Utopian Introspection

Utopian Introspection

Siddhartha Art Gallery





song of breath

first blush of the morning

not yet even active birds

early temple bells

another day recurs


memories-few half grown sentiments

borrowed, few ideologies

a will to achieve (ho hmmm…yawing!)


glancing into the mirror

an illusory reflection glorifies the external limitations

but the internal horizon hides underneath


aromatic incense-suffocates

stereotyped hymns

vermillion stained images


a quest for hunting down old paint

a befriending of scattered alien brushes

finding a palette in a throw away corner


a gathering of few fallen leaves

(but not quite,

chemically cloned brush strokes

easily available in the bazaar!)



easily identifiable perception

enlightened even under the shadow


easy search

borrow ideologies in bulk

pay debt in installment


spiritualism, divinity, transformation

a quest…

…momos for lunch

a sip of coke pushes it through a human pipe


invisible system junked by visible pollution


artistic expression is just an extension of thoughts,

not a knowledge itself

the knowledge is laminated carefully in a folio

unable to reach human expression


a thin layer of paint penetrates the pores

synthetic glue attaches dyed veins

a brush glides slowly within a defined periphery

constrained, confined yet so dignified


clanging sounds of bell vibrates my ear drums

a disease of madness

a season of insanity

running wild all by itself

escaping from the water of purity

gliding in the mud

of malevolence


haphazardly cracked lips

exhaling self to inhale others

great enlightened ones have inhaled

to exhale knowledge

injured cells-injurious to self


a thought triggers the brain

fingers reach out for

a dumping site

inhale and exhale,



another coat superimposes the underneath layer

hide and seek

the show goes on


vision gets clearer

underneath layer

peeps and smiles,

through a fresh new layer

i smile back


the day is done but i’m still on

birds chirp their last song

to sleep until cock crows


leaves show no sign of enrichment

but the layers of paint do

vein filled with colours of joy

leaves feel content


under the shadow bestowed by leaves

i rejoice with glaring colours of light

brush relaxes in a safer place

to stay intimate


a sigh of relief

as another drop of contentment

runs through my vein.