what do you say to a celebrity?

Dear readers,

I've just returned from Kochi where I taught an art-writing workshop for the Biennale, then spent a week trying to cram in as much art, food, and coast as I could. I'll make up for the tardiness of February's dispatch with March's newsletter before the end of the month. After the neat box-square of February, March feels like a long month. Like the year has really kicked into its rhythm, and there's much to be done.

In Delhi the temperature is still bearable indoors thank god, but AC season looms. Kochi was humid, and reminded me a lot of Calcutta. Both are tropical, have similar vegetation with those tall palms, billboards on their flyovers, fish on every menu, and a wet listlessness after noon by this time of year. I enjoyed being there and I'm glad to be back home to my cats and routines and storage and gua sha and bathroom. Lately I've been feeling a lot of despair at how Delhi has become aggressively unlivable over the twelve years I've called it home, so it's nice to feel good about being back.

I wrote about Chobi Mela for the Equator newsletter, which I was really happy to do. Being edited by Samanth Subramanian on such a tight turnaround was also a cool experience for me. As any writer worth their salt knows, working with a good editor is a rare gift. The piece is unfortunately paywalled, but in keeping with what Mario D'Souza said¹ at his session during the [untitled] art writer's workshop in Kochi, I'm going to link the pdf here. (If you can, you should support Equator by subscribing though; it's the kind of global majority focused, non-West centric magazine we need urgently.)

FILM AND TV

I saw the film If I had Legs I'd Kick You. Rose Byrne's tight face that never relaxes, the extreme close-up of the camera that evokes a kind of claustrophic proximity in the viewer, the relentless sound of a child we never see -- all work together to create one of the most anxiety-inducing films I've ever seen. In retrospect, I'm glad to have seen it! Rose Byrne is exceptionally good, and ASAP Rocky and Conan O'Brien make compelling if odd foils to her frazzled mother role. Similarly unpleasant to watch but very different -- seriously do not watch this unless you want to feel visceral dread and depression -- was Bring Her Back. I'm not saying anything about this except it is a horror movie that actually terrifies. It involves a lot of body-horror in a way that makes The Substance look like Sesame Street. Watch at your own peril, and definitely do not watch alone (includes sections of a fake snuff-film). In a totally different register, let me join everybody in telling you to watch Sentimental Value by Joachim Trier. It's a wonderful, wonderful film with one of the most moving scenes about siblinghood I have ever witnessed. (Yes I did also love Worst Person in the World).

I watched season 10 of Love Is Blind Ohio and am eagerly waiting for the Reunion episode to drop on Wednesday. I relish this crap unfortunately, and I think this is one of the best (most entertaining) seasons we've had thus far. I was rooting for Amber and Jordan, and (spoiler) am bummed about rumours that they've apparently divorced since then.

READING

I have been reading and enjoying Shubhangi Swaroop's novel, Latitudes of Longing. I wasn't really into it when it began introducing a couple in the Andamans and colonial ghosts, in a kind of sweeping narrative tone. But I found myself surprisingly keen to read on, and now I'm enjoying it. It was shortlisted for the JCB Prize for Literature in 2018. I guess I'm having a bit of a return to reading more South Asian and diaspora fiction. I bought a copy of Kiran Desai's enormousThe Loneliness of Sonia and Sunny from Idiom bookstore in Kochi, and I'm quite excited to linger in it. I sort of unplannedly started reading her bibliography because O had a copy of her debut, Hullaballo in the Guava Orchard lying around. (Funny, kind of Malgudi Days-Rushdie-Ruskin-Bond-esque stylistically.) If you're into art and literature then I suspect Loneliness will be a fun read. Kind of like Rachel Cusk in Parade maybe. I do think the title is kind of odd and onerous sounding, but clearly it hasn't deterred me.

I also recently finished Dur e Aziz Amna's American Fever which was sharp and lyrical, and reminded me again, the way reading Kamila Shamsie's Best of Friends did, how similar Pakistani and Indian childhoods are. What else?

America and Israel are bombing Iran. Modi is embracing Netanyahu. What can one say except that their decisions do not reflect the ethos of the countries they lead. May the war end soon. May their reign end soon.

In Kochi I ate so much squid oliyarthu, and drank lots of cold beer to. Mira Nair entered the restaurant we were at (Fuzion Bay) on one such occasion. I was about as jelly-legged as anyone would be in the presence of celebrity. Monsoon Wedding is one of my favourite, favourite films. I didn't go up to her obviously because what would I say other than hello, you are Mira Nair. Jim Sarbh was there too looking like himself.

We also went to Varambu to eat fresh seafood, and stayed at Kayal Island for one night -- both in lake Vembanad.

Having done Chobi Mela, India Art Fair and the Kochi Muziris Biennale back to back, I feel confident saying that I dislike viewing art in a hurry. The long-running solo or group show is where it's at for me. I'm really looking forward to finally seeing the Tyeb Mehta retrospective at the KNMA (on till end-June). I find the way he does colour extraordinary, and I'm hungry to see more, more, more.

Have you read this poem by Margaret Atwood? I'm sus on her now but was tremendously moved by this poem when I encountered it in my mid-twenties.

February

Winter. Time to eat fat

and watch hockey. In the pewter mornings, the cat,

a black fur sausage with yellow

Houdini eyes, jumps up on the bed and tries

to get onto my head. It’s his

way of telling whether or not I’m dead.

If I’m not, he wants to be scratched; if I am

He’ll think of something. He settles

on my chest, breathing his breath

of burped-up meat and musty sofas,

purring like a washboard. Some other tomcat,

not yet a capon, has been spraying our front door,

declaring war. It’s all about sex and territory,

which are what will finish us off

in the long run. Some cat owners around here

should snip a few testicles. If we wise

hominids were sensible, we’d do that too,

or eat our young, like sharks.

But it’s love that does us in. Over and over

again, He shoots, he scores! and famine

crouches in the bedsheets, ambushing the pulsing

eiderdown, and the windchill factor hits

thirty below, and pollution pours

out of our chimneys to keep us warm.

February, month of despair,

with a skewered heart in the centre.

I think dire thoughts, and lust for French fries

with a splash of vinegar.

Cat, enough of your greedy whining

and your small pink bumhole.

Off my face! You’re the life principle,

more or less, so get going

on a little optimism around here.

Get rid of death. Celebrate increase. Make it be spring.

Copyright Credit: Margaret Atwood, “February” from Morning in the Burned House via The Poetry Foundation.

More soon. Bye x

¹ Mario said, as far as possible, make your work available for free. Leak it if you must.