3 years of quiet unravelling
Disclaimer
This one is a little more personal and might feel more at home in a diary, but then, I’m really bad at maintaining diaries. So, I’ll understand if you decide to dedicate your attention somewhere else.I wrote it to mark 3-year anniversary of my art practice or me returning to art after 17 years. Every second you spend here is deeply appreciated.
‘Thehraav’ is a word with profound meaning plucked from my mother tongue.
Thehraav (Studio) wasn’t born in a moment of clarity. It arrived slowly, like a forgotten melody, or the first hint of autumn—half-formed, persistent, strangely familiar. A quiet word I kept circling in notebooks. A feeling that grew roots long before it had a name.
Back in 2021, I wrote a rant-cum-poem—part frustration, part longing—about the absence of thehraav (time and headspace).
It emerged during a very long, profoundly boring company town hall on Zoom, while working in crypto. A strange universe where every conversation begins with “gm” (good morning), regardless of time zones, because on “crypto” earth, the sun never truly sets. There’s always a morning, a sunrise happening somewhere. This relentless pursuit of more—more money, more growth, more gm’s—colonised my mind completely, until I was sunburnt from these endless sunrises, sleeping napping for barely four hours each day.
By 2022, I was thoroughly burnt out yet quietly relieved, thanks to having saved enough to finally leave that world behind.
Amidst the relief, I playfully created an Instagram page and named it “Thehraav Studio,” like that childhood game of make-believe. It was a whisper into the noise around me declaring a space of stillness I didn’t yet inhabit but desperately desired. Was it a quiet declaration of intent, I wondered, or merely an experiment in manifestation? (Any readers/believers of The Secret here?)
The early “studio days” were spent recalling the weight of each brush, the force of its stroke and the lingering smell of paint stains on my hands. I must confess, there was also that naïve ambition to immediately monetise my art—a sweetly misguided, capitalism-induced spell, believing every creative pursuit needed immediate validation through commerce.
Then, in 2023, thehraav (feeling) arrived in the most unexpected and beautiful form—my daughter. Her presence brought a profound shift, filling ordinary moments with a kind of melt-in-the-moment magic.
Motherhood, especially those early months, introduced me to a different kind of hustle—4-hour sleep schedules now stretched to my husband’s side, a body doing unimaginable things like photosynthesizing milk for a tiny human, and suddenly unable to do so many others, like fit into a waist 28 Levi’s. And just like that, everything that used to be clear went blurry. Every decision felt life-altering:
Reusable diapers or disposable?
Blue t-shirt or red?
Sleep while the baby sleeps or paint something?
Go back to corporate or focus on art practice?
Start applying for jobs or extend the maternity break?
Ditch oil colours or get a studio space?
My mind couldn’t stop running through scenarios and almost every scenario ended with my world collapsing.
One day, watching my daughter trying to keep her head lifted during tummy time, it occurred to me: This is my life now—constant worrying, terror, exhaustion, wonder, joy—and I must accept that uncertainty was my new boss, my new normal.
Things had to change. Thehraav (headspace) couldn’t be a luxury or a vacation I could neatly plan; I'd have to discipline it into my routine like a ritual, something cultivated intentionally amidst the chaos.
This shift made me stop imagining my art hanging on someone’s walls. Instead, I began surrendering fully to the process itself, approaching each new piece with devotion, reverence, and gratitude. It was hard. Really hard. It still is, but eventually art became less about the external outcome and more about a quiet, internal journey.
I began jotting down art practice principles—rules that often made sense only to me:
leave something unfinished on purpose
Some, born of wishful thinking, didn't align with my new life and had to go. Others remained as trusted companions, even introducing me to new insights that visit when needed. This is a part of my journey I haven't shared until now.
Three years into this quiet adventure, Thehraav Studio has evolved beyond that playful Instagram page. It has become a genuine creative sanctuary—a small space for thoughtful artworks, a late-night packaging station, a humble web store, and all the small, meaningful touches of a devoted practice. Still, at its core, it remains about the little reminder to let grace in, to stay present. The pause I cherish remains threaded with a softer version of ambition:
“How much will someone pay for it?” has turned to “Should I give this away for free?”
“What would someone say about this piece?” has become “How do I feel making this?”
And inward inquiries like: Can this slower way of living truly be sustainable? Can I carry this quietness forward, long-term?
My art practice, too, has grown deeper and messier in this gentle unravelling. I've learned to sit with what doesn’t resolve itself and to finish works without forcing clear meanings onto them
Doing pop-ups and failing royally at them only firmed my belief in the approach taken.
My work doesn’t scream or sell instantly. It doesn't demand attention aggressively, yet it requires it to be truly understood. My art quietly steeps, brews, mulls over, growing slowly within viewers as they fill the gaps with their own memories, histories, quiet introspections. Those who stayed with my work confirmed as much.
This failure (and the small, my-kind-of success) helped me stop creating art primarily for commercial gain. Instead, it’s now about my own experience, my own release, my own slow and meaningful way of being.
I still wonder:
Is this enough? What exactly am I building here?
Does calling myself artist when I only practice it like a home-cook stain the reputation of those that have dedicated their lives to it like a professional chef?
Will I be able to leave my well-paying corporate job to do this full-time and sustain a family with that income?
What happens when my daughter is old enough for homeschooling and I have to further shrink my art practice because 9 hours of work, full-day of chores and then, a wee-hours art practice is an untenable lifestyle?
Do I sacrifice her independent learning or my freedom to create? Like what’s the plan here
What am I even doing?
Is this another torture room I’ve built for myself?
I have no clear answers to any of the above. But then, I didn't begin this journey with clear answers anyway. I began with longing of 17 years. With curiosity that continues to guide me. Perhaps that uncertainty is enough to sustain me, because each time I return to the studio—whether it’s the physical space or just a headspace—I find a reassuring thread of stillness waiting.
And that, ultimately, is what thehraav (studio+feeling) will always truly mean.
Thehraav, though meaning 'pausing,' isn't about stopping really. It's about finding pockets of relief and stillness within life's continual motion.
P.S. An old friend recently looked at my clothes and asked where my sense of adventure had gone. “It’s been replaced by a sense of comfort,” I wanted to say, but that would have been wrong and myopic.
Instead, I told her it's still very much there, but has evolved: it now guides me towards different kinds of adventures—ones that allow me to turn any household object into a plaything, let me trade trendy clothes for a more comfy, active day, led me to explore lino cut printing, and ones that showed me I can sometimes table worries for later, allowing this moment to be about this and only this moment alone.
I told her I no longer feel the need to project the eccentric mind of my inner artist onto my outer form as clothing. It’s liberating!
Dear reader, thank you for staying with all my thoughts! :)
