a bite of truth

 “I was having a coffee alone, and it tasted like shit, but it was lonely there, and I didn't like being with people. I was never one of them. I didn't hate them, but I was good when they were not around. But this fellow, nowhere out of the blue, he was one of the snakes from all the other snakes of the same family. He sat in front of me and asked for a cup of coffee, and said, ‘how come you are here with no company?’ I said, ‘the price of not being with idiots is the price you pay for not being one of them.’ He couldn't get it, so he stayed. Minutes later, I was out there searching for a new place to hang alone.”

 You don't get married because you want to get married; you marry because some priest decides so; you marry because your parents doesn't want you to die virgin; they know that without marriage you're going to remain single and virgin till you die; you marry because some random relative wants to wear her once in a while beautiful costly saree in your marriage, so that she can click some thousand photos in her I phone in your marriage; you marry because your parents want a varasudu; you marry because your parents are bored of being with you, they want some new entertainment so that they can re sharp their bitchhing skills and have a whole ego trip; you marry because your mother wants to do the same to your wife just as her mother in law has done to her when she was a daughter in law; you marry because your parents want to let you know that how much they have suffered having kids like you (what do you think, that they are aware of all the society and it's trauma with their...

 “Once, a woman said to me, ‘you have a photogenic face.’ She was the only one who made it somewhat closer to me than anyone. She had some good humour; I am still laughing at her joke.”

 You don't love someone just because her eyes are attractive, her cheeks are cute, her breasts are big and round, or her hips are wide; not because she has the perfect measurements of your beloved pornstar, or because you want to grab her at first glance. She is not a plum cake—you’re not going to eat her. You love her because, when you look into her eyes, you find something deeper. You love her for how much truth she can endure. You love her because she has a soul—and you want to reach for it, and nurture it into something better.

  Woke up at 5:30—it must be, or it might not be. Didn’t watch the clock, but usually it is around 5:30. I didn’t wake up, but my piss wouldn’t stop; my bladder was bursting. Don’t know how long I could hold—I haven’t experimented yet. I set my alarm at 6 o’clock before going to bed at night. After pissing at 5:30 or whatever, I slept again to give my alarm some purpose and responsibility, and then I started to think about the purpose of my life. Usually I do it when I have nothing to do, or I have done all the things in a day. It starts with my purpose, and then it shifts to sex, and then to death. I was good at making things, so I was calm while thinking about it. I have learned that panicking will make it worse, and it’s just my imagination—why make it worse when you can make it better? Sex and death—only these two fascinate me. I have never experienced them. Death, the greatest escape, the ultimate orgasm. But how come most of the Indian women never have an orgasm? Having a chi...

 I was at this house, and they asked me if I wanted to drink tea. But I stopped drinking tea. And i didn't want to disappoint them, so I told them to bring a cup of hot water. So they did. I started sipping it as if it was tea. But, why don't you drink tea itself. No, this is tea, it tastes exactly like tea, I have tricked my mind to believe it's tea. And at the end. I have just added few more people to my list of "people who ignore me." I feel pleasant about these situations, making people mad without actually hurting them. It's really an advantage, because you keep your friends list minimum just to get maximum benefits out of them.

  Just to avoid someone I knew very little, I travelled 5 more kilometres to home. I don't hate people, but it's good when I don't see them. And some people do avoid me, but they don't travel 5 more kilometres, they just ignore me. They are not kind hearted as me.

  Madness is necessary. People must be mad for something; it really matters. One can be mad about women, mad at making love, mad at making art, mad at alcohol, mad at humanity and it's unaware mad maniacs. It couldn't be otherwise. How are you going to be sane without being mad? And what truly horrible is those beings who never go mad—how horrible their lives must be.

 Someone said that if I was a woman, somehow I'd be more known. That wouldn't change a bit. Woman or man, my being would be same — the rambunctious fool I am. Being a woman with some skills will worsen the situation. Being a man, I'd be just a madman. Being a woman, I'd be an extra certified dramatic.

  Me marrying is just letting one more person know that I am mad. And don't ask me how it'd end — you know — just them getting mad.

 Somehow people around me need psychotherapy. They never make me sad or happy, while I am constantly lost in the fresh Breeze, the sound of birds, the sunrise, sunset—everything. The brush strokes I put on the paper, the movement of the pencils—these all keep me alive. But somehow people can't stand it, and I make them constantly sad.

  Just asked my mom, “how many days will you cry if I die.” She started crying and said, “nee bhonda poda, avvem matalu.” She thinks I am immortal. Now it’s my father’s turn.

  Somehow, my mother’s back pain and my father’s boredom have a cure—and I found that it’s my marriage.

  It so happened that somehow I ended up in Kashi, and I was dead, and I was being taken to Manikarnika Ghat to burn my body, and so it was; it was burning, and it didn't even burn half, they threw my body into the river and started burning the other body which was waiting for its turn ever since my body caught fire. And I wondered who would be next—oh, that might be you.

 People want to relate their misery; they want someone to feel what they are going through—their EMI, their school fees, their wife's unfulfilled desires, their sanitary pads. They have to fulfill all of these by holding up what they always wanted. Sadly, whenever I meet someone, if they happen to know me, they ignore me at the first; and the ones who doesn't know me will take some time to ignore. They always find some or the other to express their pain, and the other is also looking for them, ... And I couldn't relate to anyone either. Who is going to talk about music, madness, literature, paintings, papers, brushes, and all the stuff? And now I know that it's better to shut my mouth rather than try to communicate or to relate with anyone, where basically nobody is going to truly understand the other.

  "I  don't know if you are still loving your wife as the day you have met her, or still going to love if she is plotting against you; but I am still going to make art if nobody likes it, and I am still going to write even if nobody is going to read.”

 What are your talents?” “I can sketch. I can do watercolor paintings.” “And what else are you good at?” “Well, I can go anywhere alone, eat alone, go to a movie alone, can stay in my bed without being fucked or without fucking.” “Are you married?” “No.” “Fuck you, mister. Get the fuck out of here, we don’t hire single people.” He must have thought, “It’s hard to control this fucker. He has nothing to submit to—no wife, no kids, no responsibility. He can fight for anything and almost survive without anything.”

 people make babies for different reasons. Some want to ensure that their own blood inherits all the wealth; some do it because they want someone to look after them when they are old. Some make sure they can pass their trauma on, and some want children simply to trash them—because they cannot trash their superiors. But rarely does it happen that they conceive a new being in oneness: in a state of meditativeness, in a state of Shakti and Shiva, in a state of ultimate union. Then a pure soul enters the new being. They do it because they have so much to show, so much to experience, and so much joy of living to share.

  Celebration has something to do with life, not with any date or event. People are celebrating not to celebrate but to eat cake; their eyes are not curious about what's life is going to give them, but their face is full of misery of missing the cake.

 Not being responsible is also being responsible; it’s just being responsible for not being able to be responsible enough to be expressing of not at all being responsible. There is so much responsibility in being a husband and a father. I don't want that responsibility; I wouldn't waste my entire life for it. (How can you be a man without responsibility?) Well, fuck it — I know that I am not capable enough to bear that, so I am expressing that I don't want to get into that and somehow cry or blame others for what happened to me. Tomorrow or together, I'd be happy living alone, caring for myself. I don't want to be a failed husband or father; I'd rather die in my own misery by being single. Most men marry for the sake of fucking, and love comes in between — and now the unwanted being happens, and you don't even have time to make yourself happy. You start being responsible without actually knowing what actual responsibility is. No freedom for the child, nor do...

  Funerals were meant to remember people about death; but people avoided it, discussing politics, celebrities, and also about the beautiful wives they didn't had, and the lives of others peoples beautiful wives. And only a few cried; they cried not because their loved ones were dead, but it reminded their own death—that they are not immortal, and they are going to vanish into thin air, just like that—and they were scared about that.

 “Wow, you are so much talented, and you look ok, then why don’t you have a girlfriend?” “Ok, let’s fuck, let’s fuck until I rip apart your thighs.” Well, I didn’t say this. People didn’t love truth; they want beautiful lies. You want lust, and love comes in between, and I wasn’t even rich either; they hated it. I said, “Why don’t you marry me then?” She didn’t speak. “That’s your answer.”

  People, education, religion, caste, contributed nothing to humanity except guilt. Now that he is guilty, and disintegrated, and disturbed, the soul has nothing to do but suicide; and it is nothing but an act of reaction, concluded by the years of conditioning. Somehow, getting out of this circle is proving ourselves completely mad; and, in the process, we gain nothing but people (Who in confusion might cheer a bit, but that doesn't seems consoling). And, in conclusion, everything we do to get away is from people, and we still have to be in people.

  holy fuck, i’d never be happy; i’d never lead a happy life. i’d never be able to get married (i never wanted to get married), and i don’t even want to have kids (why bring new trauma when my own trauma is not finished yet). i’d never be happy. i wish to die. Maybe nobody would care about me being dead, or care about my body, as they’d never care about a body of a dog scattered all the way on the road, with its blood all dark red, spilled all on the road— with vehicles not caring about the soul of it, while still driving on it: crushed to pain, crushed by the humanity, CRUSHED.......

 A teacher becoming a politician is just like a saint becoming a sinner.

  Sometimes people confuse torturing their bodies with devotion. Not sometimes—almost all the time.

  What if we all speak only truth for half the day, just try it; will your loved ones still love you, will you still keep the job you do, or the boss is still going to keep you? Will your parents still go on feeding you, do you actually love your parents, or have they done anything to gain your trust and worth? Or anytime till now have you acknowledged your true self, the self you cover with the beautiful mask you carry on; have you any soul, did you actually care for it.

 I never really tried to do anything—writing; it simply happened: I just wrote whatever came to my heart. And then sketching; I must say that I really understood the things—it took some time, but it was always worth it. And then watercolor: I am practicing it for about 9 months; I sometimes panic, but I somehow do it; I get some understanding every time I do one, and it gives me thrill. And driving—the Diesel engine—it drives itself, and I watch, sitting on the seat, just moving the steering left and right wherever the road takes me. All of this is good; but sleep… I really try hard to sleep; the more I try, the harder it gets. I end up getting delirious and panicky, and sleep paralysis is too often now.

 Whenever I go mad, like really mad, I couldn’t control that; I instantly want to kill someone—perhaps my father, the cause of it. Should I go with his mind or the entire body? I wouldn’t exist if he didn’t exist. And then I want to hit all the teachers who had taught me. Then I shift to punching my fist straight into the mirror, or to hit it directly—whatever happens to be there at the side. But wait, I say to myself, what if my fingers crack and bleed? The genius I am—how am I going to wave my fingerless hands to the public if I get famous? How am I going to show my middle finger to media when I get controversial through my paintings? How am I going to write anything down? How am I going to sketch? And lastly, how am I going to masturbate without it? Well, I would still have done it with the other, but it wouldn’t be good; but I wouldn’t be able to do anything else other than that. Then I stop my anger; I take out my bicycle and go out into the madness of these soulless, insane a...

“I was reading this, and Prince Myshkin is really delirious and has an epileptic fits. It was about 12 a.m., and after going to sleep—or, to put it the way as I was in the process of going into sleep—I had a violent sleep paralysis (I usually experience it about two to three in a month or two), and I was positively dead that I couldn't negatively wake up. But finally Dostoyevsky himself pulled me out. Now, what was he doing in my mind, and I suspect that he would rush into my heart as well.”

 “We are all spiritual beings, having an intellect trapped in a body; now, resurrection is possible, yet we hardly ever know it and never think of it, perhaps the little experiences bother too much."

 “Marriage is not a meeting of two families; but it is two families deciding to torture two innocent people.”

  Indians love India, but they don’t love Indians. Indians expect to be loved, yet they won’t love anyone.

 Devotion has nothing to do with god; you can be devoted towards a particular god and hate everything else, and still be a fool. You can be devoted towards what you do, to your wife, children, and towards creative aspects. Being devoted and doing in awareness is what is needed the most.

 I won’t go anywhere with the sort of people I have—barely very less—and only few take interest in me. When I published my first book, they all cheered; then the second, it decreased; then the third, and finally the fourth. By then I understood everything: it’s not happening, I am not having it, I don’t have it, I’ll never have it. And then I started sketching—watercolor. Now, no one I knew understood watercolors, and they couldn’t relate. But portraits were somehow liked; yet they couldn’t bring me any money. The ones I loved never gave their portraits to be sketched, and the ones I did sketch never loved or paid anything. And coming to love—women—they too were scared of it. The scoundrel I am, the one I loved had nothing intrinsically hers; I don’t know where she is bitching now. And then the friends from school: they hardly ever texted me back, and I too found no soul in them, and left it there itself. And then I finally found a friend who lately became my sister—she was always ...

 Why the heck should I marry? You are married; are you happy? What is a happy married life, according to you? What would essentially change for you if I get married? What are you going to lose if I don’t get married? How come your wife can’t identify your particular part? Are you happy fundamentally to lead a balanced life? Balance is out of question if you are fundamentally happy. Define peace, and calmness. Are you loyal to your boss, or to your wife? Define marriage. Define love. I can’t see your fucking face happy ever after you got married. I only see dumb faces when I see married faces. What actually have you gained after marriage? How am I going to be happy if I don’t want to be responsible for the people I don’t have any love for? How am I going to be happy while I have to be responsible, when I don’t even know what my own happiness is? I can’t marry just for the sake of fucking; it might be good in the beginning, but it won’t last long. Marriage is nothing but legal prosti...

 “Planning something which actually is pre-planned, so that I can do sure, be not worrying about the pre-planned plan, which actually is also a pre-planned, planned plan; so, in this accursed, pure, planned-planned plan, there is actually nothing planned, but surely very planned—planned well not to be thought about as already planned.”

 All of the books i have. I was going through my library and found that I have around 250+ books in it, and I have felt some books, understood some, enjoyed some, devoured some, digested some, and out of all the digestion i myself produced some four books and on my way to express my fifth as well. DOSTOYEVSKY. Crime and punishment  The idiot The brothers karamazov The demons The house of the dead The gambler Notes from the underground The double Selected stories White knights GOGOL Dead souls The diary of a madman, the government inspector and selected stories FRANZ KAFKA The essential kafka The metamorphosis  The investigations of a dog KNUT HAMSUN Hunger Growth of soil Mysteries HENRY MILLER Tropic of cancer Tropic of capricorn  Sexus Plexus Nexus Quiet days in clichy  The world of sex On writing  CHARLES BUKOWSKI  Come on in (spiral) The night torn mad with footsteps  Septuaganeria stew South of no north Play the piano drunk Hot water music On ...

  నాకు తెలిసిన అతి తక్కువ మనుషులలో, నన్ను తెలుసుకున్న ఆ ఒక్కడు.

I am sitting in my room, listening to Beethoven and reading Dostoyevsky, creating some memories of painting some watercolors and doing some portraits as well. And somewhere, in another part of the city, some old bitch and a middle-aged bitch are deciding my future—creating sorts of rumours and shaping my future without any conscience, deciding what should happen to me, deciding what sort of woman is good for me, deciding how I should die. Hmm… those bitches—they don’t have a life of their own and try to shed the life of others.

  He mixed cement, concrete and sand proportionally.  And asked the old man, "కాకా ఏడ పోయ్యుమంటావ్." Drunk kaka said, "నా గుద్దల పోయ్యురా."

 I was never in good terms with women. All I ever met was very few, and I talked nonsense — death, sex, philosophy, being here and now, alcohol, creativity... And all I met were never interested in these. Everyone I met made me a brother. They lacked something serious — a soul — which they never had, they never will. They were mostly happy with the peripheral. Their beauty was skin-deep. For someone, it would take about six inches to reach a soul... but I even doubt it.

  You have your wife, your kids, your grandchildren, a car, a bike, a home. And now—it all doesn’t matter. You are still empty; still, you don’t know yourself. You don’t have you.

 “Marriage starts after the honeymoon.”

 “Not being excited for anything, yet still enjoying it — that is enlightenment.”

  Marriages are made in heaven, but they never say where the extramarital affairs are. Perhaps they’re also a part of heaven — a forbidden room, maybe — or a tool to send lovers to the actual heaven.

  In my entire life, I have never cheated on my barber — and I still wonder how these girls manage to have multiple relationships.

 "ఏంటి బాబు గడ్డం అలా పెంచుతున్నావ్" ఆతులు పెంచుకుంటే కనపడవు కదా." వాడు మళ్ళీ నా జోలికి రాడు, నేను సచ్చిన రాడు లే. This is how I filter people. 

 When I was in engineering, I found some amazing literature. And after reading some of their works, like, I felt at nights I would walk with Dostoyevsky in his room — fidgeting round and round, lost in thoughts while he poured his mind, making his soul pure. His wife would hit the typewriter like some shots being fired from a gun — the legend he is. And then, after leaving Dos, I would meet Charles Bukowski in a bar. We would be drinking together; mostly, his humour was raw — words flowed like magic. He had the same essence as Dos, but he was a drinker. He never thought about another man he’d rather be — what a soul. As I was not a heavy drinker, I would be down after a half. And then, in my dreams, I would be sitting in a discourse of Bhagwaan Shree Rajneesh. As I would watch him speak, and as I listened to his absolute, my soul would leave my body. And then Mahler’s music is all over. And then, at the end, there is Beethoven’s madness. And then we all would sit together and have ...

  డ్రాయర్ ఉల్టా వేస్తేనే పరేషాన్ అయ్యెటోడు, రీల్స్ చూస్తు సాగం జీవితం సంక నాకిపోయిన, Feel అవ్వట్లేదు.

 మీ ఇంటి గేట్ లు తెరిచి పెట్టడం వల్ల లక్ష్మీ దేవి వచ్చి మీ "కిస్తీలు" (EMI)లు కట్టదు,  మీరే కట్టాలి.

 కొన్ని గొర్రెలు కలిసి ఒక గొర్రెకు పెళ్లి చేసాయి, సంతోషంగా ఉండాలని కాదు, ఎక్కడ బాగుపడతాదేమోనని.

  Ultimately, man chooses to celebrate a festival rather than life itself. Man is so poor that he must wait for a festival to celebrate, instead of celebrating life itself. Man cannot be happy unless he has something to celebrate.

  Even after writing four books, with the fifth on its way and the sixth already here, after analyzing portraits and learning from my watercolor mistakes, painting outdoors as well — I sometimes feel suicidal, with zero satisfaction and an endless existential dread. I might die an absurd death, and I regret being mentally fucked up because of that bitch. Still, I feel useless. And I don’t understand how these rotten, chicken-shit brains can scroll miles through their phones and kill their lives all the way. Chicken-shit assholes — gorre nayallu — how horrible their lives must be.

 Sometimes I just drink lemon tea while everyone else drinks Irani tea. And what comes out of it? Nothing. There must be something. It just makes me feel special. What? Yes. Weird? No, writing about it — and some of them actually reading it — makes me feel so special.

 “I know that I don’t like anybody, and I also know that I hate none. I accept the fact that nobody loves me, and, in fact, the reality of some people hating me. That probably never disappoints me, and that’s the reason for me being happy.”  I only love the dead, and that keeps me safe.

 "People have been convinced that without some new clothes, a vehicle that hasn’t been washed yet, without going to someone’s home or being visited by someone, or by comparing all of these with others, they are not worthy of celebrating Dussehra. But it’s not about any of these—it’s about killing envy, the state of being envious, and the evilness of the mind."

                            *  నీ బండి ఐతే కడిగినవ్ మరి నీ సంగతేంటి.                            ** హమ్మయ్య నా బండి అయితే కడిగేసినా,  నా పాపాలు అన్ని పోయినట్టే,  ఇగ అన్ని బండ్లు ఒక్క దగ్గర పెట్టి,  పూల మాలలు ఏసి, ఒక ఫోటో తీసి,  స్టేటస్ పెట్టేస్తే, అన్ని అయినట్టే.  

  "at night, i think of death. during the day, i think of sex. and in between, i live."

 "One of the fellows said that my sketches weren’t even worth 100 rupees. And I said, 'That’s not my sketches, you fool… it’s your damn face that isn’t worth even 100.'"

 "These days, one can’t be happy unless they make a video of themselves being happy, edit it with some stunning effects, and have a few people watch it."

 “When I was in school, my math teacher beat the shit out of me for failing to memorize some formulas. And yet, after all these years of teaching, he might never have used even a simple formula like the circumference of a circle in his entire life.”

 “Out of all my teachers, from school to engineering, only one knows that I am a writer and an artist. The rest will never let the others know. And even if they did, they would never read my books or look at my sketches and watercolors—and still love them.”

Someone really said this: You are just a fool. You can create, yet you are alone. You love women who hate you. You respect women who don’t deserve it. You favor those who don’t even care about you, who don’t even think about you. You are just a stinking piece of shit flowing in a river of piss — a piece just to keep some people entertained.

  It’s a mystery to me how women avoid me so easily. I hardly know half of half a dozen, yet somehow they seem to hate me.

 Sometimes people worry more about me than I worry about myself. They worry about when the fuck I’m going to get married—like, seriously, you don’t even have a daughter. And even if you did, she’d probably want to be fucked by some rich white guy with jet-black hair and an eight-pack. They worry about when the fuck I’m going to shave my beard. When the fuck I’m going to wear new clothes. When the fuck I’m going to buy expensive shoes.

 Someone asked me, “Being this old, how come you’re not pissed off about not getting married or having zero interactions with women?” And I said, “The credit goes to post-nut clarity. What? Besides, what can a woman offer that you haven’t already been searching for your whole life? You think there’s someone special out there who’s going to save your ass? People don’t really want to be happy—they want to suffer. Suffering brings them attention. I’ve just decided to be happy. But sometimes it feels like you need a woman—you want to fuck her brains out. But yes, every time you feel like getting married, you just nut, and it hits you again and again.”

  At an event, I was spotted by this rich, fat, healthy woman who said, "Why did you come in these filthy clothes?" Me, being in my late 20s, having acquired some skills, my patience, my progress, my thoughts, my endurance — all of this just simply being judged by a 300-rupee T-shirt and 600-rupee joggers. Sometimes it feels good that I am being saved by these outfits.

 "How come you are not depressed, bro?" Well, you see— I have headaches, insomnia, low blood sugar, I cry over women not talking to me, I'm easily misunderstood, they don't like my beard, nobody talks— even if someone talks, for them I'm a vexatious babbler. If I don't masturbate, I get thoughts to kill a couple, and even if I do, all of my energy is sucked. I drink, I cry over a bitch, I don't have enough time to do all the works which I'm supposed to do, and moreover, my pelvic girdle and coccyx are hurting more than ever, and my belly is getting big and big, can't breathe properly, my neck hurts— and I have got all of these, and even more is that my homeopathic doctor stresses me over her variety of round white pills— a count of 4 to 5 to be taken exactly 40 minutes after eating— and she doesn't want me to drink any water for 30 minutes after taking those hard white pills, and it causes me more stress, and that's the reason exactly I don...

  Waking up early, you have to face humanity early. Like you give creeps to all the others you meet. You go to a tiffin centre and he's like, "Laude ganiki em pani ledu, poddunne nannu savadenguthundu." He won't be happy unless you offer him something. Like, you offer him some sort of help, and he offers you some advice—life advice. You have to keep a confused face until he finishes his advice, and then your face has to glow up after he completes it. Then he can be happy. And every man has to face this, and only some realise the utter waste of  it.

 "Whenever I ride or drive, my mind doesn’t think of anything except death. Not all the time — but always when I see a bridge, it flashes: this is going to collapse. Or when a 15-ton truck thunders past, carrying extra weight: yes, this might hit me, and my head would be a dosa — without the chutney. Or maybe I’ll get dizzy from low sugar. Or maybe I’ll be listening to Beethoven’s Ninth Symphony — the second movement — and go crazy and drive off a hill. See, anything that has to happen, will happen. But not acting according to that — that’s the real sin. And yet, knowing all this won’t stop me from writing this down. These are the thoughts I have about death."

  "The Little Things I’ve Gone Crazy Over" I have never gone crazy about big things— like crying over a bitch, or wanting to kiss the beloved, or masturbating seven times in a day, or being depressed over a 9-to-7 job, my belly getting some fat, or losing weight from working night shifts, not having any sleep at all, or drinking too much or too little, or having too much money, or no money at all. But I have gone crazy— over a piece of quality paper, or a 70 mm lead of 0.5 mm thickness in hard black, or a color from my palette getting empty day after day, or losing a few hairs from my mop brushes, or some paint dropping on the floor while I’m setting it in the palette, or my watercolor paper getting too wet. I’ve gone crazy over the little things all the time— and I will never stop loving that little craziness I had and which makes me more and more crazy.

 attended a birthday party.  this old fellow walked towards me and started to talk about the topics which i wasn't interested in.  he asked me, "khali time lo em chesthuntav babu." i said, "item songs chusthu untanandi." silence. that ended there.  note : this is how you scare some people, but it won't work every time.

A fter a long gap, likely two years, started sketching again. I just wanted to fill a sketch book. so I purchased one from amazon and along with them "faber castle pitt black fine liners." all the drawing you will be looking at are sourced from pinterest by various artists, they really helped me improve my skills. the first drawing is of a temple gopuram. I really love the temple architecture. later I bought a book called TEMPLES OF INDIA. while doing this I just drew a vertical line and started to proceed drawing, within an hour I completed this one and everyone loved it, my sister loved it much more than me. now this one I drew without any simplification, after six months of practice I got to know about what simplification was. used compass for this one and the flag pole should have been a little bit long. I used to watch videos of various youtubers about lord jagannath.  just to exercise my fingers and my mind to draw curves, I practiced this one. again lord jagannath, t...