A Note on My Work

Like a child has tools and objects to play, I have words, images, and dreams to play. Words and images come to me from somewhere, and I am a mere vehicle. They flow, rarely and spontaneously, triggered by a phantom or a spectre. They come, at times like a neatly folded sāri and at other times like a ball of tangled kite-string. Not unlike JL Borges' labryrinths, Umberto Eco's mazes or Vāchaspati Mishrā's gloss to the Yoga Sūtras. Gods, Demigods, Peusdogods, Demons, Daemons, Muses, Gadharvas, Vetālas, Serpahims, Apsaras, Golems, Asuras, Bhūtas, Daityas, Dānavas, Pisāchas, Rākshasas and Yakshas — they talk to me. So it is up to you, my Baudelairian reader suffering from ennui, to bring the meaning out of my haunts and reveries. Language is the bridge you will need to cross from whence the artefact, my work, arises (without the presence of any speaker including myself) to the other side of hellish beauty.