Creations

2011-03-26T12:25:00.002-04:00

Photo

2011-03-25T20:09:00.001-04:00

Self

2011-03-25T20:06:00.002-04:00

Still Life

2011-03-25T20:05:00.000-04:00

Identity

2011-03-25T20:04:00.000-04:00

Identity II

2011-03-25T20:03:00.000-04:00

Identity I

2011-03-25T20:02:00.000-04:00

Miniature

2011-03-25T20:01:00.000-04:00

2011-03-25T19:56:00.000-04:00

Natraj

2009-05-07T21:32:00.000-04:00

2009-05-07T21:10:00.000-04:00

2008-05-16T18:37:00.001-04:00

2008-05-16T18:34:00.000-04:00

Bottle

2008-05-16T18:32:00.000-04:00

Waiting

2008-03-31T22:54:00.000-04:00

Tense

2007-12-08T22:42:00.000-05:00

The End
Painting

2007-11-02T15:03:00.001-04:00

Turmoil

Print on paper

2007-10-20T13:59:00.000-04:00

Blue

painting

2007-09-10T21:48:00.000-04:00

Hidden and nervous discovery

Painting

2007-09-09T21:52:00.000-04:00

Title: Sadness fear all at once

Color pencils

2007-08-31T23:40:00.000-04:00

Title: Colorful Silly
Painting

2007-06-03T10:58:00.001-04:00

Saraswati (Painting)

2007-04-21T13:27:00.000-04:00

Survivor (color pencils)

2007-03-05T23:18:00.000-05:00

Shonali and Bhai (fiction)

I hated him. I hated him for pulling my hair, for taking my dolls and pulling their heads off; I hated him for pushing me around and demanding for little things. I felt like a servant who had no choice but to serve him. Even when I told mama about how he treated me, she didn’t do much except yell at him. What could I do? Nothing! Bhai was two years older than me and he was my brother.

One evening, legs crossed, he sat on the bed. I quietly tip-toed my way to the door hoping that he wouldn’t call on me. As I came closer to the door, I stopped and waited to hear my name. It was the first time he hadn’t demanded for food or water. I turned my head and looked back at him in surprise. Then turning my whole body around, I noticed his reactions as he watched a Bruce Lee action movie with his eyes wide open. I stepped out the door and thanked god for the Bruce Lee movie. It kept him busy.

Before I could take another step I heard my name. All of a sudden, the movie’s crashing banging noise had stopped. Bhai had turned off the television set.

“Shonali, come here,” he said.

“Now what does he want?” I thought to myself. Without letting him say another word I blurted out, “Water, water is that what you want?”

“No I don’t want water. I want to show you my new Kung Fu steps I learned from Bruce Lee.” Unaware of his intentions, I stepped forward and waited for him to show me his new Kung Fu steps.

One hit, two hit, and I was down on the floor. I was in pain and started crying. Mama came in the room and looked at me; she picked me up and asked Bhai if he had hit me. “No, she slipped and hit her head on the floor.” After listening to his lie I stopped crying and got off mama’s shoulder and started running behind him with my flip-flop in hand. I ran around the house just to get back at him. Within two runs of the house I hit him hard with my flip-flop. He was down and I started laughing. He got up and ran behind me. I started pacing myself, when I got tired I hide myself behind mama.

“Both of you, enough!” she yelled and we froze. “Both of you apologize to each other. Now”

“But he hit me first,” I whined.

“No I did not. Liar,” he replied.

“That’s it. You both are getting double chores, starting today,” mama announced.

“That’s not fair. Tell him to apologize first and then I’ll apologize.”

“No. I didn’t do anything. Why should I apologize?”

I could not take his lies anymore. Hidden behind mama, I carefully started stepping forward. As I brought my hand closer to his face, papa pulled my hand back and looked at me. He knew I was about to hit him, and so he yelled at me, “He is older than you. Apologize right now and go to your room.”

With tearful eyes I apologized and ran upstairs to my room. I jumped on my bed and burst into tears. I had never seen such anger in papa’s eyes. I cried till I heard someone enter the room. I wiped my tears and pretended to sleep.

“Shonali,” my brother whispered my name. “I’m sorry, for hitting you. I didn’t want to hit you hard. I was just trying to show you my new Kung Fu steps.”

I got up and looked at him. He was scared that I might throw my flip-flop at him again and so he kept a good distance from the bed.

“Fine. It’s okay. You hit me, and I hit you back. Fair deal and fighting over,” I replied.

Bhai went back to his old routine of ordering me around. But instead of hitting me, he started protecting me from bullies in our school and neighborhood.

One afternoon, our school bus was packed by the time I got on the bus. My seat had taken by some first graders. I had to sit where the new kid had sat in the morning. The same kid Bhai had had problems with earlier. Bhai was sitting behind me talking to his classmates, when all of a sudden the new kid entered the bus and approached my way. He was wearing the same uniform, but it looked different than the one he wore in the morning. It was dirty with pen ink and mud all over it. The pockets of his shirt were ripped as if he had been in a fight with another bully of his size. He came closer to my seat and gave me a bitter look.

“Get out of my seat,” he yelled.

“Your name is not on the seat,” I replied.

I replied and I knew I had made a mistake; so I closed my eyes waiting for him to hit me. I heard a loud slap, but I didn’t feel any pain. It was my brother who was hurt, not me. He had protected me from the new kid.

I was mad at him, not because he got hurt, but because what he did for me made me love him more.

2007-03-05T22:33:00.000-05:00

Home

After 22 hours of traveling, I stood in the middle of the biggest airport I had ever seen, in the capital city of a foreign nation, soon to be my permanent home. With our whole life packed in suitcases, my family and I migrated to the United States to start a new life, just in time to watch the ball drop to start off the Y2K. Only eleven, I was confused and felt lost in this new world I was placed in all of a sudden. During the past six years, this major cultural change has become the molding factor that has and continues to reform me while keeping the basic ingredients of my native culture constant. Migrating from home to a new nation gave my personality a brand of new soil to dwell in. It gave me an opportunity to simultaneously develop more as an Indian and as an American teenager. During the weekdays I hang out with my non Indian friends and during the weekend I interact with Indian friends and relatives in temples. Today I am an Indian-American teenager living in a mix of both western and eastern cultures. I cherish my Indian heritage and relish my American life and altogether call it home.

2007-01-25T18:50:00.000-05:00

The Spider

At the age of 11, I sat at a corner of my closet wall, hiding under my hanging clothes across a wall with a mirror in front of me. Through the empty spaces between my hanging clothes I could see a duplicate figure of my half body in the mirror. The only things I couldn’t see yet or feel were my warm tears running down my red and drowsy eyes. I had cried too long to even remember.

Earlier that day, I received an F on my English progress report. I couldn’t understand what I had done wrong. I was in an ESOL English class and I was getting all the attention needed from my teachers. In addition, being an ESOL student meant an easy A grade since the work burden was nothing compared to a regular English class. That day I felt like a “loser.” I didn’t blame myself for living in India for 11 years. Neither did I blame my parents for not being able to communicate with me in English every day. Instead, I blamed the cultural differences that took place between the two nations.

Being the new foreigners was not easy for my family. Finding jobs, paying all the bills, and trying to fit in a community that did things differently was the biggest challenge we faced. But the biggest challenge for me was being able to understand how the school system worked, why the homework and class work assignments were a big deal, and why I took the whole class period doing my class work while the other kids would be done with it in minutes.

I sat there in darkness while my tears stopped, dripping on my clothes and dried out on my checks. I sat there telling myself that I was stupid, dumb, and that maybe something was wrong with me. I sat there telling myself that I was a “loser” until I saw something from the corner of my eye. It was a spider on the sidewall trying to climb up and reach its web safely. It fell on its back in the first attempt but slowly jumped up on its feet for the second trial. It fell again and again but it didn’t stop trying. It finally made it home and brought a smile to my face.

Seven years have passed and I still sit on the same spot, hoping to encounter the spider that inspired me to face the failure within me and try to change myself instead of blaming the cultural differences that will always exist. It has helped me to convert a foreign language into a home language through reading and writing. Within the years, the spider has taught me that the first failure is the first step to success.

2007-01-17T07:44:00.000-05:00

Henna3

2007-01-17T07:43:00.001-05:00

Henna2

2007-01-17T07:43:00.000-05:00

Henna1

2007-01-16T17:49:00.001-05:00

Place below heaven (photo)

2007-01-01T17:20:00.000-05:00

Lost (Painting)

2006-12-31T00:16:00.000-05:00

Sketch

2006-12-31T00:15:00.000-05:00

Untitled (Painting)

2006-12-16T16:58:00.001-05:00

Existence (Photo)

2006-12-15T21:30:00.001-05:00

Naina (photo)

2006-11-23T19:59:00.001-05:00

Madam (Print)

2006-10-29T14:13:00.001-05:00

Kagna (Photo

2006-10-29T14:09:00.001-05:00

Deepavali- Rangoli (Photo)

2006-10-09T17:20:00.001-04:00

Human Abstraction (Henna, Photo)

2006-10-05T19:15:00.000-04:00

Clown (mask made of clay/underglazed)

2006-09-17T16:03:00.000-04:00

A Message to My Viewers

Hi viewers,
well so far you probably know my name and have some idea of what my interest areas are. I am an artist in my own little world. Many may not consider me as an artist, but I believe that to be an artist I don't need a degree in Fine Arts. I am not majoring in Fine Arts because I don't choose to earn fame. Art is a way for me to run away from my worries and stressful student life. Art is a way for me to earn peace and discover myself. Art is the only way for me to keep a balance in life. My art may be random, but it is precious to me. It is the soil in which I dwell and prosper everyday. Art is my language unspoken yet heard. Art is within me like my ISHWAR (God) is.
Thank you for visiting my page and understanding my art.
Keep visiting because art doesn't finish here.
Swati

2006-09-17T15:53:00.000-04:00

Self-Portrait (photography/photo shop)

2006-09-10T16:04:00.001-04:00

Consider this Sexy (Photo)

2006-09-10T15:47:00.000-04:00

Practice ( I painted this in my IB Art class, and never finished it...sometimes things don't need to be complete in order for it to be a work of art)

2006-09-01T15:41:00.000-04:00

My Album

I came back from college and went straight in my parent's bedroom. On Ma's dressing table I saw my photo album. I picked it up with enthusiasm and jumped on my parent's bed and started looking through it. I flipped through the album pages noticing how organized it is. Starting from baby pictures and ending with my senior year pictures. As I turned the pages I saw my pictures coming to life. The turn of every page was refreshing my old memories. The chocolate cake that was put in my mouth on my birthday, the new dress I wore on diwali, and the facial expressions were captured while getting caught putting makeup on. All of it was there, there on just a piece of paper. I finally came to the last page and took a deep breath. I closed the album with in seconds realizing how fast the album came to an end. It felt like a chapter of my life just ended. I sat there with a closed album in my lap. But soon I turned it over and started again to refresh my memories and to start another chapter.

2006-08-22T09:57:00.000-04:00

Expressions (work in progress)

2006-08-20T15:52:00.000-04:00

More Indian Dolls

2006-08-20T15:43:00.000-04:00

Indian Dolls (Made in India)

2006-08-20T15:40:00.000-04:00

Indian Art (Made in India)

2006-08-20T15:27:00.001-04:00

Indian Art (Handmade by underprivileged Indian Children)

2006-08-20T15:20:00.001-04:00

City (Print on silk)

2006-08-20T15:11:00.000-04:00

Ceramics Pot (Red Clay)

2006-08-17T10:39:00.000-04:00

Growing Plant with an Aging One

With a small bag on my back and a red colored water bottle around my neck, I waited anxiously for Dada Ji near the white gate.
"Dada Ji, Dada Ji hurry up the school will start anytime now." With a laugh he came out the door and took my bag from me and placed it on his shoulder. Everyday he took me to my bus stop and brought me back in the afternoon.
During our daily walks, to the bus stop, I started noticing changes in him. Rather than walking besides me he started walking behind me. When we got to the bus stop I asked him why he was walking slowly. He replied, "Because you are a growing plant and I'm an aging one.” I wasn't sure what he meant, I was only six at the time.
Another school year began and it all started again. This time his hair was white and his skin a bit loose. Again I asked him the same question and he gave me the same answer. I still wasn't able to understand, I was only seven at the time. Now I'm 18 and I understand what he meant. He was getting old and was getting young.
Still at 80 years of age he comes out the door ready to walk me to school. However, instead of me waiting for him at the gate, he waits for me. He still waits knowing that I'm never going to come back where I first started to grow younger with his aging body.

2006-08-17T10:20:00.000-04:00

A Childhood Affair

I kept my eyes glued on the clock. After the minute hand hit ten I got up and ran out my room. I tip-toed my way to the main door and went down the stairs. As I got closer to Dadi Ma's room her snore got louder. I entered the room and jumped on her bed. Unaware of my presence Dadi Ma kept snoring.
With a whispere I said in her ear, “Dadi Ma wake-up, it's story time." She woke up and looked at me.
"So you are finally here. I was waiting for you, but I don't know how I suddenly started dreaming."
"Once upon a time...," Dadi Ma started. "There was an Aryan Prince, who lost his way in the deserts of Rajasthan. Without food and water he wasn't able to make another step on the sand. He fainted and...and...," slowly her voice dimmed like a light and she started dreaming again.
"Dadi, Dadi Ma what happen to the prince?" I whispered again and again until she woke up and started again.
"And no one was there to help him out, except Laxmi who was a poor villager’s daughter. Laxmi and her father took the prince to their house and...and..."
Everything around me stopped and all of a sudden I saw myself in the desert with the prince. It wasn't Dadi Ma who was dreaming; instead this time it was me who started dreaming.

2006-08-12T22:17:00.000-04:00

Krishna Ji (Painting on canvas)

2006-08-10T12:33:00.000-04:00

Porcelain Bird

2006-08-10T12:32:00.000-04:00

Behind the wall

2006-08-05T11:39:00.000-04:00

Lost in colors

2006-08-05T11:27:00.000-04:00

Flowers

2006-08-01T17:59:00.000-04:00

A New Word

The words success and achievement were in my dictionary, but I didn’t know words like robbery, murder, and kidnapping even existed until one afternoon when I saw the breaking news.
“Three kidnappings, yes three kidnappings took place this afternoon,” the broadcaster announced.
“Kidnapping. What was kidnapping?” I thought to myself when I was setting near my dad, who was also watching the news. Only nine, I was unaware of its meaning. It made no sense to me. I understood the word “Kid,” but what did “napping” had to do with it?
The news was still on, but my dad wasn’t watching it anymore. He held his face in sadness. He got up from his chair and slowly walked towards the table. He reached for the phone and dialed some numbers.
While he was waiting for someone to pick up the phone on the other line, I turned my face toward the television and started watching the news again. Three different photographs of the victims, with their captions of names and ages, were displayed on a red screen. A boy who was six years old, a girl who was five, and another boy who was 11 and looked similar to a kid in our neighborhood.
“Yes, I heard. I’m very sorry about your loss. If there’s anything we could do for you, please don’t hesitate. We will inform you if we get any news of your son,” I heard my dad say as he put the phone back down on the table.
I turned and looked at the phone and then at him. He headed back to his chair, picked up the remote control, and turned off the television set. He ordered me to leave the room and finish up my school work. I did as he said and left the room.
Later that evening, I heard some loud sobbing noises coming from the living room. I stopped working on my homework and left my room in rush. I tiptoed my way to the living room and hid behind a curtain.
Through the curtain holes I saw my neighbors, a middle-aged couple that lived four houses down the street. They were sitting next to my parents on the couch. For the first few minutes, I saw my parents comforting them while they cried. I was relieved and thanked God that it wasn’t my parents who were crying. Convinced that everything was okay, I took a deep breath and decided to head back to my room. But I stopped moving when I heard the word “kidnapping” again. I felt goose bumps all over my body. The word sounded so cruel, harsh, and yet meaningless. I felt sick, but I couldn’t keep myself from hearing their conversation.
“Our son Jimmy, where is he?” Jimmy’s mom asked worriedly. Her husband, who sat under the tube light, comforted and assured her that everything will be alright. Then she stopped crying and the living room became silent.
I looked up and down again trying to squint my eyes again to see through the same curtain hole, but my eyes got tired and I decided to return to my room. While I was walking back, I thought about kidnapping and what Jimmy’s mom had said. I tried to connect the word with her conversation to find a definition of it.
“Jimmy was a kid, away from his home, and appeared on the television,” I thought to myself. Finally, I entered my room, sat on my chair, and kept thinking about the meaning of the word until I fell asleep on my books.
The next morning I woke up and went to the kitchen, where my mom stood quite near the stove. At first I was scared that she might yell at me for asking her about Jimmy, but my fear didn’t stop me from asking her. So I asked her what had happened with Jimmy. She looked at me in shock and then took a deep breath. With hesitation she told me that someone had taken him away from his parents without informing them.
Everything around me stopped and I felt cold even though I stood near a stove. From the breaking news to his parent’s conversation, everything started making sense to me. I added another word to my dictionary, a powerful albeit meaningless one.

2006-08-01T10:58:00.002-04:00

Alexandria (photo)

2006-07-31T22:54:00.000-04:00

The window

2006-07-31T16:52:00.001-04:00

Hidden (computer art)

2006-07-31T16:13:00.000-04:00

Lonesome

2006-07-31T16:07:00.000-04:00

A character of faith, hope, and beauty

2006-07-31T15:03:00.001-04:00

My treasure (Photo)

2006-07-31T12:47:00.000-04:00

Society

She was emaciated with little fat covering her body, sitting on a sidewalk’s edge on a hot summer evening and holding a plastic cup. The plastic cup was full of sand, dirt, and some coins. She sat on a sidewalk’s edge, wearing a ripped and dirty sari. She sat there for hours, motionless. She sat there for hours, holding her tears back. She sat there on the laps of poverty in New Delhi.
Upper-class individuals drove past her in their Ambassadors, but they didn’t bother to peek outside their windows and toss a coin in her plastic cup. Some middle- class pedestrians ran behind the buses. Some walked away from the poor woman. But they didn’t bother to toss a coin in her plastic cup. She was an aging woman with growing wrinkled skin under her eyes. She was an aging woman who had no son, no daughter, and no grandchildren. She was old and poor, but no one cared. In the busy streets of New Delhi no one cared for a woman of her class.
I was part of that society where race, gender, and class existed. I didn’t care enough to stop for those individuals who were born into poverty and woke every morning on the streets of New Delhi. I didn’t care because I was young and unaware of the disturbing facts of life. I didn’t care until I stared into the eyes of the old woman who had nothing left but her bones.
I stared into her red, swollen eyes. I couldn’t stop looking at her. She sat there with ripped clothes, skin hanging from her chin, blood running down her shoulders. She wasn’t crying, but I was. I lowered my eyes, ignoring her, but then I looked back at her and her plastic cup. I stood in a crowd with my parents, busy solving their own problems. I stood in a crowd where teenagers had no interest in offering a hand to this poor woman, who sat on a sidewalk’s edge. I stood and stared at her appearance, holding a candy in my hand.
When I got sick of doing nothing except staring at her, I ran towards her and dropped my candy in her plastic cup. I stood beside her and she finally moved her head and stared at me. Then she looked at her plastic cup and bowed her head on my feet. I moved away and felt ashamed of living in a society where age didn’t matter but class did. I returned to my parents and felt ashamed of them. I felt ashamed because they were too selfish to give a paisa, to a poor, helpless woman, who sat on a sidewalk’s edge. I felt ashamed of being a part of that society.