m sending out into the world. It’s material for other stories.

In the night, as I picked up ‘This Charming Man’ again, I found myself shallow-breathing again. It hurt to read, like when one has eaten something nasty or when there’s a needle left inside the dress you’re wearing and it’s sticking right into you. This book was probably written when Keyes was wading through depression. It makes a valient effort to be her usual buoyant writing self, with self-deprecating humour & startlingly honest confessions. But the men are monsters, the women are laughing so they don’t cry and the entire story is cast with a pall of sleazy too-bright gloom. It’s the way hospital lights look in a gory film. It also reminded me of the dark years after my engagement ended, as I blundered about trying to cope, putting on the bravest face I could summon and still attracting so much venom. Like flies to an open wound, is how I think of it.

I am not going to finish reading this book. I don’t have to. I know this is not reality or even a comedic take on it. It’s an open wound and right now, I’m not a fly drawn to it. Because I adore Marian Keyes (through her word), I feel like I should hold on to this book even if I don’t read it. It is my way of showing support for the harder times of someone I care about. The books are a metaphor for my emotional state, after all.

When I woke up today, I felt able to paint again.

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If you liked this post, you’ll want to follow the Facebook Page and the Youtube channel. I’m Ramya Pandyan (a.k.a. Ideasmith) and I’m on Twitter and Instagram.

π•‹β„π•€π•Š π•Šπ•‹π•†β„™π•Š π•Žπ•€π•‹β„ π•„𝔼

I said to myself. Hate, violence, abuse – these breed more of their own when left unchecked. It’s easy to use them to explain why you inflict them on others. That explains it, it doesn’t justify it. So I say no. No to addiction, no to promiscuity, no to easy ways out. No to lashing out, no to throwing someone else under the bus, no to preying on the unsuspecting, no to making my problems my prideful power. No, no, no. This stops with me.

I have needed someone to remember me as hopeful. Someone to tell me I’m gentle. Standing alone in a swarm of self-haters, it gets very difficult not to get some of that poison in your nose, other people’s tears burning your eyes.

But pain will not break you. Disappointment will not break you. Rejection will not break you. It’s important to remember. The only thing that can break you, is you.

We are constantly rebuilding, patching up. Some days that’s just paper over tears. Pain is a drug but so is healing. When will you realise that other people’s rage is not about you, I ask myself. It never was. This drug does not sit right. It wasn’t made in me; it’s not made for me. So this, I have to tell myself when no one else can, this stops with me.

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This is part of my series titled Midlife Pandemic, where I look back at the internal shifts, my wrong turns & my healing. I also asked my Instagram followers to help me think through this with a series of questions. I’d also love to hear your answers to any or all of the questions so post them in the comments!

  1. What was a milestone age in your life and why?
  2. Tell me about a big disappointment and how you dealt with it.
  3. Is there something in your life you regret & how has it impacted your life?
  4. When did you start caring for yourself and how?
  5. Self-worth. An incident or time in your life that impacted it. Tell me.
  6. Where have you hidden yourself?
  7. Tell me a time you surprised yourself with how well you’ve been able to cope.
  8. What has been the best age for you to have been so far & why?

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If you liked this post, you’ll want to follow the Facebook Page and the Youtube channel. I’m Ramya Pandyan (a.k.a. Ideasmith) and I’m on Twitter and Instagram.

π•»π–†π–•π–Šπ–— π•Ύπ–π–Žπ–Šπ–‘π–‰π–˜

I’ve been examining the concept of labels this week – why we need them, why I resist them so much. No denying labels play an important role in the human experience.



A name is a label & it’s the first building block of our identity. Therein lie some answers. Labels are given to us when we are very young – gender, religion, race, ethnicity. They’re maps to help us navigate living & grow into our bodies, our minds, our feelings, our purpose.

We know labels become cages, notably the gender label that has been my biggest prison. So how does something that’s meant to help human life become something that poisons it?

Naming a thing is powerful. For instance, recognising an experience as a trauma can help you breathe because pretending it didn’t happen is suffocation. But any source of power can be turned into a shield, a crutch or a weapon.

We hide behind some labels. If the label is a shield, then anyone with a different flag (also a label) looks like an enemy.

It’s hard work figuring out who you are & terrifying to realise this is constantly changing. Labeling feels reassuring, like life can be understood & predicted with a formula that names everything neatly. People who are difficult to label are intimidating because they force us to face the fact that life moves beyond & with or without labels.

Each time, I’m attacked for this, I sustain damage. Labels like patriarchy, feminism, microaggression, harassment, consent violation have helped me proceed. Labels of feelings like betrayal, jealousy, rage, fear, hunger, discomfort have helped me find ways to address them. Now, when I’ve had time to process & heal, I find myself thinking about the sources of those hurts.

Who are people when their labels fall away? There’s a pristine authenticity in that moment. You cannot touch without also being touched. Living beyond labels necessarily makes everyone around you have to live like that, even if only for a few moments. Not everyone likes that but that’s okay, I guess.
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This is part of my Instagram series titled #UnlabeledLives that has posts, questions & polls, conversations & an Instagram Live with Quateel Ahmad saved as an IGTV video. If you liked this post, check it out!

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If you liked this post, you’ll want to follow the Facebook Page and the Youtube channel. I’m Ramya Pandyan (a.k.a. Ideasmith) and I’m on Twitter and Instagram.

π•Ώπ–π–Š π•±π–Šπ–‘π–‘π–”π–œπ–˜π–π–Žπ–• 𝕺𝖋 π•Ώπ–π–Š π•½π–Šπ–†π–‰π–Šπ–—π–˜

As a kid, I was adrift in a sea of cultural influences, linguistic, communal, regional & personal. Maybe that’s a metropolitan childhood but life has always felt like a search for an identity anchor.

I took to books early because an only child is a lonely child but words never go home at night. I stumbled across Russian folktales, tumbled over Enid Blytons, ran into mythology Indian & foreign & danced with kid sleuths. There was so much to discover, everything fleeting by faster than I could make sense of it, in a blur of library cards & surreptitious reads in bookshops. I enjoyed other kids’books more than their toys or for that matter, them. I knew how to navigate words snuggled between pages better than I did, kids’ behaviour & adults’ agenda.

One of the books my dad gave me had a picture of a dragon on the cover. I’d seen him reading it the previous week so I was surprised to get to read a big people’s book. Some time later, he handed me a heavy box. It was a box set of books with beautifully painted covers. This is the story after the book you’re reading, he said.

He’d borrowed it from a friend. When he finished, he asked if he could hold on to it a little longer for his daughter to read. The friend asked, “She’ll read this? My kids don’t like books.” Yes, said dad. In that case, said the friend, let this be my gift to her.

I met the friend years later. He called me his god daughter but never mentioned the gift. I know now that this is a rare collector’s edition of a story that pioneered fantasy fiction & later, a highly successful movie series. It’s the classic hero’s journey that has intrigued people of every age for decades. In guess my inner Bilbo Baggins met her Gandalf early in life.

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If you liked this post, you’ll want to follow the Facebook Page and the Youtube channel. I’m Ramya Pandyan (a.k.a. Ideasmith) and I’m on Twitter and Instagram.

Bleeding Colour

When it hurts, and you aren’t even allowed to bleed, turn it into art. When they have encoded hatred into every thing that touches you, every gaze, every fabric, every brushstroke, every word, let the burn power you. If you are a child of pain or even a vehicle for others’ sorrow, let it course through you like electricity. Feelings are fuel and they are a palette.

When I watch women, girls with makeup, I see them absorb the policing of their bodies. I see them write away their agency to patriarchy & to capitalism. I see them blend, I see them self-edit, I see them scream but on mute. I see them never realise what masters they are at painting, what magicians they can be for the illusions they create.

I don’t know why I never learnt to see the brush as a police baton or a pencil as a hot brand. In my hands, they’re magic wands. They let me erase shame, not myself. They enable me to elevate the wounds other people have inflicted, from scars to tattoos. They flow through me, from gaslighting into poetry.

The red lines become but the start of a new piece of art. The salt water creates washes that tease out nuance in pigment.I didn’t ask for it, I didn’t deserve it. But this, this is what I create and this is mine. When you are stripped of every vestige of control, remember, no one can take away what you make of yourself.

With love to the ones hurting & bleeding, choose your brush and blaze a trail called you.

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If you liked this post, you’ll want to follow the Facebook Page and the Youtube channel. I’m Ramya Pandyan (a.k.a. Ideasmith) and I’m on Twitter and Instagram.

πŸ…»πŸ…ΈπŸ†…πŸ…ΈπŸ…½πŸ…Ά πŸ…°πŸ†πŸ†ƒ

I’ve loved painting since I was young enough to find joy leaving my fingerprints on walls & my own face. That has not changed. Something about the interplay of colour & the feel of pigment in every form just makes me sit right. I feel like I tap into a different universe inside myself when I’m painting, one that is serene & still moving. Such a far cry from the usual self I inhabit that is full of words but rarely goes anywhere.

When @suddentwilight said, “The process is the art” I knew she had put to words the above feeling. It’s how I approach make-up & dressing too. The fun, the journey is in the creation rather than the end result. The goal isn’t always beauty. Or symmetry or fashion. There isn’t always a goal.

Many years ago, when I stared at a street painting at the Kala Ghoda Art Festival, I mumbled, “I don’t know what sense I’m supposed to make of this.” Someone said, “Maybe you don’t. Some art exists just for the aesthetic.” I’ve thought about that often. This need to put labels & assign meaning to every aspect of the lived experience makes us miss so much of the actual living. Sometimes a design is just something someone felt like creating. Sometimes a person is just being a person. The result you see is a reminder of an experience that was lived. Maybe all you have to do, is live through your experience when you encounter it.

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If you liked this post, you’ll want to follow the Facebook Page and the Youtube channel. I’m Ramya Pandyan (a.k.a. Ideasmith) and I’m on Twitter and Instagram.

Threadwork Therapy

I picked up the crochet needle today. I began crocheting in 2002 after I heard it was calming. My impatient younger self had been bored by the labor but in 2002 I found something else. I was struggling through something I did not understand, had no support or idea how to get out of – violent abuse. Every moment had confusion, pain, guilt, terror, anger. Crochet gently insisted I pay attention but without taxing my fraught brain. It brought my breathing into rhythm, which I know now is a way to start healing.

I’ve been reading a book about violence. Why, the reactions come flying at me. A friend screamed at me for reading ROOM that I better not come to her when I was sad later. Others say it’s a trigger I should avoid. People have tried to impose limiting stories like ‘Strong Woman’ on me. One person silenced me because ‘it triggered her to know strong women get beaten up’. Advice to avoid triggers comes couched in well-intentioned tones. When I don’t pay heed, people attack with ferocity. Whether ‘triggers’ are a useful idea or not, they’re brandished like weapons. The fuel is always fear.

Why do I read about my traumas? Because it helps me build a narrative I can live with. I don’t like fear; I resist it. It feels alien, unnatural to me. It’s not that I’m never afraid. I have seen & tasted my own blood, swallowed my reactions for fear of escalation. I know that surviving attack means carrying the blame for it. I’ve never been wrong. I also know that the world operates from fear. Every screaming voice is fear. Every cruel act is fear. Every petty slur, nasty barb, silencing act, personal attack, control attempt comes from fear. I know these are not me.

It’s hard to keep a hold on that truth, through universal gaslighting & attempts to control my story. These books, articles, shows take me to dark places in my mind but it is MY mind. I face every aspect of my self, to shape my story fully & powerfully. Fear, you will not have me.

When I focus again, I realise I’ve dropped a stitch and miscounted. But that’s okay because the yarn & needle are firmly in my grasp. It’s my choice to undo or redo. 

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THREADWORK THERAPY I picked up the crochet needle today. I began crocheting in 2002 after I heard it was calming. My impatient younger self had been bored by the labor but in 2002 I found something else. I was struggling through something I did not understand, had no support or idea how to get out of – violent abuse. Every moment had confusion, pain, guilt, terror, anger. Crochet gently insisted I pay attention but without taxing my fraught brain. It brought my breathing into rhythm, which I know now is a way to start healing. I've been reading a book about violence. Why, the reactions come flying at me. A friend screamed at me for reading ROOM that I better not come to her when I was sad later. Others say it's a trigger I should avoid. People have tried to impose limiting stories like 'Strong Woman' on me. One person silenced me because 'it triggered her to know strong women get beaten up'. Advice to avoid triggers comes couched in well-intentioned tones. When I don't pay heed, people attack with ferocity. Whether 'triggers' are a useful idea or not, they're brandished like weapons. The fuel is always fear. Why do I read about my traumas? Because it helps me build a narrative I can live with. I don't like fear; I resist it. It feels alien, unnatural to me. It's not that I'm never afraid. I have seen & tasted my own blood, swallowed my reactions for fear of escalation. I know that surviving attack means carrying the blame for it. I've never been wrong. I also know that the world operates from fear. Every screaming voice is fear. Every cruel act is fear. Every petty slur, nasty barb, silencing act, personal attack, control attempt comes from fear.Β I know these are not me. It's hard to keep a hold on that truth, through universal gaslighting & attempts to control my story. These books, articles, shows take me to dark places in my mind but it is MY mind. I face every aspect of my self, to shape my story fully & powerfully. Fear, you will not have me. When I focus again, I realise I've dropped a stitch and miscounted. But that's okay because the yarn & needle are firmly in my grasp. It's my choice to undo or redo. 🎢: NAIMA: John Coltrane #theideasmithy

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If you liked this post, you’ll want to follow the Facebook Page and the Youtube channel. I’m Ramya Pandyan (a.k.a. Ideasmith) and I’m on Twitter and Instagram.

A Song Of Silence

What does loneliness sound like? 
A scream that no one seems to hear. Gasps that don’t make it past the throat. Sentences written in invisible ink. The redacted words on a page.

It’s feeling unwanted, unnecessary, irrelevent even. Then you remember. You still exist. The print under the graffiti, the face under the veil, the writing on discarded applications. The breaths you leave behind in desolate corridors hang in there, unobliterated. Loneliness can sound an awful lot like peace then.

Who are you when the screams die down, when the words fade? Maybe we are all lonely.

I found my insides erupt in rapture, during conversations about maths, punctuated with memories of every mood. And through everything a steady beat, because what else is mathematics but the joy of patterns, the collective staccato of beating hearts? Rhythm reminds you of the notes you only pretend don’t exist but you hear them in your head anyway. Always.

Afterwards, I walked in silence by myself, briefly entering conversations of eyes and lips while crossing roads and running an errand. Still on beat. The shrill taps leading the unheard booms.

Later, I read a book sitting in a bookshop. Periodically I’d look up, watching other people like myself, readers moving through bookshelves, each in a dance of their own thought streams. These were the skipped beats, the pauses that make up melody as much as the notes. 
The romance of this, is what drives musicians and writers to wax eloquent. It is the null state of mathematics, the shunyata of meditation.

Loneliness is its own song, when you learn to hear it.

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A SONG OF SILENCE What does loneliness sound like? A scream that no one seems to hear. Gasps that don't make it past the throat. Sentences written in invisible ink. The redacted words on a page. It's feeling unwanted, unnecessary, irrelevent even. Then you remember. You still exist. The print under the graffiti, the face under the veil, the writing on discarded applications. The breaths you leave behind in desolate corridors hang in there, unobliterated. Loneliness can sound an awful lot like peace then. Who are you when the screams die down, when the words fade? Maybe we are all lonely. I found my insides erupt in rapture, during conversations about maths, punctuated with memories of every mood. And through everything a steady beat, because what else is mathematics but the joy of patterns, the collective staccato of beating hearts? Rhythm reminds you of the notes you only pretend don't exist but you hear them in your head anyway.Β Always. Afterwards, I walked in silence by myself, briefly entering conversations of eyes and lips while crossing roads and running an errand. Still on beat. The shrill taps leading the unheard booms. Later, I read a book sitting in a bookshop. Periodically I'd look up, watching other people like myself,Β readers moving through bookshelves, each in a dance of their own thought streams. These were the skipped beats, the pauses that make up melody as much as the notes. The romance of this, is what drives musicians and writers to wax eloquent. It is the null state of mathematics, the shunyata of meditation. Loneliness is its own song, when you learn to hear it. 🎢: SOUND OF SILENCE – Simon & Garfunkel #theideasmithy #silence #loneliness #lonely #alone #aloneness #lonelynights #lonesome #peace #peaceful #peaceofmind #maths #mathematics #conversations #meditation #solitude

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If you liked this post, you’ll want to follow the Facebook Page and the Youtube channel. I’m Ramya Pandyan (a.k.a. Ideasmith) and I’m on Twitter and Instagram.

Where I Lay My Hands, Is Home

Much gets said about the frenzied pace of a metropolis and its coldness. But every big city is an organism of parallel layers, bubbles even, that jostle along, seemingly oblivious to the others’ presence. My city is Tinsel Town, it’s the financial capital, it’s the safest city, it’s a port, a tropical island, an organised crime base, a place starved for time and space and a mental border between South and North India. I inhabit a few of these bubbles and only occasionally, with great effort, do I cross over to the others. Because they are all Mumbai and anything that is Mumbai is mine to witness, to touch and experience and love.

In 2009, the BMC, Mumbai’s civic body invited citizens to come paint the walls of an arterial road abutting the railway track. I jumped at the opportunity to splash paint and spend a day on the streets. A lot of friendships were made that day that we spent whitewashing, priming and rendering street art on the rough wall of Tulsi Pipe Road.

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WHERE I LAY MY HANDS, IS HOME Much gets said about the frenzied pace of a metropolis and its coldness. But every big city is an organism of parallel layers, bubbles even, that jostle along, seemingly oblivious to the others' presence. My city is Tinsel Town, it's the financial capital, it's the safest city, it's a port, a tropical island, an organised crime base, a place starved for time and space and a mental border between South and North India. I inhabit a few of these bubbles and only occasionally, with great effort, do I cross over to the others. Because they are all Mumbai and anything that is Mumbai is mine to witness, to touch and experience and love. In 2009, the BMC, Mumbai's civic body invited citizens to come paint the walls of an arterial road abutting the railway track. I jumped at the opportunity to splash paint and spend a day on the streets. A lot of friendships were made that day that we spent whitewashing, priming and rendering street art on the rough wall of Tulsi Pipe Road. The paint has since worn away and been covered and recovered with other such wall projects. The pavement dwellers who were displaced for this day of fun for the more affluent, have eked out their homes again too. Bollywood posters come up now and then and in the past year, election campaigns as well. The city grows and breathes with every newcomer here. I just got to lay my handprint on it for a day. Even if it lies buried under layers of others, the city and I communed that day in September. πŸ“·: @wanderblah 🎢: MA REWA – Indian Ocean #theideasmithy

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The paint has since worn away and been covered and recovered with other such wall projects. The pavement dwellers who were displaced for this day of fun for the more affluent, have eked out their homes again too. Bollywood posters come up now and then and in the past year, election campaigns as well.

The city grows and breathes with every newcomer here. I just got to lay my handprint on it for a day. Even if it lies buried under layers of others, the city and I communed that day in September.

Featured image picture credit: Shirley Dcosta

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If you liked this post, you’ll want to follow the Facebook Page and the Youtube channel. I’m Ramya Pandyan (a.k.a. Ideasmith) and I’m on Twitter and Instagram.

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