Snippets from Elu Devi Baruah's Sketchbook

She writes prolifically, novels and newspaper columns. She cooks the best chole ever. She paints panoramic landscapes, portraits and carries a sketchbook around everywhere. She is brimming with creativity that pours out through various channels; a pen, a paintbrush, a ladle. She keeps her sketchbook locked in an old Godrej wardrobe. The sketches are just an creative outlet for her restless fingers, they weren't meant to be shared. But when I chanced upon them, I realized it would be a crime not to share these snippets from my aunt's sketchbook, sketches that hardly takes less than an hour to materialize. I am honoured to be the first one to share these works of art through my blog. I apologize for the poor resolution of the images, as I had only my phone camera at hand.

Portraits of the departed: My aunt's in-laws

Boat of destiny: Where will you steer it?

Bare necessities: A hut on the way to Cherapunjee

The Embrace

Sensuous Femininity

A rough sketch of the Venetian canals

Sun and Shade

The Red River

 

                                         Sunset at riverbank. Brahmaputra.

 

                                         Undercurrents.

                                         The tree reminds me of a bedhead.

                                        The pace of the ferry boat put me to sleep.

 

Sun and shade.

Poesy through Lens

 New year, new thoughts, new words, a new journal.

 Winter mornings...icy, silken fog obscuring my trees.

 Owls make noises here. Every night.

Isolation in abode of trees.

Uruka fire, January 2012, Jorhat. Home. Warmth. Love. Hope.

An old pine tree. We were neck to neck a dozen years ago. My growth stunted along the way.

Reeds. Bamboo thicket. In front of my old home. Futile attempts every day to shield the sun.

 Trees on my path. Rural Kamrup.

 I slept through this heaven on earth for a month, slouching in the backseat of the car, too tired at the end of the day. And one day, I peeked through the window as we crossed a rickety wooden bridge and turning into this lane, I drove through the most beautiful path in my life.

 Narakachal Hill, Guwahati. Late evening. Long, quiet halt.

Fishermen wade through it with nets, and fishing hooks fling into it in unison. Busy mornings are followed by serene, crimson evenings. Rural Kamrup.

My home front. Winter had stripped the trees naked of foliage but the bare branches, jutting out awkwardly, look beautiful on a moonlit night.

Rural Assam

    

Comes with the new job :)

Here I learnt my ABCs

   

    

Here I learnt my ABCs and fractions. I sang, I danced. I wrote poems. I ran races and spent hours on the swing. I prayed at the church. Believed in the rumour about the ghost in the church. I browsed for hours at the tiny library. I borrowed a book about dollhouses once, and spent a summer creating them. I watched cartoon movies here once a week, huddled with the whole class. I listened enraptured to the music teacher's guitar playing. I ate lunch under the shade of the trees. I played in the sun. I queued to get into the school bus. I learnt. I played. I started my life here. I loved my life here.

Donbosco Primary School, Jorhat.

In and Around My College

    





 
  
 

    

   

Gauhati Medical College. I did my MBBS from here. Nestled atop a hill, surrounded by lush greenery, towering over the whole of Guwahati, the terrace gazing at the mighty Brahmaputra, quaint paths winding uphill to it, calm and serenity resides here. I am fortunate to have been a part of it.