Novel
Oil on canvas
9x12”My brother working on his novel. I have read many drafts of his novel, and he refers to me as his “first reader.” Whenever we ask him on a family FaceTime call, what his weekend plans are, he replies with a sigh, “Bus… reading, writing.” My parents often tease him, “Kab arahi hai tumhari novel?” They often ask me how it is and what it is about. When he sat for me for this painting, he asked if it was okay if he could work on his novel while I painted. When the painting was complete, I showed it to my parents on FaceTime and asked them what I should call it. My dad quickly said, “Novel!”
Aag Lagi Basti Mein, Hum Apni Masti Mein
Acrylic on canvas
11x16”
This portrait, which started as an attempt to explore quick rough strokes to paint a reader in his library, ended up as something completely different. Mid way into this painting, I stepped back before sketching the bookshelves in the background, I was caught offguard by how much the fiery orange underpainting contrasted the blissful reader in the forefront. A much more apt background for our times. So much chaos and tragedy around us, but we keep our complacent heads down, ignoring everything, minding our own business. As the Urdu saying goes: Aag Lagi Basti Mein, Hum Apni Masti Mein.
Munching
Oil on canvas
16x20”
Munching as we would call it when we were growing up. A reluctance to commit to a plate and just walking around with chips in our hands. I have tried to capture that in this painting: the motion of our hands and the notion of munching. The person munching is not visible so we don’t know if it is worried munching or happy munching.
Self-Portrait
Acrylic on canvas
16x20”
I use my phone too much, but i have been painting more and more recently. I have tried to become better at painting hands, and what is more obvious when using our phones than our hands.
Whinging
Acrylic on canvas
22x28”On the morning of Charles’s coronation, I cooked turkey keema as my brother sat on the kitchen counter and read out loud a New Yorker article on why Charles is so unlikeable. “Charles’s main issue is that he is such a roondu,” I sighed out loud as I stir fried the onions and chillies. We both agreed and then got into a discussion on what English word captured the essecnce of the Urdu word roondu. It is isn’t whining but something more deeper, when a person is so vocally miserable about their (non)situation that others feel compelled to not care. Apparently this is an issue that Charles’s biographers have also faced: how to explain his roondu-ness. In a London Review of Books essay called “Puffed up, Slapped Down,” Rosemary Hill writes: “It would be easier to feel sorry for Charles if he didn’t feel so intensely and publicly sorry for himself. One of the British words Smith [Charles’s Biographer] has to explain to her American readers is ‘whinging’.” I am not completely sold if whinging is the same as being a roondu but I liked how the word ended with a double “ing.” I decided to paint it in a way similar to when the printer registration is off and you get a bad print. I am hoping the viewers of this painting will make the same face when they see this off-registered text as they would when they are stuck in a conversation with a roondu whininging.