quite tired on this spring evening she awaits the gust of warm wind to bring the first knock of on set summer. she wants to pull time in reverse. america did not officially end segregation till 1967. It was 1989 when Safdar Hashmi was killed performing Halla Bol. and this is why she smiled, this is why, Deleuze says he prefers lines to points. once the thoughts converge to an event, it no longer stays as it were: it has moved. is the past really known if all that remains is the documentation? she is born in the city of Habib Tanvir, Charles Correa's Bharat Bhawan, Gul Bardhan's Little Ballet Troupe and Begum's Taj Ul Masjid. the other day the men in charge at Taj Ul Masjid were quite disturbed at seeing her walk and sit around with a man. at least at Bharat Bhawan it is the lake that stares back at you, not people, she thought as loud bhajans filled the sweet marigold scented air around her. is this century so desolate and empty of artists and friends for her because she is to find warmth in the world left behind by those who have walked this earth? she wonders and touches the stones as she passes them by. loneliness enwraps her on the boat as it is paddled across the human-made lake. and what if you were not to prefer the letter after the full stop. And what if you were to? many a dust settles on her skin as she walks through the desperate 'development' on this 2-tier city, every walker must pray to stop their breath without dying- is it in one of these particles that the residue of history resides? what of the things she contains? as James Baldwin put it so succinctly in his "If Beale Street Could Talk", “The mind is like an object that picks up dust. The object doesn’t know, any more than the mind does, why what clings to it clings.”
she lingers in spaces of nonsensical geometric shapes. can geometry dare to not make sense, would that drive the mathematicians insane? there lay spirits of epistemological performances by those who no longer exist, who compiled their studies of this doomed earth meticulously. is it of any use, she wonders; of course it is, a voice pretending to be a space or line suddenly hisses as if coming from her book shelf or the hard disk where she has proudly stored some gems of films she finally got hold of after weeks. time may slip through like dust from half constructed highways but as long as it is time sculpted by a poet who dreams their own world....a film is allowed her time. can she help what is inside her, she did not put it in her as Baldwin's Fonny would exclaim. maybe the 21st century mind buzzing like a hive would like to empty out without consequence. every film is now a historical fiction treading carefully or carelessly questions of a time archived just as much as that which is left to our guesses, imaginations and theory. the dialectical mounts up like a tight montage. life exists now too and deserves some art. Baldwin would smirk and say, 'One must say Yes to life and embrace it wherever it is found- and it is found in terrible places; nevertheless there it is.' and he would be right. forest fires reflected on the canadian moon one evening and she thought of Monet. the german film 'afire' has informed her of a new genre of climate change fiction. now the act of god is act of humans. deux machina in greek plays had a human playing god all along, after all.
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