Telegram

You finally hold in your hands the fruit of our labour, the first issue of our magazine. We call it Telegram because, like the extinct mode of communication that it is named after, it reminds us of a bygone golden era of literature: The era of magazines such as The Illustrated Weekly of India and Dharmyug – magazines which gave us some of the finest quality home­grown literature. Times have drastically changed since, perhaps irrevocably, perhaps for the better, but there was something about the smell of freshly­written letters, the taste of postage stamps, the joy of watching Sunday TV shows with the entire neighbourhood, the feel of the pages crinkling under our fingers. That world now exists in our memories, in 'only 90s kids will understand' memes and nostalgia­mongering YouTube videos.

When we set out to make this possibility a reality, a lot of people came forward to help us and contribute. In an attempt to find and nurture India's finest, we sent invites to members of various book clubs and writers' clubs to contribute for the magazine. The response was encouraging and it was delightful to see the enthusiasm people put behind something that aimed to achieve nothing but literary merit. It is that love for the written word that has got us working. No matter what the medium, the word will and should reach you because, a society is said to do well only when it allows its stories to be told, its voices to be heard and its memories to be cherished.

Magazines are places where literary revolutions are started. They are mirrors to the quietly changing picture of the society and not­so­silent spectators to everything around them. Remember Nirmal Verma's 'Nayi Kahani' (new story) movement in Hindi literature? Telegram aims to be similar in its aspirations but different in its impact as a platform. It hopes to be a place where nothing but good stories, poetry, journalistic reports are born and nurtured. Our foremost aim is to publish articles of literary value and merit We here, at Telegram, do not wish to be the angry voices of change. We aim to be a whiff of fresh air, the bearers of good news. News that a world we had all assumed dead is still alive. That while coffee houses may have been replaced by online readers' groups, ink­stained tables by laptops, beautifully illustrated books with a Kindle and the crumpled paper filling up the bin with a desktop icon, they are alive in spirit. The same spirit runs through Telegram.

Since we will be reaching you through your laptops and smartphones, we have taken special care to keep the font size optimal for online reading. We have selected fonts that are easy on the eye, while the attempt has been made to keep the clutter to a minimum. We hope your reading experience is an enriching one. Your feedback will help us improve further, so please do keep writing to us.

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All this would not have been possible without the wonderful team of ours.

They shared the responsibilities of reviewing and editing the entries, passionately discussed the format and content, discussed ideas and themes which ignited many a creative process. Their valuable inputs have helped tremendously in shaping the magazine and guiding the entire process. Some of the editors have also made active contributions to the content which I am sure you will enjoy in the pages that follow.

The next issue is being planned as we speak and the theme is going to be 'Magic Realism'. Extraordinary things happen around us on a daily basis.

Logic is a great thing for discourse, but giving one's imagination a free rein and a little bit of magic never hurt anyone. Send us your entries at talkingbooksmagazine@gmail.com. We will be accepting stories, poems and memoirs on other themes too.

Abhyudaya Shrivastava Editor, Telegram Co­editors: Ritesh Kukrety, Vandana Verma Creative Advisors: Mahima Kohli, Rene, Rimi Jain Marketing Advisor: Madhav Nayyar Illustrations (including cover illustration): Abhyudaya Shrivastava Photographs: Tanya Mishra, pixabay.com

By Vandana Verma We didn’t really go out each summer, much as we would have loved to, all thanks to my many aunts who chose to get married at the wrong time. That is how I have always counted my school years ­ every summer and every winter marked with hectic preparations for the impending ceremony. We got lucky this year; my maternal uncle’s engagement got annulled. Mum could finally take a break.

I must have told everyone who could hear about how I was going to Kashmir, the heaven on earth. This trip was going to be a lot of firsts for me; my first time to Kashmir, my first time on a plane. We were going for a whole month.

From the airport we headed straight to our guest house. This is where I first met Jami, a ruddy boy with absolute red cheeks. Not pink, red. Red of the cherries that adorned the entrance and fence of our guest house and also, I later discovered, climbed into my room’s balcony too. It was at Lal Bagh, at a little distance from the mall road. The prettiest little cottage I ever saw.

‘Gar Firdaus zamin ast, Jami ast Jami ast Jami ast,’ he greeted us.

“I have read that one in my geography book. It is not ‘Jami ast’, its ‘Hami ast’ ­ ‘it’s here, it’s here, it’s here’”, quipped I, the little­I­know­it­all.

Jami was unfazed. “It was Jami till they distorted it. Badinaan used to say that, she would never lie.”

I had my doubts, but I wanted to leave my books behind and was happy to just have found a playmate, albeit a moron. Post­lunch Jami and I went to explore the property. The unending backyard extended into a forest which had a reputation, I had heard dad say; this guest house was originally a forest officer’s residence. It was called ‘red garden’ probably because of its many cherry and mulberry trees.

I tried enlightening Jami again. If he were to be my playmate, he better learn a thing or two. “You know Lal Chowk gets its name from the Russian revolution and Pandit Nehru unfurled our national flag here in 1948.”

“Ba durust ! Little did they know of the Lal Bagha who prowled here in the night, the real rebel,” smirked Jami. I scratched my head and started doubting the texts that would omit such a crucial detail. That’s why people travel, you can’t put it all in papers, can you?

“This red tiger got his name from his red stripes. It wasn’t a man­eater. Its cub was caged by the forest officer and it ate the forest officer’s children one by one to avenge himself. We pet animals for our pleasure, have you thought how we invade their world?”

Maybe Jami was not such a moron, after all. “So what did the forest officer do about it?” I asked.

“Oh, nothing. He didn’t do anything. He didn’t notice them missing, he had too many.”

“Jami, you are such a fibber. How would he not notice?”

“He had Alzheimer’s. He anyways thought he was the keeper of an orphanage and couldn’t remember the names of those kids. Often he would spend the whole night out in the cold as a gatekeeper.”

“It’s a miracle Lal Bagha didn’t eat him,” I snickered.

From then on the yellow pages of my guidebook paled further in comparison to the golden yarn of this budding storyteller.

Over the next few days we were climbing every mountain and grazing all fruits right off the trees. You didn’t need to buy them in Kashmir. The cherries, apricots, plums, peaches and pears, the low hanging fruits only nature handed you free. I learnt to creep up on trees, such as the climbers to my balcony. On one such Lady Jane act I fell and got quite bruised. It was a wonder I didn't break anything.

Dad was livid; he always was. ‘This is how I brought you up, to dangle from trees? Don’t we feed you well enough at home?' Then to mom,’who’s going to marry her if she breaks a leg or two?’

Jami felt ignored in the fuss about me, “Benijigar also left her toe behind once. She got married. She lost two of her front teeth as well, but she can still climb a tree and that’s what matters.”

Dad cut him off. “I am sure she made a lovely bride.” Jami and I still sneaked out as much as we could. Jami was the guide I had exchanged for my books. He was 3D. Mine’s a nuclear family. Jami’s imagination seemed to be inspired from the strong family web that he had. It enriched him. I was envious. The Char Chinar of the Dal lake were not just long­living deciduous trees any more; they were two sages enamored by the two imps, Rupa and Sona, and their eternal romanticism had made them take root in the still, silvery waters of the lake. The turbulence of their relationship, the yin and yang, controlled the currents in the lake and it was them the low­lying areas owed their existence to. Domestic discord between these four could lead to capsizing of a nearby Shikara; the rippling effects would make the boats jig like a crazy heart beat.

Sonamarg was wool over people’s eyes, Jami said, as it wasn’t the molten

gold of the coniferous trees that lay on the snow covered peaks. It was actually the gold that lay hidden under the silk route that lent the leaves their extraordinary colour.

We went to Gulmarg next, the final destination on our itinerary before we made our shopping trips and then got back home. I had long buried the guide book. Gulmarg, the famous skiing destination in the Baramula district, also known as Gaurimarg (“the fair one”) once and renamed Gulmarg later by some emperor because of the wide variety of wild flowers in the area. Our city life had not prepared us for the biting cold winds and the rough terrain. After an initial amazement of its glory, it began to tire us.

In our own frenzy of sleighs and yaks we somehow drifted away from the trekking group and from our way back. It took us longer while making our way down, and mum managed to sprain her foot. Jami and my sides were hurting from having rolled down the snow all day long and yes, we were hungry. Hungry and cold. Dad had reached the foothills over an hour back and was waiting for us. Just the sight of him pacing around scared us. He was scowling, but he was also worried sick. He had been trying to arrange for a wagon back for over an hour now, without any luck.

Jami was unperturbed. ‘They will come for us, Janaab. If no one else, Abu Jaan will!“ I then realized we hadn’t met his family. Jami did as Jami would. “We are lucky! Gulmarg is best seen at night. You have seen the snow covered peaks in the day time. But it was in the night that ‘Gul’ would come here. Gulbari had hair so fair that in a night like this they would look like thick clouds.

She was a princess and loved a goatherd who charmed her with goat cheese.’

Dad was rolling his eyes now. Jami had to stop, but did he ever! “That’s where the name ‘Gulmarg’ comes from, from Arg­e­herat. Gularg it used to be and later became Gulmarg, a silly slip of tongue, really.”

I interjected. ‘I read about it in the guide. Gulmarg means meadow of flowers.”

Jami never gave up. “That was the emperor covering up for his daughter’s waywardness. Good girls don’t talk to goatherds ­ one sings shrilly and the other bleats all day”.

Mum admonished him too today. “Rubbish! where do you hear such nonsense Jami mian.”

“Kudrati saab, bade Abu heard this one from his bade abu. No one utters Kufr in my family.”

“It’s a surprise it didn’t get coined Ullu­arg. So what became of her, your Gul?” Dad sounded amused.

“She did just that, went ‘Gul’. She eloped with the goatherd. There’s a golf course here named exclusively after the escapade, ’Gulbhaag’. She had a

fascination for racing horses too, Janaab.”

Gulbagh was a very beautiful tulip garden close to the city center. I looked up several historical books at the library later to find this version of Gulmarg. Of course, I didn’t find it.

The forest ranger’s jeep was here now and we were on our way home, much of the tension precipitated.

Soon, the trip ended. The plane was taking off. But not me, at least not the whole of me. An amazing summer could do that to you. I was a child a month away and I now no longer cared about my pony­tails, my shiny shoes, the p’s and the q’s, but the boy who spent every moment of that one month with us, the boy who taught me how to climb trees, hunt for frogs in the setting sun, to make mulberries tart and watch its worms spin the silk while he spun tales. As I said, this was a vacation of many firsts for me; I met the best storyteller I ever knew. Jami of the snow peaks and silken valleys, Jami who lived amongst the nature’s bounty, Jami of 'Ji Janaab', bade abu, badinaan, beni and biradar. Jami who taught me not to call a spade a spade and we’ll probably dig lesser graves that way. Jami who on my last visit to his ghar was feverish. He lay in his cot, glistening with sweat on a cold day.

He didn’t accompany us on the Gularg trip this time, but was excited as hell to have us there, fussing over him, as he rested alone in his corner of the orphanage.

Gar firdaus zamin ast, Jami ast, Jami ast, Jami ast!

By Percy Slacker "I say, Rocky, who's Kalpana Kinnarkar?"

Roxanne "Rocky" Colabewala, Secretary to Bhaskar Shrivastav, the Head of Private Banking at DCTMR Bank, and also, incidentally, the most beautiful woman in the entire G­block of Bandra­Kurla Complex, looked up, turning her lovely dark eyes upon Mandar Kale, Manager, who was leaning over her cubicle wall on a warm April morning, and had just asked the question.

"Let me see," she said, clicking her mouse. "Ah, there she is. Clerk, sits in the Thane office, lives in Dombivali, one year and two months with DCTMR, reports to...to you, actually."

"Ah yes, I thought so, I mean, but the whole bunch of them sitting in Private Banking Operations reports to me and half the time I don't know who's leaving and who's just joined. Year and two months, you say? I really ought to visit the place sometime and meet the new folks."

Rocky, who approved local conveyance bills on Shrivastav's behalf, knew that Mandy had not been to Thane in four years, but said nothing.

"She's applied for leave, you know," he went on.

"She's eligible for it. What's the issue? Do you need me to tell you how to approve a leave application or something?" she asked.

"What? No, of course I know how to approve a leave. I have forty people in my team, you know, Rocky. Forty!" Mandar puffed up a little.

"Forty? I'd never have guessed," said Rocky, smiling, "since you don't seem to know the names of more than five."

"Uh. Yes. I mean, anyway, that's not the point. I mean she wants the leave right smack bang in the middle of May." "Oh. The whole no­leave­for­childless­employees­in­May rule."

"So that's what I meant to ask ­ is she...does she?"

Rocky pursed her lips.

"It says 'Miss Kinnarkar' on her employee records, so I suppose she's single.

HR will have further details."

"I'll go see Dedhia," muttered Mandar, referring to his immediate superior and walked away.

Rocky shrugged, clicked her mouse again and returned to planning Shrivastav's Hong Kong trip the following week. # "This is so good," said Dedhia as he put a piece of garlic­fried chicken into his mouth. "So, so good. There's nothing like chicken. Nothing!"

They were sitting in an expensive Chinese Restaurant opposite the road from DCTMR Bank, along with some people from Dedhia's team and Ardy Cowasjee, another Chief Manager. Dedhia was one of those people who are pure vegetarians at home, eat only chicken outside, and make a great fuss about the fact that they 'love non­veg food'. He was giving a treat to his team to celebrate his son's birthday, and had invited Ardy (since he occupied the cabin adjoining his) and Rocky (because any gathering became far more pleasant when she graced it) along.

"It's all right," said Ardy, who preferred to get his Chinese food from hole­in­ the­wall restaurants.

"So, an amazing thing happened today," continued Dedhia, discarding a chicken leg with half the flesh still on it. Rocky shuddered at the egregious wastage.

"Shrivastav noticed you?" asked Rocky with a perfectly straight face.

"No, no. I mean...some girl in Mandar's team ­ she asked to go on leave in May." "Ah," said Ardy.

"Like come on, only employees with children are allowed to take leave at that time. She's not even married!"

"Do we know that?" asked Ardy.

"Yes yes, I checked with HR. This is ridiculous. It's well­known in the Bank ­ those who have school­going children take their holidays during the summer vacations, and everyone else is supposed to be at their posts."

"Would her absence hamper the functioning of your team?" asked Ardy, mildly.

"Well, not really, she's just a clerk, but still. It's the principle of the thing.

Summer vacations are for employees with kids in school. These other people can take an off anytime during the rest of the year."

"But Mandar here has forty people in his team, you know. Forty!" said Rocky,

"It's the principle of the thing. No children, no summer vacation." said Dedhia. "That's when all the NRI clients come to India and stuff. Very critical time for our business, the month of May.�

"Very true," agreed Ardy. "I hear you're travelling to Dalhousie next month, by the way?"

"Me? Oh, yes," said Dedhia, his tone a little defensive. "It will be a working vacation for me, though, really. I'll be checking in from the Dalhousie branch, and..."

"We don't have a branch in Dalhousie," smiled Ardy. "But maybe HDFC will let you sit in theirs. My, my, look at the time. We should be back before Shrivastav notices."

"He never notices us," pointed out Mandar gloomily.

"No, but he'll notice that I'm not there," pointed out Rocky.

Dedhia called for the bill, and they shuffled to their feet.

"So I'll reject her leave application then, boss?" asked Mandar.

"Of course, no exceptions, no exceptions," said Dedhia, handing his credit card over to the waiter.

"Why don't you wait till Friday to reject the application?" suggested Rocky, looking at Mandar. "Do it today and the girl will get upset and call you in office ­ or worse, she will want to meet you and ask to come here. Friday, late in the evening is always the best time to screw over a subordinate."

"Brilliant idea! You're so smart, Rocky," beamed Mandar, even as Ardy cast a surprised look at her.

As they were crossing the road back to their office, Ardy pulled Rocky aside at the divider.

"What was that about?"

"Tell ya later," she said.

"Very well, then. Join me for TT at the Parsi Gymkhana later?"

"Not today, Ardy. Going to Dombivali."

It was only through an extraordinary exercise of will that Ardy Cowasjee managed not to reel. Which was just as well, for he would have fallen into traffic and gotten killed, and that would have broken Rocky's heart.

# "Rocky, can I have a word?"

She sighed as she heard Mandar's voice drift over the cubicle wall.

"Good afternoon, Mandar. Hot outside, isn't it?"

"Like a pressure cooker. But that isn't the point. I sent out a mail to my team's group ID just now."

"I'm sure you do that a lot, since you don't actually know their individual names," she could not resist the taunt.

"In a few minutes, I got the 'out of office' responses from those who are, well, out of office."

"Very efficient of our mail server to do that, I'm sure."

"And one of them was from Kalpana."

"So?" "I never approved that leave request, Rocky.

So how has she gone on leave?"Rocky took a deep breath before replying.

"No, you forgot to, as I was sure you would. Then the approval mail went to Dedhia, who, of course, doesn't read mails unless they are sent by someone higher­up the hierarchy than he is. After three days of that, it bounced up to Shrivastav, and since he was in Hong Kong, I approved the request."

"But, Rocky, the policy..."

"No one's going to question an approval by Shrivastav, Mandar," Rocky pointed out.

"They will if it comes out that you gave it."

"I spoke to him first," she said.

"You lied to Shrivastav that Kalpana has children, did you?" he asked, narrowing his eyes.

"I said she had a family member who goes to school, in the seventh standard," replied Rocky.

"So you did lie," Mandar pointed out.

"Nope," she replied, motioning to him to come to her side. "See this."

Another deft click and she was logged in to Facebook, shushing his quite understandable objections regarding how she, a mere secretary, could have access to social media when he did not. She navigated her way to the profile of the girl they were discussing. Mandar looked at the profile photo ­ a dark girl with a snub nose and a bright, wide smile in a purple salwar­kameez, a face he himself had never seen till that moment. Rocky scrolled down rapidly, going through posts with inspirational quotes, terrible English and laughing faces to a photo that Kalpana had posted in April of the previous year

My mamma in the papers! It said, underneath a clipping from a newspaper with a photo of a woman whose face was almost identical to the girl in the profile, except maybe twenty years older.

45 YEAR OLD GOES BACK TO SCHOOL, it read, and continued below: Sujata Kinnarkar, who had to drop out of school at age ten, enrolls again to complete her education in New English School, Dombivali East. The resident of Gograswada, who worked as a maidservant until recently, says her college­graduate daughter encouraged her to take the leap...

"It isn't always children who have summer vacations, Mandar," Rocky said softly.

"No," he agreed, looking at the smiling face on the profile photo again. "No, it isn't."

By Vikrant Nayak This war, that stretches across the horizon, This war, that wishes all dead under the sun, Is something which You and I fuel, Or is it something in which our morals duel?

We can end this battle, our senseless fight, But serenity, my friend, is nowhere in sight, So let’s bleed, my ego­blind comrade, A blood­feud must, ever, in blood be paid.

You think me a fool, but you’re no one to preach, As blood of the young is all that this world seeks, Let’s fight till one of us is born again, Let’s fight till my pleasures become your pain.

This feeling of hatred, the zeal to kill, Is slowly fading away, we’ve had our fill, Remove your armour, you duty­bound soldier, Step up and place it upon your son's shoulder.

Let him pick your shield, let him take your sword, Let him fight your enemies, kith, kin and all, Let him stand as you did, defiant and proud, Let him paint, kneeling, crimson this ground.

This war that stretched across the horizon, This war that killed everyone under the sun, Was something which You and I fuelled, Something in which our blood forever duelled.

Partners­in­crime: Abhyudaya Shrivastava and Ritesh Kukrety “Kashmir ki aazaadi tak, jang rahegi, jang rahegi!” – with these words, the Schrödinger’s Cat that was the Kashmir issue once again leapt out of the proverbial bag and put Jawaharlal Nehru University firmly on the radar of the Indian population. All of a sudden, JNU became the buzzword for each and every group, fringe or otherwise, in the political arena. While some groups tried to assert the righteousness of their cause by taking stock of the trash cans on a daily basis, others – not wanting to be left out – raised a hue and cry over rising censorship and the death of democracy, even as they freely gave interviews on prime time television and published columns in leading magazines and dailies in lieu of a good recompense. But with the print and electronic media going full­throttle to paint the story one hue or the other in order to drive the maximum mileage, any curious, impartial observer could not help but wonder – what the hell actually happened?

We were such impartial onlookers, and we did wonder if what was being portrayed was really what was happening. But we dared not ask any questions then, even if we tried to talk about it in hushed tones. After all, it is a well known fact that in a fight between two ideologies, it is those that tread the middle ground who end up suffering the most. So we stayed silent and watched the drama unfold, with our tones getting more and more hushed. In time, the storm blew over, the debate lost steam and the public found something more trending to talk about. We, too, consigned JNU and all the questions associated with it to the back of our minds.

But curiosity has killed many a cat. Ruminating one night over the deeper mysteries of life, such as where to get good food at 12 AM, we spotted the dreaded name again in the list of popular night­time haunts for students and young professionals. An initial hesitation caused by a healthy regard for our skins was soon overcome by inquisitiveness and, more importantly, hunger.

We donned our helmets, wrote our wills, prayed to whatever gods were still up at that indecent hour and set out for a trip to the place that seemed to be perennially demanding freedom, if popular media was to be believed. Stray cats meowed softly at us.

We nervously joked about going undercover into the ‘antinational’ heartland of Delhi on our way to the campus. By the time we had reached halfway, we were seriously questioning the life choices that had set us upon this path.

This, after all, was the place which was reputed to have made Manmohan Singh, then the Honourable Prime Minister of the Republic of India and the topper in the list of Indian VVIPs, step out of his car and enter only as an academician. One look at our non­VIP motorcycle, and we knew that being denied entry was the least of our concern. But it was too late to make any changes to the plan now; turning back or going to a different venue would have meant the loss of precious night hours. The romance of the dark, which is often barely a whiff upon the breeze, would have evaporated with the faintest glimmer of dawn. And so we sped past the police barricades, past the drunks and the homeless sleeping peacefully on the footpath, and continued on toward our destination ­ Azaadi.

We weren’t going unprepared, though. Having known the names of a couple of hostels on campus, we’d quickly allotted ourselves two which sounded the least suspicious in order to escape any surface inquiry. This minor safety precaution didn’t help prevent our hearts from beating at a very furious pace, which only seemed to increase as the distance to the campus grew shorter. With our heads throbbing inside our helmets like a badly out­of­tune drum set, we turned into the campus.

And passed right in. No one challenged our entry, no one checked us for microphones or spy cameras, and no one asked us to prove our identities to ensure we weren’t government agents in disguise. For a rebel stronghold, it wasn’t very strongly held. It was almost disappointing to get in without a glitch after the tension that we had worked up for ourselves. At that moment, we would have almost welcomed a thrashing just to have our expectations fulfilled.

The momentary disorientation that followed our highly unanticipated successful entry also drew our attention to another salient fact – we hadn’t planned it beyond this point. With no idea what to do next, we decided to refocus on our original mission – finding something to eat. We slowed down the bike, looking this way and that, to find something that resembled an eatery.

A couple of lights twinkled invitingly on our right through a dense copse of trees, drawing us to them like moths to a candle. We turned right, only to reach a building that appeared forbidding, abandoned and thoroughly locked. ‘Health Centre’, read the board above it in a big font. We wondered why students would flock near a health centre at one in the night before the inevitable conclusion hit us right in the teeth – condoms! The rumours were true after all! The campus, renowned for its profligacy, wantonness and perversity, probably had a thriving, underground black­market nexus that helped students ‘protect’ themselves during their night­time shenanigans.

Hoping to catch degenerates in the act, we walked towards the centre of all the activity.

Real life has a way of gloriously failing to live up to our expectations. We expect our exes to still be hopelessly in love with us; we expect to pass examinations even when we have attempted questions worth less than the required percentage. A cuckold hopes his wife would never cheat on him, while a drunkard's wife expects her husband to mend his ways. Tomorrow is a magical word, and expectations hold the promise of that false magic.

And so it was with us that night. For the second time in the space of a couple of minutes, we were disappointed that our worst fears hadn’t come true. The absurdity of the media image of JNU had begun hitting us too.

The ‘crowd’, if it could be called that, was milling around a small canteen which had Ganga Dhaba painted in white on its blue shutters. To our right were a couple of randomly strewn rocks which were serving the dual purpose of table and stools, while on our left were people queuing up for chai, lassi, fruit juice and that most frowned upon food item, Maggi, which was being served at a very capitalist price of INR 25. Walking towards the eatery, we were aware of the stark contrast we presented to the rest of the picture. In a sea of T­shirts, shorts, kurtas and capris, we stood out like a couple of sore thumbs in our almost­formal attires and the baggage we carried. The one on our back held our laptops, the one in our mind, prejudice.

We ordered some chai, tried to fit in and failed. The students there didn’t seem to mind us, though. There was tea, there was conversation, there was camaraderie, all framed against the backdrop of the subtle sound of an aeroplane flying overhead from time to time and no one peeking at their phones every two seconds. At 2 in the night, JNU defied normal circadian rhythms; autorickshaws ferried on the campus roads nonchalantly, while people strolled around as if they were on an early evening walk. An ice­ cream cart parked near the dhaba was reaping rich dividends for his business acumen. The place bore a stark resemblance to a regular marketplace.

We finished our tea, fished out the dregs of tea leaves which the tea stall owner generously did not charge us for, and decided to talk to students.

Eager as we were to hear the story of the revolution, straight from the mouth of the unwilling horse, we quickly settled on a bearded guy who was sitting having his tea and bread­omelette in isolation.

“Excuse me. Can we have a moment of your time?”

The nonchalance with which he said ‘no’ was almost disturbing, underlining why the place was reputed for not playing by the societal rules of etiquette and politeness. Or maybe he just hadn’t taken well to being interrupted during his midnight snack. Feeling like a news channel, and not a very good one at that, we gently edged away from the solitary eater to find someone else we could bug to satiate our inquisitiveness.

Our second target was also sitting alone.

We went up to him, asked for permission to disturb him and – when he obliged – shook hands and introduced ourselves. He was an outsider, just like us, who was visiting a friend, unlike us. As there was nothing of import that he could tell us, we made small talk about the insects and the humidity till his friend joined us, a plate of aloo­parantha in each hand. It took some effort to prise our gaze away from the plate, as it did in getting him to open up. He looked at us with mistrust initially, but when you live in JNU and are under the constant, unflinching scrutiny of the world, being on your guard with outsiders probably becomes second nature. Our genuine faces and mostly­honest questions made him open up soon enough, though.

He, as a science student, revealed his ignorance of what went on behind the closed doors of the Arts and Humanities departments, but staunchly denied any allegation of brainwashing, forcefulness or sexually­charged pagan initiation rituals. Not here, he had said, not as long as I’ve seen it, although he did look disappointed about the last bit.

With the number of topics that could be discussed without arousing suspicion fast running out, we thanked him and took his leave. Looking around, we zeroed in on what appeared like a political science student. He fit the stereotype quite well – he wore a kurta the most vibrant shade of purple, sported a stubble which could pass for a beard in just the right lighting and at a great distance, and looked as if he could be plotting the next political revolution. Giddy with happiness at finally spotting a real JNUite, we made our way towards him.

But the night, for us, seemed to be filled with anti­climaxes. Instead of an ideological radical, the guy turned out to be a harmless molecular biology student in disguise. A quick chat with him revealed that he also found the campus extremely liberal and accepting. He told us how anyone could run in the campus elections, how teachers didn’t bully students into attending classes and how pupils attended lectures not to give their attendance a boost, but for the love of learning. His enthusiastic discourse left us wondering why JNU was failing to live up to its social media status as the hotbed of dissension and protest, but we hid our disappointment behind a very polite smile and headed on our way. Maybe it was our approach, we told ourselves. We were yet to find a single student belonging to either Arts or Humanities.

Two girls sitting in the shadows at a table nearby, chatting amongst themselves, suddenly stopped talking and looked in our direction. This acknowledgement of our existence was probably precipitated by the fact that we had been standing and staring at them for around a minute, looking away only to whisper something in each other’s ears intermittently. A realisation that we were treading dangerous territory slowly dawned on us.

We were, after all, rank outsiders visiting a campus not our own, located in a city where nightlife for girls usually comprised of molestations, eve­teasing and stalking – if they were lucky.

With our choices limited between running to the bike and making a quick getaway and approaching them to clear any misapprehensions, we – much to our own surprise – chose the latter. They eyed us with suspicion, probably thinking us idiots who had lost their way into the campus, but gradually warmed up as we asked various questions about their lives on campus. They were both PhD students in Hindi, as close a match as we could hope to get under the circumstances, but refused to conform to our ideas of a typical JNUite despite speaking quite passionately about freedom on the campus, the fact that no one can force anyone to attend rallies or campaigns and the amazing library on campus, which they probably would have walked us to had we but asked. But we didn’t. We now knew what we came for. We had learned enough of the enemy.

As we made one last trip to the counter at the dhaba and ordered nimbu­ paani, we realised we were walking more confidently, smiling more often and laughing more freely. Maybe it was just the cathartic experience of overcoming our inhibitions; maybe it was the knowledge of being proven wrong in the most wonderful of manners. Or maybe it was just the ambience of the place which had accepted us, as we were, without asking any questions. Perhaps this is what this place does. It accepts you and your thoughts, or maybe it does more. We will be the innocent bystanders to this place and its quirks. We watch as it rollicks on to claim its rightful place in Indian history. With one last look around, we threw the disposable cups in dustbins still devoid of three thousand condoms and made our way to where we’d parked the bike. In the distance, lights of the dhaba twinkled enticingly through the copse of trees, drawing more moths to the flame. As it always had.

By Bhavika Bhuwalka He was shy. He had been silently watching her for over a month now, sipping his latte and completing his school work.

Every Sunday, after morning church, he liked to go to Amici to gather his thoughts, sit in silence, and ponder over a cup of coffee. Sometime in the last week of December, she started showing up, taking up the corner­most seat, almost hidden from the general hubbub, but always in his direct line of sight.

It was then that he had started bringing his assignments to pass time while he waited. He had to seriously strain his eyes while trying to discreetly catch a glimpse of her round face, but he wasn’t complaining.

Pete, the friendly waitperson, immediately noticed what made him break a two­year­old ritual. He had never spent more than half an hour at Amici. Pete had seen his face grow tired over time with the amount of things he was dealing with, and knew how much this short weekly relief meant to him.

He was spending good two hours drinking coffee now, and Pete could only imagine how he stretched his bandwidth. But, even so, his face had an unmistable glow, an eagerness. Pete marveled at the human psyche.

He had thought about approaching her many times, of course. Every Sunday he’d decide in the church to walk to her table. He just had to say ‘Hello’, right? But every time his thoughts drifted back to how he had never dated anyone or even been comfortable around the opposite sex, the peer pressure he had endured all life… and he chickened. Every single time. What a big 24­ year­old loser!

She was usually working on a laptop. On the rare occasion she was found reading a book, he’d try to see its title, try to hopelessly gauge the kind of person she might be. She’d sip a single espresso very slowly—at least till the time he saw her—and kept her brows furrowed. His favorite image was when she undid her hair; it was like magic. Her bun never lasted long and he chuckled seeing her repeatedly—not to mention irritably—tuck the loose strands behind her ear.

He didn’t even know how often she visited this place. Tied between school and the tsunami at home, he didn’t have the luxury to take a six­kilometer detour without the excuse of church. Also, he was just beginning to get a grip on his guitar and feel like he belonged, and didn’t want to skip practice.

All he knew was that God had favored him with a heavenly vision for those couple of hours every week, soothing him like waves in an ocean. And he was taking all of that for granted. Jesus might run out of patience any day now.

As if on cue, Pete came to his table, serving him his regular hot latte, and said, “She comes by almost every other day. But the frequency has been decreasing lately. Time is of the essence, my friend.” The Sunday after that he decided to buckle up, go to her table, extend a hand, and say, “Hi, I am Dave.” He had been practicing it all through the service at church. Hi, I am Dave. Hi, I am Dave.

He pushed the door that said ‘Pull’, tripped on something invisible while crossing the array of tables, turned at the unseen corner of the cafe, took a deep breath, opened his eyes, tried to stop himself, couldn’t, and blurted, “Hi, I am Dave.” The two businessmen looked up at him from the table. He nervously took a step back and apologized. They returned to sipping coffee and animatedly conversing in a language he didn’t understand, Japanese probably.

He didn’t need to turn around to know that Pete was giving him an ‘I­told­ you­so’ look. His face fell. ­­­­ He seemed shy. I could sense him watching, wanting to come over maybe, not sure why he hadn’t already.

I discovered this new place near the church two months back and started going there ever so often. It was kind of an escape, and it gave me the surreal energy I draw from introspection and solitude, but more than anything else, Amici reminded me of home. I was new to the city and the place kind of called out to me. It was warm, I had a snug table and one of its slightly torn wallpapers had the faded picture of a trumpet in the exact same state that I had back home.

I started noticing him sometime in the second week of January. He was asking Pete, I think that’s the name, about his son. He had curly hair and wore spectacles. My immediate reflex was to go over and introduce myself, but I had burnt my fingers all too many times; heavens knew going against protocol had compulsorily backfired. I didn’t want any more complexities now. I wanted a friend, though.

He was almost always chatting with Pete, and I had started identifying him with his voice. I sat there for hours, working on my thesis, but mostly listening to him talk. On the days I didn’t feel like ogling at a screen, I bought my books to Amici. Reading Dostoevsky can lead your mind to wander endlessly. I’d think about how I have always only been able to fit in, albeit in a skewed manner, because everyone likes a little weird in their lives, and was thew city any different. Thrice I had almost asked Pete about him, but

checked myself. The fear of judgment was too strong. What a huge 23­year­ old loser.

I absolutely loved meeting new people. The hopeful feeling of new beginnings was the greatest joy on Earth. But that was all that there was to it. All my life I had loved platonically. There was never an instance when I had actually wanted to reciprocate romantic feelings. This is why an immensely small part of me was also relieved that he hadn’t come over yet.

My love for unfamiliar places—and clean slates—reeked of insecurity. Such places make you feel safe. You are one among the crowd, but right when you think people don’t care enough to notice you, someone does.

He brought work to the café himself, but I don’t think he, like me, got much done. I’d never get past two pages until he showed up. On the days he got a little late, I’d even drink two espressos. People slipping in would often comment about the harsh weather, but I loved fog. And I was always cold. Maybe, I am cold. Strangely, though, on Sundays, the cool breeze that drifted in the small place every time the door opened brought a flicker of warmth that traveled all the way over to me and rested in the pit of my stomach. What I didn’t like was how the cold made my hair frizzier. They’d be all over the place and at their worst when he’d be around. Ugh, stupid hair.

Recently, school had become hectic. I had joined boxing, eager to continue from where I'd left off, and was also considering starting Sunday church.

This left me with only two free afternoons a week. I made sure Sunday was one of them. On the days I didn’t go, I missed his voice.

The next Sunday, I saw my favorite table occupied by two foreigners. They were Japanese, I think. I frowned as Pete gave me an apologetic look. I turned around, scanned the place, and decided to sit on his table instead.

After all, there is a limit to how many impulses you can check. He entered at his usual time and headed straight to my table. He was mumbling something. My nervousness turned into surprise, and I started laughing. He turned around, looked at Pete, and after a second, looked directly at me. His long face lit up. I, on a roll of crazy bravery, didn’t break the gaze. He slowly came over—or that’s how it felt—and said, smiling, “Hi, I am Dave."

By­ Poetic Justice Are we ever the same, or are we changing pictures within an unchanging frame; would I be the same person­ at the end of these lines, my feelings strewn over ­ in words ­ eights and nines; At what point exactly, words ­ begin to create­ or destroy me or others, wait and see ­ my sisters and brothers!

My words be like ­ parachutes ­ when I defy, and mill­stones ­ when I comply, with the gravitation of this world.

Once, I did jump out of a plane, and grew wings of metaphors on my way down; once I grew a heavy crown, that took me to my grave ­ straight, but, hey, just wait!

I am not done yet ­ In fact, ’She' was also just ‘a word’ that I met, swiftly, she became ‘the word’, though, she extended the word 'high', and deepened 'low' ­ even when the word 'she' ceased to exist, the after­taste persists.

My words be like­ the taste of her presence on mine, or the poison of polonium­laced wine; My words be like ­ life and death ­ her and crystal­meth.

By Srishti Chaudhary Preeti never minded the work. Like other girls, she too had three brothers, a father who was ageing rapidly and people who were always over on ‘business’ or to watch a game of cricket. As she would enter the kitchen before every meal, she did not feel the usual wave of tiredness that other girls always complained about. Yes, on an average, four chapattis per person had to be made ­ some men took five, while others took three. She had calculated, in the spare minutes while a chapatti was on the tawa and another one was rolled to take its place, that the average for her brothers was four.

Bhom Singh, the eldest, took five for lunch and four for dinner; Suraj Mal, the middle brother, took five each for lunch and dinner, and Munbir Singh took four for lunch and three for dinner. Sometimes it seemed as if Munbir Singh would eat less so Preeti would have at least one less chapatti to make, because when Preeti insisted he would give in with a guilty look on his face, accepting the fourth chapatti. Her father took three when he was well, two when he was not. All in all, Preeti made about thirty­five chapattis a day, including her own.

But as it was established in the beginning, Preeti never minded the work. It was not as if she obtained a special kind of joy out of feeding her brothers.

No, nothing like that. She was just a practical girl. She knew if something had to be done, it simply had to be done. Bhom Singh’s wife, her beloved Sarita bhabhi, had enough on her plate as it is ­ she washed the clothes of six people in the household, every day, single­handedly. She dried them and rinsed them, hung them out for drying, collected and ironed them, placed them in everybody’s respective cupboards. She made the breakfast and the sabzi, so Preeti kneaded the dough, beat the curd into cucumber raita, and cut the salad. While Sarita bhabhi washed the dishes, Preeti dried them and placed them on respective counters. No, Preeti did not bully Sarita bhabi and lorded over the household in her position as her husband’s sister; she did not care for such trifles.

They however, had one small relief; they were allowed to get the house and bathrooms cleaned by a cleaning lady, as it was work that did not need the lady to touch the pots and pans from which they ate, or the clothes which they wore. So every day, for one hour in the day and one hour in the evening, Preeti and Sarita bhabhi had reprieve. They could lie down and rest their legs; they could chat about the neighbors and make a glass of nimbu­ paani; they could walk out in the fields if it wasn’t too hot. Not like nothing came up then ­ if her father was sick, she could be required to fetch the medicine, or massage his legs, or make him something healthy to eat. But these were definitely the less hectic hours.

More importantly, it was during this time that they could catch up on their daily bytes of cricket. They would sit and watch the highlights, cheering whenever Preeti’s favorite Dhoni would even raise the bat. Captain Cool, they would repeat again and again, screaming the phrase at the television, something which they had picked up one day from the TV. When Dhoni made 91 off 79 balls for the world cup in 2011, Preeti, known for her unemotional conduct, cried. She tried to hide it though, retreating to a corner, and almost reached the bathroom. But Munbir Singh had seen her, and fondly told the other brothers. Dhoni was her first love. Their second favorite was Yuvraj Singh, or Yuvi, as they liked to call him. The day he hit six sixes in the over, Preeti and Sarita bhabhi made ghujiya and distributed it all over the neighborhood.

The brothers, on their part, never rebuked their unladylike behavior while watching cricket, for the game commanded a special place in their household. For two glorious years, when Ashish Nehra had lived in this city of Hisar and had enrolled himself in the local school during his budding cricketing teenage years, he had become friends with Bhom Singh and Suraj Mal. Of course, Nehra had been older to them by a few years, but it was with them that Nehra had practiced in the wee hours of the morning while the rest of the town had slept. Everybody knew about how Bhom Singh and Suraj Mal used to follow Nehra around town, batting away as he tried to bowl them out. When Nehra got selected for the national team, Bhom Singh had personally ordered kilos of Balaji’s purest kaju­barfi and had gotten it distributed around town. And when Nehra had been invited for the school’s twenty­fifth jubilee, it was Bhom Singh and Suraj Mal he had asked to be by their side. The whole of Hisar had seen the two chatting with Nehra. Preeti could not be more proud. Rumor had it that Kapil Dev himself had shook hands with Bhom Singh when he was welcomed in the city on his visit once.

Cricket, then, in their household, was a dharma greater than what the Gods’ demanded of them. Preeti wasn’t reprimanded when she burnt a chapatti while trying to witness a catch; Sarita bhabhi wasn’t given a death­glare when she cheered for a four even though her husband’s brothers were present. Munbir Singh wasn’t told to relax if he carried Preeti on his shoulders out on the street if India won the match. And if it was an India­ Pakistan or India­Australia match, the Gods couldn’t stop them. All normal activities of the day would be suspended and the house would plunge into a state of utmost excitement. It wasn’t just them who lost their heads in the event of a cricket match; the city, divided into neat little sectors, came together in the event of a national match. Shops shut early, markets were deserted and televisions and radio sets could be heard at every corner. There was truly no greater festival.

And so Preeti didn’t care for much. As long as she could sit and watch her Dhoni, she did not mind that she was not allowed to go to college (her brothers felt it to be unnecessary; they never went to college and they were doing well enough. Furthermore, they did not want the hassle of unworthy boys chasing her home every evening.) She did not even care when her marriage was fixed to a man belonging to sector 19 (Ajay, they said was his name) ­ it was the second­most popular sector in the town, and property rates there were very high. The family, on their part, owned a mid­sized steel plant. Bhom Singh couldn’t have been happier. His father too, was very proud ­ they had done the best that they could for their youngest girl. Life was getting better every day.

Preeti, in turn, delighted in the fact that they owned one of those flatscreen TVs. Other than that, she saw no occasion for excitement. Life wouldn’t change much, and she already knew what marriage would be like for her. She had seen her parents, and Bhom Singh and Sarita bhabhi. She’d still be in the kitchen most of the time, making chapattis ­ there would be people in the house whom she’d like, and others whom she wouldn’t like. There would be her husband’s older brother’s wife, though, which definitely was a plus; she would have her to talk to, and perhaps they could roam the city together.

Her new house, too, was not far from the old one, and she’d be able to meet Sarita bhabhi and Munbir Singh frequently. Her husband did not seem like the spiteful sort, although she had met him only once.

The only significant addition, perhaps, would be the sex she would have to go through. She had not known much about it until Sarita bhabhi came to the house, and from what she had heard, she did not really look forward to it. It would not be a pleasant sensation at first, she was told, and she would hate it but have no choice. It would, one day, get better and she may, perhaps, even enjoy it. There was no guarantee of that, though. It did not matter whether women enjoyed it; the world didn’t mean for them to enjoy it. And how could she expect anything else? The man was a stranger. If it had only been Dhoni…

But Preeti kept these things to herself, not even revealing them to Sarita bhabhi, although she suspected her of dreaming the same about Yuvi. In a short while, children would happen, and the sex would not matter, and neither would much else. They’d grow up to be cricketers, of course, Preeti had decided, girl or boy; while she hoped for a son who’d grow up to lead India to glory, she did not even mind a daughter, as she had heard that Delhi University took a lot of women athletes from their town. It seemed like an acceptable situation.

And so it was time for the wedding soon, and the flowers were up, the

banquet hall booked and the lehenga bought and fitted. A lot of people from the city were invited; this was one of the more important weddings. There were a few people coming from Delhi as well. Not like Preeti knew, of course, or cared. She sat across her new husband from the mandap, glancing at him to see how he was handling it. He seemed overwhelmed at first, but when he saw her giving him brief looks, he tried to smile back reassuringly at her. He didn’t think she saw it, though. That was the first time he realized that Preeti didn’t need him much.

In the next few days, he discovered that Preeti was just a different sort of girl.

Not like anything was wrong with her, of course; she wore all the new clothes given to her, got along with his brother’s wife and could cook almost everything ­ she made every meal, chapattis for everyone, rice, and even chicken, although she was a vegetarian herself. She was adept at all the household work, barely leaving scope for any complaints, and got every single thing he could need ready at the right time. She was courteous and polite, and even made a joke or two every now and then, even though her humor was on the wry side. She never complained, never fought and hardly ever got into an argument. At the end of the day, she would quietly settle down in front of the TV in the drawing room and watch, well, the cricket highlights. That’s the only time the usual indifference on her face would be replaced by a kind of... kind of curiosity, and excitement. He just wished she could make that face during the night; she made no sound while having sex, nothing to indicate she felt anything. But neither did she resist; she just agreed to whatever he asked of her, going about it like it was another one of her chores.

One day, as she sat watching the TV, he decided to go and sit next to her. In his own house, sports was given no importance. Nobody watched cricket, and hence it was no wonder that he had looked at her blankly when she had asked him who did he think made a better partnership with Dhoni, Virat Kohli or Suresh Raina? No, at their house, they all liked to watch TV, as in the real TV, the shows made for entertainment. The family dramas, that’s what did it for them. After all, TV was made to entertain ­ he had never found interest in a bunch of men running after a ball. He could play some, if required, but there were far better things to do. But he had sat down, along with her, as she gave him a small smile, and tried to concentrate on the tiny blue figures on the screen, before giving up in a few minutes.

When he couldn’t understand cricket, he tried a different approach; he tried to distract her from the game, to keep her away from it. Whenever he sensed that Preeti would be settling down to watch the game, he would cook up work for her. He’d ask her to make him a glass of lassi, to accompany him to the market to buy groceries, to reorganize his cupboard, to sew covers on the blankets, to iron his clothes. She never said no to anything; she’d give him a searching look and trot off to the finish the work, still managing to be back on time to catch the last few minutes. It was endless, the work, it would always be endless ­ the food had to be cooked and the house had to be cleaned, and if it weren’t for Preeti’s practicality, she would be miserable at having to miss the only thing that made her truly happy.

But she made one chapatti after the other, every single day, as it was required of her, and the days went on.

One day, she missed a particularly exciting innings of Dhoni, and almost slammed the chapatti on her husband’s plate. Her nostrils flared as she asked him, “Do you want another?” He shook his head meekly. From the next day, Preeti noticed, her husband developed an irritating habit of hanging around in the kitchen as she cooked. She ignored him as she placed the chapatti on the tawa, answering as many questions as she could through brief nods.

“Oh, you use milk to knead the dough?” he asked her, genuinely surprised.

She gave him a caustic look and nodded, going about making her chapattis.

Every day after work, he hung around in the kitchen, asking random questions, as Preeti went on about her work, ignoring him as much as she could without being openly bitter. Perhaps he was trying to show her that she was not alone in missing the match on TV; but Preeti could not care less.

Then one sudden day, he asked her if he could try it.

“Try what?” she asked him woodenly.

“Making this, the chapatti!” he said excitedly.

She gave him a derisive stare and passed him the dough. “Make a circle,” she said, “go on.”

To everybody’s surprise, he wasn’t as bad at the job; the chapatti was a fair oval, and almost appropriately baked. “Go,” he said, “watch your match. I’ll make your chapatti.” She stared at him for a second and, just to punish him for his brazenness at having even suggested such a thing, she went and sat down on the sofa in the drawing room. The other family members looked on, aghast, as Preeti put the cricket match on the TV and her husband brought her a chapatti and sabzi on a plate to eat. Wondering if it was a trick, Preeti took the plate from him and began eating as he went back inside the kitchen to make more chapattis.

“Have you both gone mad?” Preeti’s mother­in­law asked her; she did not reply. But it went on. Her husband went on making chapattis as his mother yelled and made a fuss, asked if Preeti had absolutely no shame. The rest of the family too asked her Ajay to step away from the stove. They said they’ll make the chapattis; that, if Preeti was not feeling well, her bhabhi would take over the task. But he, it was unimaginable to them, he didn’t need to do it. It was a woman’s job. His mother yelled at Preeti. “You want your husband to make chapattis for the whole family as you sit and watch men run around on TV?!” Preeti did not reply; she had no idea what he was playing at.

The same drama was repeated the next night, as her Ajay’s brother and mother shouted and screamed, asking if the world had gone mad. It was insisted by Ajay that Preeti should sit down and watch TV and that he would make the chapattis.

Preeti was now hurt. She walked into the kitchen with tears in her eyes and requested her husband to let her make the chapattis. She swore to him that she would never watch cricket again if that’s what he wanted. He looked at Preeti in alarm, wondering if his plan had backfired. “No, no, no,” he said quickly, trying to make her understand. “I genuinely want you to see the matches, I­ I’m not doing this to shame you or anything. God, no! I don’t want you to miss Dhoni’s innings and what not. I’ll make the chapattis, and I swear, it’s fun. I want to.”

It took half an hour’s worth of convincing and swearing that he actually meant it. He made her sit in the drawing room again, announcing to the rest of the family, “from now on, I will make the chapattis in the night. I love making them and I want my wife to be able to watch some TV to relax and entertain herself. I’ll make atleast mine and Preeti’s, if anybody has a problem with that.”

Of course they had problems with that.

“Brother, have you lost your mind?”

“What magic have you done on him, you witch­“ “This is absolutely unheard of!”

But Ajay, no, he would not take it from anyone and every night, he insisted that Preeti should go and watch cricket and that he would make the chapattis. His family tortured her. They taunted her all day and gave her scathing looks, refusing to speak to her for weeks. But the routine stuck on, and her husband refused to give up.

She watched Dhoni swing the bat on match­nights, compared the performance of West Indies with Australia’s. When there was nothing exciting happening, Preeti went and helped her husband. He would tell her to go watch something else, that he was having too much fun making chapattis, but Preeti would laugh. Slowly, he started to ask her more, about how many overs each bowler was allowed to bowl, and what was the league system, and what were Kohli’s strengths. He realized that maybe cricket was not for him. He loved to watch her talk to the television whenever India played, but he did not feel the same excitement. But more than anything, he was happy to make the chapattis as long as she could see Dhoni.

And Preeti? Well, she fell in love for the second time.

By Mahima Kohli I sat across from her as we travelled on the Yellow Line of the Delhi Metro. I was on my way to my workplace in the heart of the largest vegetable market in the city. It was almost noon, I was drowsy. She had boarded three stations ago, standing for a while in the corner until she managed to find a seat, luckily opposite to mine. She looked 25, but could have been younger or older; I am not a good judge. I was distracted by her appearance. She was voluptuous, with extra generous curves and very fair skin. Dressed in jeans and a loosely­fitted shirt, she sat staring into her phone, conscious of all the eyes pinned on her, including my own. The air was heavy with sweat and masculinity; she looked diminutive, almost non­existent, in comparison.

I couldn't take my eyes off of her. I was constantly drawn towards her neck.

Concealed partly by her open hair, adorned with an expensive­looking chain, it seemed to be playing hide and seek with my eyes. I was hooked. The neckline of her shirt sat tentatively on her sizeable breasts. Desperate for a glimpse of what lay underneath, I found myself wishing she had sat beside me instead. She had caught my gaze a couple of times already and had stared back at me questioningly. But I was clever enough to look away and act innocent. I'd wait for just a few seconds before affixing my eyes on her again.

She was awfully pretty: how could I be expected not to feast my eyes on her?

And clearly she was enjoying the attention; she kept brushing her hair behind her ears and adjusting her top self­consciously. She knew what I had in mind; the realisation only spurred me on.

For the third time, she looked up from her phone and caught me staring at her. She looked irritated, or was that a look of impatience? I wondered.

Maybe distant gazing was not her thing. She seemed restless. She certainly had to be aware of the effect her clothes and her body were having on me.

She would not be travelling in the general coach in those clothes if she didn't.

I considered getting up from my seat and standing next to her. I would get a much better glance down her shirt from that vantage point, while also satisfying her need for proximity. That thought made me smile.

I had been busy conjuring up mental pictures of her breasts when I felt a rude push: an old hag had just parked herself in the seat next to me. Brought back to my senses thus, I realised my gaze had unconsciously been glued to her torso this entire time. I looked up at her face: she was staring daggers at

me. I was puzzled by her reaction; what had I done wrong? As I sat there plotting my next move, there was an announcement; the train was enterting another station. She got up, clutching her bag tightly, and made her way towards the door. But all of a sudden she stopped, and I watched in a confused daze as she turned towards me.

Crossing the short passageway that separated us, she flashed the sweetest smile any female had ever given me. I looked at her expectantly and, the very next moment, felt a sharp stinging sensation on the left side of my face. My jaw had been struck square in the middle with near­inhuman force. I couldn't see clearly; my head was beginning to swim.

It took me a while to become aware of my surroundings again. Out of the corner of my eye, I caught her retreating figure on the platform as the metro sped past. I looked around and suddenly felt the heat of countless pairs of eyes affixed on me. I felt diminutive, almost non­existent. Turning exceedingly self­conscious, I fished out my phone from my pyjama pocket and sat staring down at its blank screen.

By Bhavika Bhuwalka It was the first rain of the season. It lasted the entire evening and had brought along a light dust storm for company. Yet there was a much needed respite from the 47­degree celsius heat. Living on the topmost floor without any sort of air conditioning in the month of May, amid profuse sweat and humidity that would have made death seem like a release, the rain seemed to have been the answer to my prayers.

The minute I stepped outside on the balcony, a gush of cool breeze brushed over my face and it felt… alien. It felt like a reward for months of hustling hard, and I took a metaphorical, never­give­up kind of a lesson from it ­ if you endure for long enough, you’ll be rewarded with a pleasant breeze.

As I was debating the merits of stepping outside in the drizzle, I involuntarily peeped into an apartment diagonally opposite to mine. It was getting dark outside, the lights were on, and I couldn’t resist sneaking a glance.

A kitchen faced me, where a brother­sister duo were laughing their hearts out, I would like to think, over a favourite family joke. The brother ­ let’s call him Avi ­ was cooking something, and his sister, Varsha, was busy annoying him, sometimes lending a hand. They were constantly moving around, handing each other ingredients, consulting the recipe on the internet, and giggling frequently in a way people do when they step back into time and … and can’t stop.

The first thing that struck me, I admit, was how beautiful Varsha looked, even in her plain pajamas and slightly dishevelled hair. I stared at her as she busied herself with household chores. This is the thing about women that never ceases to amaze me; they unknowingly light up someone’s day doing the most mundane of things. I looked at her in marvel.

After seven seconds of romanticized profundity, I drifted back to the memory of the three of us. How we took the house by storm, how we never really realized that our no­friends phases (grade seven, was it?) were more blessed than any could ask for. And oh God! those fights, those ear­splitting,

hair­tearing fights.

Once I turned 15, that ended; we never got together for more than two months. We were moved out to different boarding schools, different colleges in different cities, and now the only way to prevent oneself from looking over the shoulder was to keep up the charade of organizing the solitary, individualistic lives we had come to build. Only God knows how much I pine to reverse this growing­up process.

We used to gravitate home during summer or winter vacations every year, and there was no better place to be on earth. The smile on my mother’s face on seeing all her children home at once would be priceless. Suddenly, the house would be abuzz with high­pitched, excited tones, frenzied footsteps, clinking of badminton rackets, lots of cheering and of course, unceremonious peals of laughter. I looked forward to that time of the year.

Can’t help reminisce about sleeping in my room again. It only meant two things: Lots of stories from the present, and then lots of stories from the past!

All of us used to fill each other in about what goes on in the world outside our raucous abode. We would discuss how I tried conjuring spirits for the first time, or how my brother got into a war of words with yet another teacher, and we absolutely loved to listen to our sister tell us the coolest stuff that happens in colleges in the UK. Ah! The novelty of foreign lands! And then inevitably—from new experiences to treasured, shared memories—we would fondly recall memories from our childhood. How someone got locked into the bathroom at that one particular gathering, how I thought ‘share market’ meant a lions’ fair, and how my brother dreamt of being eaten by a giraffe when he was four. We just couldn’t stop laughing once we went down that road, and that’s what I imagined Avi and Varsha were doing too.

He was now making Varsha taste the half­cooked dish, something with a lot of cheese in it. She took a small spoon, made a face, and went on to add some spice in the pan. In return, Avi hit her head with a ladle. She winced, and he almost immediately started rubbing the spot he had hit her on. Their mother, too, had entered the fray.

Living alone in the city and having spent a couple of Diwalis away from home, such sights incite a sharp longing for simple family time. The special camaraderie between siblings is so implicit, their sharing of small idiosyncrasies so taken for granted, it is almost undervalued.

When my sister got married and moved to the US, it dawned on me that we were permanently short of one member. This wasn’t an on­off biannual meeting, this was goodbye forever. We went to Sikkim shortly after her marriage, and the entire logistics of travelling together changed. Always having hired an SUV for a long journey, this time everybody fit in perfectly in a cozy WagonR. Nobody had to think twice regarding the number of soup bowls to be ordered at a restaurant—literally our life­long dining­out debate—as two got perfectly divided into four halves. We did not even have to look for a triple­sharing hotel room! The ease of figuring this shit out was so boring. Family vacations meant accommodations, adjustments, and

many, many complications. Who wanted comfortable car rides and a full bowl of soup?

My brother is going home for his summer break tomorrow and so will I to meet him. I remember when I was in a boarding school at Hisar and he was at one in Nainital. We used to write letters to each other. He actually looked forward to doing it, and wrote the silliest little details of his life there. Once my warden told me how she had come to recognize his letters by his horrible handwriting, and everybody in the room had a good laugh. This time tomorrow, we are most likely to sleep with our phones in our hands, almost non­ communicative.

There was a time when vacation meant impromptu outings to the local market, for hot dogs, popcorn, movie nights, board games, and choreographed dance performances (yes, we did that). Now it means blankly staring at walls and asking dad how to file income tax returns. Phone calls, too, have become an outlet to rant; got bitten by a dog, kicked out by the landlord, screwed in the heat.

There is one facet of you reserved for family. One where you can just be the mad little girl who likes to dance in her mother’s dupatta, and no one stared.

Where you could just let your guard down, just be yourself and not conform to anything.

Avi finally turns off the kitchen light and follows Varsha out with a steel dish in his hand. I can only imagine them going back to a warm family dinner, with them bickering and bonding with each other as only families can.

Not being able to hold back, I finally step into the rain. The cool breeze did not clear my head like I had expected it to, but it did play with my hair, and it did tell me I’ll survive.

By Ritesh Kukrety I once saw an edifice, On the black sands of time, Looming against the horizon, Majestic as if in prime, A closer inspection laid bare that facade The monument, with its glory, was a thing of the past, The buttresses and crenellations, All fallen to disrepair, Whilst the halls themselves echoed, Silent footsteps of despair, Empty it stood, this once­grand design, Empty and forlorn, on the black sands of time...

I wonder at its origins, At the hands that had built, A construct for eternity, They thought would never wilt, I laugh at their hubris, As I build my own shrine, Using as foundation, those crumbled stones, Strewn upon the black sands of time...

Single Shot

This one talks about commandments. Well at least the eleventh one.

He has a nickname rhyming with “strappy”, just imagine him being the narrator.

She has a lineage of ‘profanity’, father­daughter duo.

They first met in a library (a place that has so many words but you can’t utter any?).

Their unborn son’s name is ‘Bozo’ (Are we still talking about homosapiens?)

There’s a thesis on the word “Okay” and then define and redefine “bullshit”.

If you haven’t got it, they made a movie out of it.

Long shot

The Cootees and the Dickies did a song on this book It’s not just cliché, it’s over used and abused too.

There must be a dozen movies that flaunt a copy of this book.

Found at every library, even the management ones and definitely the psychology ones.

It’s about four positions of life, not Yogic positions though.

It’s written by TH, not Thomas Hardy though.

If you haven’t got it, they did not make a movie out of it.

One last try then, “I am hot, you are not so hot”

Double shot

Heathcliff is a hero to many but not all Our heroes are not always the virtuous idealist but individualistic they are “I set my own standards” “The self cannot be sacrificed” In the theory of demand and supply, he favored supply.

This book was rejected more than he was It’s about the second­handers that he wasn’t.

It’s about great one­liners and concepts and way of life – ‘do you greet yourself each morning?’

Not just an architect’s choice.

Rowing and arcing towards excellence that you define even if the world defies. There I gave it away.

And hey book lover, you can’t be googling now!

Send us the answers on talkingbooksmagazine@gmail.com and you might just win a free issue. Use 'Fathom These Answers' in the subject line.

Quiz formatted by Vandana Verma

World of Trouble

Cerebral Warts

Review – Jhumpa Lahiri’s ‘In Other Words’

By Vandana Verma You are on a road trip and stop at a roadside dhaba to call out for tea.

‘Aye, chotu! Do chai!’

The little boy serving tea turns around and says, “My name isn’t Chotu!”

This struggle in the quest of one’s identity set the tone for ‘The Namesake’.

Jhumpa Lahiri’s first book, and is something that continues with her latest work, ‘In Other Words’. An autobiographical memoir based on her challenges while adopting a new language and relocating to Italy, the book is about Jhumpa herself, her alienation, conflicts and a yearning for acceptance in the midst of a foreign land. The writer shares her struggle with the Italian language ­ an established writer’s tryst as a learner ­ even as her perseverance is tested and her faith shaken at times. It speaks of her humiliation when at a complete loss of words and of being rejected, despite her best efforts.

The simple language and some very engaging metaphors make it a good read. The author, in learning Italian, likens herself to Daphne in Ovid’s ‘Metamorphoses’, as they both make new beginnings. She compares alienation of a language to alienation from a country, and likens language to a bridge that builds and breaks new paths. She talks about the relationship between her and the three languages that she knows ­ English, Italian and Bengali ­ and identifies them as the mother, the step mother and the lover.

The book has a feel of a romantic triangle, underlined by her comparison of English to ‘an old boyfriend… who no longer appeals to her’, paled into insignificance by her new love, Italian. There are emotions of a lover’s estrangement when she leaves Rome to return to America. There is envy, too, as she explains her jealously at the effortless manner in which her husband gets accepted in a country and to a language which, in her opinion, had been giving her a cold shoulder. The furious passion causes her to shout, ‘I am the one who desperately loves your language.’

This journal is for writers and they will, while reading it, smile and say, ‘That’s me!’ several times. You identify with the compulsion to reach out for the dictionary and having a particular fondness for certain words. There are times when you identify so closely with the author that it’s almost as if you met your soul mate. And with that comes the gentle reassurance that someone has had the same fears as you have. As a writer, you have your moments when there is a breakthrough, a moment when words seem to flow effortlessly and limitlessly, leaving you fumbling for paper and pen or phone. Jhumpa has them too: “I hear the sentences in my brain…. I write rapidly in the notebook; I’m afraid it will all disappear.”

There are some very clear messages in the book. The fact that a writer needs to constantly reinvent himself is underlined multiple times; according to her, the ‘need to write always comes from desperation, along with hope’. While the book itself is made up of several wonderful segments, my favorite lines are these: ‘I would describe the process like this: every day I go into the woods carrying a basket. I find words all around: on the trees, in the bushes, on the ground…I gather as many as possible. But it’s never enough; I have an insatiable appetite.’

Jhumpa discreetly paints the topography of Rome too. Read it for self exploration, read it for the love of Italy. Read it for the journey of a linguist not because she was a natural and it was easy but because it represented a greater challenge weaved through with intricate complexities. Her journey, at times, is masochism and at times it’s a choice, a release. It’s a surprise when she realizes that a better grasp of the Italian language exposes her weaknesses in what she considered her stronger aspect, English.

The narration does get a bit tedious in some places, especially when Jhumpa talks about ‘articles and prepositions’ and grammar in general. But if you have knowledge of the Italian language, you might find them tolerable.

The last chapter captures it all ­ the emotions, the inspiration, the metamorphoses, the flashbacks, the resurging need to belong. Jhumpa seeks her solace ‘In Other Words’ and the reader finds it in her writings. At the end of the read you will get a wishlist of books too, including titles such as ‘Metamorphosis’ and “Sparrow: The Story of a Songbird”.

It’s not her most powerful work, but can definitely be counted amongst the most empowering ones as you associate and relate to her struggles. She climbs up and plunges down, making you surf the tide with her, at one with her, as the narrative subtly makes you draw parallels with your own life. She, through her effortless prose, makes you explore your various relationships and your awkwardness during your younger years. You experience her highest highs and her lowest lows. You even celebrate with her when she is finally one day able to write in Italian, a development which she likens to a new birth. All in all, ‘In Other Words’ from Jhumpa Lahiri is definitely worth a read, especially if you love exploring language.

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July 16­ Half Hour Writing Challenge with Delhi Cartoonists and Writers Time­ 5 PM Venue­ Vyom Dental Clinic and Implant Center Event details­ http://www.meetup.com/DelhiCartoonists/events/232322799/ July 17­ Visit Agrasen ki Baoli Time­ 3 PM Venue­ Duh! Event details­ http://www.meetup.com/hangoutdelhi/events/232344319/ July 21­ Get free dental checkup Time­ All day Venue­ Vyom Dental Clinic and Implant Center, F­14, Kailash Colony, New Delhi Event details­ http://www.meetup.com/Talking­Books­in­ Delhi/events/232341811/ For appointment­ https://www.practo.com/delhi/doctor/dr­abhyudaya­ shrivastava­dentist July 23­ Share your work Time­ 5 PM Venue­ Kailash Colony Market Event details­ http://www.meetup.com/DelhiCartoonists/events/230114622/ August 7­ Read lines from your favourite book Time­ 3 PM Venue­ CCD, Tolsroy Marg, Janpath Event Details­ http://www.meetup.com/Talking­Books­in­ Delhi/events/231331317/