Just a reminder that #loveisloveislove not just in the beautiful month of June, but all year round. Support the #LGBT community and ask Congress to pass the Equality Act, which would update our civil rights laws to provide all people with full protection from discrimination. #LGBTPrideMonth
This GIF captures a bit of how each color is painstakingly layered one at a time to create the final image. That is more than 400 pulls for an edition of 100 prints. Anybody who screenprints takes it on for the love of it. Its truly backbreaking work.
We observed my mother’s Shraddha. That day is blurry but I am sure that we blindly went through the rituals that had been codified more than two thousand years ago.
What is not blurry is the day leading up to her death.
Her sprightly chatter had fallen into near silence during the week leading up to her death.
My father had bathed and changed her, just like he had done every noon since the time she had gotten too weak to do it herself.
I had taken to brushing her thick long black hair. I liked how it felt wet, cool and heavy in my hands.
Like the past few weeks, her head rested heavy on her hand. Her eyes – sad, soft, downcast and faraway, even though we were sitting right in front of the mirror she had used to energetically adorn herself with a little gold and sindoor for about 32 years.
“কি ভাবছ, মা?” (What are you thinking about, Ma?)
“ধুত, কি আবার?” (Oof! What else?)
she replied distantly and irritably.
I loosely braided her hair even though her voice stung. Did she know that was going to die?
She ate a bit and lay down to rest.
I laid down beside her and stroked her still spotless, golden, beautiful back. I can’t think of a time in my life when I didn’t love stroking her back.
She was falling off to sleep.
Suddenly, she sprang up to sitting on the edge of her bed, her words tumbling rapidly into one another as she desperately tried to keep pace with her sudden burst of delirium.
“Can you hear them?”, she gasped.
“Hear what, Ma?”
“Those bells… the evening bells. Can’t you hear them? They have started to practice their dance. What are you doing here? Why aren’t you there, practising with them?”
“What bells? What dance, Ma?”
“There! There! Can’t you see them?” pointing to a corner of the room.
“Ma! There’s nobody there!” I was beginning to get very frightened as I looked into a pair of eyes that I could no longer recognize.
They looked manic, puzzled. Why couldn’t I see what she could see? She dropped her arm, let out a deep sigh and fell into disappointed silence.
For twelve years of my life, I had practiced dancing every evening. It was evening alright. But those practice sessions were long gone.
As my husband and brother frantically tried to get a hold of her doctor for advice, my father and I sat next to her, not knowing what was to come.
Little did we know that we would be watching death unfold.
Perhaps it was an illusion created by the emotional center of my otherwise pretty logical brain, but it wasn’t like she was alive one moment and dead the next. It felt like her life had become into its own being and was wrestling to set itself free from its physical binds.
How long did that last? A few minutes? A few hours? We weren’t scientists trying to study death with a stop clock. We were watching my mother die, and it felt like a really long time.
Strangely enough, the closest thing I can compare it to is birthing. Just as time, space and cognition collapse into one incomprehensible dimension when a baby is on its way to be born, this was no different.
Just like a baby forcefully and determinedly squirms and twists its way through the birth canal in no predictable pattern till the head, shoulders and the rest of her body slithers out into one slimy, bloody mess and a loud wail, my dying mother’s life was corkscrewing its way out through her death canal, a bit at a time to no set rhythm.
Like a baby unregrettably leaves the womb that had kept her alive for nine months, my mother’s life finally broke free from the body that had nurtured it for 51 years, leaving behind slightly parted lips, a stony blank stare, and a loud wail – my father’s, ” আর নেই রে! তোর মা চলে গেছে!” (She is no more! Your mother has left us) as he continued to stroke her limp but still warm shell of a body.
If you downloaded THE UNITED FACES OF AMERICA for the Women’s March, I hope that you carried it with pride. I am now taking pre-orders for a limited edition, signed and numbered 3-color screen printed version of the poster from my homepage. The first 20 orders are also in for a special surprise!
We, the United Faces of America, are stronger than hate, and will uphold justice and human rights for all. Here we are carrying our message in front of the courthouse on Women’s March day.
Size: 16 in. x 20 in. Signed and numbered edition of 100 prints.
Dec 12, 2015: 196 nations agreed to respond to climate change by keeping a global temperature rise this century well below 2 degrees Celsius above pre-industrial levels and to pursue efforts to limit the temperature increase even further to 1.5 degrees Celsius.
Jun 1, 2015: President Trump pulls out of Paris agreement
Dec 4, 2017: President Trump reduces the size of two national monuments in Utah by some two million acres, the largest rollback of federal land protection in the nation’s history. Patagonia’s headline the morning after reads “The President Stole Your Land”.
30% of profits from sales will go towards supporting the project, 30% to HeadCount, a non-partisan organization that uses the power of music to register voters and promote participation in democracy, and 40% to me.
Buy a poster, spread the word, and take the planet to the voting booth in 2018!
On Nov 19, 1965 two strangers got married, yet it is the best marriage I know of. Those strangers also gave birth to me, my brother and my sister. They, at the very least, showed us how to love. I miss my parents and their wisdom everyday. More on their marriage at “An Arranged Marriage, a Lifetime of Love”.