Art is a manifestation of grief, It is a rising sun, A clear sky after days of downpour It is a brooding mother, Photographs of times gone by, It is a country awakening, It is another name for a revolution, It is the moss in a graveyard Or flowers next to a tombstone, Art is a bird discovering the wind And a boy jumping puddles in the rain; It is immortalized in your smile, In your eyes, In the softness of your breath Against the nape of my neck, Art is a manifestation of hop

“this was the legacy of the great Indian kitchen, here, only stomachs were filled in the attempt to fill hearts“ I could smell the spices floating through the verandah from the kitchen And hear the sizzle of meat being thrown into hot oil. They say the way to a man’s heart is through his stomach. Is that why most woman toil days and nights in the kitchen , Trying to make all sorts of concoctions hoping to crawl into their husbands’ hearts? Is it worth it even if they have fil