Some of the characters, incidents, and places in this article are fictional. Any resemblance to a living or deceased person, any incident or place is purely coincidental. No animals were harmed during the documentation of this excerpt.
This excerpt is a fictional review of three Performances by a collective Possible Futures that took place with a white cube art exhibition under the title, “I Distinctly Remember,” curated by Srinivas Aditya Mopidevi at Dhi Contemporary, Hyderabad, in 2024.
I am a spoon.
Though the rain had been pouring for days, a sudden ray of sunlight kissed my back, reminding me of the warmth I had once known. Usually, I am stacked away beneath bigger utensils, forgotten in the shadow of their grandeur. But today, a man picked me up, his fingers brushing along my cool surface. He inspected me closely, admiring the gleam of my body, and held me for a while, perhaps appreciating the feel of my curves. I thought about how often I am ignored in the marketplace, a small and unremarkable spoon, left behind while the bigger, flashier bowls and plates are snatched up quickly. As I lay there, daydreaming of a dip into velvety cheese, I overheard the chatter of a deal being struck—a vendor closing a transaction over a sack of utensils. Suddenly, I found myself and my spoon friends being gathered together and taken along with other utensils, chosen not for our size but for something we had to offer.
We were carried far from the market, into a world of unexpected green—lush fields and trees surrounded us. The air smelled different, fresh and earthy. We were placed geometrically on a large wooden disk, arranged as though we were part of a display, though none of us understood our purpose yet. The next day, we were off again, driven into the heart of a concrete jungle. The greenery disappeared, replaced by tall buildings and glass windows. Through these windows, I glimpsed our destination—a gallery filled with art, but no dining tables. As we entered, I waved silently at the roses, puzzled by their lack of vases. The space seemed unfamiliar, yet strangely inviting.
Our owner, Harsha, with the help of a few assistants, began adjusting his conical bamboo hat, carefully setting up a structure where we, the utensils, would be hung. The process was delicate, almost ritualistic, as he took great care in positioning us just right on a smaller disk. We hung there with an odd sense of purpose, unable to comprehend the display. Harsha moved with intention, his footsteps steady as the weight of the utensils rested on his shoulders, like a traveling merchant carrying his wares. As he walked, we made our presence known with the sounds of gentle clinks and taps—an orchestra of metal. I thought of an idiom: “Ghar me agar bartan hain to bajenge hi.” (If there are utensils at home, they will inevitably make noise).
As Harsha walked, the sounds of our metal bodies echoed through the space, as though we were part of the art itself. I marvelled at the textile installation at the entrance, so vast and tactile, while the audience reached out to touch it. Yet, they barely spared a glance for us, stacked and suspended, hanging silently, overlooked in the midst of it all. Harsha, however, did not overlook us. He began washing the larger bowls, using iron brushes with precision and care. I couldn’t help but watch his actions. The rhythmic scrubbing, the effort to cleanse every corner of the bowls, felt intimate in a way that was usually reserved for women. Society had decided that such acts were the realm of women, not men. And yet, here was Harsha, performing this private act in front of an audience, his focus unwavering despite the silent smirks of some onlookers.
One brave soul stepped forward to assist, bravely touched and collected a soiled bowl. Yet, the rest of the audience, in their detachment, only seemed to interact with Harsha’s act from a distance. We remained uncleaned, our small size making us an afterthought. Though we were displayed above, untouched by the same care and attention that the larger bowls enjoyed, we were still part of the larger experience. The touch of a hand had brought us here, but now, we were just waiting, silently hung above, unbothered by the fact that no one bothered to clean us. It was as though we were frozen in place, our purpose merely to be observed, not touched or handled with the same affection. We were part of this world of art and touch, but in a way that was distant, a reminder of the delicate relationship between those who create, those who observe, and those who are simply… touched.
Ding! Ding! Ding!
I am a cowbell, known here as an “Avu Ganta.” I am deeply connected to the cows and buffaloes I hang around, feeling the gentle rhythm of their movements. But it’s not just the animals who feel my presence—the owners of these animals trust me more than their livestock. I become the marker of their movements, the sound of my ringing telling them if the bulls are nearby. When I fall silent, for too long and at odd hours, they know something has gone wrong. I think of the bulls, Hira and Moti, from Premchand’s “Do Bailon Ki Katha.” They were loyal, but even they had to be bound by something like me. Sometimes I feel like a barrier to their freedom, the weight around their necks that keeps them tethered, but what can I do? I am just a sound.
One day, as I made my usual rounds with my buffalo friend on the farm, I felt footsteps approaching. It was the owner’s son. He gently ran his hand across the buffalo’s face, a touch that was soft, caring, as he reached for me. He untied me from the buffalo’s neck and placed me carefully in his bag. I wondered, now that I was removed from my familiar place, would the buffalo seek freedom? Or did he understand that outside these grounds, he would be just as cared for, but never truly free?
Suresh, the owner’s son, was busy creating something from pieces of wood. His touch was firm, skilled, as he covered the wooden frame with black gongadi cloth. It wasn’t just any cloth—its material, its history, it had a story woven into every thread. My place, now separate from the farm, was among people, doing things I had never witnessed before—cutting rose thorns, wearing utensils, others helping them. It felt unfamiliar, like I was a part of something larger now. As Suresh worked on the structure, I saw the kitchen man, with his resonating steps, walking away, his utensils clinking.
Suresh then brought the structure down and set everything in place. I was surprised by how neat everything was now—no traces of my buffalo friends, no dung, no grass or insects, no plastic waste. Instead, there was a terracotta sculpture in front of me, framed photographs of silenced landscapes, and people, frozen in time. The wooden structure was shaped like a plough. And I was, hanging inside it, a silent witness to what was coming next.
Suresh, with his wide shoulders, slid into the plough-shaped structure. His touch made it come to life in a strange, rhythmic way, the way someone does when they wear an animal costume and mimic the animal’s every movement. He took a deep breath, his body fitting into the structure’s proportions as though it was made for him. For a moment, I didn’t exist in his world—not until his movements began to create a subtle sound. Ding! Ding! Ding! The force of his steps made me ring, sending ripples through the air.
Suresh moved around, his steps almost like a stamp on the ground, his body becoming the buffalo. With each ding, the sound echoed his growing energy. Sweat began to glisten on his skin as he bumped the face of the structure against the floor. It wasn’t just for the sound anymore; he was knocking it down, too. Viewers were enchanted, drawn into the performance by the intensity of his movements. I could hear their deep breaths, their shh hums, a soft chorus of wonder.
When Suresh finally stepped out of the structure, his face was covered with bold black lines, his movements exhausted but triumphant. He dragged the buffalo body around, giving the viewers a close-up of his performance. As he walked, he marked their hands with the black chalk, a connection made through touch. A little girl, delighted, showed her mother the mark on her hand.
The buffalo structure, now tired of its movements, and Suresh, exhausted from his performance, both sank to the ground, stretching their legs. They lay there, under the shade, beside a dozing woman framed in a picture—a work of another artist at the exhibition. I thought about the touch that had been exchanged between Suresh and the structure, between the viewers and Suresh, and how it all felt like a dance, a play of energies passed from one to another.
Weeks passed, and I finally met my buffalo friend again when Suresh returned from work. I was glad to see him, chewing the green and dried grasses from the land. I wondered whether he had missed me—my touch, my sound, the rhythm we created together. I was back around his neck, swinging with the familiar sound once more. Ding! Ding! Ding! It was just like before—our simple, unspoken connection through the sound of my touch on the air.
I Am Just a Rose Petal
I am just a rose petal, resting among hundreds of others. Not long ago, we were whole—blooming, swaying, kissed by the wind. Our journey began six months ago, nurtured with tender hands, watered with care, and admired for our softness despite the sharp thorns that grew beside us. We were plucked, carried away, and found ourselves in a small florist shop in Hyderabad. Yet, we were not abandoned. Instead, we became messengers of love, exchanged between hands that longed for connection, given to those meant to be cherished.
The shopkeeper sprinkled us with water, the cool droplets brushing against our skin, reviving our fragrance. Outside, the city shimmered under a soft drizzle, colours deepened, and the air was alive with an unspoken poetry. As we admired the shifting hues of the world, a man entered the shop. His fingers, warm and firm, selected fifteen of us. As a gesture of goodwill, the shopkeeper placed two extra roses in his hand. We wondered where we were going, eager to find the purpose behind his touch.
The man’s name was Vignesh. He held us delicately, shielding us from the chaos of honking horns and rushing pedestrians. Through the bumpy ride, his grip remained careful, ensuring not a single petal was lost. The weight of his touch spoke of intention, of something more than a mere purchase. Soon, we arrived at a white-walled gallery, silent and still, where art clung to the walls like whispered emotions. Vignesh carried us through the space, tracing the room with his fingers, absorbing the textures of the paintings, the smoothness of the frames. Outside, the rain fell steadily, and the absence of footsteps made the artists uneasy. Would anyone come?
An hour later, soft murmurs rose from below. The scent of anticipation thickened in the air. Vignesh, now in a dhoti, struggled to tie it properly, his fingers fumbling with the unfamiliar knots. We were amused at his nervousness—his hands, usually so sure, now hesitant, awkward, searching. Yet, when he picked us up again, his touch was steady. In his other hand, he carried an umbrella, its surface embedded with tiny glowing lights, as if trying to capture the fleeting brilliance of touch itself.
As he moved, four volunteers followed, hidden beneath a long sheet of fabric, feeling their way along the floor with mobile torches. Vignesh played an unintelligible sound from a speaker, filling the space with an eerie hum. The gallery, once sparsely populated, now rippled with bodies shifting, making way for him. Faces disappeared into shadows, replaced by the unseen language of movement and presence.
Vignesh reached out, pressing us into the palms of strangers. “Smell, kiss, make a wish,” he whispered. We felt the hesitation in their hands—fingers curling, uncertain whether to accept. A touch without reason, without obligation, was strange. But one by one, they gave in. Lips brushed against us, breaths warmed us, wishes fluttered into the air, invisible yet tangible.
On his next rotation, a woman handed him a small bottle, filling his plastic gun with liquid. Soon, bubbles floated above us, touching the gallery space like delicate, vanishing memories. Laughter followed—hands reaching, grasping, reliving childhood. The act of touch transformed—first hesitant, then playful, then nostalgic.
Then, something changed. Vignesh began to take us back. Fingers that had just caressed us now released us reluctantly. The weight of separation hung in the air. Wishes had been made, yet they were being retrieved, revoked. The second rotation ended near the right entrance wall. Vignesh knelt. The volunteers followed. The fabric around them, already restrictive, tightened as he moved unpredictably. A sudden gasp escaped him—his neck briefly caught in the folds. Yet, he carried on.
He picked one of us. Held us high. Then, with force, he slammed us against the wall. A red stain bloomed where we had met the surface. The gallery fell into silence, not the quiet of anticipation , but that of shock.
Another strike. Another red mark. Wishes, once whispered into us, now splattered against the white wall. The violence of his touch grew, shifting from gentle to desperate, from tender to raw. The audience flinched. Some turned away. Others stared, unable to comprehend the transition—from reverence to destruction, from gift to ruin.
One by one, we were all obliterated, our soft bodies torn, our presence reduced to imprints on the wall. Vignesh remained kneeling, breathless, his hands now empty.
We lay scattered on the floor, broken but not forgotten. Even in our final moments, we had been felt. We had touched, and been touched. And in that, we had lived.
Conclusion
Through the metaphorical voices of the spoon, the cowbell, and the rose petal, the performances in I Distinctly Remember reveal the intricate relationship between materiality, labour, and memory. The act of touch—whether in the washing of utensils, the movement of a buffalo bell, or the ritual of offering and reclaiming petals—becomes a site of tension between care and neglect, tradition and transformation. These performances resist passive observation, instead demanding participation, whether through sound, movement, or the residue left behind. Ultimately, they ask the viewer to reconsider the agency of objects and the silent histories embedded in them, reminding us that to be touched is to be remembered.