Ekphrasis is the vivid, poetic depiction of an artwork, where language brings the visual to life. Traditionally focused on paintings and sculptures, my piece explores how we encounter art in the spaces that shape us, weaving identity and legacy beyond the canvas. 

Invited to recite at Passenger Journal Annual Poet Meet 2023

My left arm yanked behind my head, contorting
fingers stretch the canvas above my brow,

right arm slapped over my lids, distending
the space between curiosity and my sceptic gaze.

Thin thread of cotton twists, flossing her teeth,
scrape my lower weeds at forty-five degrees,

my virgin velvet plumes sold to ‘soft angles with high arches’
on the plastic salon menu, chai and masala gossip on the go.

Don’t shave the unibrow, I meekly assert. She roasts

my Frieda Kahlo Calderón dreams, in between her fingers,

the soft whir of thread unwinding longer and longer
playing catch up with the demands of my legacy desi ogre.

Bangles' clink, push-ups on my frontal lobe,

a ridiculous effort for an organ, an evolutionary interlope,

her cardamom-scented exhales, now faster and louder,

sculpting with care, the tips of my undying tale

        achooo
                 small hair
                     achooooo
                                  in
                                     aaachooooo
                                            my nose

a rehearsed pause, she masterminds; my misty eyes apologize
but even Bollywood emotions miss the mark without their bow.

My Lady, hands a mirror, revealing her half-done art,

how beautiful I could be versus how I actually was?

She resumes on the left, mirroring earlier moves,
now my body and brain knew exactly what to do,

snip, streak, tug and clean, with every aromatic trill,
I sync the rise and fall of her chest with my own.

Our fingers briefly touch on the unibrow, co-creating

a space between ambition and acceptance, hovering right

there for the brow, I came, yet here we entwined

in music, meditation, and immersive art design.

Stay still, kandaa she sibilates, her third-eye bindi

gently gaze-correcting my teenage hunchback disgrace,

soft-bristle whispers, fine-dusting her muse's crown,

my myopia, far too short-sighted for the unveiling unfolds.

In the gullies of Malleshwaram or the ramps of Milan; 

What brows divine are these? What arches loth?
What crafted grace? What flawlessness to trace?
What contours and edges? What wild allure?

Gratefully, I beam at her in the mirror, my eyes

finally reflect my mother and her mothers',

against a marigold wall peeling layers in Indian sweat,
stepping up from who we were into who we were meant to be.

What is art if it's not recognised by a man?
What is its worth if it's not on a white persons' land?
What is art if it's never sold?
What is its merit if it's never told?

Fights to retrace, a narrative to reclaim, this face
destined to launch a thousand ships. I, had to go,

my eyebrow aunties high arches found its new kill,
You not getting upperlip?