All Posts

he language of beauty resides into the eternal truth that is overflowing from the atom to the Milky Way. Time and again the same thing that is discussed here in various ways. But just like that the same feminine form or the same water droplet or the same grass or the forest gives us delight. Only because it is in sync with the nature of the cosmos and loyal to the nature of the self.

This is a tribute to the women who make that dream visible without ever asking to be noticed the ones we walk past every day, whose quiet grace we mistake for the ordinary. And then there is her.

an I define her ? Even after thousand embraces and millions of kisses ? I don’t think so. What she gives me is completely related to my own experiences and emotions. Each time she feels different to me. Her warmth , her sharp eyes , her voice , her care through small gestures like leaning on my shoulder or just her hand resting on me. But again this is all subjective.

She comes to the waterfall the way water comes to itself on impulse, remembering its own nature. The nine-yard saree moves with her the same way. That white cloth hasn't yet remembered its cloth. I sometimes think they must both believe they're the river.

Her charm gives her the name of a siren, just like Medusa, who was the priestess of Athena. Her charm and the ability to see through you frighten everyone. And then the myth of demonising isolates her. Truth has its own cost, and she bears it on the tip of the whip. When she wields it in her hand and cracks it, the hypnotised heart comes to its senses.

Her company cures all the KARMA piled up since ages. Her intuition guides not only you but the generations coming in the future. Her womb is not a physical space to claim but a doorway to the world unknown. She is the one who is living proof of creating without division or dying. Your system called her witch, a Rakshasi. But she is RAKSHA misunderstood by the one who cannot sense the true energy that we all need to heal.

You are the holy desire that carries me from flesh to beyond. Trishna is the one who stands beyond all pretence, laying bare every illusion and theory. You are the harbinger of storm and calm, both at once. You are the eternal question, where the answer lies hidden within itself.

आयुष्यातील सर्वात सुंदर क्षणांपैकी एक म्हणजे पावसात भिजणे. आज जो पाऊस आहे तो उद्या वाट पाहायला लावेल, कधी आपणच त्याच्यापर्यंत पोहोचू शकणार नाही. तो कोसळताना आपण निर्माण केलेले कुठलेही भेद तो पाहत नाही. आपण सर्व त्याच्यातूनच निर्माण झालेलो आपल्या आत खेळणारा तोच. जेव्हा तो नर्तन करायला येतो तेव्हा आपण बाहेर पडायलाच हवे. मग ती लहान मुले असोत, वृद्ध असोत, मुली असोत, स्त्रिया असोत कोणीही असो. त्या नर्तनातले, भिजण्यातले सुख हेच खरे नैसर्गिक सुख. कोणी पाहो वा आपण एकटे असू तो पाऊस

I have always carried this question inside me like water carries the light. Bending and blending it beautifully. Why is a man drawn toward beauty ? Why do we seek cinema, photographs, paintings, sculptures? Why do we fall in love not only with the beauty but also the reflection of beauty ?

एक कलाप्रवासी म्हणून मला एक प्रश्न कायम सतावतो शाळांमधून अजिंठा, वेरूळ, खजुराहो यावर लेक्चर्स का नव्हती ? आपल्या संस्कृतीची अशी अर्धवट ओळख आपल्याला का दिली गेली ? मानवी शरीर हे जीवशास्त्राच्या पलीकडेपण सौंदर्य आणि प्रमाणबद्धतेचे एक अद्भुत उदाहरण आहे हे आपल्याला कलेच्या माध्यमातून का शिकवले गेले नाही ? कालिदासाचे काव्य वाचवले नाही. कामसूत्र हे केवळ ‘त्या’ गोष्टीचे पुस्तक आहे असा समज मनावर ठेवला गेला.

"Even as she lifts the water-pot to her head, her waist bends like a vine in the wind. O traveller, why do you hurry? Stay a little. The road can wait." -Gatha Saptashati She is not the nayika of perfumed chambers. She is closer to the poetry of a couplet immediate, unadorned and devastating.Someone who doesn't mind disappearing into the ripple of water or rising on wind like a bird's feather has already made her peace with impermanence.

She Who Is the Earth Remembering Herself There are mornings when the forest holds its breath. On the juncture of the first ray of the sun touching down into the valley when everything is still. Only the birds have just awakened and started their routine chirping. When the pond does not ripple so much as breathe a slow, silver exhaling that has no beginning and no end. When the breeze does not move the trees but moves through them, the way a raga moves through a musician’s li

A conceptual shoot portraying the pure elemental beauty depicted in white. Sensual feminine form in the white fabric, white cowry jewellery , the white coral remains of the ocean, waves on the clean beach.

अनादी काळापासून या धरणीवरती वारा आपल्या मस्तीत वाहतोय. कधी तुफान तर कधी वावटळ कधी सोसाट्याने तर कधी गुंजारव करीत. तुम्ही कधी त्याला बदलू शकता का किंवा तसा प्रयत्न केला का ? तुम्ही कधी त्याला दोष दिला तर कधी त्याच्या शीतलतेने प्रेमात पडले पण तो मात्र तसाच वाहतोय. समुद्राच्या लाटांना हाकारीत, गवताळ कुरणावरून लहान मुलासारखा नक्षी बनवीत तर रानावनात जोरजोरात शिट्ट्या मारीत. फारतर आपण पवनचक्कीने त्याची ऊर्जा स्वतःसाठी वापरू शकतो किंवा बासरीतून सुंदर संगीत निर्माण करू शकतो. परंतु त्

Far from the village, where the tall trees cast long, shifting shadows over the grass, we find a place that feels untouched by the rest of the world. The soft ringing of bells from the sheep drifts through the air, steady and unhurried, like time itself has slowed to match us. In that space, nothing feels incomplete. I do not find myself wanting more, or elsewhere, or beyond. Her presence, close and unspoken, becomes enough.

She is not loud. She is rooted. She is connected to the earth, the moon, the water, and the sun in ways that have nothing to do with mysticism and everything to do with attunement. She is the actual manifestation of nature vast, patient, cyclical, devastating when ignored and extraordinary when honoured.

The truth that comes out in the form of fluid movements, gestures, colours. The form of a woman holds all of that. She holds the mystery of the cosmos and she pours it through her body and soul. The sacredness of her mystery is misunderstood and we run behind the form.

The Nayika was never just a woman. She was bhāva living emotion. She was the pulse from which rasa flows. In devotion, she appears as Radha longing for Krishna not merely as lover for beloved, but as soul for the infinite.

The sensual flow of her is etched into every twist and turn of the basin. The sculpted path she draws is a silent vow that she will return when the clouds once again lower their heavy gaze upon the earth. When they release their burden, she will dance again.

We worship elements, objects, and people, calling them supernatural Yet all we are truly bowing to is life itself, pulsing through form.