In Between The Lines
‘I closed my eyes and spoke to you in a thousand silent ways’
Rumi
‘In between the lines’ is a body of work that talks about the pauses; the time between two words or sentences. It draws one into those subliminal conversations that take place in certain moments of silence where there is nothing, yet everything. It is this silence that Muzzumil intently strains to listen to as he asks the viewer to step into his fictional realm. Here he stands, immersed in a conversation with time, trying to resolve and negotiate moments of oddity. These are the occurrences that he has gathered within this body of work and using these thoughts, visuals and memories he is questioning time.
Every piece is a moment in time, attempting to make connections within implicit connotations. A faint smile, the flick of an eyebrow, a meaningful gaze, a pause – the unsaid is an exquisite and eloquent instance trapped in time. The frailty and ethereality of these moments is like time itself : perishable – for if time was not consumable , it would not be time…
Where are you?
You need to spare some time, stay here…
Everything is here, you just need to listen…
Everything is here, you just need to look…
I have no qualms, in fact, I would like to tell you everything, but, I see that
you don’t have the time…
Do you know how many moments lie in just one of your pauses? Have
you ever tried to count them?
I don’t know…
Who should I ask, who will tell me?
I have no idea…
He turns around and is about to leave.
I cannot let that happen, I must try to get him to answer me.
I know he doesn’t wait for anyone and I know he will never come
back.
As I try to chase him and catch that fleeting moment, I continue…
I hear, you do not rest or sleep, you keep on running… I have not seen it
with my own eyes but it seems to be a lie.
A faint smile parted his lips; he stopped and turned back
People run, they want to be ahead of time…
They want to leave their own behind and they always want to be in
someone else’s time, that is just the way it is.
They will either fight too hard and erase themselves or they will trip and
be left behind.
I don’t run, I sail, and I cannot stop the wind…
I cannot believe how detached and indifferent you sound …
I have no sentiments for ignorance… they start collecting and saving
memories… I let them. I do not wait for anyone, although … many have
tried to persuade me, yet none have ever prevailed.
The slight pause in between his sentences was shockingly loud. It
said a lot. Much more than he cared to divulge himself.
There was an odd undertone of pragmatism laced with mockery in
the way he spoke. An awkward silence followed.
We cannot help it. We are like petals, frail and fragrant. Floating through
our existences following the course that the river decides to take. All we
can do is tightly hold onto the breeze. The sky above nor the ground
below; none of them belong to us… we are just instruments of the
elements.
The flower does not choose to lose its perfume, it has to, it is meant to…
lamenting what is preordained is a trait of man.
If the perfume will not dissipate how will the yearning for it arise again?
Our fear of loss is what creates its significance, I hope you understand
what I mean.
Conversation continues …
