jananinathan

[jananinathan]

#paint

[jananinathan]

the goodness of insignificance, having imaginary conversations with Arundathi Roy on the brink of certain fiery doom

#paint

[jananinathan]

The Crane Demon in Hindu mythology devoured anyone who entered from another land. Krishna let himself get eaten just to rip the demon apart from the inside, but now we just feed the crane our own without him even asking. my painting,

1690 folio painting, protest against the passing of the Citizenship Amendment Act stripping citizenship from thousands of Muslim people who fled to India seeking asylum, 1800 painting, protest from last week against Indian occupation in Kashmir resulting in the death of thousands, restricted internet access, and drones surveilling homes, 1535 illuminated manuscript

#paint

[jananinathan]

an apology for stepping on பூமி earth mother with too much joy and noise

#paint

[jananinathan]

Shoorpanakha was my very first Halloween costume. She got her nose cut off trying to fuck Lord Rama. I wore a துப்பட்டா scarf around my body and red lipstick across my big nose which people thought was funny because they’d say if I did break my nose maybe I could get a nose job. Shoorpanakha was a demoness who ruled the Dandaka Forests with 14,000 witches ராக்ஷச in flank. Together, they harassed and killed and devoured sages in the forests when the sages made fun of her looks. She was considered ugly but she was also magical, could transform into a beautiful woman and seduce anyone. When she was rejected by Rama, she went into a craze, exposing her true form, that was cut short by his brother lifting his sword and cutting off her nose.

#sketchbook

[jananinathan]

Eight days after thatha passed away, Shantha Paati went to her samanthee’s (my other paati’s) house as directed by the Garuda Puranam, which offers a routine aligned with the heavens to grieve and let go of a wandering soul once belonging to a now dead person. She didn’t want to go to her samanthee’s house. She said she felt like a little child, not knowing and not abiding by the “rules” of grief. She said it confused her to be a little child and a widow all at once. She always made fun of her samanthee for being lonely rather than independent, for being needy rather than tolerating being alone. But now Shantha Paati was the same, and it made her crumple. I was there too with both my paatis. It felt natural for me to comfort her (of course), but also unnatural. I wondered if I should be teasing Shantha Paati for crying like she always had done to me. I considered jokingly banishing her to the balcony because nobody is allowed to cry in front of Shantha Paati. Luckily the urge was cut off by a flying seed star that flew into the house. I had to look up the name just now because I was taught to call it a Thatha Poochi (grandpa bug). He rested on Paati’s cheek. I thought this was so magical and delightful that I felt delirious. It wouldn’t fall off her face because the soft feathers were stuck to her tears and sweat. That’s all. I want to call Paati soon to tell her I saw Thatha comforting her that day.

#sketchbook

[jananinathan]

She speaks differently now, but she still speaks a lot. Think a steady stream of a little bit of water coming out of a huge faucet. She said, “I think I’ve always wanted to be a boy. Maybe now that my husband’s dead, I can be one.” She said, “It’s just another phase of life - one where I’m a widow instead of being me.”

#paint

[jananinathan]

in the mind of an intense immovable cloud

#paint

[jananinathan]

Watching him within the mortuary freezer box, my eyes let me see him breathe again. He looked relaxed. I imagined him laying in the grass without the confines of the box, without cotton filling his nostrils and ears, without his toes tied together to avoid the devil’s entrance. But honestly I can’t imagine him ever laying in the grass. I hope he did though.

#paint

[jananinathan]

I’m harboring a steady anger with my uncle these days for not coming to celebrate appa’s sashtiabtapoorthi (60th birthday ceremony). Amma was telling me that my uncle has been curious about what his mother looked like. Everyone who knew her entirely and everyone who knew what she looked like is dead. That’s scary, it’s upsetting, but I’m mad at him so whatever. It’s been a few weeks of experiencing various head to toe spectrums of human emotion. Two nights ago, there was a celebration (for which my family couldn’t remember or was too preoccupied to remember) for a deity that continued until 2:30am. Hoards of people from a nearby graamam filled one of the busiest streets in Chennai, the one my grandparent(s) live(d) on, tridents sticking through their cheeks, hooks attached to their backs pulling cars and rickshaws forward. Drums, people dressed as hypnotized devotees. The nine of us watched from the balcony for a long time without clapping along, without dancing, unsure about whether or not we were allowed to express joy, even empathetic joy, on just Day 6 of the grieving process. The way Hindus process death to let go of someone who’s passed is jarring and visceral. It’s the hardest thing I’ve ever had to handle in my body. My uncle (not the one I’m mad at) told me that it’s in part to disallow us from remaining in denial. It’s also to slowly and entirely help vanish away the departed’s wandering soul while also relieving it of its vessel. It’s too much. I’m almost happy that my family is a tad too traditional to allow women to travel to the crematorium. I think it would have swallowed me whole. Thatha, you live on within us. Your soul will find peace in Prakash Mama’s low voice and slow gait that slides his feet against the floor. In Gopi Mama’s careful and steady emotions. In Amma’s every instinct. In Paati’s every day.

(walking Paati upstairs to the mottai maadi, inviting her to the sun and air for the first time since we stood outside, feeding Thatha arrissi before he was taken away. I did yoga with her, which she taught me over two decades ago. I tried to assert my usefulness because I’ve felt rather helpless like a deadweight here. Frivolously folding and organizing paatis saaris and blouses. She didn’t notice yet, and I don’t want to show her because it seems meaningless in this situation. The last photo taken on one of Thatha’s six cameras. It was also one of the first photos taken despite him having excitedly gotten it seven years beforehand. My mama took the photo of him sitting in His Chair TM to teach him how to use the camera. Since Day 3 or so, we’ve all been slowly taking turns sitting in his chair.

#digital

[jananinathan]

She walked into the room and didn’t fully trust me at first and I could tell because she directed all her questions about me to amma. “என்ன பன்னீண்டு இருக்க இப்போ? எவ்ளோ வைஸ் ஆடு? கல்யாணம் எப்போ?” What is she doing now (employment)? How old is she? When is the wedding? She drew closer to me when she realized I could speak Tamil despite me being an artist and 24 and unmarried. My mom told her she could collect names of eligible men. I laughed instead of glaring at amma because I was jet lagged. She had a bandage around her arm from a fall a few days back. Her bracelet pressed into her skin when she fell and sliced it. I felt the pain hot in my body when she told us (I’m sure you could feel it too. Imagine. Her skin looks like wet paper or spring roll skin. Soak it in water. Press a solid gold bangle into it with the weight of a body). She lived in a house with her daughter and needed us to yell to hear us. Later, she said she lost her hearing and her hair when her husband died. She told us that six times in various ways until she said her daughter lost her patience instead. This was in a hushed voice as her daughter was across the apartment. She mouths, “She hits me. She yells.” She pulled her japamala out of her sari blouse, rotating it around her neck until we saw a safety pin holding it together. “She cut this.” She didn’t say it though - she motioned. Still, my dad and I were huddled around her, so she felt safer to confide. She motioned again, gesturing to her sari, showing us four fingers, miming someone ripping the sari, using scissors to cut one to shreds and throwing another out a window. She paused and pointed to her daughter in the other room. “All her. She hits me. She yells,” she repeated. It stung later when she brought us to the bedroom that she shared with her daughter and son-in-law, pulling out each of her saris from her closet, all carefully folded and pressed into bags, describing their weight on her shoulder and which ones she had blouses for. For the ones she didn’t have any for, she would say, “the blouse hasn’t been made for this one yet, so I can’t wear it.” She said that for about 4 saris. I didn’t think anything of it, but later when my family was thinking about how we could help her, my mom told me she was expressing her bitterness that her daughter hadn’t gotten them done for her yet. She needs help to walk outside, but inside, she spends her time taking out her saris, admiring them, folding them. She didn’t want us to think she was shallow for that. She earnestly asked that we don’t think that of her five times before we left. She spends some hours writing, “ஸ்ரீ ராம் ஜெய் ராம்” Shree Ram, Jai Ram. 108 times a day - but only half that on the day she fell, she told us. Sometimes the repeated phrase lines up perfectly in her notebook in little columns, but she said you can tell when she was distraught on some days when the written chant started slanting.

#digital

[jananinathan]

Drawn two weeks ago on a plane running away from Barcelona when I thought about how unlucky we were to not have gotten seats next to one another, but lucky to have gotten seats in front of the plane, but that might be unlucky too. Unlucky because it would mean that if the plane took a nosedive into the monument to Christopher Columbus erected in Spain, we’d be the first to die. But lucky because then I wouldn’t have to tell my parents about my tattoos that day (which I did do! Pat me on the back baby!). Lucky because the racist Airbnb host in Spain may feel badly that I died after challenging my competence and cleanliness and morality because of my skin. Unlucky because we got off the plane stressed and sitting next to an Indian family, which made me want my amma so badly. It makes me feel like all the air in my body is seeping out of my every hole. Even the small ones! Like the holes in the centers of my pupils.

#paint

[jananinathan]

I’m melting - but I shouldn’t take it personally because maybe it’s just rain or a shower or swimming or sweat or that I’m crying

#paint

[jananinathan]

My grandma has a constant stream of advice that I used to think was so profound that it would change the course of my life, erase all my mistakes, become engraved on my body before cremation, but now I just wish she knew me better. Or that I made myself easier to know. Told her I was feeling waves of crushing stress this year. “When you get tense, don’t take it seriously. It’s just tense t e n s e. Spell it out five times if you have to. It’s not real” t e n s e one letter for every finger, every toe, every finger, every toe.

#paint

[jananinathan]

#paint

[jananinathan]

badly edited animation of a conversation from today, translated from tamil

#paint

[jananinathan]

stills from a badly edited animation of a conversation from today, translated from tamil (animation coming up)

#paint