The urban dream

Published in Mint on 18th January. http://t.co/WF8pieW1
I woke up one dark night. Haunted, frightened, shaky like a leaf. I had the strangest dream and in that dream I saw that I had turned into a consumerist zombie. Made of words they wanted me to believe.
I lived in my own luxury cage of EMI, and I lived my life as an advertising script. I consumed sugar water for happiness and I replaced my brain with an app library.
I had all the money in the world and if I missed the trees, I saw them on a LED tv screen.
My car had a toilet and my world was controlled and the sky was blue, projected on an anti UV dome. And I wondered what took humans to convert this planet into a cave of steel. We should have killed all the animals and cut all the trees and spewed carbon by tonnes much faster.
And I woke up frightened. Not sure if that dream was already part real. I switched on my tablet and turned on the app for counting sheep. 

The year of asking questions.

‎2012. The year of asking questions. When you go to a newsstand ask for the latest issue of Down to Earth. There is a little folded surprise for you in there.

It's story weather outside: Children's Film Festival, Seattle

The films
children's film festival seattle  - trailer from unclebob.tv on Vimeo.


children's film festival seattle  - spring love from unclebob.tv on Vimeo.


children's film festival seattle  - bicycle from unclebob.tv on Vimeo.


children's film festival seattle  - bicycle from unclebob.tv on Vimeo.


Credits
Creative team: Steve Cullen, Hemant Anant Jain
Director: Branson Veal
Editor: Olin Padilla
Music: Matt Huchinson
Agency Film Producer: Dax Estorninos, Christine Ogborne
Agency Print Producer: Chris Nielson
Agency Production: Brian Bosworth, Shirley Hendrickson, Yumiko Menikoff, Ramon Vasquez
Agency: Creature, Seattle

 

It's story weather outside
Umbrellas are amazing aren’t they. Much more than holding back rain, they have figured pretty much in children’s literature like boats, like colorful rainbows of imaginations, like flying machines that could carry you away in the wind. There is the delightful magic when a kid flaps open his umbrella and whirls it and sees the bright colors mix with the wind. There is enchantment in the air when kids turn their umbrellas and play with rain and want to set sail on puddles.
We want to bring alive kids’ fascination with umbrellas and we want to set the dark, grey Seattle rain on colorful fire, and we want to huddle around that fire and tell amazing stories from around the world. We want to watch the starry eyes kids go forth then and remember these stories they heard at the NWFF. And whenever they see an umbrella in the rain, they will be reminded of these stories.
We want to make NWFF a part of their lives, their memories and their nostalgia.

The ghosts of the whistleblowers

A tribute to Shehla Masood and all the whistleblowers of India who speak out and are silenced, assaulted and murdered in this great democracy. And the amazing fact is that there is no law in our country which will safeguard them. (Published in yesterday's Mint: http://bit.ly/tqIrgG). With Manta Ray Comics.

The curious case of food safety and factory farming.

And then it was autumn.

It was bitter cold yesterday.
And then it was the hard sun and harder rain.
It was just yesterday when the trees had no leaves.
And yesterday, when it was impossible to see the birds
through the leaves.
It was yesterday, and yesterday was within reach
Filled with the voice that I long to hear now
And suddenly it is autumn
Where did the time go?
I turn to look
And yesterday's gone too.

Static

Below poverty line.

The latest comic for Manta Ray. Published full page in the newspaper Mint on October 12, 2011.
Here is the hi res from the epaper.

That's the planet then

No matter how small
a speck we are in the universe
we still made
quite a huge mess of it

Manta Ray, Tigerwallahs and more.

There are some ridiculously talented and motivated people out there. Dileep and Pratheek are two of them who started Manta Ray comics. Their work is awe inspiring. So, it was obvious that when they contacted me to do a comic for them, I would say, 'I'm not good enough. You guys do some fab work'. But they persisted, pushed and edited something out of me. I am surprised they could. Well, here is that little comic we collaborated on. Hopefully I can make some more comics for them. Need to do something really good for the trust they have placed in me. Thanks guys.

here is the link to The Tigerwallahs on the Manta Ray blog. 

It is also archived on The Small Picture page here.

The day

The northern hemisphere and its weak sun 

makes the dreams, or the lack of, a little longer

Until the sweet song of the chickadees blows away the sleep

And the eye catches them against the blue sky

In groups of eight, in groups of ten

Autumn approaches and if you could read the sky and the trees and the whispers of the wind, its approach would not seem all that silent

There are books to be read and the pages smell sweet

But between morning and noon, the room is filled with roughly struck notes

From carefully placed chords

The guitar looks taller than the mountain I can see from my window

Formidable, not negotiable

The wall is blank, there are drawings, that look primitive

- compared to televisions.

The day grows suddenly still and uncomfortably warm

My mind is on the farm from many years and many miles ago

The bullet rumbles through the field. Dad. Pauses. Takes stock. Smiles

And disappears

The old man, twirls his white moustaches

And in his raspy voice begins to tell me a story

About death

I am a child, lost in his shadow that falls on the lime plastered walls

The story abruptly ends with the sound of cawing

The crow lingers on, talking incessantly

And I am reminded of crows and cities and ecology and smoke

And brains of men that can comprehend neither biodiversity
nor simplicity

I throw paint on paper, scribble ideas 
Inked with anger, which outlasts
my supply of India ink

Then the chickadees fly past again

A blue jay. An eagle.

If I am lucky, the barred owl would be lazing around on the tree

I put my shoes on

and walk out on the revolution.

10^th September, 2011

Some lost cave drawings.

Open publication - Free publishing - More art

Found inside the cave of Hemant Anant Jain. Dating from 2005 - 2011, in no particular order.

And then there's that.

That accident just keeps
on happening.
That hospital stink wakes me up
I look around
Try to find the voice
Then I sleep
Hoping for that one dream
Nothing.
Between death and memory
Life becomes irrelevant

Of foreign hand, circuses and other such.

Click on the image to enlarge

Is that a foreign hand or are you just excited to see us selling India?

There is a foreign hand behind this uprising of people. There is no doubt about it. The government has been selling the nation to companies like Vedanta – foreign, Monsanto – foreign, POSCO – foreign. In fact the whole development model that the government follows is so foreign that people are really fed up and have taken to the streets.So, yes, there is a foreign hand. The movement is to take it out of the corrupt politicians’ a$$e$.

The Liberal’s view of the uprising – It’s a circus

Oh well, some of us are upset about the show and chaos and music and drums and tamasha. Well, guess what, that’s what a revolution in India would look like. Those sadhus and charlatans and unkempt people and crazy histrionics and Gandhigiri and all that is as Indian as you or me. When the revolution comes, these are the people we will be fighting shoulder to shoulder with. Let’s accept it. The revolution we read about in our books and saw in our minds will make for a great play and a great book. Let’s write that book. We’ve had enough of trashy literature anyway. Meanwhile, the real revolution in India will be non-violent and it will be fought on Gandhi’s principles. Nothing else will work in this country. Nothing else has.

Where were these people when other struggles were happening?

In their homes. Trying to figure out where the hell will they get their next dal and roti from. Trying not to eat tomatoes and cut down on onions. You think that is not a struggle? And these are the people who are out on the streets. How is their struggle to live a life any less than a Niyamgiri or a Dantewada?

Anna Hazare

In the last 65 years, this is the first time, and probably the second time in our history as India that one man has brought the entire nation together to fight against the disease that is eating the country alive. If you don’t see greatness in that, check your eyes and hearts for their expiry date.

A life in advertising

Click on the image to enlarge and read.

The bear

The bear
Spotted on a wall full of posters
(E Pike Street, Anonymous)
reminded me
You have to be lucky to visit
the world's best art galleries
But you just have to be a little less blind
to see real art
It usually doesn't like
air-conditioners and
touts selling it off over wine
and cheese

The situation

The death of the environment ministry. An obituary.

Today you were killed by the government.
You had been in coma for years before. Until a man called Jairam Ramesh came and breathed life into you.
He said he was doing things “in enlightened national interest”. And he did. He thwarted Monsanto’s attempts at contaminating our biodiversity.
He said no to Vedanta who would have us believe that Niyamgiri was their jagir and the tribals their slaves.
This man tried. Failed. Stumbled. Bumbled. Got pushed over. Made mistakes. Did wrong. Did right.
He was a human after all. Standing in the crossfire between the development debate and the environmental concerns.
It’s a damn tricky place to be in. Try talking to your rich friends about tribals and mining and see how red eared and how blood pressured you become. And this man was making policies and making decisions that not only angered the rich friends and industry but the corrupt politicians as well.
And when they clipped his wings, he still pranced around, making noises.
Then, with one move they chopped off his head. And said they promoted him.
A country where the environment ministry isn’t the most important ministry has lost its bearings. To take away the ministry from a man who cared, is not promotion. It’s murder.
Of the environment ministry.
Monsanto, Vedanta, POSCO, you win this round. There is a chink in our armour.

Economics

They tried to teach me economics, but I failed. I did not learn to value money and I did not learn to understand free market and demand and supply. I did not even manage to scrape through the exam. For my eyes always looked out of the window to see the swallows fly by. And I used to wonder, what could they probably sell in the malls that was as amazing as the flight of the swallow. Economics had no chapter on nature, and I did not understand why it should be so. What about the economics of happiness. But that was then, and I was naive. With two dots on a.

Years have gone by and I hardly have a bank balance. But my computer's hard drive is full of pictures of the meadows I have walked on and the mountains I have hiked. And even today I skip the shopping mall and head out to the park and spend hours trying to catch the swallow's flight in my camera. I am sure the supply and demand and all that economics is raging outside and it is damn important and there is money to be made in all that. And I sometimes picture myself sitting in the cubicle, taking home a fat pay cheque. But whenever that image comes to me, I see myself sitting there in that cubicle, looking outside the window, searching for the swallow's flight. Loser.

How to manage our environment - 1

Click on the image to enlarge and read.

Lessons from real government policies and plans. (If they weren't true, they would be as lame as these cartoons.)
Lesson 1, based on this report:
A High Powered Committee on efficient allocation of natural resources and telecom spectrum puts market above people: http://www.downtoearth.org.in/content/pay-and-take

And then, just like that it was over.

And just like that it was over.

London of the activists. Of friends sitting down and sipping wine talking about a long train journey, books and revolutions. London of the birds of the little ones that took wing and took shelter and came to our feeders. Birds whose flights are so much more graceful than imagination even. London of the streets paved with writers’ words. London of the art galleries, of the river Thames, London of the trees, cherry blossoms and ancient and wise trees of the Kew gardens. London of the ducks and the blue herons and the swans and the double rainbows and the beer on a Friday afternoon of the word ‘horrible’ that was so lovingly said about the weather, of the tubes and the broken plastered walls of the underground. Of the gaps we minded and the cycles and the cycle riders and the music and the overpromise and underwhelming of Hackney. London of the broken hearts, of the harsh words spoken and heard, of the curries that had no nationality. London of the strangers, kind, furious, beautiful strangers. London of the blue skies and London of the friendly shop owners. London of the canals and London of the foxes. London that makes you believe there is no other place like that.

And then, just like that it was over.

Canvas

The old fox of San Juan island.

It watches the rabbits in the meadows wistfully perhaps. Spending its time on the side of the road, curling up in the sun, waiting for chips, sandwiches or whatever else the tourists may offer. If they happen to pass by and stop and look with surprise at the fox. Mostly the cars pass it by, leaving trails of gasoline, enough for it to be addicted to the smell, if it was a petrol head. But not enough glances. It looks hungry. Ignored. I take its picture, excitedly, hurriedly. It turns away. A camera? That’s all you got? Why don’t you take out some food from the bag, it seems to quiz. I am a bit surprised at this silent conversation and forget to focus properly. There’s a lot those eyes told me in those few minutes. I think I will be haunted by the old fox of San Juan Island. But maybe not more that it feels haunted by people like me. We are the ghosts of each other’s stories. Silent shadows that linger on as if wanting to tell their stories. And only fleetingly, we manage to communicate, in the common language of loss.

Summer

No matter how hard
How dusty
How dry and how parched
the memories of summer
have a place in the mind
where you can spend a moment
and call it a summer holiday
and sparrows
always the sparrows
from the old house
where the ghosts of the mother and son
sit and talk for hours
and i go to sleep
hearing familiar voices
I will never be able to listen to again.
But, no matter how distant
How faint
How deathly and how fleeting
the memories of summer
will always be green

The Red Dot

Open publication - Free publishing - More activism

Trying to make sense of India's most complicated problems by Venn diagrams. It seems to be working. Move your mouse over the image and click on 'view in fullscreen'.

Digging deeper

Let's see what I come up with. (Click on the image to see the rat animate).

Internets

Of late, as my assignments take me deeper into the heart of environmental darkness, I have begun to feel a bit uncomfortable. About the internet. Talking to a software firm and trying to reason server spaces and consumption of energy I felt it for the first time. Hitting the head against a wall, yes, and also what I have started calling information consumerism.What do we do with so much information? The wastelands of the information dump are immense and frightening. Do we even begin to think about them yet, or do we just enjoy posting nonsense statuses. And as it happens, when you think about something, all the facts start piling up, as if by magic and you begin noticing them. I came across this infographic and it send shivers right up to my index finger and froze it, mid-click.

An adventure in information

So here it is then: An adventure in information. We asked a lot of questions and found some answers along the way. Here are some of them in this illustrated journey that took us into the heart of darkness and out of it. Hope it helps you on your little quest of finding out the truth.

‎Play Clan has very kindly agreed to stock the publication. You can get your copy at:

DELHI

Play Clan
G-07C,GF
Near Atrium
Select Citywalk Saket,
New Delhi
Tel: 40534559
Open all 7 days
11.00 am to 10.30pm

Play Clan
Shop 17
Meherchand Market
Behind Habitat Centre
Lodhi Road
New Delhi
Tel: 24644393
Open all 7 days
11.00 am to 8.00pm

MUMBAI

Play Clan
Shop 4, Libra Towers
Hill Road, Opp St Peters Church
Bandra West
Mumbai
Tel: 26401675
Open all 7 days
11.00 pm to 8.00pm

It's a lazy day.

There is that time of the year when you just don't want to do anything but. When the sun is out and about and the Vitamin D pushes you into a deep slumber. When you read quotes like, 'done is better than perfect', nod your head and say, 'yeah, right!'. No, don't get me wrong, you are inspired, but just that right now you could do with a longish nap. But then you force yourself out of this sun-opiated state, and put your pencil to use. And what do your get? Elephants. They just roll out of the pencil, making the lead move in a certain moomin-ish way. And there they are. Careless, white elephants. Slowly moving about in your notebook trying to find the blue where they can have a bit of a swim. Give up already, it's a lazy day.

Which book are you reading?

Open publication - Free publishing - More bookshop

Open publication - Free publishing - More bookshop

Open publication - Free publishing - More books

Open publication - Free publishing - More racism

Open publication - Free publishing - More jerry garcia

Open publication - Free publishing - More books

A storybook series about people who read books and went on to great things.

Around the world in God knows how many books.

Sometimes it takes 15 days, sometimes 3 months. The books always follow me on my journey. And over the years they are all there is to my possessions. As they finally reach my new home, I look around and feel the familiar comfort of the words and images which form my world. Maybe it's time to stop running and start putting those books on permanent shelves. Maybe.

I dream of trees

Sometimes when it's the hour of night when I wake up and stare deep into the dark of the clouds and the stars that sometimes peek through, sometimes when it's the darkest shade of the night and I wake up and try to think of Papa and wonder if he would come talk to me one last time, there was so much left unsaid, so much in that last breath that he took before my eyes, sometimes when it's a black night that the bats colour a shade darker, I dream of trees. I dream of trees and the lonely bird singing on those trees. But the song has little meaning when all I want to hear is that familiar voice calling my name. It never does. It never will. I dream of trees and my dreams have, of late, become soundless, and a little darker than they ever were.