#reflectionsofrealism | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

reflectionsofrealism · 7 years

Text

70 years.

It was a warm summer evening in the capital. The sun was gradually setting and darkness encompassed the skies. But even the nightfall did not mean sleep for this city. The golden hearts of ‘Dilli’ had just woken up.

Flickering streetlights, swaying telephone lines,

Each road was swarmed with shinning headlights.

Loud honking echo’s sounded,

The noise had become an essential part of the night.

Delhi would never be the same without this peak hour traffic,

The unique display of sound and light.

And while the schedule of the night went on as each day, not far away from this chaos another everyday scene played out just the same…

5th of August 2017 Dear Citizens of a Free India,

I am writing this not as a victim, but as a warrior, fighting for the rights of hundreds of Indian women who have no one to confide in. Their voices are being drowned, their mouths are forced shut, but the flames of their spirits can never be extinguished.

Yes, I was out all alone that night. I was driving back home unaccompanied when it happened.

But let’s get one thing straight; I did nothing wrong and it wasn’t my fault.

3 men in a black SUV, I could see them from my rearview mirror; laughing, they mirrored my movements, following me for over 20 minutes on the streets of the capital city.

For a few minutes I was absolutely terrified. I’m not scared of standing up for myself, but at that moment I wasn’t just fighting against 3 men, rather this was a war against the patriarchal society of India.

Being chased by these goons, the only thing that kept me going was the memory of my grandmother; a woman who undertook the journey from Lahore to Amritsar all alone, holding ma close to her bosom. Without any help, with nothing, not even a few rupees to feed herself she came to India and nurtured a family, providing them with everything they could ever ask for. Working odd jobs, giving it her everything; a woman succeeded in a mans world against all odds. It was her spirit that reminded me of how much strength I really have.

It was when things got extremely violent, the car swerving into my path, the men trying there best to hit me that I called up the police. I couldn’t run away, I had to stop, for the sake of millions of women, make them pay.

Why can’t we understand the concept of equality?

Irrespective of gender, caste, any construct we may see.

We humans are just the same,

Red blood flows in each of our veins.

Open the Newspapers, only pain you brew,

Inequality and discrimination screaming back at you

Whether it is a young Dalit boy committing suicide,

Or a baby girl being burnt alive!

We’re in the year 2017, 70 long years since the rebirth of our motherland. We’re redefining boundaries, racing ahead with technology as our enabler, the fastest growing economy and largest democracy in the world; India.

But even today, despite all this visible ‘progress’, the dark pits of our minds refuse to change.

We worship her in the temple, folding our hands in prayer, devotion to the goddess we say, Saraswati, Durga, Kali, Parvati or Sita. When there is respect there, what happens on the streets? What happens within the four walls of a home, near hospitals, in moving and stationery buses, anywhere, everywhere, even inside of the same shrines of God’s safe haven? What urges the same hands to harass, to molest, to rape?

The mouth that sings a hymn of appreciation for her hurls back insults and catcalls just the next moment with one justification, ‘Her walk provoked me, her talk provoked me, her clothes provoked me.’

I ask these men one question, ‘Was the 10 month old infant dressed provocatively too?’

2.24 million crimes against women were reported in India the past decade.

26 crimes against women are reported every hour

A woman becomes victim to crime every 2 minutes.

If these numbers seem baffling, the fact is that majority cases of crime however go unreported.

Is this really progress? Are we really moving forward?

Yours Truly, India’s daughter Looming over an uncertain future.

3 notes · View notes

reflectionsofrealism · 7 years

Text

Peter Pan Taking Flight

The sky was changing hues, transitioning into a new work of art by the second. The blue gradually turned into orange, with hints of lilac, pink and yellow smeared across blended into the scape.

It was vast, absolutely endless and enigmatic. A mystery, its existence and magic though explained by the laws of science, never truly unveiled, encoded or understood.

The sky appears to changes color due to the scattering of light, the size of the particles, the distance from the sun.

That is the logical explanation, isn’t it?

But how can this wondrous kaleidoscope of beauty and color be explained so simply?Is it not natures wonder, a painted created with the most unusual medium.

Look up at the sky, at any time of the day.

Take my word for it; your view will never be the same.

No wonder people spend their entire lives looking at it, studying the conundrum of its creation. Getting lost in its vast expanse, just sitting and staring in awe.

We all wish we could be as fortunate as the birds that fly in its embrace, feeling, touching and believing it in its purest form.

If you had to choose between invisibility and flight, which superpower would you pick?

As children we know that one-day we will. One day we will touch the sky and fly high, feeling the winds caress our faces, feeling invincible. Peter pan teaches us that we really truly can, if only we believe in the power of our dreams.

Then why does this passion get extinguished, as we grow older? Why do we stop dreaming, why do we stop believing?

The world tells me to grow up.

The world tells me not to day dream.

The world tells me to think rationally.

Not get lost in this spiral of myths and make belief.

Look at the sky above you, just once glance and you may be inspired forever. Everything you’ve ever believed may come back to you, the childish spirit renewed!

A.J.

2 notes · View notes

reflectionsofrealism · 7 years

Text

The Wax Fort

The white Fort stands tall, more resembling a single tower, it’s translucent and dainty form upright. The golden flame burns, beams of light reaching out in all their glory, spreading all the warmth.

Have you ever just watched a candle burn?

Each and everyday, the Fort takes shape. The white wax streams trickle down the once smooth cylindrical surface. The dancing flame works its way, deeper and deeper into the surface, creating an almost hollow structure.

Have you ever seen something so enigmatic, that it is at it’s most beautiful only in the course of self destruction?

For days the fire burns, burning beauty. The fort becomes a symbol of light, a bright future ahead, a story of love, desire, passion and keeps dreams alive. Somewhere in a village, a girl finishes her homework in the dim light. Somewhere in the mountains, men at a tea shop warm themselves with its small flame. Somewhere on a table, it lights up two lovers’ eyes.

Is anything in life eternal. The bad and the good?

The fort, changes everyday. Dynamic and moving it never stays the same. And one day, after burning and giving everything it had, it decimates, the locks of wax melt, vapours released into the sky disappear. And there remains no trace of the mighty Fort.

The best moments in life end much faster than we ever want them to. There exists no physical proof of their passing.

The Fort lives on only as a memory in the hearts of all those it has touched.

Like a flicker it occasionally sparks. And then dormant, it stays hidden deep inside

1 note · View note

reflectionsofrealism · 7 years

Text

Memoirs of A Maniac

The four plain white walls seemed to be closing in. An old fan hung off the low ceiling, moving in a slow, almost dizzying motion, round and round and round. A soft prolonged screeching sound accompanied the movement. The wall clock ticked on, like a monotonous metronome.

The room was empty, except for single bed that lay right in the center. The bed had been adorned with white sheets. They were creased; each fold and crevice seemed to look harsher, shadows falling against each other, a result of the shower of sharp white light from a single light bulb.

From afar the tangle of sheets almost seemed to resemble a mountain; a large rocky mountain with tracts and tracts of unforgiving white snow.

A man lay still underneath the sheets.

His once luscious and vibrant ginger locks, were now fading, like the old maple leaves of autumn on winters arrival. His lips were pale, mouth slightly open. His eyes, once as deep and electric blue as the ocean, were devoid of any color or emotion, trained upon the revolving ceiling fan.

This is how things had been, for as long as they could remember. He wouldn’t talk, eat, sleep or even move from the position he was laying in. They almost refused to believe that he had lived as a person before this.

The place smelt of illness, like all facilities for this purpose did. White walls, white rooms, white doors, windows, furniture and linen; did they think that God himself would come down to Earth to see this luminous shower of white?

They thought that they were helping; little did they know that their methods were making things way worse.

The man lay still underneath the sheets.

Sometimes, he was so quiet that even the sound of his breathing seemed to fade away into a whisper.The slow movements of his chest were the only sign of life.Even though physically he was absent from the present, his soul was living, not in this world, but some imaginary paradise of his own.

The swirling of the fan, round and round and round continued.It was this gradual motion that kept the man going, kept the monitor beeping.

For he was reminded of a mystical town; within the cradle of low lying hills, a hamlet. Multiple homes, towers and trees; merging into the blue night, shadows and lights alike.

The sky, a miracle night always remained. Cerulean, Ultramarine, Cobalt, shades of blues all waltzing with the yellow highlights. Smooth movements, blending, hints of touch from each side, creating the perfect fusion of color and rhythm.Hypnotizing swirls, moonlight reflecting, beams scattering, round and round and round.

A body lay still underneath the sheets.

It seemed lifeless, a vegetable deteriorating physically. The mind behind, the soul was living on, the dream of the Starry Night ever prolonged!

A.J.

1 note · View note

reflectionsofrealism · 7 years

Video

youtube

#ananyajain #reflectionsofrealism #mumbai #bombay #shortfilm #creativeconceptualfilm #film #filmography #india

1 note · View note

reflectionsofrealism · 7 years

Video

youtube

Water is a common link across all countries, religions, races and segments of society. It is something primal that each one of us need for survival.

But the sad, heart wrenching reality is that with the passing of years the disparity and inequitable distribution is rapidly rising.

We need to stop and honestly ask ourselves if we are the ones, 'making water the new oil' or else reality will hit us the the worst way only when there is none left on in the world.

(This film was made by my friends and I in 2016, in order to raise awareness about water scarcity in India)

#india #waterscarcity #water #film #movie #shortfilm #disparity #people #socialissue #realproblems #filmography #videography #indiaproblems #ananyajain #reflectionsofrealism

1 note · View note

reflectionsofrealism · 7 years

Text

Rain, changes.

The crystal drops dance down the windshield, slowly, gracefully in a skidding motion. The sky is still grey; smudges of yellow however can be seen peeking through the canopy of clouds.

The smell of rain is beautiful every goddamn time.

The rain, it brings with it a renewed perspective, as if the lens with which the world was viewed has been cleared of all its dust and fog. Things that had previously been invisible, always on the periphery seem to have been colored afresh, vibrant and glowing.

Does the sound of thunder, the lightning and the falling water sound like music to your ears?

The dark night, torrents of wind and sparks, bellowing clouds, crashing and weeping. It seems violent, but there is a strange kind of beauty in the scene. The city lights, washed out streets, highways suddenly become fascinating and driving down feels like an adventure of its own.

Have you ever pulled all your windows down, turned up the stereo and sang as loud as your voice allows you?

As a few nimble fingers are set free, the raindrops caress the soft skin, resting for a moment and then sliding down to dissolve. The few moments of life they wish they could capture and keep forever, vanish before their eyes.

The water is cool, an electric kind of cool, and one whose touch leaves a sensation behind, a lingering presence. It hits a chord somewhere in the pits of his being; just one drop can do the magic.

It is not only the sky that is colored in seven hues after the storm.

0 notes

reflectionsofrealism · 7 years

Text

Train of Stories

It was 5.a.m on a Sunday morning, and Haridwar Railway Station was already full, bustling with people.

Hardiwar, literally meaning ‘The Gateway to Vishnu’, is a city on the Himalayan foothills mostly associated with Pilgrimage, Hinduism and River rafting. But like any other city in the world, goes much beyond its stereotypical image.

All kinds of travellers thronged the station. A panorama of colors, from afar the diversity was baffling. The early morning hours, trains lined up one by one, the grinding of the wheels, the screeching and smoking engines. Various tea sellers had setup small shacks along the terminals, each one calling out to the passengers. The bubbling, boiling water and smell of the fresh tealeaves were a few of the many fragrances dancing across the platform.

Geeta awoke from her slumber, rubbing her tired eyes. Her face contorted into a small yawn and standing upon her feet she carefully folded her mattress. She was only 7 years old, but like many other children across India she had no one to take care of her. She had lost both her parents to a mining accident and now the station was her home, a cardboard sheet her mattress.

Her black tresses that once had been tended to by her mother, oiled, brushed and washed with such care, now lay braided in a tangle of knots atop her head. Her pink birthday dress, which had once shone bright, with sequins and ribbons, now hung off her thin, paper seeming body, tattered and torn.

Rubber slippers adorned her feet but anyone could tell that they weren’t her size and she wouldn’t grow into them anytime soon. She had found them lying abandoned while exploring the other side of the platform once. She had watched them for days before finally realizing that they too, just like her had no where to belong. And so after a week of waiting, she’d taken them.

Geeta, at such a young age was forced into independent survival. She was forced to work, earning her bread and butter for one square meal a day, when she really should have been playing out in a garden or flying a kite.

It was 5 a.m. on a Sunday morning and Haridwar Railway station as always was full, bustling with people. Each face, sound and smell on the Railway station told a new story. Geeta’s was just one of those million stories, begging to be heard.

0 notes