culture

She is not down to earth — she is the earth herself. She lives by the cosmic truth, connected to the pulse of creation, breathing in rhythm with the soil and the stars. She bleeds with the waxing and waning of the moon, gives birth, nourishes, and transforms seeds into beings that walk this sacred plane.

Yakshini is a sign of abundance, sacredness, and fluidity. She is the mirror of nature in human form. She is no demi-goddess, no ghostly spirit, nor a witch in the traditional sense. She is the one who cannot be ignored, vital, untamed, and luminous.

What we’re making is not just art to be “looked at” — it’s something to be felt slowly, like poetry unfolding. We want to bring you closer to a time when love, dance, poetry, and celebration were a natural part of life. A time when women were honoured as sacred, when festivals like Vasant Utsav filled both villages and palaces with joy, and when beauty was not the tool of capitalism but seen as something sacred and beyond the physical.

She waits in the green quiet between root and rotting leaf, patient as a tide. She is not antique nor myth alone but presence itself, breathing in our own skin. To touch her is to remember a language older than words: hands that gather, lips that bless, hips that remember moonlit harvests. The body once carried wisdom like a forest carries rain, open, unashamed, overflowing with song.

प्रश्न कला बोल्ड आहे का नाही, तो नाही. प्रश्न आहे  स्त्रीला स्वतः ठरवण्याचा अधिकार आहे का नाही. कारण जेव्हा ती ठरवते, तेव्हा ती केवळ कला निर्मित नाही करत ती इतिहास घडवत असते.आणि इतिहास लिहून ठेवतो आपण तिला गप्प बसवलं, की तिच्या सोबत उभं राहिलो.

A reflection on art, culture, and the feminine form The Question of “Bold” “Why do you do such bold work?”“Don’t you feel shame in...

The earth is not mere soil; she is Prithvi, Bhūmi Devi, mother, healer, womb of fertility. To coat the body in her clay is to surrender, to remember our origin, to feel her warmth press against the skin like memory itself. Washed clean, the body glows with a radiance no artifice can imitate. Mruttika Snan is love upon the body, a sacred, sensual surrender—a celebration of raw, divine beauty.

There was a time when life was not measured in hours or wealth, but in the rhythm of the heartbeat and the pulse of the earth. Humanity lived naked before the elements—facing hunger, storms, the vast unknown.

Photography is the younger sibling of sculpture and painting.What the eyes have seen, what stirred the heart, what awakened a feeling, all of it is captured through this medium, woven together with science and art.

An ancient rock looks like dragon egg on the bank of the ferocious ocean and dark skies is all a terrific combination. It was tempting to create a visual art through body movements and fabric.

A tribute to the forest enchantress NEELA who is still alive in the minds of millions across India. Villages where she is mentioned in bedtime stories or by the fireside. The seductive, beautiful and powerful demigoddess who rules the interior of forest where no one dares to venture.

A continuous stream of energy flows down from the mountaintop into the valley. She is gentle yet incredibly powerful—an elemental force both sensual and fierce. Refreshing, cold, and full of life. She cannot be owned, yet she lives within all of us.

A sky darkened with clouds,A wild wind roaring through,And the sea, raging in its own stormy rhythm. In that moody afternoon,The poet...

Whenever I watch paintings or  sculptures from the masters  of medical or ancient Bharat a sense of calm enters into my mind. My gaze travels across the artwork in a rhythm that they have found in nature and poured it into their artwork.

 The world awakens from the sleep when she greets them with her smile. She is the messenger who breathes life into everyone. She is Usha.

She is the one who sings her own tune irrespective of your opinions. She exists on her own vibing with the cosmic music.

थक कर, हार कर, एक दिन तुम आओगे, सब कुछ छोड़, सब कुछ भूल मेरी गोद में विश्राम पाओगे।

I always question beliefs or ideas whenever I feel there is something wrong with what people say and my intuition speaks. We are taught...

दिवस आणि रात्रीच्या सीमेवरती घुटमळणारी ती वेळ. दिवसभराची लगबग संपलेली आणि जरा कुठे उसंत मिळाली असताना सायंकाळ हळुवारपणे येते. कुणाचा तरी जीव

She stands, a vision of grace, draped in moonlight’s tender weave—A white saree flowing like mist over silent earth’s sleeve.The blue of her