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Let me emerge through my body

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A room lit red. Doors bored into, with wavering levels of depth, then effaced with scratchings and marks on what was once their surface. The struggle to articulate sometimes begins with the means by which one begins to speak, and at others, it returns to the material contingencies upon which that struggle or process is embarked upon. Stacked on top of one another, they are wedged between gaps, slowly seeping out into the city. Doing away with it all, starting from scratch. Tinkey ka tukka — maybe this is it, maybe it isn’t. When one replaces the foundation upon which means stand, what happens? Meaningless chaos? Or things that are somehow difficult to discern? Trapped between the necessity of one’s times, of limitations imposed by the world one lives in, anything begins to somehow work, make do. In Khirki, compressed bodies hovering between doors, encased in rooms where they cease to breathe. Out into a balmy summer night, they come up to surface for air — smoking in alleys, drinking tea and staring wordlessly at those that seek to ignore them. Is making do necessary, or a simple bated breath before an impending collapse?

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