Film, Art & Design – Bharat Sarwaiya

This is a selection of written works dating from early 1997-2010. Most of the works were in conjunction with paintings/ drawings. A set of poems was also in a handmade journal, which was illustrated accordingly but it got lost during the years.

2 Nov 97 | The rule of inertia: Staircase

/in /by
A blank wall watching,
an iron tumbler turning into a gold leaf covered with few ancient pictographs.
Some driver left his mummified mother in the bus on his way to the valley of red houses.
Someone stopped tap dancing before a crowd of old men.
A naked child stands motionless over a flying airplane
and just then the opened staircase changed its color.
A singing clown gets lost inside a maze of mirrors.
Someone stitched back torn hands to their arms.
A colored landscape photograph burns over a broken toilet seat.
An un stretched canvas vibrates at guitar’s sound.
A knife-sharper parked his bicycle beside a red, burning car.
           The green grass grows around the tall staircase.
Someone pasted a photograph of an eclipse over a wall…
 already clustered with wall-clocks.
The tube light flickers, in front of the blue eyed girl,
with few empty frames casting shadows over her.
Teapot discovered its disfigured nose hanging like glue.
A goldsmith locked sunflower leaves in his ‘leather’ covered safe.
Invisible candle-box falls over the stairs,
burning window glasses and myself with red shedding skin.
A boy joined lame protestors on his way to school.
A lamp and large ballpoint pens burns silently over a transparent desk,
beside a blue ‘window’ view. I
ce cubes catches poisonous breath of the busy staircase.
             Rule of inertia unfolds a river.
And god died once again.

3 Oct 2010 | INSIDE

/in /by

I hear clouds striking grey above… with lists of unfolding stories.

Tired lots of belongings, collecting simple little things off your
palms.

Rear view mirror showcasing your dense forehead… arranging the
complex arthematics of chance… smearing away things we love.

The yellow lamp post, same old walkways… makes remember more
everyday those silly indexes of coversations… ending everytime on
your last smile.

The mirage under the small bridge shines through your box shaped
heads… underlaying new details… newer stories.

You see my reflections every single day… grabbing these pockets of
air… displaying my failing sight… resting over your forehead.

Things are simple yet obscured.

We are here but lost.

Where are the things we recognized.

4 Oct 2010 | Creases of address

/in /by

Sharp strands of wind skipping the daylight. He stands there…
holding the silver horn. Herds of people converging through the narrow
escape route… announcing the arrival of the ready and quick.

Look behind your shoulder and smile back at them… they are tired and
hurt. Aeroplanes keeps blocking the sky, filling it with moist dust.
Read the creases of these addresses… spinning out your dreams… my
dreams… reaching out to the golden bridge… behind the old wooden
door.

Can we start again… and look at bolts of light smearing through the
sky. We are here and waiting… for them to understand all these
stupid things near you and I.

Reading threads of memories… walking away from our
doorstep.

Stop him before he breaks the horn… This should be simple for you.

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