Private/Public

Private/Public

My room is perhaps the best representation of my mind-scape. It is a sqaured out cardboard box with objects lying around, always ready to trigger some form of mood. I have a table that I barely use, and mostly prefer to lie on the bed - with its crumbled bed sheet reminding me of crumpled paper sheets that get thrown about when the mind is dull and lacks inspiration. I have a drawer full of memories - gifts, cards, and diaries - that I like to open whenever there is a craving for nostalgia. This very private space is usually infiltrated with a low, buzzing humdrum of the noise that my laptop's harddrive makes every time it comes to life. The hum does not go away until it is turned off. And so the sound continues to define the private world of my room - where I struggle to create. The artificiality of the sound has become so normalized - it fits in perfectly with the corners of my room and my mind.

The "dabalis" of Patan Durbar Square offer quite a contrast to my room. This public space, filled with the sounds of temple bells, pigeon flights, mundane conversations, hurried footsteps, liesurely sighs, and occasional laughters of children, bursts with infinite stimulae for any mind to be able to create. Every sound is an unheard and untold story, waiting to be scribbled on your journal. You sit on a bench, or a stone-slab, surrounded with people, and yet the solitude is such that the sounds will guide you through the chaos, and lead you to a beautiful world of imagination. Poetry, mostly haikus, emerge out of this humble experience of writing in a public space - that you disappear into.

Sometimes, when the harddrive sound becomes unbearable, I close my eyes and search for the sounds of the Sqaure, in my sqaured out cardboard box room, and I make attempts to write. The sounds and spaces blur out - and you enter the dimension of imagination.