The Chakkar

Seated among old paintings, clocks, clothing, trinkets, and valuables, 76-year-old Hamiz Rizwi maintains a kaleidoscopic antique shop in Lucknow, revealing new stories with every glance. - Ishita Yadav ‍‍ ‍‍ ‍ The shutter opens in the afternoon with Hamid Rizwi, 76, placing multiple items outside on a metal trunk box, each object rusted brown with time. One by one he places a hookah, a naqqashiwork kettle, an old globe.

Poetry: ‘let us build a night on the marble edifice / of silence. Spread freshly laundered sheets / over the freckled sky and light / the twin candles of our bodies.’ - Saoirse Let us do what you call wondering And I call a search to know more. Let us descent down the steps of these lines. Dress in layers. The monsoons are unpredictable here the alleyways often damp. Wear comfortable shoes, unexpected unseen silences take root in the cracks of the steps. You could trip and sprain an ankle.

‘In the proximity / of other gods—other sutras— / we muttered our creed—you // pecking / away at your manual typewriter— / carbon copies of personal letters / home—to the diaspora—we // noodling on the keyboard of happiness’ - John Copley Alter & professors. Was it toxic? My mother taught me some measure of devotion. They sat in their office smoking a pipe & avoiding the matter of Mary, her gospel, mariolatry a dissertation topic. My mother taught me some measure of devotion.

Featuring dozens of literary conservations, book releases, film screenings, live music, art exhibitions, folk dances, and more, the second edition of LLAF saluted the resolute spirit of the Himalaya. - The Chakkar and Mussoorie Heritage Centre ‍ ‍ Rain began early morning of the first day of the Landour Literature and Arts Festival [LLAF], and it continued nonstop, night and day, till the festival ended a day and a half later.

Opposite this portrait, a large mural subtly evoked another often-spotted image in Syrian Christian homes, that of The Last Supper. This mural, like other paintings and assemblages in the show, was held together by five fragile human bodies—all of them, a woman. They crouch beneath the disarrayed table which is draped in fine cloth.

When Patil is worn out by having to compromise on his ideals, he reflects on how society only honours great men in stone, not in deed: “Aksar hamare jaise log hi sambhalte hain humko. Mahapurushon ko sambhalna hame nahi aata, unko bana dete hain aadarshon ke putle, unke vicharon ko bhaari lohe mein galakar phir khada kar dete hain raasto mein landmarks ki tarah.”(Often, it is people like us who hold ourselves together. We do not know how to handle great men.

‘Concrete trucks rumble past his fence, shaking the loose teeth / in his jaw, spitting black diesel smoke onto his holy basil plant. // He measures his life not in years, but in missing trees—/The neem chopped for wood, the mango that died of thirst.’ - Aardhra Chandran Shaving My Father’s Face His cheekbones have grown sharp, like broken roof tiles. The foam is white and thick, smelling of old sandalwood, hiding the loose skin of eighty-odd years.

For Beauvoir, life had ‘concrete meaning’ when one’s existence is recognised. When viewed through Beauvoir’s lens, Ray’s Charulata becomes a meditation on seeing and being seen. The film explores gaze, framing, optics, light, and space while also studying Charu’s desires, invisibility, voice, and creativity. In Beauvoirian terms, Charu’s anxiety is existential: she is unseen, and her existence has been denied its full ‘disclosure’. Clearly, Charu has a role to play in her husband’s life as his wife.

Creative Nonfiction: ‘Rotund Japanese purple enlarged. A plushie abandoned. Soot-stained lips float past. Saliva upon the metal in the skin. Chivalry ain’t dead yet, innit? Plebians need the masala but give this to me anyway.’ - Shobhita Rewal 1. Finally at home, I feel at peace. The ass is beckoned to its rightful place. I wiggle myself, trying to find the remnants of lost labour. There. The comforting indent. Like dust settling down on the black pants as I ruffle my own hair, I am a soul found, Paradiso.

“You come here alone?” “I’m all alone,” Roshni smiled. Dilip rolled his eyes and looked away. The sun was beginning to set, turning the blinding white sky into a mesmerizing orange shade. He wished for the night to fall quicker, to walk back to their homestay. He wished he could finally share a bed with Aradhna, get under the same blanket, turn off the light, and in the freezing cold, pull her closer into himself. He could hardly imagine any further.