On some days when I'm not an artist, I'm just another C o u n t r y s i d e L o v e r, admiring the 4: pm skies and the forget-me-not blues the white canvas drapes itself into. I'm writing eulogies to lost summer love stories who taste like modern day fairytales. I'm a beautiful spectrum of ivory reveries, a prefix to another sultry morning of writing pale hopenotes. I'm my own muse.
On days when I've left my art to rot in the rosewood alleys of memory lane, my heart weighs a P r e t t y M e t a p h o r . I'm pliant to my hometown's fondest touch, the fringes of my paper towns. They know my stories, of smiles, songs and sunsets. When I want to say how I've swallowed shards of fate, they'll tell you the saga of aching to growing up into a poetry
On some days I'm not an artist, I'm just another V a g a b o n d B o h e m i a n in the vanilla street of Kashmir or writing promises on seashells. I'm putting wildflowers into my braids and painting my nails in acrylics. On those days I'm the calm breeze humming to wind chimes and forevers and not the city that never sleeps.
On days my art has left me for another hope I'm just B l u e A e s t h e t i c s as I scribble urdu poetries on my mauve walls and paint my nails in a buoyant orange, falling in love with vinyl tapes and polaroids. I'm loving bougainvilleas and heartbreaks over everything. I'm falling back to soul-warming smiles.
But somedays when I'm not an artist myself, I choose to be the A r t crammed inside my childhood photo albums and festive chorus. The art forgotten amidst the pandemic. The art of caring for old strangers and emptying metro seats. Sewing sunflowers on denims, family gatherings and humming Gulzar to my grandmother who says I've grown up too soon.
My father's household, Speaks a different vocabulary To mother's Who crossed a sea And a storm, For the sake of her vermilion So when the world tries to drown me, I warn them a poem This is the daughter of the same, You tried to tame, Years back.