AMNA BABAR

‘We grow forests in our bones, so our memories can’t find us. I believe we find and haunt ourselves.’

‘life is melancholy now. Only in pictures do we free ourselves.’

without a dream in my heart

Seasons Of Your Day// November, 2014

Song of the Crimson Rebellion- a photo series A trail of crimson flows through the crowd. The only rose that has dared to dance with the wind. The men, they look straight at her, they feel no shame. Their blood boils, their desires peak. They jump to pluck but the thorns pierce the calloused fingertips; drip drip drip. Palms now stained with blood. The women, they look away, they spy from the corner of their eyes and whisper to one another, “I wish my existence could be as bold.” She stops for no one. She cannot be claimed by anyone. Crimson, flows the blood in her veins; crimson, the smear on her lips, her kurti, her chaddar. Crimson, the color of her defiance The ‘chan chan’ of her anklet echoes to miles away, almost like a siren. She has not come to preach. She has not come to shame. She has, but only, come to liberate; for she sings a song that cannot be unheard. She sings the song of the crimson rebellion.

everything beautiful began after

‘Feel it. The thing you don’t want to feel. Feel it and be free.’