The Creative Process: The Arts of War (Spring 2017)

The Creative Process 

Masthead & Publisher Information 

The Mumbai Art Collective 

E: info@themumbaiartcollective.com 

W: themumbaiartcollective.com 

: +91 80801 85000 

The Creative Process is The Mumbai Art Collective’s flagship 

magazine, that aims to look at art critically and analytically, and the 

creative processes that converge in the creative of the art. 

Read The Creative Process online at thecreativeprocess.co.in. 

The Mumbai Art Collective is an arts organisation that was born 

out of a desire to understand the thought process behind the creation 

of art. The Mumbai Art Collective jumps right into the innermonologues 

of the creator to understand and document the 

explorations and ruminations behind creative activity. Paintings 

displayed in galleries are only the undertones of the real picture, 

which can only be truly understood by understanding the artist and 

the artist’s mind. Learn more on our website, 

themumbaiartcollective.com, and via our Facebook page, 

facebook.com/themumbaiartcollective. 

1

Spring 2017 

The Mumbai Art Collective Team 


The Arts of War 

Founder & Head Curator: Ishaan Jajodia 

Creative Head: Kabeer Khurana 

Head of Operations: Tanay Punjabi 

Sanya Thakrar 

Head of PR: Sharmishta Muralidharan 

Yashvi Gada 

Poet-in-Residence: Tamarind Fall 

Aanchal Dusija 

Arjun Shukla 

Gauri Saxena 

Hasri Hemnani 

Priyanka Paul 

Rashika Desai 

Rutika Yeolekar 

Sameer Hadker 

Shruti Giri 

Taran Warner 

We are deeply grateful to Sasha Kalrani and Akshath Killa, our 

former Executive Director and former Head of Design. 

-- 

On Cover: A WWI photograph by Lt. John Warwick Brooke, 

British Army photographer, via Imperial War Museums 

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Acknowledgements 


I would like to thank the entire TMAC team for making this edition 

of the magazine possible. It would not have been possible without 

the hard work and dedication of each and every one of you. 

Without having someone to ideate with, this magazine would have 

been impossible, and for that I would be indebted to Kabeer 

Khurana, Chintan Girish Modi, and Rajkamal Aich, all of whom 

graciously took time out of their busy days to hear me out and advise 

me. 

I am deeply indebted to all the artists and poets who took time out 

of their busy schedules to talk with us, and agree to follow up 

interviews. Thank you, for opening up to us, and letting us in so we 

could conduct genuine and authentic interviews. 

Last but not the least, I would like to thank Prof. Barbara Will, Prof. 

Colleen Boggs, Prof. Katherine Hornstein, and Prof. Laura 

Edmondson, for a spectacular class I took in the Fall at Dartmouth 

College, that shares its name with the title of this edition of The 

Creative Process. It was in this class where I was exposed to the Arts 

of War, and served as the inspiration for this edition of the 

magazine. Thank you for all the advice, help, and support. 

And to you, the reader, for taking the time to read, and to think 

about the articles presented in this edition of The Creative Process. 

Sincerely, 

Ishaan Jajodia 

3


Editorial Note: The Arts of War 


Dear Reader, 

T 

he world is at war. From Syria to Iraq, India to Pakistan, the 

world is now at a stage where conflict has become the new 

normal. From the beginning of time, conflict has given 

society the most profound and celebrated art. Thus, it is only apt 

that this issue be dedicated to the arts of war. 

Art is as responsible for starting war as it is for sustaining it and 

ending it. It has the ability to significantly alter public perceptions 

of war, and to sustain mass movements for and against aggression 

and violence. 

AN ETCHING FROM THE DISASTERS OF WAR BY FRANCISCO GOYA, 

RECOUNTING THE FRENCH INVASION AND ANNEXATION OF SPAIN IN THE 

FIRST DECADE OF THE 19TH CENTURY. 

4


When Francisco Goya rendered his heart-wrenching series The 

Disasters of War, and Jacques Callot created The Miseries of War, little 

did they know the impact their recognition of the hardships that 

civilians and soldiers face in war alike. A significant part of previous 

artwork served to glorify the idea of war, and to euphemise the 

horrors of it. War is no a gentleman’s game, rather, a game of life 

and death. Art was an important part of the Napoleonic propaganda 

machine, where the neoclassical tradition of history and battle 

painting was adapted to represent contemporary events and present 

a version of ‘truth’ that suited narratives that the Empire intended 

to promote. 

Moving eastwards from the western tradition, we come across 

remarkable works of art in India that talk about war. Indian literary 

and artistic history has constantly featured the theme of conflict in 

a prominent manner. Like the Iliad and the Aeneid, the two most 

renowned Indian epics talk about different types of war. The 

Ramayana’s rising action arises from a war that Rama wages to save 

his wife from the abductor, the King of Lanka, Ravana. The 

Mahabharata, the largest epic ever written, focuses on fratricide and 

war between the Kaurava and Pandava brothers. It is no coincidence 

that two of Hinduism’s most prominent epics talk of injustice and 

war. 

5



LORD CLIVE MEETING WITH MIR JAFAR AFTER THE BATTLE OF PLASSEY, OIL 

ON CANVAS (FRANCIS HAYMAN, C. 1762) 

India has a rich history of being at war. At no point in time was the 

nation, as it stands today, a single country. Composed of a few major 

kingdoms, and hundreds of smaller principalities, war was a 

common occurrence. The role of art in these conflicts can not be 

mistaken, whether it is the poetry or the murals commissioned by 

royals of all power levels. Art, oftentimes, acts as a bridge between 

the wishful imagination often served to us as Indian history, and the 

truth of what happened. 

Regardless of the position that artwork takes on the justness of 

conflict, it can safely be ascertained that art is integral to 

conversations about war. By depicting “the iconography of 

suffering,” as Susan Sontag mentions in her book Regarding the Pain 

of Others, and exploring its larger implications through art, this issue 

of the magazine hopes to sensitise its readers about war and death. 

We present art and artists as an entry point into something that is 

almost fundamental to human life- war. 

6


The Creative Process team wishes that the reader examine these 

works and critiques closely, and think of the larger implications that 

these works and stories occupy in the master narratives that are being 

marketed today. The world is changing, and it is at war. But we must 

also know what it means. 

If you feel like you want to talk to us about any of the articles, or 

want to correspond and initiate a conversation with the TMAC 

team, email us at letters@themumbaiartcollective.com, and we will 

be happy to carry it forward. 

Warm Regards, 

Ishaan Jajodia. 

Editor, The Creative Process. 

-- 

7


What’s Inside? 


Table of Contents 

MASTHEAD & PUBLISHER INFORMATION 1 

THE MUMBAI ART COLLECTIVE TEAM 2 

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS 3 

EDITORIAL NOTE: THE ARTS OF WAR 4 

WHAT’S INSIDE? 8 

CONFLICT IN THE VĀLMĪKI RĀMĀYANA: A SOUTH ASIAN 

PERSPECTIVE ON JUST WAR THEORY 10 

THE RUINS OF WAR AND COLONIALISM IN AMITAV 

GHOSH’S THE GLASS CASTLE 18 

BALWAN, KAUSIK. 24 

“I WRITE ON WAR BECAUSE I DON’T GET SLEEP AT 

NIGHT”: DAANIYAL SAYED 28 

SANITISING WAR: DECONSTRUCTING INDIAN WAR 

PHOTOGRAPHY FROM THE KARGIL WAR (1999) 34 

THE BARD FROM THE VALLEY 42 

BURNT MUSINGS: WAR 48 

ENDNOTE 52 

-- 

8


9



Conflict in the Vālmīki Rāmāyana: A South 

Asian Perspective on Just War Theory 

10


PAINTING: RAJA RAVI VARMA’S RENDITION OF RAVANA FIGHTING THE 

VULTURE JATAYU, WHILE ABDUCTING SITA, RAMA’S WIFE. 

S 

ince time immemorial, it has been ingrained in our minds that 

the central theme of the Rāmāyana is the war between 

darkness and light, and the subsequent victory of good over 

evil. Most variants of the Rāmāyana, like the Kampanrāmāyanam, 

appear to preach the same; with their black-and-white heroes and 

villains, and clear-cut definitions of what is good and what is evil. 

Rāma, the divine Vishnu avatar, is the epitome of goodness and the 

very embodiment of justice, while Rāvana, the Rākshasa, is a symbol 

of evil, greed, lust—all vices that a ‘moral’ individual should not 

indulge in. 

However, in other retellings, the characters are portrayed as morally 

grey: there are no watertight categories of ‘good’ and ‘evil’. Rāma is 

not perfect; he is not a god, but rather a god-man who has to live 

within the confines of mortality with all its vicissitudes. Similarly, 

Rāvana is not always evil; many retellings paint him as a tragic figure 

undone by his passions. In light of these revelations, the war 

between Rāma and Rāvana may not have been the just outcome we 

presume it to be, and indeed, a closer analysis tells a different story. 

An framework for analyzing the conflict between Rama and Ravana 

would be the just war theory, a doctrine of military ethics first 

formalised by Stanisław of Skarbimierz, a Polish rector. It lays down 

seven criteria—all of which must be met—to justify war. I will not 

be presenting all seven of them: the Rāmāyana war cannot be 

reconciled with at least one of the four criteria of right cause, right 

intention, last resort, and right conduct, thereby breaching the 

nature of a ‘just’ war. This in turn illustrates the fact that war is not 

a simple do-or-do-not situation: it is a complicated layered event 

11



shaped by circumstances and ‘moralistic’ principles. There are far too 

many retellings of the Rāmāyana; here we focus mostly on the 

Vālmīki Rāmāyana for the narratives and plot structures. 

It would be helpful to first present the circumstances that caused the 

war. When Rāma and Lakshmana leave Sitā in their hut in pursuit 

of the golden deer that Sitā desired, Ravana kidnaps Sitā. Vowing 

revenge, Rāma, aided by the Vānara, wages war on Rāvana, and 

defeats him. However, why precisely did Rāma wage war on 

Rāvana? Were there other reasons besides bringing his wife back, 

and did these reasons rationalise the use of violence? 

RIGHT CAUSE 

Is there an appropriate cause to justify violence? In the Vālmīki 

Rāmāyana, the sanctity of the world is endangered by demons who 

terrorise Brahmin sages and defile their rituals, so the gods call upon 

Vishnu to restore its purity. Vishnu takes the form of Rāma, whose 

sole mission in life is to end the demons’ menace for which he must 

face Rāvana (who is the leader of the demons) in battle. This predecided 

calling to restore cosmic balance seems to justify the 

bloodshed in the Rāmāyana. It is said that in waging offensive war 

against Rāvana, Rāma is not only condemning the violence and evil 

that Ravana is committing, but also the targeting of said violence 

towards ascetics of the religious principle of Hinduism as 

well. Moreover, Rāma is further authorized to kill violent forces and 

therefore protect the world by virtue of being born as a Kshatriyā, 

one of the warrior caste. By a slightly twisted logic, this principle 

does not seem to have been violated. 

RIGHT INTENTION 

Right intention is a subset of right cause. We may define this as 

whether the motivation behind upholding righteousness is pure and 

12


independent of selfish desires. For Rāvana, the intent seems to be to 

promote conflict—it is thus self-serving and hence condemned. 

However, Rāmā falters here as well. The desire to get his wife back 

(which is what the intention seems to be at first glance) is selfserving, 

for all intents and purposes. However, in many places in the 

Rāmāyana, Rāmā mentions that he is not retrieving his wife out of 

affection for her; rather, it is to redeem his lost honor. He carelessly 

mentions this in the Yuddha Kāṇḍa, when Sitā is brought out to 

him, all decked up. He tells her that she is free to go, now that the 

prestige of his clan has been restored. He further goes on to say that 

she could now choose to be with Sugrīva, Vibhīshana, or even his 

brothers –clearly all lesser beings (pardon my usage of the term) than 

him. Rāmā thus redeems himself by waging war, and then seeks to 

absolve himself of any blame in Sitā’s misfortunes by disassociating 

himself from her. Further, the suggestion that she should now 

associate herself with less-godly men is something that I see as a 

mark of arrogance and an indication of the fact that Sitā was merely 

a tool for self-preservation; now that the job is done Rāmā has no 

use for her anymore, and in fact would leave her to beings less 

accomplished than him. I feel that leaving her to lesser-beings also 

indicates that he cares only about himself, it does not matter if others 

have to face the consequence of having an unchaste (since that is 

what Rāmā presumes about Sitā) wife. Many would justify this by 

saying that as long as the cosmic balance of the universe was 

restored, such individual actions need not matter. I would, however, 

prefer to discard this utilitarian notion with respect to this point. I 

feel that both Rāmā and Rāvana waged war with the wrong 

intention. This criterion of the just war theory has been violated. 

LAST RESORT 

More important than that, however, is whether war was absolutely 

the last resort. Were all prior attempts at peace exhausted before the 

parties turned to war? It is interesting to note that when Rāmā is 

exiled by Dasharatha, he calmly accepts his fate, while Lakshmana 

13



is incensed. He goes so far as to say that “violent means are the only 

way to seize control, while leniency results in defeat” (II.18.8). Rāmā 

placates him and they go their way. When Sitā is kidnapped, 

however, Rāmā becomes uncharacteristically enraged, and it is 

Lakshmana who calms him. Many other instances in the text stress 

on the importance of peaceful means of resolving conflict, and the 

attempts made by Hanumān, Lakshmana, and Vibhīshana to resolve 

conflict via discourse. But because they are at the bidding of Rāmā, 

who has decided upon war, they are forced to engage in violence. 

What I find most interesting is that in both cases Rāmā loses his 

honor, but in the former the authoritative legitimacy of his father 

deems the cause not worthy of a rebellion. One of the tenets of the 

just war is the presence of a legitimate authority; something we will 

not go into much detail. However, Rāmā’s willingness to avoid war 

in face of his exile seems to stem from his obedience of his father’s 

wishes—in other words, a respect for authority. Many sociological 

studies suggest that this has something to do with caste –not only is 

Dasharatha a human, but he is also a Kshatriyā, the only caste 

allowed to wield weapons. Rāvana is half-Rākshasa, half-Brahmin; 

thus, both his caste and his demon blood (which also robs him of 

humanly moral principles) deprive him of any legitimacy to wield 

weapons and wage war. It is often suggested that Rāmā declared war 

outraged at Rāvana’s audacity to declare himself king and adopt the 

ways of the Kshatriyā caste. 

The principle of last resort finds prominence in Rākshasa military 

ethics as well. Both Vibhīshana and Kumbhakarna chastise him and 

urge him to rethink his decisions. War is to be avoided whenever 

possible, and when it becomes inevitable, it is best to be on the side 

of the ‘righteous’ (as illustrated by Vibhīshana’s defection to Rāmā’s 

army). However, it is clear that both Rāmā and Rāvana avoid 

peaceful counsel. The principle of last resort has thus not been 

obeyed. 

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RIGHT CONDUCT 

Military ethics during actual fighting are held in high regard in the 

Rāmāyana. Though we do not get to see deviation from these 

principles in the actual war, there are several other instances in the 

text which depict that both Rāmā and Rāvana were susceptible to 

disobeying these principles. 

In the Kiṣkindhākāṇḍa, Rāmā, in order to forge an alliance with 

Sugrīva, agrees to slay his brother Vāli. As Sugrīva and Vāli 

fight, Rāmā hides behind a tree and shoots an arrow at Vāli, 

breaking the code he has staunchly adhered to all this while. As Vāli 

lies dying, he reproaches Rāmā for his cruel act. Rāmā does not 

justify this action, but tries to nullify the military ethics by saying 

that they do not apply to animals. This disregard for ‘lesser’ beings 

perhaps foreshadows Rama’s callous behaviour with Sitā in the 

Yuddha Kāṇḍa. Besides, this goes on to show that the major 

alliances of this unjust (as we have already established) war were 

established on shaky grounds, further adding to its demerits. 

In contrast, Rāvana might well be commended for listening to his 

counsel as they steered him on the ethical path. Not only was 

Vibhīshana successfully able to talk him out of slaying Hanumān as 

slaying an emissary breaches the code, but he also listens to his 

counsel when they advise him against killing Sitā. 

Throughout the Rāmāyana, Rāmā recites several tenets of military 

ethics from time to time e.g. “a foe who does not resist, is in hiding, 

cups his hands in supplication, approaches seeking refuge, is fleeing, 

or is caught off guard—[one] must not slay any of these” VI.37.78; 

however, he seems not to follow them (at least, the one about fleeing 

is violated when he kills Marīchā, who is in the guise of the golden 

deer). It would be fair to say that Rāmā is indeed hypocritical in his 

15



approach to right conduct; and it is Rāvana who (albeit reluctantly) 

upholds them. Nevertheless, this criterion, too, has been nullified. 

CONCLUSION 

While the epic defies the logical principles of just war, it adheres to 

a Hindu code of moral supremacy. Throughout the Rāmāyana, great 

importance is placed on the morality of the leader, and nondefensive, 

punitive war is justified for the defence of morally superior 

ideas (Hindu cosmic balance, in this case); quite unlike western 

philosophical thought. Further, adhering to strong, defined moral 

principles allows a leader to gain and maintain political legitimacy. 

If we were to see this in the context of the principle of last resort, it 

may be inferred that since Rāvana’s ideology was not consistent with 

Rāmā’s, Rāmā did not deem him a legitimate ruler. 

Perhaps we may attribute the complex nature of the war to moral 

relativism; a concept most famously crafted by Plato and explored 

by Nietzsche, but rarely mentioned in Hinduism. There is no 

universal moral philosophy that dictates a code for distinguishing 

right from wrong, and therefore there are different viewpoints on 

morality, each shaped by its culture, history and society; with no 

viewpoint considered superior over others. What to some may seem 

a clash between two males whose egos could not be adequately 

massaged without military slaughter, to others may be the coming 

of the divine Lord and the redemption of their sins. It is up to the 

reader to choose which camp they belong to. 

-- 

Gauri Saxena is currently reading Economics and Anthropology at 

Ashoka University, where she serves as arts and culture editor of the 

university newsletter. She has previously been published in the 

Entartete Kunst Literary Review, The Bombay Review, and 

Alexandria Quarterly, amongst others. 

16


17



The Ruins of War and Colonialism in Amitav 

Ghosh’s The Glass Castle 

18


T 

he Glass Palace (novel, 2000) by Amitav Ghosh, offers a 

detailed critique on the effects of war and colonialism. 

Spanning across three countries and three generations, the 

book delves into the personal lives of Ghosh’s characters, 

intermingled with a sense of love along with the journey of life. This 

aura is much too often broken and interrupted by the horrors 

brought in by colonization and the consequent dislocation that it 

leads to. 

Starting off with an introduction to an eleven-year-old orphaned 

Indian boy, Rajkumar, the story proceeds in Mandalay, Burma (now 

Myanmar), describing the circumstances that brought him here 

along with the sense of belonging he develops to the place. 

Rajkumar is introduced to Saya John, who becomes a father-figure 

in Rajkumar’s life. Later, the English rampage the city, but the 

soldiers are mainly Indians who have come on the orders of their 

colonial masters. Thus begins the general sense of chaos, ruin, and 

fleet that constitutes a major part of the book. With the invasion of 

the British, the residents of the city seek refuge in the Glass Palace, 

where King Thebaw and his family used to rule and reside. What 

follows is the family’s exile to Ratnagiri (a port town in India), 

Rajkumar’s marriage to Dolly, a servant in the King’s household, 

followed by the birth of their sons Neel and Dinu and the 

intermingling of the families of Rajkumar, Saya John, and Uma in 

the three nations of Burma, Malaya, and India respectively. Set 

amidst the two world wars and British colonialism, the novel moves 

in a direction of establishing and then tearing relationships apart 

through death and dislocation, thus describing the ruthlessness and 

arbitrariness that war brings along. 

Throughout this novel, rich and abundant in details that spanned 

the history of the world in those several decades, the themes of war 

19



seem to constantly surface, bringing to light the reality of the 

otherwise fictitious characters. Most of the characters seem to 

become symbols of larger elements. Rajkumar, for instance, comes 

to represent and symbolize an entire migrated community and their 

ways of functioning in an alien land. The unfortunate yet inevitable 

deaths and separation of the characters represent the horrors of warthat 

no one can remain at a safe and aloof distance from it; that each 

individual is the victim of a force brought about by greed. 

Divided into seven parts, each section deals with an important 

aspect. The first part is called “Mandalay,” depicting the Anglo- 

Burmese War of 1885. It focuses on the crude greed that drives all 

individuals alike; this greed is shown to transcend one’s status, race, 

caste, group, or nation. Furthermore, the plunder shown throughout 

this part serves as an exposure of the raw greed of the colonizers, 

which led them to loot and control their colonies in the brutal 

manner that they did. The second part, called “Ratnagiri,” shows 

colonial subjugation and imperial dominance. With the merge of 

Burma with India as a single colonial subject, the attitudes to 

surrender oneself and the contrasting attitudes to resist are 

presented. The third section, “The Money Tree,” shows how 

Rajkumar prospers through timber business. The fourth section, 

called “The Wedding,” deals with the second generation. 

Rajkumar’s son Neel marries Manju, and people like Arjun and 

Dinu show fascination for the British. The fifth section, “Morning 

Side” depicts the consequence of the Second World War in Malaya. 

The penultimate section, “The Front,” depicts how characters suffer 

due to the outbreak of the Second World War. The last section of 

the novel titled “The Glass Palace,” deals with the Indian National 

Movement at its peak and India’s final achievement of 

independence. 

20


In the opening scene, Ghosh describes how the marching soldiers 

looked like to the Burmese crowd- “There was no rancour on the 

soldiers’ faces, no emotion at all. None of them so much as glanced at the 

crowd.” This reflects the inhumanity that developed within the 

minds of the people as a result of war. This is reiterated by Saya John 

when he says, 

“…their willingness to kill for their masters, to 

follow any command, no matter what it entailed? 

And yet, in the hospital, these sepoys would give 

me gifts, tokens of their gratitude. I would look 

into their eyes and see also a kind of innocence, a 

simplicity. These men, who would think nothing 

of setting fire to whole villages if their officers 

ordered, they too had a certain kind of innocence. 

An innocent evil. I could think of nothing more 

dangerous.” 

This sense of being mentally controlled is also reflected in the 

Collector, who was “haunted by the fear of being thought lacking by his 

British colleagues,” as well as in the character of Arjun, who remained 

loyal to his duty towards the British for a major part of his short life. 

Dinu, similarly, fails to realize that the British, much like Hitler and 

Mussolini, are ruling through racialism, aggression and conquest. 

He, like several other Indians who received a primarily one-sided 

Western education, does not question the immorality of the British. 

This was, truly, the aim with which Western education was 

introduced in India, as clearly stated by Macaulay (who was 

responsible for the same). 

Edward Said, one of the founders of the academic field of 

postcolonial studies, writes, ‘No one today is purely one thing. 

Labels like Indian, or woman, or Muslim, or American are not more 

21



than starting-points, which if followed into actual experience for 

only a moment are quickly left behind. Imperialism consolidated the 

mixture of cultures and identities on a global scale. But its worst and 

most paradoxical gift was to allow people to believe that they were 

only, mainly, exclusively, white, or Black, or Western, or Oriental.’ 

This theme resonates throughout the novel, throughout, in fact, the 

course of colonial history. War and colonialism brought about a 

sense of hybridity among races of the world- reflecting, in a way, the 

fact that no race is pure; yet, this purity of race was highly 

emphasized upon by the colonizers. In this novel, similarly, readers 

find that all the relationships made throughout the three generations 

go beyond the narrow-mindedness of maintaining a pure race. The 

opposite, in fact, is where the basis of the novel lies on- a 

homogenized global culture arising out of heterogeneity, yet 

targeted by the ‘superior White’ race. 

The novel also focuses on the journey of life and the process of 

growing. One watches all the characters grow in their opinions. 

Arjun, a soldier himself, is later disillusioned about the British, finds 

an anti-colonial consciousness and seeks to join the movement 

towards India’s independence. Thus follows a ‘decolonization of the 

mind’ (Ngugi wa Thiong’o, 1986) of Arjun as well as his fellow 

soldiers. Similarly, Uma, while initially prone to an almost 

aggressive sense of nation and community, later develops the nonviolent 

view. She admits to the need of attaining reform of the 

Indian society along with its independence. 

Thus, this novel is essentially an amalgamation of war, dislocation, 

love and death, exile, and helplessness. It reflects on the point of 

view of the colonized, and in doing so, never leaves South Asia. 

Ghosh, speaking about his novels, said, “My fiction has always been 

about places that are states in the process of coming unmade or 

communities coming unmade or remaking themselves in many 

22


ways.” While focusing on the modus operandi of colonization in 

Burma, the focus in India is on how colonialism unified the country 

in an anti-colonial embrace, and how it evolved an anti-colonial 

psyche in Malaya. The three nations have a shared history of being 

born out of an anti-imperialist struggle, and being torn, shaped, and 

reformed by the consequences brought about by the wars fought in 

those decades. The Glass Palace questions the very essence of war 

by being ruthless in its description of war’s reality, and refuses to 

cater to a notion that euphemizes the adversity it brings about. 

Indeed, the question posed by Ghosh can be summed up by a line 

from the novel itself- 

“Was this how a mutiny was sparked? In a 

moment of heedlessness, so that one became a 

stranger to the person one had been a moment 

before? Or was it the other way around? That this 

was when one recognized the stranger that one 

had always been to oneself; that all one’s loyalties 

and beliefs had been misplaced?” 

-- 

Rashika Desai is pursuing Arts at St. Xavier's College, Mumbai. She 

is a bibliophile and enjoys reading and writing poetry, who wants to 

learn as many languages as she can. 

23


Balwan, Kausik. 


BALWAN BY KAUSIK MUKHOPADHYAY/ IMAGE: THE GUILD ART GALLERY 

Kausik grew up and went to art school at a time when the established 

status quo was anti-Dada, anti-Duchamp, and anti-Abstraction. 

The degeneracy and disdain that these art movements were regarded 

with fostered a pushback in the minds of artists like Kausik. Stifled 

by the expressly descriptive mode of representation, he recounts 

conversations with fellow artist Tushar Jog, he attempted to wrangle 

with the conceptual ideas that Duchamp bought out in his 

Readymades, questioning the role of the hand of the artist, of the role 

of the installation, and other fundamental questions on the nature 

of art. And it is with this in mind, that Kausik picks the two soldiers 

that waltz around the piece, directionless, and without any agency. 

The “badly-made GI Joe” toys, as Kausik describes them, remind 

24


the viewer that children, too, are playing with Weapons of Mass 

Destruction, conspiring to make war, not love. 

However, Duchamp’s works still glossed over and idealised the 

struggles of life. Kausik’s Balwan is a pushback against the 

idealisation and fetishisation of violence and war. He tells TMAC, 

“The Mughal miniatures were violent as well. We were never really 

free of violence.” And in a way, Kausik is right. A lot of the 

underlying tension in representations of the Hindu epics and the 

painting tradition of the martial Rajputs indicate impending 

violence. For Kausik, this glorification of violence is abhorrent, and 

the attempt to represent war as glory is a blot on the conscience of 

the artist. 

Behind the creation of Balwan is a commentary on consumerism as 

it manifests itself in the art world. Kausik is fully aware of the 

traditions of the artists that came before him, and while mentioning 

Warhol, reminds one of the nature of the buyer. The art world is a 

market, where demand meets supply, and Kausik believes that “art 

is (now) a thing to satisfy your customer.” The reductivism that 

marks Kausik’s works is different, for it is meant to be homely, not 

to be consumerist. This is also why Kausik’s installations are not 

meant to last, and the materials are recycled into other installations. 

The ephemeral nature of Kausik’s art is a recognition of the 

commercialisation of art, for if art no longer exists, it cannot be sold. 

Ranjit Hoskote’s catalogue essay for an exhibition that marked 

Kausik’s return to the art world reads: 

Adopting a DIY aesthetic as he does, 

Mukhopadhyay turns his back on the kind of high 

finish that has been de rigueur in much 

postcolonial Indian art. However, the rough edges 

25



are deceptive; his bricolage embodies a 

sophisticated play with multiple historical 

horizons. 

Kausik’s fellow professor at KRVIA, where he teaches, Sonal 

Sundararajan, writes about his work: 

This is the sort of meta story that hovers over the 

table, like a spectral ghost. Of a time of such 

fleeting obsolescence that barely have you been 

able to call something your own, that another 

comes to replace it. The detritus of a time of a 

perpetual present, of a time of ‘nostalgia for only 

the present’ piles up higher and higher - in the 

shops in chor bazaar, in the scrap markets, in the 

landfills, in attics and cupboards. Perhaps in all 

the exiled and discarded objects lying at the 

margins lie the repressed desires of the home and 

the city. 

One of the most pressing questions that the use of discarded articles 

raises for the viewer is about the nature of memory. Is our memory 

of war dictated as much by what is not told through generations and 

through cultural and historical archives? Kausik would seem to agree 

with this proposition. The fleeting nature of memory, and its 

inherent inconsistency is highlighted by putting two soldiers who 

waltz around in the water, with no idea of they are truly doing, stuck 

in an animated suspension. Are they truly the Balwans that the piece 

is titled after? 

26


The piece is titled Balwan, which means strong and hearty in Hindi. 

But by choosing a word that has a presence in both Urdu and Hindi, 

languages spoken across the Indian subcontinent, Kausik ties this 

piece back to the Indo-Pakistan conflict. The piece, therefore has 

cross-border significance. Deprived of any indicator of nationality, 

Kausik’s piece portrays the universality of war, built carefully behind 

a façade of crudeness and simplicity. Sometimes, the soldiers are in 

conflict with each other, and sometimes they aim into abstraction 

with something. The piece presents this to remind viewers of the 

recent nature of the Partition, for we still retain significant aspects 

of culture that the Indian subcontinent espoused. The conflict 

between the two, is therefore portrayed as fratricidal. Alluding to his 

Mannerist predecessors, Kausik’s title is also emblazoned on the 

outer wall of the tub in which the sculpture is contained, reading 

“Balwan size.” Is one form of bravery better and bigger than any 

other? 

With Kausik’s piece, I find myself wrangling with the question of 

agency. There is always the question of responsibility in war, for who 

is truly responsible for the horrors of war, we do not know, and 

probably will never know. This again brings up the question, Is art 

inherently political? For Kausik, the forms that constitute art are 

most definitely political. It is what the artist chooses to do with these 

forms is what influences the nature of the end product. Art, as 

Kausik sees it, has the potential to bring about social change, and it 

is with this in mind that Kausik crafts a narrative through a piece 

that lives as we breathe. 

-- 


27



“I write on war because I don’t get sleep at night”: 

Daaniyal Sayed 

A PHOTOGRAPH OF IDLIB AFTER THE CHEMICAL BOMBING/ AL JAZEERA 

O 

n Wednesday, April 5, 2017, the Syrian government 

used chemical weapons on the people of Idlib, Syria. This 

was not the first instance of the use of chemical weapons by 

the Syrian government on its own people, having done so previously 

in August 2013. It is the indiscriminate killing of civilian 

populations that affects Daaniyal highly, and while talking with 

TMAC, uses this as an entry point into his poetry on the horrors of 

War. 

Born and brought up in Bombay, Daaniyal’s journey with the 

spoken and written word began through rap written about partying 

and love. He still writes poetry about Pyaar (love) 

and Mohabbat (affection), but only does it to distract himself from 

the horrors of war, he tells us. In many ways, Daaniyal’s evolution 

from Rapper to Poet was an evolution of the consciousness and the 

thoughtfulness, enabling him to become a poet that explores serious 

28


issues with his work. What separates Daaniyal from a significant 

part of the poetry tradition and community in Bombay is that he 

writes about pyaar andmohabbat when he is trying to get his mind 

off the horrors of war, unlike his peers, who, according to him, have 

an almost single minded focus on these things. 

Daaniyal’s work oftentimes talks about the horrors of war. His 

sensitive nature can be traced back to his childhood. His heightened 

sense of emotive perception is key to his view on war, which he 

believes is inherently immoral. Pain and suffering is also vital to his 

view on war, and he recounts viewing a video (warning: graphic 

content) of a child following the chemical attack on Idlib. The 

vacant stare of the child, clearly in pain, haunted Daaniyal, who said 

that “their eyes talk to him.” This was instrumental in prompting 

him to think about the repercussions of warfare, and his 

consumption of the iconography of suffering (Susan 

Sontag, Regarding The Pain of Others) makes him a more conscious 

person, for his conversations about his work are an implicit 

recognition that behind the facade of glory and victory lies a world 

wrought with destruction, with lives torn apart. 

29



This poem was written by Daniyal in response to the attacks in Idlib, 

Syria. Accompanying the poem was this statement by him: 

“P.S — a lot of people ask me, kya ghuma phiraa 

k Syria, Yemen pe aajata hai tu? 

When will you stop writing about it? 

I always have the same reply: When will the war 

stop?” 

Daaniyal’s poetry is not just a plea for appeasement, but also a cry 

against the sanitisation of war. The poem that he presents in 

response to the horrific attack, one that he recounts in graphic detail, 

is a cooptation of the horrors of war, and the creation of a second 

memory by someone who has never stepped foot inside Syria and 

Yemen. Daaniyal tells TMAC that “When someone innocent dies, 

30


I feel my own brother died.” Being a silent spectator, too, is a 

cooptation of the pornography of killing (Georges Didi-Huberman), 

and for Daaniyal, even when one person is killed as the result of 

violence and war, the seven billion people of the world who are 

standing “in the field” must hang their heads in guilt and shame. We 

all have the blood of the dead on our hands, and we are complicit in 

their killing, either by consuming this pornography of killing, or by 

doing nothing about it. While Daaniyal acknowledges that War is 

inherently universal, he insists on grounding his poetry in more 

specific terms. His case in point is Syria and Yemen, two previously 

prosperous nations ravaged by recent conflict, and he considers that 

the world is already fighting the Third World War. His poetry is a 

plea for peace, and for democracy. 

Some of Daaniyal’s work also focuses on the war going inside India, 

in our hinterlands: the war of religion, and of communal 

31



polarisation. The politics of beef is central to his, for Daaniyal 

mentions what he considers “hypocrisy” on part of the Bhartiya 

Janata Party, India’s ruling Hindu fundamentalist party, who 

promote beef in the North East, and ban it everywhere else. This is 

war for Daaniyal, too, but a war of different proportions. He is a 

proud Indian, but he says that he cannot afford to turn a blind eye 

towards the politics of polarisation that plagues the subcontinent’s 

political discourse. His grim view of the current crop of politicians 

is a clarion call to those who believe in the principles and values of 

the classical liberal, and the grim view he espouses of politicians 

being solely utilitarian creatures is supported by a long list of 

evidence. His poetry, again, serves as an outlet for his sensitive 

nature, and it is his way of being more than just a silent spectator. 

Speaking out by writing and performing poetry, is his way of coping 

with this. 

Daaniyal occupies a unique position in the poetry community, not 

just because of the subject matter of a significant portion of his work, 

but because of the languages that he chooses to write in. Despite 

knowing Hindi, Urdu, and English, almost all of his work is 

exclusively focused on the first two. His lexis and register, when he 

writes, is simple, yet impactful. He is no Hemingway, choosing 

instead to follow the path of a war-focused Robert Frost. 

Throughout his work, Daaniyal is cognisant of rhymes, and 

leverages the language and his vocabulary to begin a conversation 

with the reader. His poetry is a portrayal of mediated angst, the 

manifestation of this second memory that he talks about. 

32


PHOTO COURTESY: DAANIYAL SAYED 

His poetry is no call for violence. When he talks about his work, his 

focus is almost exclusively on empathising with victims of conflict 

and violence, lacking signs of hatred. There is a clear sense of disgust 

at what is happening, but at no point in time does he let the feeling 

of hatred overpower his work. His poetry is a mediation between the 

different parts of his conscience, and in its final form, is 

overwhelming for both the listener and the reader. His 

representation of war is neither populist, nor inherently political. It 

is humanist, and pacifist, and for a poetry pundit to politicise it would 

be a mark of disrespect to the brilliance and conscience of his body 

of work. 

-- 


Poetry Layout: Daaniyal Sayed 

33



Sanitising War: Deconstructing Indian War 

Photography from the Kargil War (1999) 

“War is propagated by myth and myth makers, 

and photography is an integral element of this 

myth.” 

I 

n the winter of 1998-1999, Pakistani army regulars disguised 

as reactionary militants illegally attempted to take over peaks 

of mountains in the Kargil-Dras region of Kashmir. This area 

was strategically important for India because it overlooked 

NH-1A, the sole road link to the region of Leh-Ladakh. When the 

ice thawed, local shepherds reported the intrusion, leading to the 

mass deployment of Indian troops, resulting in the Kargil War. The 

Kargil War was the last conventional war that India fought against 

its neighbor, Pakistan, in 1999, and the first war which was reported 

on as it happened, through television and traditional news sources. 

According to the Kargil Review Committee, chaired by K. 

Subrahmanyam, the increased media exposure during the Kargil 

War “knit the country together as never before.” By examining the 

body of photography that survives from this war, it is possible to 

deconstruct the myths they aim to construct and reinforce. 

34 

WHO TOOK THESE IMAGES? 

While looking at the entire body of photography that survives from 

the Kargil War, one area was of particular interest: the general lack 

of attribution to the photographers and outlets responsible for the 

publication of the photographs. Poor implementation of intellectual 

property laws and a general lack of responsibility to attribute work 

to their creators hampers any attempts to further know their true 

progeny. Strangely, despite the extensive coverage of the war by 

television outlets, there seems to be no record of any photography


by them. Some of the images of jawans seem like candid shots, 

veering more towards personal mementos of the war rather than the 

aspects of war documented for their news value. 

While a study of previous Indian war photography from the Indo- 

Pakistan War of 1965 reveals a multitude of photographs attributed 

to the Photo Division of the Ministry of Information and 

Broadcasting, the possibility also exists of the Press Corps of the 

Indian Army and other armed forces releasing images through their 

respective channels. There may be an underlying reason behind the 

highly possible, controlled dissemination of images of the war 

without attribution to a particular person: to prevent the rise of the 

cult of the individual photographer. War photographers tend to 

become celebrities, much like Robert Capa, Roger Fenton, and 

Matthew Brady, and because of that their work takes on additional 

meanings. For example, despite Capa’s role as a war photographer, 

and his supposed neutrality of representation, he and his partner, 

according to Randy Kennedy in The Capa Cache, “made no 

pretense of journalistic detachment during the war — they were 

Communist partisans of the loyalist cause.” To maintain control 

over the lives that war photographs take after their publication, it 

becomes imperative to control the lives their photographers take on. 

By removing the human origin of the photograph, however, and by 

releasing it through press releases and channels, war photography 

becomes the state’s means of controlling the narrative. 

THE ICONOGRAPHY OF HOWITZERS & LARGE 

GUNS 

Some of the most iconic images that came from the Kargil War were 

those of the Swedish-made Bofors howitzers. According to defence 

analysts, the Bofors Howitzers and larger guns gave the Indian army 

“an edge over the Pakistanis” that would not have been conceivable 

previously. These howitzers captured the imagination of the public, 

35



and a significant part of surviving Kargil war photography reflects 

them. 

SOLDIERS OF THE INDIAN ARMY AIM A 23MM ZSU-23-2 AA GUN AT 

PAKISTAN OCCUPIED PEAKS IN KARGIL-DRAS REGION OF KASHMIR AS A 

CONVOY OF TRUCKS PASSES THROUGH THE NATIONAL HIGHWAY IA, 

CONNECTING SRINAGAR & LEH./ UNKNOWN 

In the photograph above, from an unknown source, soldiers can be 

seen aiming a Bofors Howitzer at Pakistan-controlled peaks. They 

face the only road that connects Leh to Srinagar. What makes this 

photograph particularly remarkable is the way perspective lines 

converge towards the barrel of the gun, from the top and the bottom 

of the frame. The mountains cradle the silencers of the doublebarrelled 

howitzer, indicating a level of comfort in the positioning 

of the gun, and obscuring any indication of the ‘rush of war.’ The 

overall atmosphere of the photography is calm, almost serene, which 

makes it compelling. The juxtaposition of two nations embroiled in 

a vicious, high altitude war, is powerful. The well-synchronised 

nature of the movement and the upright posture of the jawans 

36


reinforces the myth of a nation heading to war, leading the viewer 

to accept the construct of righteous and just war. 

The photographer’s decision to include both sky and water 

emphasises Indian air and naval superiority. The depiction of a wide 

range of terrain reinforces the illusion of superiority that the 

photograph is intended to create, suggesting that the plethora of 

armed forces were ready to fight wherever they needed to. The 

photograph distinctly shows all lines of sight, from the trucks to the 

guns, converge onto mountains, symbolising the aim of the Kargil 

War, which was to recapture the peaks that were taken over by 

Pakistan during the winter. 

THE SOLDIERS 

Despite significant advancements in technology, the Kargil War was 

still fought using age-old tactics. One of the most crucial weapons 

in India’s arsenal was the wide array of soldiers who were able to 

acclimatise and fight a high-altitude war on such short notice, and 

despite knowing that the Pakistani soldiers had the physical higher 

ground. Some estimates suggest that for every Pakistani soldier in a 

high altitude bunker, at least six Indian soldiers were needed. 

Soldiers from the Indian Army and paramilitary forces like the 

Border Security Force (BSF) and Rashtriya Rifles (RR) contributed 

to an overwhelming majority of boots on the ground. 

37



IMAGE: MUSLIM SOLDIERS OF THE INDIAN ARMED FORCES OFFERING 

THEIR NAMAAZ (PRAYERS) BEFORE MANNING THEIR POSITION AT A BATTERY 

OF AUTOMATIC AND SEMI-AUTOMATIC MACHINE GUNS./ UNKNOWN 

The photograph above depicts three Muslim soldiers of an unknown 

unit of the Indian Armed Forces offering prayers during a break in 

battle. This photograph is particularly iconic, for it has significant 

propaganda value for the Indian government. Pakistan was set up as 

a purely Islamic state, according to its founder, Mohammed Ali 

Jinnah because he felt that Muslims had no place in India. However, 

India is a secular country, and this image subverts the narrative 

championed by the Pakistani government, which is that of a small 

Muslim state being subdued and standing up to a Hindu aggressor. 

The photographer also crafts into this photograph the motif of 

headgear to further subvert the Pakistani master narrative, 

progressing from a full helmet to an army green baseball cap. The 

range of headgear shown in this image is reflective of the diversity 

38


of the soldiers, suggesting that while they may all be Muslim, they 

are possibly from different parts of country and belong to a diverse 

range of religious sects. (At this time, it becomes imperative to 

differentiate between the government of Pakistan and the average 

citizen of Pakistan- the former wages war, the latter does not, and 

this is reflected in the prevailing narrative) The offering of namaz 

also has high symbolic value, for it could also be construed as praying 

to the divination of the nation, Bharat Mata, for success in battle. 

The use of religious symbols in war always creates for tantalising 

imagery because it presents the actions in a divine light, and as a 

result of divine intervention. 

T 

DECONSTRUCTING THE IMAGES 

hese two images are part of a timeless collection of images from 

Indian war photography, because their appeal is grounded not 

in specificites, but in heavy symbolism. They are able to take on 

double lives through their use of symbols of strength, that enable use 

to craft myths around them. Like Robert Capa’s The Falling Soldier, 

these images represent a larger, intangible idea that feeds into the 

myth being propagated. 

The projection of force that takes place in the first image is part of 

the ‘strong India’ narrative that is being pushed forward by all 

segments of the government. India has not had an anti-war 

government since the time of Nehru, and appeasement isn’t 

currently on the agenda either. By suggesting a hegemony and 

armed superiority over the land, the water, and the sky, the image 

feeds into a toxic narrative that has the potential to (and possibly 

intention to) mislead. 

In the photograph of the soldiers, by not anchoring it in the 

particularity of the war, the photographer creates the myth of 

communal and religious harmony, while attempting to subvert the 

39



classical Pakistani government narrative and premise for creation of 

Pakistan. It glosses over a bloody history of sectarian and religious 

violence, perpetrated largely due to religion, and removes evidence 

of the un-secular nature of a large section of Indian law. The use of 

religion to subvert another religious narrative seems to be odd, for 

the argument seems to be an antithesis. 

However, in this reading of Indian war photography during the 

Kargil War, one thing is certain for me. Compared to the vast 

repertoire of works produced by Mathew Brady, Robert Capa, James 

Nachtwey, and other Western war photographers, aesthetically, the 

images that I looked at simply were unable to match the complexity 

and the artistic nature of the Western canon. 

The sanitisation of the true nature of war is highly problematic in 

these images. There is no mention of more than a thousand people 

who died on both sides, and the two thousand who were wounded 

physically. These images show a fragment of the truth of war, but 

not the entirety of the truth. While it may never be truly possible to 

capture what war is, and what it means, photography has a truth 

value that is ascribed to it, and therefore in most contemporary 

conflict situations in India, guides what a large part of the public 

perceives to be the sole existing truth. These photographs are simply 

pieces of propaganda, a publicity exercise by the government to 

drum up support for a costly war. 

-- 


The provenance of the images in this article is unknown, despite 

considerable research. The author and publisher intend to correct this at 

the earliest, and if you have any information about it, we request you to 

email us at info@themumbaiartcollective.com. 

40


41


The Bard From The Valley 


R 

amneek Singh is a spoken word poet from Jammu. Through 

his poetry, he tells us stories of his home. His poems reflect 

on the implications of the territorial conflict between India 

and Pakistan over Kashmir dating back to 1947, and the atrocities 

that the Indian Armed forces have committed in 

Kashmir. Ramneek’s poem called Jhelum is based on one such 

mysterious disappearance of a Kashmiri friend. It’s about how he is 

trapped with a sense of guilt when it comes to breaking the news of 

his loss to his friend’s family members. 

Every time he tries to write a poem about love, partition or conflict 

intervenes. It transforms the fabric of each poem. After all, “conflict 

gives birth to poetry”, he says. One of the biggest conflicts that an 

artist has to face against the world is to maintain a sense of identity. 

When he first shifted to Mumbai, he felt a little discouraged about 

42


getting into the poetry scene. Most of the spoken word poems in 

English were well received and appreciated but he had to carve a 

niche for Hindi poems. He had assumed poems performed in Hindi 

would not be as popular as in English, but his contemporaries were 

welcoming and encouraging which inspired him to keep at it. His 

intention of writing poems was not to impart knowledge but his way 

of sharing his pain with the world and wondering if it is capable to 

feeling too. One of the most significant ways in which his poems 

have contributed to his artistry is by providing him with an 

opportunity to empathize with people. One of his struggles is to 

recover after a poem becomes popular, to be able to compete with 

his own poems is a task. 

His poem Rhinchin and Dolma reveals the callousness of tourists and 

photographers who come to Kashmir to capture its beauty 

completely oblivious to the plight of the locals in Kashmir and their 

fight for freedom and sustenance. People say that words are 

powerful enough to change the world. Ramneek feels that through 

his words he can evoke the grief of those families who have lost 

members due to the attack on civilians in Kashmir. The pain of 

migration when one loses what used to be their home. Through his 

poems he intends to show the beauty of coexistence without letting 

differences cause animosity. “It’s problematic when people refer to 

Kashmir as Kashmir without sparing a single thought for the 

Kashmiris who reside there!” 

His recent poem ‘Acche Din’ on Kashmir is about a little girl who 

has a disability and doesn’t understand the grave consequences of 

living as a person with disability in a territory that is constantly under 

threat. Her grandfather keeps writing letters to the Prime Minister 

asking him to stop this fight over a piece of land. He writes: 

43


ज़मीन का टु कड़ा ह+ तो है, 

फ़ौज परेशान, लोग परेशान 

आप परेशान हम परेशान 

करवा देतेह; दो


“काँगड़ा कK पहाLड़यN के बीचो बीच 

जAनतN के ज़ायके 

कु छ ऐसे सुनाई देतेह; 

थुSपा, 

TतंVमो, 

मोमो, 

Vयाथुक । 

इन सब मX 

अपने खोये हुए, 

Tछन चुके घर को 

गुहार लगाता, 

एक छोटा बHचा 

हर सुबह, हर गल+. हर दूकान 

अपनी झलक


कानो मX पड़ ह+ जाती है 

मेरा Tतiबत कहाँ है| 


Home 

Situated in the middle of the mountains of Kangra 

There are flavors of heaven 

I hear them as 

Thukpa 

Tingmo 

Momo 

Gyathuk 

In the middle of all this 

I search for my stolen home 

Every morning, every lane,every shop. 

I catch a glimpse 

Of old photographs on my home. 

A debris of memories 

From pictures, graffiti, and advertisements 

Shouting as a proof of its existence 

In between those laughing, fluttering fairies, 

On those treks to Dharmkot, 

Scaling the peak of Triund, 

His Growl 

once in a day 

falls on my ears 

Where is my Tibet?” 

The very idea that someday he will run out of poems seems terrifying 

to him. He doesn’t want to exhaust his potential as a poet. His rage 

against certain steps taken by the judiciary that drove him to write 

poems. There are times when he fails to put words on paper, and he 

worries if he has become complacent. During times like these he 

notes down all the compliments he has ever received from people in 

46


a diary and reads them over and over to reiterate his faith in his 

capacity to write poems. 

His love for travelling inspires poetry too, saying that “We nurture 

the myth that we are permanent. We are just tenants on earth. 

Capable of dissociating and writing.” His poems are an extension of 

himself, and he believes the page is a patient listener, a living entity 

that understands his pain. He believes that thoughts and emotions 

come first in his creative process, and the craft that evokes emotions 

comes much later for him. His poems are a collection of his 

experiences and encounters with people, and are prompted by his 

urgency to write and record their stories. Since he is a traveler and 

filmmaker, his poetry borrows from his visual craft by attempting to 

paint vivid pictures from his imagination and stir the listener's sense 

of imagination. Some evoke, some provoke, while others just take 

the reader to a place he once travelled to. 

Will poems stoke a fire in our hearts which are oblivious to the 

consequences of war and conflicts? We sit wrapped in a cloak of 

sympathy and the comfort of our chairs and drown out all pleas for 

help from the valley in the chaos of this city. Are we doing enough? 

As Ramneek questions these dark times where our freedom is 

threatened under the guise of being national by asking “Aazadi hain 

kya mujhe apne aazadi ke liye sawal karneki?” (Do I have the 

freedom to ask questions about my own freedom?) 

-- 

Rutika Yeolekar (text and translations) 

Image Courtesy: Ramneek Singh/ Chanda Gauranga 

47


Echoes 

Burnt Musings: War 


ROGER FENTON, VALLEY OF THE SHADOW OF DEATH, FROM THE CRIMEAN 

WAR 

T 

he sun rises with the promise of hope and warmth 

spreading across the horizon 

giving life to everything under her feet 

as she softly kisses everything her hands can touch 

and taints it all with orange. 

Teaching us to keep waking up 

to the echoes of the chirping of birds 

and the rustling of the breeze against the trees she nurtured. 

Mayhem is yet to strike, 

48


in the form of marching feet 

and listless eyes 

ordered to recruit every man who they can afford to lose. 

And it turns the crisp morning air 

into clouds of dust 

that sometimes refuse to settle 

to hide the bodies lying in our path 

as if to warn 

that we’ll end up the same way. 

Dawn is a resonance of a knell 

The ripples of the sound spilling across empty streets 

My heart is still echoing from all those screams I couldn't turn away 

from 

Their voices still beating in my head 

Constantly pleading 

For some peace in this chaos. 

With guns and grenades, 

And ammunition and our own hands 

I still feel helpless with the way the rain of bullets enveloped 

everyone around me 

The only way they'd get some peace. 

And I'm still standing somehow, 

The echoes ravaging my head 

49



My hands still quivering from the taste of cold metal clasped in my 

palms 

A pull of a trigger and the gunshot still makes me shiver. 

And now the desolated darkness shrouds the cities 

With a haunting calm and melting candles on every front door 

That can’t illuminate the houses as brightly as they used to before. 

The ghosts of all those wanted the war now haunts the city 

The blooming city, 

With her children so tender and the rivers that helped, 

Now howls every night from the loss of her own blood. 

And the sky remains silent. As the sky always does. Observing the 

rubble. 

Can the rain wash away the handprints of the martyrs who collapsed 

against the soil in their last breaths and grabbed a fistful of the earth, 

desperately pleading for it to embrace them the way their mothers 

would have? 

I can feel it all again when the nightmares turn into my heaving 

chest, into a landfill of devastated dreams, into empty promises of 

freedom. 

Their bruised hands tried so hard to hold the country together 

That it broke their hearts when everything fell apart 

And they couldn't save all the children. 

50

We need shelter from ourselves. 


We hide in our own houses, bury our hearts in postcards that will 

never get responded to, 

And we wait. 

The sun rises differently this time. 

She wakes and howls so loud for the loss of all the soldiers that it 

burns up everything. 

And everything is reverberating with the echoes of bullets 

that have long killed the birds that ever wanted to fly. 

This is how it ends, doesn't it? 

Not with a bang but a silence so loud, the stillness makes death 

quiver on his throne. 

-- 

Tamarind Fall is The Mumbai Art Collective’s Poet in Residence. 

She likes to write about everything, especially the universe, spilled 

ink, shattered glass and broken hearts. The world is always an 

inspiration she can’t get enough of. She’s pursuing quantum 

mechanics but in her free time, she also likes to do photography, 

play games and read books. 

51


Endnote 


Dear Reader, 

Thank you for taking the time out to read through this issue on the 

Arts of War. We hoped that reading this made you inquisitive to 

know more about war, and the arts of war. 

If you have any questions or want to talk to us about any of the 

content on our websites and inside this issue, write to us at 

letters@themumbaiartcollective.com, and we will love to engage 

with you. 

Until Summer 2017, Adios! 

52

The Creative Process: The Arts of War (Spring 2017)

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