[et_pb_section fb_built=”1″ _builder_version=”4.27.4″ _module_preset=”default” background_color=”RGBA(255,255,255,0)” global_colors_info=”{}” theme_builder_area=”post_content”][et_pb_row _builder_version=”4.27.4″ _module_preset=”default” global_colors_info=”{}” theme_builder_area=”post_content”][et_pb_column type=”4_4″ _builder_version=”4.27.4″ _module_preset=”default” global_colors_info=”{}” theme_builder_area=”post_content”][et_pb_text _builder_version=”4.27.4″ _module_preset=”default” max_width=”700px” module_alignment=”center” global_colors_info=”{}” theme_builder_area=”post_content”]<\/p>\n
Origin Story<\/b><\/strong><\/p>\n And so, Brahma, the spider, is all night. Stars pin themselves all eight directions as we spill \u00a0waking into life. And Mother to us all, leaving a field of silk below\u2014 so much sturdier than steel\u2014 And we, his gossamer children, like so many sticky pests, and warble: tell us once more, \n [\/et_pb_text][\/et_pb_column][\/et_pb_row][et_pb_row _builder_version=”4.27.6″ _module_preset=”default” hover_enabled=”0″ global_colors_info=”{}” theme_builder_area=”post_content” background_color=”#FFFFFF” sticky_enabled=”0″][et_pb_column type=”4_4″ _builder_version=”4.27.4″ _module_preset=”default” global_colors_info=”{}” theme_builder_area=”post_content”][et_pb_image src=”https:\/\/galleryespace.com\/artespace\/wp-content\/uploads\/2026\/05\/Safed-Talaab-scaled.jpg” title_text=”Safed Talaab” show_in_lightbox=”on” align=”center” _builder_version=”4.27.6″ _module_preset=”default” hover_enabled=”0″ global_colors_info=”{}” theme_builder_area=”post_content” max_width=”780px” sticky_enabled=”0″ custom_margin=”9px|||||”][\/et_pb_image][et_pb_text _builder_version=”4.27.6″ _module_preset=”0a6c4baa-304e-458e-9003-bb7edad6cc4b” text_font=”Josefin Sans|500|||||||” text_line_height=”1.5em” global_colors_info=”{}” theme_builder_area=”post_content”]<\/p>\n Manisha Gera Baswani, Safed Talaab<\/i><\/em>, 2025, Chikankari on cloth,<\/p>\n \u00a021.5 x 17.5 inches, Courtesy Manisha Gera Baswani & Gallery Espace<\/p>\n [\/et_pb_text][\/et_pb_column][\/et_pb_row][et_pb_row _builder_version=”4.27.4″ _module_preset=”default” global_colors_info=”{}” theme_builder_area=”post_content”][et_pb_column type=”4_4″ _builder_version=”4.27.4″ _module_preset=”default” global_colors_info=”{}” theme_builder_area=”post_content”][et_pb_text _builder_version=”4.27.4″ _module_preset=”default” max_width=”700px” module_alignment=”center” custom_margin=”85px||16px|||” locked=”off” global_colors_info=”{}” theme_builder_area=”post_content”]<\/p>\n The White Poem<\/b><\/strong><\/p>\n Like a new lamb, I wake into the morning\u2014<\/p>\n I look outside and see a thin crust of snow<\/p>\n stitched upon another layer of snow. The green<\/p>\n of lank grass below barely peeking through.<\/p>\n It is almost December in Oslo, too, where my friend lives.<\/p>\n He speaks of the sun reflecting on the bright white sheet\u2014<\/p>\n the pond frozen over\u2014beneath which fish swim, enter<\/p>\n a sleep where their hearts slow\u2014a torpor\u2014while the sun<\/p>\n goes on sharpening his winter glare. My friend can bear<\/p>\n this shine, says it is better than the aphotic dark of November.<\/p>\n Here, in Narkanda, I spot the monal somewhere on a slope.<\/p>\n We look at each other but do not speak. In the distance,<\/p>\n children ready themselves to ski, awkward ducks<\/p>\n falling over. In the cold air is a light I cannot name\u2014<\/p>\n it feels old\u2014numinous\u2014blunts whatever is glottal<\/p>\n inside me. It doesn\u2019t hurt, being alone. Going for days<\/p>\n without hearing the whistle of a partridge or the heft of hail<\/p>\n thunking its weight on the tip of a deodar leaf. The snow \u00a0<\/p>\n is so cold, it feels hot. I do not know what that means.<\/p>\n But in the presence of a presence greater than your own,<\/p>\n something tells you, you should kneel. And so, I kneel,<\/p>\n bald knee to the ground, and cry softly into the snow.<\/p>\n My sobbing is so quiet I cannot hear it. I think of my friend<\/p>\n walking in the open, drinking warm beer to soothe his throat.<\/p>\n Tomorrow, he will shovel snow. And in a month or two,<\/p>\n the winter glare will reduce. Fish will wake from their sleep<\/p>\n and the pond will thaw too\u2014thinking of this, I rise<\/p>\n on my feet, here, in Narkanda. Thank whatever presence<\/p>\n has blessed my mouth with a silence so deep, I contain<\/p>\n no language to hold it\u2014like this poem turning<\/p>\n into a heap of snow. I have no use for words now.<\/p>\n There is nothing to show.<\/p>\n \n [\/et_pb_text][\/et_pb_column][\/et_pb_row][et_pb_row _builder_version=”4.27.4″ _module_preset=”default” global_colors_info=”{}” theme_builder_area=”post_content”][et_pb_column type=”4_4″ _builder_version=”4.27.4″ _module_preset=”default” global_colors_info=”{}” theme_builder_area=”post_content”][et_pb_image src=”https:\/\/galleryespace.com\/artespace\/wp-content\/uploads\/2026\/05\/Talaab-scaled.jpg” title_text=”Talaab” show_in_lightbox=”on” align=”center” _builder_version=”4.27.6″ _module_preset=”default” global_colors_info=”{}” theme_builder_area=”post_content”][\/et_pb_image][et_pb_text _builder_version=”4.27.6″ _module_preset=”0a6c4baa-304e-458e-9003-bb7edad6cc4b” text_font=”Josefin Sans|500|||||||” text_line_height=”1.5em” global_colors_info=”{}” theme_builder_area=”post_content”]<\/p>\n Manisha Gera Baswani, Talaab<\/i><\/em>, 2024, Pin Incision & gouache on Paper<\/p>\n 24 x 18 inches,\u00a0Courtesy Manisha Gera Baswani & Gallery Espace<\/p>\n [\/et_pb_text][\/et_pb_column][\/et_pb_row][et_pb_row _builder_version=”4.27.4″ _module_preset=”default” global_colors_info=”{}” theme_builder_area=”post_content”][et_pb_column type=”4_4″ _builder_version=”4.27.4″ _module_preset=”default” global_colors_info=”{}” theme_builder_area=”post_content”][et_pb_text _builder_version=”4.27.4″ _module_preset=”default” max_width=”700px” module_alignment=”center” global_colors_info=”{}” theme_builder_area=”post_content” custom_margin=”44px|||||”]<\/p>\n On blue<\/b><\/strong><\/p>\n \u00a0\u00a0\u00a0In the woods, I walk to the pond with my book,<\/p>\n and hold fast to the idea that deer can see the colour blue,<\/p>\n \u00a0\u00a0\u00a0that the cones of their eyes allow such light<\/p>\n to enter, pass through\u2014and the idea of it soothes<\/p>\n \u00a0\u00a0\u00a0my mind, and I imagine one such fawn fevered with thirst,<\/p>\n drinking from the lip of a pond, the water good to taste,<\/p>\n \u00a0\u00a0\u00a0like a lozenge cooling the canal of your throat\u2014<\/p>\n and what is it in the way of blue, the way it reaches the eye\u2014<\/p>\n \u00a0\u00a0\u00a0the long stem of a needle my mother sterilizes on a blue flame,<\/p>\n the tarpaulin of sky, pots glazed with a blue pigment,<\/p>\n \u00a0\u00a0\u00a0feathers of a jay,<\/p>\n pieces of broken azure tiles that children play stapoo with\u2014<\/p>\n \u00a0\u00a0\u00a0is it all in the eye?\u2014in the sea cave of Blue Grotto<\/p>\n where an emperor once swam, the light there so sapphire<\/p>\n \u00a0\u00a0\u00a0it seems to filter from the stained window of some hidden cathedral,<\/p>\n or emit upwards from a star burning underwater,<\/p>\n \u00a0\u00a0\u00a0the silver blued and the blue, silvered\u2014I look,<\/p>\n and look, I am changed\u2014I am Yashodha<\/p>\n \u00a0\u00a0\u00a0coaxing open Krishna\u2019s blue mouth to reveal<\/p>\n a bazillion stars burning bright<\/p>\n \u00a0\u00a0\u00a0in the eternal darkness of space, there is<\/p>\n such light as you wouldn\u2019t believe, couldn\u2019t conceive,<\/p>\n \u00a0\u00a0\u00a0the smooth marble of earth so small in this boy\u2019s maw<\/p>\n that I, his mother, am left frightened\u2014but not I, who is staring<\/p>\n \u00a0\u00a0\u00a0into the clear iris of this pond, divining with my eye<\/p>\n \u00a0\u00a0\u00a0a blue that cannot be found, a blue so vivid<\/p>\n I cannot foresee what I ask for, what I want<\/p>\n \u00a0\u00a0\u00a0from these slow waters where the fish pivot & pray,<\/p>\n I want something impossible<\/p>\n \u00a0\u00a0\u00a0like a formless shape, a knife without a blade,<\/p>\n or to touch the bony ridges on a mandrill\u2019s face\u2014<\/p>\n \u00a0\u00a0\u00a0I want not to hew or whittle or snap or break\u2014<\/p>\n I only want to behold a blue so large & undivided<\/p>\n \u00a0\u00a0\u00a0that it returns the sky to the sky\u2014<\/p>\n but as I stand here staring at the center of the pond,<\/p>\n \u00a0\u00a0\u00a0wanting not to want the impossible, I know<\/p>\n that the blue I see is not the blue a deer sees,<\/p>\n \u00a0\u00a0\u00a0for she sees a colour twenty times bluer,<\/p>\n a blue so bluishly deep, I wouldn\u2019t know what I would do\u2014<\/p>\n \u00a0\u00a0\u00a0and in the light of this truth, I confess<\/p>\n that I suffer a little like a leaf in the wind<\/p>\n \u00a0\u00a0\u00a0but nothing so grave as to kill a horse\u2014one blue roan, or two\u2014<\/p>\n and I still don\u2019t know what it is in the way of blue<\/p>\n \u00a0\u00a0\u00a0except it is the colour of dreams, threading everything I see\u2014<\/p>\n iguana, brick, candle, hook\u2014and I return to it like I<\/p>\n \u00a0\u00a0\u00a0return to the pond, a mud dauber to her nest,<\/p>\n a rook to his tree, and how to my eye, the light returns,<\/p>\n \u00a0\u00a0\u00a0repeats, not the deer\u2019s blue but my own still,<\/p>\n through the gift of a pupil\u2014vase and coat<\/p>\n \u00a0\u00a0\u00a0and ladder and sieve\u2014all as blue as blue can be.<\/p>\n \n [\/et_pb_text][\/et_pb_column][\/et_pb_row][\/et_pb_section]<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":" Origin Story And so, Brahma, the spider,\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0spins again a silver web. His body\u00a0 is all night. Stars pin themselves\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0around his eight ankles across\u00a0 all eight directions as we spill\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0from his spinneret like spiderlings \u00a0waking into life. And Mother to us all,\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0he balloons on an orb of thin air,\u00a0 leaving a field of silk below\u2014\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0wound three […]<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":27,"featured_media":1168,"comment_status":"closed","ping_status":"closed","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"_et_pb_use_builder":"on","_et_pb_old_content":"","_et_gb_content_width":"","_FSMCFIC_featured_image_caption":"Manisha Gera Baswani, Cosmic Orb, 2020, Gouache & pin drawing on paper, \n24 x 18 inches Courtesy Manisha Gera Baswani & Gallery Espace","_FSMCFIC_featured_image_nocaption":"","_FSMCFIC_featured_image_hide":"","footnotes":""},"categories":[25],"tags":[26],"coauthors":[33],"class_list":["post-1167","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","has-post-thumbnail","hentry","category-second-issue","tag-second-issue"],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/galleryespace.com\/artespace\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/1167","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/galleryespace.com\/artespace\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/galleryespace.com\/artespace\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/galleryespace.com\/artespace\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/27"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/galleryespace.com\/artespace\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=1167"}],"version-history":[{"count":8,"href":"https:\/\/galleryespace.com\/artespace\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/1167\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":1414,"href":"https:\/\/galleryespace.com\/artespace\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/1167\/revisions\/1414"}],"wp:featuredmedia":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/galleryespace.com\/artespace\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media\/1168"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/galleryespace.com\/artespace\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=1167"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/galleryespace.com\/artespace\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=1167"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/galleryespace.com\/artespace\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=1167"},{"taxonomy":"author","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/galleryespace.com\/artespace\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/coauthors?post=1167"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}
\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0spins again a silver web. His body\u00a0<\/p>\n
\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0around his eight ankles across\u00a0<\/p>\n
\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0from his spinneret like spiderlings<\/p>\n
\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0he balloons on an orb of thin air,\u00a0<\/p>\n
\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0wound three times, no, thirty-nine,<\/p>\n
\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0circling the oval mouth of starlight.\u00a0<\/p>\n
\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0huddle around his hairy legs\u00a0<\/p>\n
\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0like chalk dust on a blackboard,\u00a0<\/p>\n
\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0how you began time.<\/p>\n