[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=”4.27.6″ _module_preset=”default” max_width=”710px” module_alignment=”center” hover_enabled=”0″ global_colors_info=”{}” theme_builder_area=”post_content” sticky_enabled=”0″]<\/p>\n
Untitled<\/b><\/strong><\/p>\n Between the scratching pencil and the interface, \u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 a red palm blooms to wait outside the door \u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0when the poet begins to write space as time when a commoner\u2019s theft \u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0of famine-bread \u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0infected the king\u2019s own body, When they ask about those you loved, those who moved you, and your usual haunts [\/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\/Smuggled-Everyday-Garment-scaled.jpg” title_text=”Smuggled Everyday Garment” 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 Shilpa Gupta, Smuggled Everyday Garment<\/i><\/em>,\u00a02023<\/p>\n wood, etched brass plate, 14.4 x 10.3 x 6.85 inches, Courtesy Shilpa Gupta<\/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=”4.27.6″ _module_preset=”default” max_width=”7120px” module_alignment=”center” custom_margin=”||16px|||” hover_enabled=”0″ locked=”off” global_colors_info=”{}” theme_builder_area=”post_content” sticky_enabled=”0″]<\/p>\n \u201cSmuggled Everyday Garment\u201d<\/b><\/strong><\/p>\n little children sit at one-arms-distance fearful lest the homeostasis the ball of her discontent \u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0days of bobpins \u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0and cooker-seethi anticipation what grimaces and scratches \u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0embroidered their cotton-skins \u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0into armour we teach silence to each other \u00a0\u00a0like a pair of prisoners \u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0we grow old together sabka badla lega tera faizu \u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0<\/i><\/em>every word that I write \u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0was born in that silence I write \u00a0to protect myself from the destiny \u00a0of somebody \u00a0\u00a0remembering what I write Don\u2019t mistake the impulse \u00a0\u00a0There is nothing saccharine about poetry \u00a0\u00a0no word [\/et_pb_text][\/et_pb_column][\/et_pb_row][et_pb_row _builder_version=”4.27.4″ _module_preset=”default” custom_padding=”||110px|||” 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\/100-handdrawn-Maps-scaled.jpeg” title_text=”100 handdrawn Maps” 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 Shilpa Gupta\u00a0Indian, 100 Handdrawn Maps of India<\/i><\/em>,\u00a02019<\/p>\n Stamp ink on paper, 48 x 62 inches, Courtesy Shilpa Gupta<\/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”]<\/p>\n \u201c100 Handdrawn Maps of India\u201d<\/b><\/strong><\/p>\n \u201c\u092f\u0926\u093f \u0924\u0941\u092e\u094d\u0939\u093e\u0930\u0947 \u0918\u0930 \u0915\u0947 \u090f\u0915 \u0915\u092e\u0930\u0947 \u092e\u0947\u0902 \u0906\u0917 \u0932\u0917\u0940 \u0939\u094b (\u201c\u0926\u0947\u0936 \u0915\u093e\u0917\u091c \u092a\u0930 \u092c\u0928\u093e \u0928\u0915\u094d\u0936\u093e \u0928\u0939\u0940\u0902 \u0939\u094b\u0924\u093e\u201d, \u0938\u0930\u094d\u0935\u0947\u0936\u094d\u0935\u0930 \u0926\u092f\u093e\u0932 \u0938\u0915\u094d\u0938\u0947\u0928\u093e) The moon is a stone \n [\/et_pb_text][\/et_pb_column][\/et_pb_row][\/et_pb_section]<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":" Untitled Between the scratching pencil and the interface, \u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 a red palm bloomsinto a fist of petals \u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0i bite its green stem \u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0and the white sap turnspaisley with want \u00a0\u00a0\u00a0i hold it close \u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0this fiery missive from the tombsthese fingers long as grasshoppers\u2019 legs \u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0Even silence learns to wait outside the door \u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0when the poet […]<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":22,"featured_media":1185,"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":"Shilpa Gupta, Untitled (Tower of Broken Pencil Points), 2021\nPencil leads, pedestal, 7 x 7 x 48 inches, Courtesy Shilpa Gupta ","_FSMCFIC_featured_image_nocaption":"","_FSMCFIC_featured_image_hide":"","footnotes":""},"categories":[25],"tags":[26],"coauthors":[30],"class_list":["post-1182","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\/1182","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\/22"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/galleryespace.com\/artespace\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=1182"}],"version-history":[{"count":7,"href":"https:\/\/galleryespace.com\/artespace\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/1182\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":1410,"href":"https:\/\/galleryespace.com\/artespace\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/1182\/revisions\/1410"}],"wp:featuredmedia":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/galleryespace.com\/artespace\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media\/1185"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/galleryespace.com\/artespace\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=1182"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/galleryespace.com\/artespace\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=1182"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/galleryespace.com\/artespace\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=1182"},{"taxonomy":"author","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/galleryespace.com\/artespace\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/coauthors?post=1182"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}
into a fist of petals \u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0i bite its green stem \u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0and the white sap turns
paisley with want \u00a0\u00a0\u00a0i hold it close \u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0this fiery missive from the tombs
these fingers long as grasshoppers\u2019 legs \u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0Even silence learns<\/p>\n
Pass the salt, dear fellow. \u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0Why the hurry? Sit with me by the shore
of the idea. \u00a0\u00a0Prick that ear whose cartilage is paper \u00a0\u00a0 Scale the rhyme
to the edge of the cliff. \u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0Bend low, now, \u00a0like in the days of yore<\/p>\n
Bend low, so that the weight of the land could rest, \u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0for a meagre moment,
on your slouched shoulders. \u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0Pave the bridge of your back, poet, with the shoddy
clay of dissatisfaction. Sit at the chai katta, Ruminate, Smoke your Charminar blunt.<\/p>\n
Giggle uncontrollably, and then show them \u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0your Babel of broken pencil points<\/p>\n
of the home is disturbed. she could come in any moment now and unfurl<\/p>\n
she stitched into a globe \u00a0\u00a0her atlas of little misgivings \u00a0\u00a0\u00a0she kneaded and curled<\/p>\n
how they shifted the cold steel of her absence \u00a0\u00a0this pole around which they twirled<\/p>\n
our nails clipping dreams \u00a0\u00a0\u00a0the way the devil-mushroom \u00a0\u00a0\u00a0grows in the underworld<\/p>\n
baap ka dada ka sabka <\/i><\/em>\u00a0\u00a0every inter-generative sentence from that void once hurled<\/p>\n
this ball smuggled from the factory-floor of my days \u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0I fashion into a world<\/p>\n
is innocent \u00a0\u00a0\u00a0A river turns against the grasslight \u00a0\u00a0\u00a0with fire its ripples are finely pearled<\/p>\n
\u0924\u094b \u0915\u094d\u092f\u093e \u0924\u0941\u092e \u0926\u0942\u0938\u0930\u0947 \u0915\u092e\u0930\u0947 \u092e\u0947\u0902 \u0938\u094b \u0938\u0915\u0924\u0947 \u0939\u094b?\u201d<\/p>\n
<\/b><\/strong>
<\/b><\/strong>If one room of your house is on fire,
can you sleep in another room?
<\/b><\/strong>(\u201cA country is not a map drawn on paper\u201d, Sarveshwar Dayal Saxena)<\/p>\n
\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0lodged in the throat of our history.
When the air gets thick with news,
\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0people start to cough.
Smog burns the eyes, dry-feet
\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0begin to itch. And the dust
of yesteryear stars like pathfinder beams,
\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0veinates the territory.
How astonishing that the star
\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0is a death by fire, how prophetic
that the past lights up our tomorrows. \u00a0
\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0Like lines threading the palm
of a weak man spurned, the future turns
\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0in on itself. I have redrawn
your eyes as paisley flames
\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0in the dark crevice of this land\u2019s turning;
Two slits in a dark night with no end;
\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0Your fingers find the bars
of my rib-cage, and clingwrap
\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0the skin tight around the protrusion;
Nothing in the way your lips curl
\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0tells me what you are about to do.
So I let it be. The most beautiful thing
\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0about the nights in this city,
is that they resolve themselves
\u00a0\u00a0into morning. The world resets
at the croak of dawn, and
\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0the work of the day begins.
I give you, my love, this photograph.
\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0I have drawn over the blurred sepia
to be faithful to my memory of us.
\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0To walk back with respect to a place
I once called home. When you looked at me
\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0then, I became refugee,
and all the borders of the world
\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0screamed in unison, all the metal-detectors
froze in their tracks. No map can hold
\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0the country of your gaze, when smitten
with mischief, you enslave me in your arms.
\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0Where nobody, not even the state can see us.
Let us lie low, now. Everytime we make love,
\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0another bloodred elsewhere blooms \u2013
a siren rings, an ambulance cries,
\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0a life is nipped at the bud.<\/p>\n