Time, passing

Time, passing – clinging and clayey
like the mildewed earth
in the fallow flowerpots
stacked in one corner
spider webbed
mottled like rusting skin
exposed too long
under the aging sky –

The lime thicket, untended all summer
puts unkempt caramel leaves to the air
that smell of fruit souring.

From the old cane chair
where I sit, sniffing the fermenting mist air
I watch the overgrown plot adjacent
unattended, caught in a prison term
fenced by choking wild grass
and writhing creepers
encircling a collapsed shack
its termite ridden bones
half eaten by the soil
and still-born concrete masonry
rising against a wasting horizon
like the grappling remnants
of some wounded mammal
of a lost epoch
encrypted in sedimentary rock.

And it’s another year,
another new sun,
already old.



 Time, passing.

After the funeral of the dead year,
already a memory, a bird—
frantic or ecstatic or gone mad
in the thickets—
hammered open my night

Full of verve,
sure of his pitch,
and Time, passing
levitated in miracle
and good news.

Then swift and deafening,
a staccato burst of raucous revellers,
silenced him.

-Rita Putatunda

A Work In Progress

I've been at this stodgily, but my heart isn't in it, and it shows. I'm still recovering from Thomas's death and I just can't paint when I am so terribly sad. Thomas was a special cat.. All the animals in my life are and have been special, in their own way, but there was something about Thomas.. she was more human than any of the others, except for Shulky, my dog, who died of old age. Somehow, losing a loved one to old age is easier to accept than something like what happened to Thomas. I still see Thomas shadowing me around wherever I go in the house.. I turn around to look and only emptiness meets my eyes.. there is no way I can explain how empty that feels.

Anyway, I am determined to struggle on with my painting, and though I know this will not get rid of the emptiness Thomas's death has created in my life, I will dedicate this painting to my beloved cat.

I'm still getting used to the nuances of acrylics, most of which I'm discovering via trial and error. I need to push that second flower back so that the focus is on the first flower. I don't know if I want to put more details on the leaves.. at the moment I feel they are fine as they are. Maybe I'll texture the red leaves a little more. I sort of struggled with the background on this one.. I didn't know whether I wanted it lighter or darker than the foreground.. I think the darker one that I opted for at the bottom part is working well to give that pop-out effect for the leaves. But the flowers are sort of getting lost in the lighter background on the top half. Maybe I'll change the background colour there, instead of changing the value.. use a complementary colour and see if that works. The best thing about acrylics is that I can do that, and in a jiffy.

The drowning fish

Nobody could hear her – the fish drowning

As she lay soundlessly groaning

Where they had hauled her

And thrown her under

The sun beating down without mercy



Screaming – with silent gills gasping

They didn’t say poor thing

Let’s put her out of her misery

Let’s finish her quickly



As she lay dying – gills still heaving

They weighed her and scaled her

And cut her guts open

Spilling her life out

In one last gasp


- Rita Putatunda

The Banyan Tree

I go to the Pune University sometimes to sketch and paint. If I lived closer to it I would spend large chunks of my life there. I love the quiet green environs of its sprawling grounds, which are filled with ancient banyan trees. Here's a little ode to these graceful grand old trees.


Gnarled and ancient stood the huge banyan tree in a quiet corner of the forest

It’s branches knotted and twisted bent to the rough forest floor

Carpeted by the brown earth on which grew rough grasses

Thorn bushes and young saplings and myriad trees of every kind

The tamarind so sour and the flaming gulmohar

The sool babool so straight and the neem with its bitter leaves

They grew tall and spread their branches too

But the banyan strong and wide stood sturdiest of all

It’s trunk spanning the girth of the life of the ancient forest itself

Its branches encircling the earth itself

Each branch sending a daughter branch down

Which took root in the dirt and sprung new leaves and new branches

Which flowered and fruited and sent more roots down to give new birth anew

In its embracing shade the banyan gave shelter

To the small and the big to the weak and the strong

To the brown mynah and the singing koel to the crow and the peacock

To the mischievous monkey and the gentle deer lifting its nibbling snout

Without difference to anyone the banyan gave of itself to every one

To some its soothing shade to others its fruit

To some a haven for the ebullient spirit

To others a resting place for the weary soul

To the seeking mind it became the tree of knowledge

To the hungry soul it turned into a fountain of wisdom

To the child of the forest a nurturing mother

To its older sisters and brothers an indulgent father

To the wayfarer the traveler the wanderer a generous friend

Asking nothing in return taking nothing as due

Ancient yet with the sap of youth coursing in its knobby soul

Tall and wide and wise and old the banyan stood


-by Rita Putatunda

the aching

the aching of living

the aching of trying

to make sense

of a throbbing

neverending sobbing

the aching of trying

to keep believing

there is a meaning

the aching of whiling

away present tense

of a groping

unremitting unknowing





the aching of dying

the aching of crying


-by Rita Putatunda

Painting tiger lilies, Twitter & its "gurujis", And a song

The sketch is done on the canvas and it's waiting for me to paint the colours in. But as usual, before I begin a painting, I get the jitters. Something like stage fright. Something like butterflies in the stomach. Something like I used to feel before a big match in badminton and Table Tennis when I knew my opponents were tough. Once I hit the shuttlecock or TT ball, of course, my mind would be so engrossed fighting it out, in winning the point, that all the butterflies disappeared. It's the moment before the first stroke that is the really tough part.

One terrific thing about my getting back to my art is my getting rid of my twitter addiction. I hardly ever feel the need to go there now - only do so now when my bro wants me to promote a piece of his. I don't know why I ever wasted my time for so long on that site. Now when I do drop in for a minute or two and read the tweets on my TL - and I follow a wide range of people, from the crass to the erudite - all I see are these silly smart alec quips, each trying to prove how clever/wise/smart/funny etc they are. Most of them sound so pompous and full of themselves. And then of course you have these "guruji" types - creepy hypocrite mediocrities - ugggh!

I had a fat "guruji" coming and getting all pompous and patriarchal on me, "advising" me to be serious, and that too about my painting, if you please! I really wish I had taken a picture of the sly DM he had sent me saying he wanted to flirt with me. These "gurujis" should be exposed for what they really are. And when I told him that sure he could flirt with me as long as he did it openly on TL, not on DM, the coward - these types are always cowards - quickly deleted his DM. Got scared shit of course.. ha ha! Anyway, one sees this kind of thing happening so blatantly everywhere - that ugly fart Judge Ganguly, that creep Tejpal being the most recent examples. Along with all their pals who come to their defense.

It's this stupid "guruji" that finally made me realise what a silly waste of time twitter is - and wow, am I glad for that!

Anyway, enough procrastination, to my tiger lily painting I must go with this beautiful song on my lips :)

Thousand Violins by the Tiger Lilies: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=L9a5MbslOHQ

And here's the lyrics:-

I’m calling out but no one will be hearing
I’m laughing but I cannot be heard
I’m crying but no one will be drying
These tears that fall

So how do we ever face a thousand violins
And how do we ever even start to begin

It’s raining without a sign of stopping
It’s sunny but no-one’s getting warm
In Heaven the harps have all been broken
And these tears they fall

So how do we ever face a thousand violins
And how do we ever even start to begin

All through the days now faded away
One thought remains one thought does stay
It haunts me still it will remain
I’m lost in wonder and I hear again

Tell me how do we ever face a thousand violins
And how do we ever even start to begin
Tell me how do we ever face a thousand violins
Tell me how do we ever even start to begin
Thousand violins

Your Silent Words

With your silent words/ I sat/

Not still/Restless being that I am/

As Restless as a brewing/Storm/

I paced – I read/I brooded – I fret/

I pottered around/In my kitchen/In my garden/

Dashing up to your silent face/To wonder/To ponder

Every now and again/I dream/Sometimes – I scream/

With the computer monitor/Open in my face/

I sit/Fingers ready to jab/And jab/

I did/Endless jabs of silent words//


But suddenly somewhere/somehow/

There was a breeze/and the jabs ceased/

My mind was seized/but now released/

The silent words/The silent face/I’ll keep/

When parched/with the unknown thirst/unquenched/

Long draughts/I’ll drink from/them//

- Rita Putatunda