Tazeen Fatma


Doomsday

If information is never lost as they claim, don’t you think that we’ll all be more conscious? We would be scared of the lies we utter and the truth that hasn’t yet been uncovered. How many times would we be sorry for the tiniest mistake and the slightest remark? Every opinion would be a voice, every whisper a discrete choice. The world, in a dilemma, would be lost in deep thought—if information isn’t lost, then someone, someday will dust off the cobwebs and read it all.

beneath
the pruned branch
a nest



Petals on a wet, black bough

Quite often, when I visit an old monument or a local market or a fancy new restaurant, I see a lot of people with a similar gait, sense of dressing, or behaviour. There are so many versions of myself out there that I fail to find myself in the swarm of bees. I look out for those other faces—nuanced from the crowd—until a local cameraman convinces me to let a moment in time freeze me on his canvas. I manufacture a smile and wait for the ink to spill over. While the adjustment of focus brings meaning to my life, from the shallow depth of field a blurry face stares at a bespectacled me, trying in vain to decipher my story.

nothing but a grain of wheat


Shelter War

Red, blue, and green hues splash across the sky with the bursting of firecrackers. It illuminates every other second only to darken a dark night. There are calls for celebration as the mob marches in to loot and kill anyone or anything on the other side. To stay is a choice, but the savagery makes her flee. My grandma, a 12-year-old, runs for survival, her baby sister wrapped around her waist. Under a pile of rubble that was once somebody’s abode, she discovers for herself a home.

clearing cache
I can’t hold
it all in




Tazeen Fatma is a visual artist, haijin, poet and writer from India.

 
 

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