In a time where spectacle often overshadows sincerity, where art sometimes forgets its heart, Lojithan Ram offers a whisper. A blue whisper. And in that whisper, you may just hear your own name
When it comes to our fathers, especially the ones who try to be good men, a rampant affliction known as patriarchy has left us with no language to imagine them outside of what they were to others. Strip away the roles, and what’s left?
Her voice, thin as a whisper, sharp as a blade, sliced through the kitchen air thick with mustard oil and regret.
In Gaza, the names of the martyrs slip through silence, lost to a world too distracted to listen
In a time where spectacle often overshadows sincerity, where art sometimes forgets its heart, Lojithan Ram offers a whisper. A blue whisper. And in that whisper, you may just hear your own name
When it comes to our fathers, especially the ones who try to be good men, a rampant affliction known as patriarchy has left us with no language to imagine them outside of what they were to others. Strip away the roles, and what’s left?
Her voice, thin as a whisper, sharp as a blade, sliced through the kitchen air thick with mustard oil and regret.
In Gaza, the names of the martyrs slip through silence, lost to a world too distracted to listen
