Portrait of an Ex-Lover

Self-portrait by Bhumika Bhatia
(https://www.facebook.com/pages/BhumikaB-Photography/119375378130950 ; http://bhumikab.carbonmade.com/)

I apologize. I haven’t been writing (creatively) lately- except for a few poems / prose excerpts here and there – because I haven’t been in that creative mindspace since September. I have even fallen off the NaPoWriMo bandwagon this year. Hard.

No, I haven’t been depressed (because that would actually help me write!), but I have been consumed by life (both academic and personal). Consumed in very rewarding ways, if I may add.

Why this mea culpa? Well, today is the three year anniversary of my blogging journey. It’s only natural to be self-reflexive.

Last year, I had typhoid visiting. An unannounced, unwelcome guest. This year however, I am going to celebrate in style. I have the champagne (a birthday gift from some of my Gender Studies friends). The dollar store wine glasses (alas, they didn’t have the appropriate ones). A sexy somebody to celebrate with. Oh, and a new fiction piece (my best piece yet) to share.

My short fiction piece, “Portrait of an Ex-Lover,” is in Rose Red Review. You can read it here.

Another photography credit to the list…

My photo, “Fervour,” that recently won a contest at Queen’s University, Kingston (see last post), is now in Brooklyn based Specter Magazine‘s 16th issue. See it here.

So, now I am a photographer. Le-git.

“So, now you are a photographer,” said my mom, when I called her to tell her the news. As if winning a contest of some sort adds to my credibility of being a photographer.

“Yeah… I guess so.” I said with casual nonchalance.

Flashback to end Feb:

Friend: Hey, there is a photography contest at Queen’s. You should enter something.

Me: When is the deadline?

Friend: Today! I just got the email.

Me: Forward, please?

It was a Monday and I had so much lined up. There was my class at 10am. Then, a meeting with a student. And then, those books I had to hunt down at the library for a presentation I was doing on campus the following week (on Bollywood Item Girls, which is a whole other story by itself)… I wasn’t even sure if I would have the time to send anything in by their 11:59 pm deadline.

But I did. Five minutes before the clock struck 12. Me, the last-minuter. Living life on the edge.

The contest, organized by Queen’s University International Centre, was in its 5^th year. Open to both undergraduate and graduate students, the demand was for “international” photos. We could submit a maximum of 2 images in 2 different categories.

A week after the submission, while I was in Edmonton for a conference, I got an email. Congratulations, it said. From 250 photo submissions, both of my photographs had made it in.

While “Fervour” won second place in the “People and Culture” category, “Together, we can” won first place in the “Critical Global Issues” one.

A bit about the photos:

Fervour (Varanasi, India):

“Fervour,” Varanasi, India.

Taken at the evening prayers on the riverbanks of Ganges in the city of Varanasi, this photo of a young priest in the midst of his daily prayers, along with many other priests, is a regular occurrence. However, it was the look of devotion on his face, even amidst the rituals, that I had to capture a photograph of that expression.

Together, we can (Kolkata, India):

“Together, we can,” Kolkata, India

While on a photowalk with a local photography club, “Kolkata Weekend Shoots,” I found myself in the largest wholesale market in Kolkata, also known as “Kolay Market”. While leaving the claustrophobic ambiance of the market, my attention was arrested by the shouts of these four men who were struggling to carry a huge load on their heads. I was both amazed and paralyzed by the sight.

The photo represents the hardships of the working class in Kolkata.

Today at their Gala exhibition/event, I got a bunch of gift certificates (read: m-o-n-e-y) and huge blown up versions of my winning photos. I have to admit it. The blown up versions have me most excited about winning this contest. If you are a student and an aspiring photographer in Canada, you know it’s goddamn expensive to blow up your photos.

So, am I a photographer?

Yeah, I guess so. (I am just doing what I do best. The duck-water thing.)

If you happen to be in Kingston, Ontario, check out the photos (along with other winning photos) at the Queen’s University International Centre on the Queen’s campus. They will be displayed (along with their descriptions) for the next two weeks.

Life in a Fish Bowl

This is NOT the photo. I swear.

I haven’t touched my camera since my return to Canada last April. It’s lying disused, sad, lonely.  I have thought about it on several occasions. Recently, when the lake froze over in Kingston, I contemplated running out in my winter gear for some fascinating photographs. But the minus temperature outside, along with my toasty blanket, a line up of Criminal Minds on my laptop and the steaming chicken corn soup I had just made… well, they kept me at bay.

These days, when it comes to photography, I amuse myself with the photographs from my big, fat Indian holiday. They keep me warm.

I have a photograph, “Fishbowl,” in CURA. It was taken in Calcutta, India, last March. You can see it here.

It’s featured in the same issue as poet Oliver de la Paz (!)

Origa-me

Read this, if only for the sarcasm.

My poem, “Origami,” is in Brevity Poetry Review. Read it here.

Burn Baby, Burn

I read about “sati” in history class. My eleven year old mind was unable to comprehend the horror behind such an act. I, who is scared of minor burns (a fact that prevents me from being able to safely fry fish in the present time), couldn’t imagine sitting willingly on the funeral pyre of my deceased husband.

Traditionally, the idea was that of “self immolation” (upheld by examples of goddesses from Hindu mythology, like Parvati); in reality, most acts of “sati” were forced upon Hindu widows (mostly, child widows who had initially been married off to old men on their death beds) in pre 1829 Bengal. The practice wasn’t abolished in other parts of India until much later.

Nowadays, instances of “sati” are few and far between. Of course, you still have modern day versions of the practice where women die of mysterious gas explosions in the kitchen.

Not much has changed, I am afraid.

My poem, “sati,” is in Diverse Voices Quarterly . Read it here.

In the light of the recent death of the rape victim in India, I find this poem is apt for the current state of affairs when it comes to women’s safety and security. It is a forced immolation of sorts, isn’t it? This forced burning where women are taken at will. The aftermath sees a “passing the parcel” of blame, until there’s a new news item to spark the national imagination. The deed has been done. It’s goodbye (for the victim). Until next time, anyway. Only the change in names and faces is a constant.

*There is so much I want to say, but it has all been said before. Annie Zaidi says it best.*

Mr and Mrs Andrews Without Their Heads

Mr and Mrs Andrews Without Their Heads (1998) by Yinka Shonibare

Towards the end of last summer, in a spurt of (spend)thriftiness, I ended up buying a bunch of literary magazines. I wanted to write something that would match the caliber of the likes of Granta, The New Yorker, Paris Review et al.

I also ended up engaging in a belated NaPoWriMo. The effort only lasted upto mid August, but in the process, I ended up coming up with a bunch of poems. The styles and content of these poems were nothing like anything I had ever penned before. To be honest, I thought they were shit (not the shit, just shit).

Two of these poems are now in Pyrta.

While “Mr and Mrs Andrews Without Their Heads” is based upon a photo of an art piece by the same name in an issue of Granta (I had purchased back then), “Blood Red Sky” draws from the title of my novel-in-progress.

Read them here, in the 2012 Winter Issue of Pyrta.

As well, check out some of the awesome poets featured in the same issue such as  Goirick Brahmachari, Aseem Kaul, Alexander Callum Harrison, Ishita Bhaduri, Namita Krishnamurthy, among others.