Wednesday, 31 August 2011



Confused? Don’t be. You will soon be able to choose the looks and the characteristic of your babies. Why not? If Hubbell can take images of the birth of our universe, anything is possible.  I’m sure most women will do all they can to ‘improve’ their babies’ chances before they’re even born. From playing music to babies in the womb (music can apparently affect your baby’s foetal development thus improving their future academic skills according to a recent study) to knocking back handfuls of omega 3 (proven in some studies to improve your baby’s intelligence) and sticking to a strictly organic diet (proven to improve a baby’s attention span), increasing numbers of women are taking a multitude of approaches. Why do we want a perfect baby so badly?  Maybe we don’t want to spend time to make our children intelligent and capable to ‘fit’ in. Maybe because women want to concentrate more on their career. Whatever cause, a study by the New York University School of Medicine, 10% of parents said they would approve of genetic testing to ensure their child was athletic, 10% would test for height and 13% for superior intelligence.  

Unsurprisingly, a potential boom industry is waiting in the wings of reproductive technology, eager to tap into a market of well-intentioned parents. Within a decade or two, it may be possible to screen babies for an enormous range of attributes, such as how tall they’re likely to be, what body type they will have, their hair and eye colour, what sorts of illnesses they will be naturally resistant to, and even, conceivably, their IQ and personality type. If gene therapy lives up to its promise, parents may be able to go beyond eliminating undesirable traits and start inserting the genes they do want – possibly even genes that have been crafted in a lab. The 21st century may well see parents going to fertility clinics and choosing from a list of optional extras. Selling your genes will become incredibly lucrative with the rich and famous becoming even richer by peddling their attributes to those of us dumb enough to mortgage ourselves to the hilt to equip our offspring with  hair by Wayne Rooney and big tits by Jordan and David Cameron.  Then again why stop at human genes when you could give you babies, teeth by alligator, penis by horse and attitude by Vinnie Jones.  The next generation will be able to fly like an albatross, dance like a rattlesnake and sing like a supergrass.  We could have the eye’s of flies, the cunning of a spy, the robber baron instinct of a conservative cabinet and a pint of blood for seedy uncle Dracula at the pub on pay-day. But more likely everyone in the world will end up looking like  Clooney, Banderas, Washington, Beckham or Moss and Campbell. “It’s the ultimate shopping experience: designing your baby,” says biotechnology critic Jeremy Rifkin, who regularly speaks out against designer babies. “In a society used to cosmetic surgery this is not a big step.”

Wednesday, 24 August 2011



The 3D printing technology is coming to your street, but how much do we know about this Sci-fantastic technology? One thing is sure that it’s gonna make you soon redundant. Or put it more directly, its gonna sack the factory labourer more ruthlessly then Lord Sugar on ‘The Apprentice’ show.

Do you also know we will be able to produce spare parts for a roof, a bicycle and a toy? You better put your seat belts on, the ride from printing books, leaflets, photos and labels on a laser printer to when you actually will be able to download parts is going to be scary! It may soon happen in our lifetime! It might soon be possible to produce anything from our homes, offices or studios. Then many of us don’t have to put up with the rising cost of the tubes in London. There will be far less cars and buses on our streets and what about the cost by reducing the waste, because we will only be producing what we need? Have more time to grow grapes and figs? Be the green technology? I won’t mind that because I have got fig, the new red-love apple and the kiwi growing in my patio. How about ‘creating’ or ‘producing’ goods in whatever shape, colour or designs you want?

Think about how this advanced 3D printing technology will soon be ridding the developing world of their capacity to produce low cost, low wage commodities and replacing the manufacturing capacity into the hands of the developed world? Some say that at the moment this process is only possible with plastics, resins and metals and is mainly used as hobby or by few industries, but the three-dimensional printing will certainly be able to produce single items to undermine the economical advantage of producing goods in bigger capacity. 3D printing will surely expand fast as the technology improves and costs will fall. I am also not so sure how it really will works but just like in photo shop on my computer, would I be able to fiddle with the shape and colour of a ‘commodity’ where necessary and press the print icon to produce? And can items be stored and described in a digital file?

What about producing ‘stents’ for the blocked arteries? What about new skin layers for the aged? Cher is trying hard to rejuvenate her youth. What about producing new genes for children born with deformities? A son for those who have many daughters and the vice versa?

And what about printing a new husband? A new boy friend?

Saturday, 20 August 2011



“This is, well, this is me. I am, well I am a no word wizard, but a solid terraced creature, immobile on the hill, a tower of some fifty four thousands moons old which is hundred fifty years ago. A mindless series of brick walls standing for centuries, protecting the innocent and the abusers and whose fate might finally be to crumble to the dust, perhaps to be hurled by the homeless at a policeman in some urban riots.”

This is an excerpt from Chapter 20 of my novel, ‘Svera Jang’, published by Indigo Dreams Publishing last year in October. Svera Jang was nominated for the East Midlands Book of the Year Award last year when I was in Derby where I have lived from 2005-2010 and am back in London. Five years were a roller coaster of events, activities and of so much art, poetry, songs. I have visited London on many occasions before but London has been changing like a chameleon. Change is good for every thing. The whole universe changes constantly so if we don’t change we will be left behind, be stagnant water and rot in the company of our own narrow rituals and norms. The world is so connected these days that event keep on affecting us. The financial crisis, the natural disasters, the struggle for peace and democracy is happening everywhere. We all ‘feel’ what is happening in the world. I don’t know about you but I get really disturbed to witness hunger and war. Many people have nothing and many of us have abundance, that is unequal distribution of the resources in the world we live in. It annoys me a lot when my loved ones, my friends, the people I know and interact with get frustrated, grumpy and angry for small issues. Look at the world guys, how many people in the world have food, shelter, nice clothes, medicine? Not many. Why do we complain about our small let downs, frustrations and forget that there are others less advantaged then us, damn it. Wake up and get out of our ignorance, our absurdities, our narrow mindfulness, our ego, our desire, the greed. I can go on and on and on, but I am trying hard to be ‘positive amongst the ‘negative’, the greedy, the insecure, the egotistical. Give me a break guys! Hang on...I am getting negative vibes from my self, stop! I don’t want to go there, all I was going to let you know that a typical Saturday for me is to get up a bit early, do my necessary errands, like buying a newspaper and do the lottery (Yes I do, although I should be putting a few pounds away to send to the needy, but at times I too am selfish and needy).

After a light breakfast and soul searching, I either read my paper, write or paint until, until, yes until my tummy start to rumble with hunger. I am trying to cut down on luxurious food like, cakes, biscuits and fat foods.

Tonight I have to finish 2 paintings and carry on writing my 3 novels, maybe watch a film as well.
How do you spend your Saturday?

Friday, 19 August 2011

What is art?

Who is Waldemar Januszezak? Do you know? I don’t but have been watching the episodes of his latest series, ‘The Impressionists’. I am really impressed the way he presented the old masters. I particularly enjoyed the final episode. ‘Take a closer look at the last years of impressionism particularly the influence on and work of Seurat and Van Gogh’s time in Paris....”

The Impressionists are, as Waldemar Januszczak confessed at the beginning of his new series, "terribly popular, terribly familiar, terribly commercialised".
On his way to the hotel room from which Monet painted his famous views of the Thames, Januszczak communicates to you from behind a stack of bags and boxes, the fruits of an Impressionist shopping spree in London that had netted him Impressionist pencil cases, jigsaws, tote bags, chocolates and a memorably ghastly shirt. Dropping them to the floor (not his words), he wonders how it had come to this – the punks of the 19th century art scene reduced to mere decoration.Tolstoy once wrote that art must create a specific emotional link between artist and the audience, one that "infects" the viewer. Thus, real art requires the capacity to unite people via communication (clearness and genuineness are therefore crucial values). This aesthetic conception led Tolstoy to widen the criteria of what exactly a work of art is. He believed that the concept of art embraces any human activity in which one emitter, by means of external signs, transmits previously experienced feelings. Tolstoy even offered an example of this: a boy that has experienced fear after an encounter with a wolf later relates that experience, infecting the hearers and compelling them to feel the same fear that he had experienced—that is a perfect example of a work of art. As communication, this is good art, because it is clear, it is sincere, and it is singular (focused on one emotion). Tolstoy also believed that art that appeals to the upper class will feature emotions that are peculiar to the concerns of that class. Another problem with a great deal of art is that it reproduces past models, and so it is not properly rooted in a contemporary and sincere expression of the most enlightened cultural ideals of the artist's time and place. To cite one example, ancient Greek art extolled virtues of strength, masculinity, and heroism according to the values derived from its mythology. However, since Christianity does not embrace these values (and in some sense values the opposite, the meek and humble), Tolstoy believes that it is unfitting for people in his society to continue to embrace the Greek tradition of art.

“Art is life
The abstractness in art is
a beautiful illusion but not a lie!” (few lines from my poem, Art is life)

What is art to you?

Thursday, 18 August 2011



I usually get up at the crack of the noon, no, to put it right, in my crack less bedroom which doesn’t allow pieces of the sun in. So I get up when my soul kicks my body from ‘within’, just like a foetus kicking its mummy’s tummy, letting her know that it is time for the ‘awakening’. Then my soul window opens up to scream, “Hey you, get your hands up.”  What? What are you saying soul? Hands up, pants down? Are you gone mad? You wanna have sex...? You wanna rob me? For money? I don’t have much.....  “No, stupid, I mean take your hands up to your face....” the soul interrupts.  “Ja, ja, ja, det er sgu nok, fae helvede...I say in my Danish, yes, yes, its  bloody enough.” But then suddenly I know what the soul is talking about. Here it is:

The start of a day for me is not to open my eyes until I let my fingertips gently caress my face. This is a ritual, an acknowledgement, a thank to the universe that I am alive. Then I gently open my eyes and that’s it , but another kick comes out from my ‘soul’ buddy. ‘Get up, get up now, time is up, don’t sleep anymore, while you still can, get up”. So in a flash of one second I jump start up and trotting along the long corridor of this basement flat where sunshine never knocks at the front door unless, yes unless when a useless leaflet is pushed down through the letterbox hole. The next thing I do is I open the long and heavy cinnamon coloured curtains as I try to open my heavy eyelids as if they were a lid on the glass chutney jar ( I don’t take jam to poison my blood stream, but the chutneys are usually made by myself at occasional leisure time, with very low level of brown  sugar). Then I hurry down to the kitchen and switch the plastic kettle on. I loathe plastic, I tell you whenever an ignorant shopkeeper who hasn’t got a clue about our environment, tries to put my Guardian or a bottle of milk (that is also plastic) into a terribly smelling plastic bag, I shout, no, please no, don’t give me a plastic bag. Some of these shop owners just smile and are happy to ‘save’ a filthy smelling plastic junk, but when I see a plastic flower on anybody’s window, I swear in my most dangerous, vulgar Punjabi tongue. Oh’ve guessed it right I do have more then one tongue...hang on I have several tongues, so whenever I find it appropriate, I’ll pull one of my tongues out to be very intrusive, but no one understands what I’m saying and it suits me right, because normally I am a very peaceful person, but at a time like that when I have to swear and it is in a tongue no one else understands, with not much effort, I can pull one of my appropriate tongues. Ok, enough of speaking in tongues, yesterday when I went out with my ‘soul buddy’, I saw pieces of sun giggling down from the sky in front of me. Some of them were sneaking from behind the tress like trouble, but I was genuinely surprised. These days we aren't getting enough sunshine. All this up and down of the economy, the riots (I was really upset by the riots, because I have witnessed the ,”Manningham Riots” too although long time ago), sun is the only saviour and it does put a smile on our what is your ritual? We all have something, no?.....

Tuesday, 16 August 2011

What is happiness?

Today, the 16th of August.

Today, I was about to sit on my uncomfortable wooden chair ( I don’t want to drag my nice comfy chair from my studio to this room) in front of my lightened screen, when I saw another person is now following my blog. Fantastic and I clicked on his name and found this quote very interesting.

"The practice of art isn't to make a living. It's to make your soul grow" Kurt Vonnegut. The cool bass player image is 28 years old...holy crap. Malcontent and gobshite. 49 years down and still struggling to find that identity and walk the right path.”

Yes man, how right you are, 40 plus years I have been travelling and promoting others in need of support like the immigrant and the Asian women in Denmark, Bradford. The youth, the children, the old, the people in the then fighting for their liberation, countries in South East Asia, Africa and elsewhere. I have done nothing then promoting, supporting and giving my time and energy and money to different causes and I am still struggling to ‘sell’ my own skills. Art, poetry, novel, photography. I have lived in this beautiful country for the past  20 years encouraging people to create art and not destruction. When I arrived in the land of the Shakespeare, Tudors, Kings, Queens and Robin Hood, great poetry, films, literature, I was simply gobsmacked. Gob is a slang for face, so to be smacked in the face, means stunned or taken aback. Flabbergasted. Surprised. Caught off guard or flat-footed. Holly Christ, Guru Nanak,  Shiva and the naughty flitter, the Lord Krishna.  I know, I know I shouldn’t drag the pious names of these ghods (god+ghost=ghod) of the past, but I have been smacked on my gob many, many times before, metaphorically and physically. I’ll tell you more about it later when it is suitable to tell! But  I was simply caught off guard when I first arrived in this country.

“Where is your ticket?” I didn’t have a clue where my bloody ticket was? I just wanted to get out and breathe, especially when I had been travelling all the way from India, Denmark, Africa and landing in the middle of a provincial town, Bradford, so cool that it was frozen in a time zone! It was September the 3rd, 1992. The crescent moon, the pendant branches of trees and the inviting hands of nocturnal sky offered a mystic, soothing glow to my inevitable destiny looming ahead as I had stepped down at the platform.

“Could I see your ticket please?” He repeated.
I looked in my big bag, then my purse. I couldn't find it. I must have used it as a bookmark.  It was snuggled up between pages 82 and 83 of my Danish novel, “Sort Te Med Tre Stykker Sukker”, the story of a Turkish immigrant woman written by Renan Demirkan.........

"A very strange place to put your ticket,” he said and looked at my heavy baggage. His broad pale West Yorkshiran face flexed with anxiety.

"Oh, yes indeed." I smiled.......

A bit more from my novel Svera Jang:

Et par ar efter modtes de ved et tilfaelde igen I spisevognen I inter city toget fra Frankfurt til Koln. Han havde………….”

“Coincidentally, they met again in the dining compartment of an inter city train from Frankfurt to Koln. He had gone to attend a seminar with some colleagues. He had lost some weight, his broad forehead had become taller and he had become round shouldered. "I have a new family now”, he said and spread some photos of his wife and children on the table. His new wife was from his birthplace in Turkey. “Are you happy now”, she asked him.
He became quiet, put his head in his hands and ran his fingers through his hair.

"What is happiness? I am satisfied-at least for some time”. He squeezed the tea bag, added some drops of lemon essence in his cup and smiled”.

So what is happiness, reader? The blogerr, the poet, the writer, the artist?f
Do I know what it is now? Do you?
Have you got it?
Can you let me know where to ‘get’ or ‘buy’ it?
Can I tell you how?
Who knows........ see you soon......

Saturday, 13 August 2011


This Saturday the 13th of Aug, I went cruising on Edgware Road which is noted for containing within it the famous Church Street Market. If you are not a Londoner, you might be interested to know that the road itself is one of the oldest thoroughfares in Britain, and stretches back to Roman times. It was used by pilgrims in mediaeval times, French Huguenots settled in the 18th century, Arabic communities in the 19th. London's first Indian restaurant opened there in 1810 and Middle Eastern immigrants started putting down their roots in the 1970s. It’s distinct Middle Eastern flavour comes from Lebanese restaurants, shisha cafes and Arabic-themed night clubs. The Odeon cinema was once the location of the biggest screen in London. 

But before you start to yawn with boredom and think that I might go on and on about the history of Edgware Road, I must tell you that this had been a special day for me. Atypical to my normal rituals after waking up where the first thing I’d do would be to trot along the corridor to the kitchen and put the cattle on. Then I have to go to the loo, do my cat-posture, stretch my wrinkles with the bare palm of my hand and finally draw the curtains away to let the pieces of sun into my one bedroom basement.
But today, yes I mean by the time I would post this on my blog it would be the next day, so yesterday when I woke up I had instantly decided that this was going to be one of those days when like a teenage girl I would just do some dilly dallying in Church Street Market hunting for nothing but just enjoy the feeling that I do not need to buy anything. The days are long over where I would go to these attractive places like this one or The Portobello to collect more junk and clutter to my rather peaceful existence and the thought was really liberating. But as soon as I stepped down from my bed, I got  drawn to this lighted screen of my appleMac. There were no urgent e-mails to read or answer to, not much to follow on the twitter and no skyping terror from far away family members. And then as if I had this premonition, my fingertips started to ‘punch’ facebook in google. I clicked to the news feed page and there it was, the cover of my recently published novel Svera Jang with a brand new review from my good old (he is not old in age but young and dynamic) buddy Mark Centrell. I instantly read the review and felt so emotional that tears started to roll down my cheeks like hot embers of gratitude. A blessing for a unknown novelist/poet, a destitute, left on the escape door of consequences, on protuberant limbs, cracked hands with a bleeding heart, a struggling artist! All because I haven’t got the guts to expose my bedroom secrets or the money to craft a diamond skull.......YET....
Read Mark’s review of ‘Svera Jang’:
and Tykewrite...

Friday, 12 August 2011

The riots

Sorry I’m late, I began to lose control of my sensory oars in the river of time while the tide rose high to wash away debris from the troubled, polluted landscape of London and the other cities. Although the riots didn’t happen in my neighbourhood, I got ‘infected’ by the extent of violence created by these youngsters. Fires were burning, buildings were falling, windows were smashed and the looting was taking place. Sitting in my comfortable lounge, watching in awe the whole scene, I really got affected. The image of the 11 years old boy who also took part in the riots still keeps on pestering my mind. It is not long time ago when I was doing an interactive painting workshop with these youngsters in the a city of the Robin Hood in  Nottinghamshire. Robin Hood looted the wealthy kings and landlords to distribute money and food to the down trodden, the poor. I even started to imagine and hoped for a Batman to come and save the Gothic city of London from destruction, and yet it only happens in Hollywood films. Did you get ‘infected’ like me, I suppose although we are all humans and the same red blood runs through our veins, we all have different brains. Some of us do carry troubled brains, just like these youngsters. We can blame the teachers, the society, the vicar, the doctor, the social worker but we all inherit a ‘culture’ right from the time when we are born. I believe a mother teaches the first word to her child. No matter what society we live in, it’s a mother who teaches the language, the culture the behaviour to her children like I did. Of course you can disagree with me and we can have a debate because we live in the land of the ‘freedoms’. We have choices. There are hundreds and thousands choices laid in front of us in this country. Take them and be a good human being or choose to be a bad human. We also form our own identity. I don’t agree with those who tell me that it’s because of their mother or father they have their identities crisis. No, as soon as you have a thinking brain and you are old enough to do what you do, you can mould your own identity. Don’t blame the teachers, the parents, the society!

The type of brutal events we have witnessed during the past weeks cause pain to me, but then again I had been working on my self for years and building a defence mechanism around my soul for not to get ‘hur’t or ‘infected’, but I swear I ain’t any robot I like Will Smith. Let me tell you that I too was taken for a Hell’s Angel’s ride from Victoria Station across London on Tuseday the  9th. Unlike the other times when I travel on this bus from the station, it was almost empty like the streets. A mysterious fog had wrapped the whole city in its grip like a spider traps its victims. The passengers looked frightened and mute. A woman stepped in at a stop and couldn’t find her pass, so the driver had an argument with her and then he sped off so fast that he didn’t even stop at a couples of red lights. I nearly got a heart attack and was about to phone 999 when another passenger came to sit beside me and I calmed down a bit when she started talking to me that she also was frightened. I had to suppress my fear in order to calm her down. I could have got up and told the driver off for his mindless driving when he suddenly slowed down at the site of a police car. Phewwwwwww..... we all sighed in relief to see our protecting guardian, the police. One of the politicians had blamed the police for ‘being slow and not reacting at the rowdy youth, but I feel safe in the police’s company. Maybe because my dad was in the police once and he took me and my little brother to his police station to show us off. Look at my picture! That was a long time ago in India........

Speak to you soon...I promise...

Sunday, 7 August 2011

A 'friend' phoned me out of the orange yesterday, the 6th of Aug. offering me a ticket to a  concert. I got so excited that I had to run down the looooohooo...ha...joking. I did feel small nutterflies in my smooth and a bit round tummy, why round because: 1. The bloody knee pain does not allow me to walk for too long. 2. I have not been invited to many things lately. 3. I have not made any conscious effort to ‘go out’ and ‘about’ or ‘socialise’. I did attend a couple of previews to art exhibitions and a few walks along the Grand Union Canal but these days I tend to sit on my black leather chair and dream. A few years ago, people use to tell me that I had a aura of peace and tranquility but the problem is my ‘trance’ is trying to escape me ever since...ever since, hmmmm never mind when, but if you wanna read about my beautiful‘trance’ I used to take with me every where in order to survive,you will have to buy my novel. If trance was a snake it would have disappeared into the thick, muddy and slimy rain puddle like some politicians these days, but it is not a snake (and the puddles are rather transparent) but that kindda ‘thing’ what is it you call it? Is it....anhoooo.. it’s....I can’t find a word for it, I will leave it to your on drowsy Sunday imagination to ponder about a bit. Sometimes, I suddenly realise that I am all alone, sitting in my studio gazing at the universe as if it was a running train or a huge flower hung over my head looking down at me, teasing me, you, she, him, them. I am busy figuring out the inevitable question of, ‘why am I here? Now? This time of my life? Doing what? For who? And where? Don’t we all ponder and question? I do not want it to become a habit because a habit never dies...unless you got a strong mind but you can ‘kill’ or ‘slaughter’ your own useless habit instead of killing an innocent victim or slaughtering a poor animal. Agree?

Oh’s raining again as it does at this time of the year, but it is raining softly this time like the buzz of a, I can’t go outside and dance in the rain as I used to do when I was a little girl growing up in India...I do still like the rain..I love the rain because it polishes my clouded thoughts, it cleanse my dusty heart just like if it was a plant. It makes music to my ears. Yes the summer rain is pleasant and is much needed for the thirsty planet. My plants in the patio are doing so well....let me have a peek outside...“Watchha...cha...cha...chacha your spelling...” I hear a thick. stern voice from behind. I jump in my wooden chair and look around. Here he is looking to my direction from that far corner of his own fantasy world. It's my fat, cuddly, budding....buddy. He sometimes jumps out from behind the trees to give me a big piece of his own troubbled behind...oh sorry I had meant to say mind..ah..well what the heck, I got the freedom of writing what I want, but he does watch my back and stairs into my eyes as if I was an ‘object’ of desire...Me? Never...who am I to say this...but oh please don’t watch me as I sit here pouring my naked thoughts to feed your minds just read them and watch this space....will be back....back to tell you more stories and take you to cities, continents and places  you’ve never been before..... be continues.

Friday, 5 August 2011


A few years ago I was interviewed by the BBC Asian network in London for a 60 second film I made on my life.

“What is your identity,” The young interviewer asked.

“I am a traveller who’d trotted around many countries of the world and learnt to fit into many societies, without changing into this and that form and ism. I don’t see myself as a Sikh woman neither am I a typical Indian, nor do I consciously dress up or eat any particular way. I wear what I like, I buy what I need. I eat what is healthy. I see what I want to. I hear what I like to, I listen to what is tolerable. So then what is my identity? It is what I have made myself to be. An artist, a poet, a writer and a pacifist.

 I have lived in India, Denmark and Tanzania and have travele to many cities of the world and now live in London. I speak at least 5 languages. I had a few dramatic experiences, some were adventures, some wonderful and some painful ones. Pain and happiness are two sides of the same coin-life.  Pain is a shadow and painfree existance is light. I have been on top of the pain mountain where I had no other choice than to return back to life. But I also realised that I didn’t jump to die but had seen tiny pieces of light through the dark clouds.

Pain ceases to exist when it becomes enlightenment!

One of the reason of surviving my pain was my creative spirit. I could express myself through writing, art and poetry. I believe everyone of us has something to offer to this univerese. A story, a skill to share, a strength to unblock, a life to live.

On this blog, I will let you into my colourful world of stories, adventures and how despite pain, abuse and let downs, I have survived and each moment of my life I have kept on learning.

So what do you want to know? Want to share my experiences? Show me yours?

Let the journey begin……..