Issue 01
March - May 2013
Team Founder and Editor-in-Chief Kriti Bajaj Associate Editor Sonal Jha Arts Editor Medha Kulkarni Legal Advisor Akshay Ram
Layout Design
Kriti Bajaj
Cover Photograph
Nanya Sudhir Golden Temple, Amritsar
www.bricolagemagazine.com www.facebook.com/bricolagemagazine twitter.com/Bricolage_mag
Artwork by Anunay Ranjan
Editorial Dear Readers, It is with great pleasure and immense excitement that I present to you the first issue of Bricolage Magazine. When we started out humbly and hopefully three months ago, we could not have imagined the incredible level of support and participation that we would receive - and for that, we will be forever grateful. It was sometime in October 2012 that I first began to toy with the idea of starting an online magazine that would give my friends and peers a platform to showcase and share their work. I saw talent all around me, and I saw this idea as an opportunity. This issue contains 17 pieces featuring writers, poets, storytellers, artists and photographers from India, Greece and Italy. Before I leave you to experience the worlds that follow in these pages, I would like to thank my wonderful team, and also express my gratitude to Nidhi Srivastava and Nandini Swaminathan for the odd editing assignments that I sprung on them at the last minute. To everyone who supported and encouraged us, thereby helping us reach more people - we wouldn’t be here without you. Finally, a huge thank you to all our wonderful contributors. I wish you an enjoyable journey.
Kriti Bajaj Editor-in-Chief
submissions@bricolagemagazine.com Submission Guidelines - www.bricolagemagazine.com/p/submissions.html editors@bricolagemagazine.com All rights remain with respective authors/artists. Terms of Service - www.bricolagemagazine.com/p/terms-of-service.html
Contents Features 4 Devprayag: A Heavenly Confluence - Uma Sriram Fiction 8 Tunnel - Koyel Lahiri Non-Fiction 12 The James Potter Complex - Achala Upendran 15 Notes from Nizamuddin Dargah - Vasudha Wadhera Diary 18 A Brimful of Uttar Pradesh - Sonal Jha 20 In Pursuit of the Northern Lights - Shruti Sud 23 Blank Pages - Pavithra Srinivasan Poetry 26 Two Poems - Bedatri D. Choudhury 27 Short-Term Memory - Shaleen Rakesh 29 Time Travails - Nandini Swaminathan Art 32 Seven Works - Mattia Ammirati 38 Leakage - Anunay Ranjan Interviews 42 On Opera in Greece: An Interview with Sophie Tsiknia - Kriti Bajaj 45 Alessandro Anemona: Glimpses of the Hidden Inside - Alessia Maiolo Photography 50 Gente de San Crist贸bal - Sara Boccacci 58 Scenes from Konkan - Avigyan Dutta 64 The Colours of Amritsar - Nanya Sudhir
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Features
Devprayag
a heavenly confluence • UMA SRIRAM
Origins: Devprayag in Hindu Mythology
Nowhere else in the world is the joining together of two rivers treated as anything but a natural phenomenon. The Rhine and the Mosel join at the German “Eck” in the city of Koblenz, undeniably a fantastic tourist spot and the starting point of many river cruises, but there is nothing “holy” about it. People don’t travel miles to take a “dip” in it. And yet, when one observes the confluence of the Alaknanda and the Bhagirathi rivers at Devprayag, one cannot escape being enveloped by the spirituality of this magnificent sight.
Legend has it that when Bhagirath* managed to appease the devas (gods) to get the Ganges down to earth from the heavens to purify the ashes of his forefathers, it was feared that the earth would not be able to withstand the force of her descent. So Lord Shiva allowed the Ganga to pass through his matted hair (Jadamudi), splitting the celestial Ganga into five rivers. The five main rivers re-join at five spots called prayags (confluence), each of which is sacred for Hindu pilgrims.
While a lot has been written about the Ganges (or the Ganga, if you prefer the non-anglicised version), be it her origins at the Gangotri glacier or the holy cities on her route downstream – Haridwar, Rishikesh, Banares, and Allahabad – not many know that the spot where the Ganges reveals her full glory is at Devprayag.
The last and final confluence is at Devprayag, where the Alaknanda, after taking all the split rivers, joins the river Bhagirathi, thereby uniting the Ganga together in one form. The devas, pleased to see the Ganga in such form, blessed all those who have a holy dip at this prayag and fulfilled their wishes. This is how the place got the name Devprayag (deva + prayag: godly confluence). Even today, looking at the ferocity of the Bhagirathi which joins the much calmer Alaknanda, one can imagine the size and ferocity of the original river, which was five times its size.
Seventy kilometres from Rishikesh, the journey to Devprayag consists of some of the most picturesque views of the Ganges as she winds her way down the mountains. At the end of this journey is a small town of barely 5000 people, which welcomes tens of thousands of visitors every year.
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* A king in Hindu mythology.
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Another legend has it that the town is the point where Lord Rama, after having killed Ravana, a devotee of Lord Shiva, performed penance to atone for this sin. A learned priest, Devasharma, built a Raghunathji temple (rumoured to be over 1500 years old) at this spot, giving rise to the name Deva-prayag. The temple still stands there, with some very old inscriptions in the Brahmi script, which are yet to be deciphered. That is the beauty of India – where one may casually stumble upon history from 1500 years ago as though it were commonplace!
what a glorious moment it is! Interestingly massive fish swim over the steps, near where the bathers sit. It is almost as though they are coming to give you a “fish pedicure”. Even they find it difficult to navigate through the churning, and are often pushed in all directions.
Whatever its origin, it is a truly spectacular place. As I walked across suspension bridges and through narrow lanes to the meeting point, and looked upon the rivers, I felt a sense of belonging – of almost owning the river in a personal way. Almost all aspects of the town are determined by proximity to the meeting point. A Holy Dip
Bhagirathi to the left and Alaknanda to the right at Devprayag; steps leading down to the water
Entering the river to have a “holy dip” is a very special experience, even for a non-religious person. The cool water on a hot day has its own allure. While the bathing point has steps, chains and ropes for protection, they are very slippery and require due caution. After gingerly climbing down the steps, the first dip is the toughest: the water temperature will surprise you. The turbulent Bhagirathi splashes you from the side, whether you are ready for it or not. But soon enough, the periodic splashing and churning feel like a natural Jacuzzi, and the body and mind don’t want to let go of the experience.
The river is bordered by the Shivalik range of the Himalayas. Pristine sand beaches are visible downstream, strewn with rocks which have been hewn and smoothened over thousands of years by this river. The purity and simplicity of this scene is enrapturing. City people often lose sight of this reality and are unable to relate to nature, but sitting in the midst of the river is like discovering basic truths anew. I still don’t know how much time I spent in the water. It could have been minutes, it could have been hours. All I know is that I didn’t want to get out, and when I finally did, I did it reluctantly, with a sense of leaving behind something cherished.
In the river, you are at peace with yourself. Gone is the stress of work waiting for you in the office when you return; there are no thoughts or existential questions; there is only bliss. Maybe this is the true meaning of the tradition of the “holy dip” to cleanse your sins: the river does not nullify your sins, but takes you to a state of mind where you feel renewed, refreshed, relaxed. Time appears to stand still; there is no yesterday and no tomorrow. You live for the moment – and
The People The people of Devprayag seem hard-working, and go about their business with quiet solidity. We wanted to carry some holy water back in copper pots, but the problem was how to seal
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them properly. The local welder, aged over seventy, laboured over six copper pots for nearly three hours, sealing them from all sides. Running a gas burner at 10000C on a day when the temperature is nearly 400C is admirable. The monetary value of this labour was a few dollars, but the inherent value of the devotion and hard work is what makes these copper pots holy. Most of the “holy� traditions we harbour probably have a simple reason behind them, strengthened by someone’s unshakeable faith. We visited the ancient temples, and were surprised to find locals willing to spend some time with us and talk about their history. They were not the pesky guides ubiquitous at all tourist spots; just ordinary people who could see that we were curious to know more. So enraptured were we with the place that we did not even realize that it had been hours since we had eaten. The spiritual cloak that covered us appeared to make us immune to such bodily needs! A temple It was with a heavy heart that we realised that it was time to say goodbye. It is with a confident to Rishikesh, amidst all the white-water rafting, one, however, that I recommend this place to remember to keep a few hours aside for a trip to fellow travellers. The next time you take a trip Devprayag and a magical experience.
UMA SRIRAM is a freelance journalist, writing in Hindi for vernacular newspapers such as Dainik Jagran, Amar Ujala and Dainik Tribune, as well as for Marathi magazines. Based in Mumbai, she works with various NGOs, and has previously worked with Breakthrough and Times Foundation before leaving to concentrate on her freelance career. She is also a Bharatnatyam dancer, has trained in Carnatic music, and is an avid traveller. All photographs by Uma Sriram.
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Fiction
tunnel KOYEL LAHIRI
The light at the end of the tunnel was glowing. Arjun couldn’t sleep; the red glow on his eyelids entered his dreams, turning them into nightmares. Strange how the same red in daylight reminded him of lips and strawberries. Luscious pops of fruit, the juice running down when he bit into them. He suddenly craved a strawberry. Remember the days, he thought to himself, remember those days when we would climb into orchards, and steal fruit. We would be chased, but only half-heartedly, because it is the job of every child to illegally acquire fruit. Your brain is a fruit, his grandmother would tell him. Why do you need to tear your ganji, and scratch your knee, when the object of your pursuit is arranged in two bowls by the table? Your mother buys four types of fruit every day, why don’t you eat them? His grandmother now danced on the curtains of his eyes. Red, red, red, red sari, red bindi; more red than she had ever worn, and certainly more red than she had worn since she was widowed. Widowww – when you say it, your lips pull back like you’re about to smile, then pucker up into a tiny ‘o’. Window...he jumped out of a window, which is why she is a widowww. Arjun had never seen his grandmother dance. She rolled her head, moved her arms and twisted her feet. The dance of the dead. This is how she would look if you put her together from the ashes. Arjun remembered how the ashes had remained in a jug because nobody was sure if the river was holy enough for them. Dance of the unholy dead. Palat! Suddenly she was a nautch girl. The tunnel was intent on waking him up, because he obviously couldn’t sleep through such a dream. Nightmare. Night-mare. Nigh-tmare. Galloping streams of unconscious. What would grandmother say if she saw him waking up, filthy and covered in patches of stink? Nothing, probably. She had never cared much for him. Look at your sister, she would always say. No misbehaviour, so pretty, hardworking, pleasant, always smiling, kind-hearted, respectingelderstallsimplereligious... And you, dirty, grubby, confused, rude... Bricolage Magazine
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Grandmother flitted across his open eyes, as if on a movie screen. He rubbed his eyes against the tunnel and gifted his grandmother to the flat, stony walls. When he turned around he could see the patch of wall where his grandmother had stuck. He giggled. Any minute now he expected to see her pull a cigarette out of the folds of her pallu and smoke it. The tunnel swallowed grandmother. Arjun sighed. The red light came back every day. The light at the end of the tunnel. Light at the distant end. From darkness to light. Moving along, steadily, steadily, because there is light at the end of the tunnel. What they don’t know is that grandmother is at the end of the tunnel. Dancing, a two-dimensional television. Arjun knew that the truth lay in the darkness. He turned his back to the light and grandmother, and drew in a breath. He picked his spectacles off his nose and laid them beside him. He needed to concentrate the very best he could. Blankness, darkness, quietness; when the three unite, you hear a boom. Arjun opened his eyes, slowly, slowly, until the black of the tunnel matched the black of his boom. There! The tunnel was a tunnel again, and the red light…still to come, a part of the future.
KOYEL LAHIRI wrote for fun. And she will write for fun again. As of now, she’s working on a dissertation and is counting on yoga and daily overdoses of oranges to hold her hand through this dreadfully difficult period in her life. Blogs and Fiction by Koyel: The Written Equivalent of a Sneeze paagolhawa.blogspot.in A Massive Dose of Nothing sporadicblogger.wordpress.com/category/fiction
Photograph by Nidhi Srivastava nidhis.tumblr.com
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Non-fiction
The James Po
“Snape’s Worst Memory” by Venessa Kelley (Prismacolor Pencils and ink)
Venessa Kelley is a freelance illustrator, videographer, and graphic artist living in Silver Spring, Maryland, USA. She is currently working on several illustration projects due for publication, and credits her early foray in Potter fanart as the catalyst for becoming a professional illustrator. Potter on Paper www.mudblood428.com Life in Prismacolor mudblood428.livejournal.com Bricolage Magazine
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otter Complex by ACHALA UPENDRAN
Let’s face it: we all want to be fictional characters at some point in our lives. The more literary among us strive to emulate, sometimes unconsciously, our favourites. Fictional people are so organized. They have their lives mapped out for them by someone else, they sometimes appear to acquire their perfection/ beauty/ intelligence/ achiever Status without really working for it; and, best of all, even the dullest, the most stupid, and the most horrifyingly banal of them can boast of having people interested in their thoughts. I know many people, myself included, would love to have that particular honour.
that is profoundly disturbing. We all want to be James Potter. What’s that, you say? James Potter? Harry Potter’s dad?! Oh please. Surely there are more popular choices in the series. Look at Hermione, Ron, Harry – even someone as random as Bill Weasley gets more attention than James Potter. But I doubt anyone has had the same effect on my budding psychoanalytical skills. Together, a friend and I diagnosed what we call the James Potter Complex, a serious condition that affects one out of every five Arts students during postgraduation.
Since we cannot actually be them (or maybe we all are, really, and the Universe is one big novel-setting and history a novel, in which case everything I’m writing becomes meta-fictional and therefore profound and too deep to be taken seriously), we strive to live like them. If I’m as cursed and earnest as Harry Potter, surely people will give a damn about what I’m up to? If I’m as flitty-flighty as Holly Golightly, surely I’ll leave a string of yearning men behind me?
What are the characteristics of the James Potter Complex? Just think of James in his Hogwarts years. In case you are not familiar with the Potterverse, I will elaborate for you. James Potter is, to put it succinctly, bloody brilliant. He is top of his class, he is an ace Quidditch player, he has a band of loyal friends and followers, an equally fabulous best friend*, he is popular, and (surprise surprise), he wins in the romance department as well. There is no category in which he loses out, unless you count his messy hair and nearsightedness, which I don’t.
Who we want to be also changes with time, of course, and not just because of the changing nature of the books we read. For instance, nine years ago I wanted to be Lanfear from the Wheel of Time books. I wanted to be beautiful and powerful and I was a budding megalomaniac. Now I want to be Egwene from the same universe – beautiful and powerful and at the top of my professional ladder at the tender age of 20. Unfortunately, there doesn’t seem much chance of that happening.
In short, he’s an all-rounder. He comes across as socially celebrated as well as academically * The reason I objected to calling it the “Sirius Black
Complex” is twofold. First, Sirius is not nearly as lucky as James – he has had a traumatic childhood, disowned (and been disowned by) his family, and rather than a clean death (and commemorative statue) like James, he was thrown into a soul-sucking prison for twelve years despite being innocent and never really gained freedom. Second, I don’t think any mere mortal compares to him, but you are free to disagree.
The people around me have “literarily” grown up as well. The girls aren’t queuing up to be Belle from Disney’s Beauty and the Beast or Ariel from The Little Mermaid. No. Now we all, girls and boys alike, want to be one particular character, and we want to be him with a psychotic intensity
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brilliant – and he puts no apparent effort into the attainment of either status. When Sirius says he will be “surprised” if he doesn’t get “an Outstanding, at least” on his exam, James drawls a confident “me too”.** Coming from him, we can believe it. He then proceeds to play with a stray Snitch and bully Snape for no apparent reason. While Remus tries to study for the next exam, James clearly has better things to do; despite which he will still do better than Remus probably ever will. The problem is, not everyone can be James Potter. Most of us know this, and are not ashamed to admit to Lupinesque hard work. And why should we be? There’s nothing wrong with being a geek, as Hermione has so admirably demonstrated. There’s absolutely nothing wrong with reading your books ahead of schedule, with staying up late nights to get that cramming done, with working yourself crazy in order to keep up with multiple classes. But it’s just not cool. Not in an age where Facebook rules our lives. We’re on display all the time, we’re finally starring in our own movies (complete with soundtracks in the form of status messages), we are fictional characters who “check in” and take pictures and “like” things. But because we narrate our own story, we can be as perfect and amazing and enviable as we want. We can be James Potter. And so begins the “I don’t study, see, I just went for a movie” or the “I was too busy making out with my new partner to do that reading” or “I-am-like-so-brilliant, I scored amazingly on my exam even though I was off snorkelling in Malaysia”. It’s absolute anathema to those in the grip of the JPC to be seen opening a book that is not far, far away from the concerns of the academic moment. It is unthinkable that they admit to having read the assigned material the
night before the tutorial – oh no, it must be read only half an hour before the scheduled meeting time, because otherwise people would think they actually studied, and then how would they continue to look cool? Where was the Jamesian spirit in that?! I could go into a long spiel about the decreasing value of hard work in a society that privileges snapshot success and quick thinking go-getters. I could spend a page boring you with fauxsociological theses on the decline of Hufflepuffian ethics and the coolification of Gryffindor daring and Slytherin slickness. These do tie into the proliferation of the JPC, but a thorough dissection will probably turn out to be something like a thesis. I don’t intend to condemn those who suffer the JPC, since I can sympathize with them. To be like James is to have it all, without trying very hard. For a long time, fantasy was held to be the domain of lonely little nerds, people who needed tales of underdogs and unlikely foundlings becoming leaders of their people and succeeding where no one else had succeeded before. While the perception of the demographic has changed considerably, we’re still looking for the same things. We want someone who will convince us that no matter how small we are, how lost and confused, we can make a difference. So while we want to be James Potter, brilliant and popular, we will never admire him the way we admire Harry. For all my self-proclaimed brilliance, I can never be James Potter. But somewhere deep down is the hope that maybe, just maybe, I can be like his far less impressive but so much more heroic son. ** Rowling, J.K., 2003. Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix. London: Bloomsbury Publishing, p. 567
Achala Upendran is an Editorial Assistant at HarperCollins Publishers, India. She completed her Master’s as well as her undergraduate degree in English Literature at St. Stephen’s College, Delhi University. Her research interests include contemporary American and British fantasy fiction and the genre-bending novels of Neil Gaiman and China Mieville. She blogs regularly on fantasy literature and movies at Where the Dog Star Rages (wherethedogstarrages.wordpress.com). Bricolage Magazine
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Notes from Nizamuddin Dargah A being enters the narrow, winding lane, away from the sea of people, and transforms into an oasis. Nudge-nudge-push-shove, through glitter, grime and tiny portals, and the hawkers try to peddle you all they can: beads, boxes, ittar and incense sticks. The more pious-looking ones are offered chaadars to be draped at the dargah. Guarded by a wall of white, the main dargah hall is a square structure around which the entire enclosure is designed. The white stands out, broken only by a patterned lattice that lets light and life seep through. The oasis gazes at the new expanse and, with some difficulty, finds a corner to blend into among the faithful poring over their holy books.
by VASUDHA WADHERA
To the right are two brothers, entangled in a sit with his voice and his machine, he continues playful scamper, with hands and feet trying to raising his hands, timing them to the music that make contact. One, in borrowed royalty and leaks. a brown sherwani, is perhaps two years old. The other, more successful one looks around To the left, a man in white seeks his manna, six. The younger boy contemplates a run from one bead at a time. He sits on his haunches, the opposite direction, pulls up his shiny blue with closed eyes, a string of translucent green trousers and powers full steam ahead – only beads in his right hand. He sits oblivious to the to end up flailing on the marble. His world, ignoring the wails of the kids and the fall breaks the reverie of a man in Caretaker’s croaks. In gusts prayer. The mother notices the of gold dust, the hullaballoo and picks him up for Meanwhile, the feed is over and it’s yellowed leaves fall a feed. His brother, who had a time for rolling-the-wheel-on-theto the ground, creating an iridescent cloud that smug grin etched on his face elder-brother’s-belt. The younger boy rises upward and then until now, looks crestfallen. He happily whirrs the wheel, his gurgling dissipates. trudges back to his father, who laughter animating his eyes. In the sits leaning against the iron fence compound housing the studious wordseparating one compound from the readers, there is at least one at peace. The other. croaks are replaced by a discernible tune and the Caretaker jaggedly makes way for the old The backdrop to this is provided by an old, rusting harmonium player, clothed in shimmering green. man sitting with a harmonium, directly facing To strains that sound like Chhap Tilak (a Qawwali the namaaz area’s entrance. The Caretaker of song), a man on the roof far left sweeps fallen the Harmonium. His spindly fingers hold four leaves. In gusts of gold dust, the yellowed leaves keys on static, pumping air into the contraption fall to the ground, creating an iridescent cloud whenever people come near. Directing them to that rises upward and then dissipates.
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Up front, a man sits cloaked in a dirty black screen with a flame atop its black counter. A wrought iron candelabrum next to him holds lit incense sticks. Families come clutching bunches of agarbattis, which he lights, and they then place them on one of the black branches. A round of the square structure in the centre exposes men and women in prayer, reading from copies of holy books stacked on the side, each enclosed in satin. At each corner wall, a round black-and-white clock shows the time; except for one, which has no time left to show. Tiny exits lead to peddlers selling books and trinkets. In a hidden corner, a man with a pointy skull cap asks for alms. Rose petals lie strewn on the marble floor. One exit takes you to the mausoleum of (probably) a disciple of the saint in whose honour the dargah has been built. A young qawwal sings praises, often rising on his knees with the song’s force. A man with a fraying
leather water bag offers water to tourists carrying heavy cameras, who shuffle enthusiastically ahead in their olive and cream shorts. A retreating turn, and the piercing glare of an eerily fat white cat singles you out yet again. A hasty walk forward; scouring the pile of shoes at a nearby shop for yours; briskly passing through the tunnelled exit; past musty green staircases tucked in the dark; past meat shops pouring forth their stench; past wrinkled faces asking for pity; onto the busy street, with its cars and harried pedestrians and cyclists and strangers who push you forward. The oasis lives no more. NOTES Nizamuddin Dargah is the shrine of the Sufi saint Nizamuddin Auliya, located in New Delhi, India.
Vasudha Wadhera is a connoisseur of street food, prefers Bombay over Delhi, and is a recipient of the Create to Inspire fellowship. She’s also slowly (but steadily) working on a personal project, Delhi100, which aims to cover 100 stories on this capital city through photography, film and conversations. Your visiting the blog would make her day. Delhi 100 delhi100.tumblr.com Photograph by Vasudha Wadhera www.facebook.com/vasudhawadheraphotography
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Diary
A Brimful of Uttar Pradesh by Sonal Jha
Photograph by Sonal Jha
Making increasingly poor choices has become a motif in my life. A fact reinforced by the recent trips made via sleeper class on the Indian Railways, so frequently that I almost got used to the unique sounds and smells. That is, until I voluntarily decided to step further away from sanity in choosing to travel a rung below even sleeper class. It was a logical choice, given that no other ticket was available for days in sight, and I was subjected to an overwhelming slice of the U.P. life. Considering that I belong to the state, I must not appear so snooty as to make it sound like it was a completely new experience. It was, however, prolonged and relentless.
people and luggage and any available corner in the coach. Screaming and shoving. Before I knew it, there was a boy sitting on my feet; a nursing mother with an extremely fussy baby sat across from me. Luggage was being thrown onto the Gomti Express is a train that one resorts to only luggage rack above my head from across the when no other option remains, at least when one aisle, my neck in danger of snapping under the is cushioned by the relative comforts of a certain weight of one such misjudged throw. economic status. The 2S, or second seating coach does not consist of sleepers – only endless berths, As the train mercifully left the station, the each meant to seat three people. It is routine to requests for “adjustment” began. Surprisingly, find your seat already occupied. But people are no one actually says “adjust”. nice enough to move when you point it out; in my case, all three people on the seat left without “tanik khisak jaiye na. bachcha baith jayega.” (If argument. Disbelieving of my luck at having the you move a bit, my kid will be able to squeeze whole berth to myself, I thought, this may not be in) so bad after all. “itni jagah mein to panch panch aadmi baith jata hai.” (Five people could easily sit on this berth.) Little did I know. A five-year-old was snoozing on the luggage rack. I was afraid his family had forgotten him, but soon enough an argument broke out between an irate passenger and the kid’s father. The gentleman couldn’t be blamed. No one likes to have a particularly gassy kid sitting atop one’s head. And what colourful language! I wish I hadthe temerity to recapitulate it. Trying to sleep was obviously foolish on my part, and the one time I did manage
The train rolled out of Delhi and all was well; people chattering, the wind in my hair as I read a book, the winter sun showering its gentle warmth. Then, wham! Ghaziabad happened. Suddenly, I had no idea what was going on. Streams of humanity poured in from all doors, including those not facing the platform. Bags, sacks and kids held aloft, people climbing on to Bricolage Magazine
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to achieve the impossible, I was rudely woken up phaphund is Hindi for fungus. by someone’s behind nudging my head. The climax was reached just as the lights of Aligarh and Etawah came and went. Some people Kanpur twinkled in the distance. In hindsight, I got off, and twice the number got on. I preferred was surprised it took until almost the end of the to go thirsty for most of the nine hour journey journey for this to happen. Remember the two rather than wiggle around to retrieve my bottle hungry kids from earlier on? Well, what goes in of water. And because one nursing mother sitting must come out, and you can see where I’m going across me wasn’t enough, another one managed with this. Except, you can’t. to squeeze in somehow. Boy, do babies get hungry. One kid pooped. The mother, instead of taking him to the loo, decided that a packed, ass-to-face A cacophony of rural songs set to techno music crowd was the best place to make her preliminary (mostly about some crone wailing for her examination. To her surprise and everyone “baalma” [lover]) interspersed with else’s disgust, he had only just begun. Bollywood staples like “Beedi Reacting with belated swiftness, she The climax jalaile”. Because, you know, the whisked the (still pooping and now was reached just mobile phone has arrived in Basti pant-less) kid to the loo. The crowd as the lights of Kanpur but the accompanying earphone twinkled in the distance. parted like the Red Sea; some set, it would seem, is still just were soiled in the process. To her In hindsight, I was a weird bundle of cumbersome credit, she did clean up while the surprised it took until wires. An elderly man, despite father looked on disinterestedly. The almost the end of barely managing to stand in the sandwich that was to be my dinner lay the journey jostling crowd, fiddled with a tablet forgotten. phone. No, not an Aakash tablet*. I stopped worrying about my run-of-the-mill Nokia getting As we wound down towards Lucknow, waves pickpocketed after that. And the ringtones! I of nostalgia rolled in. I remembered being ten, now know “Yashodha ka nand lala” and “Arre watching the rails multiplying as we neared the dwaarpalon, Kanhaiyya se keh do” by heart. station and knowing we’d reached. The many platforms, the huge station; when Lucknow was On the one hand, I was trying to appreciate the “the big city”, and travelling in AC class was a Hindi heartland and feel sufficiently emotional foreign concept. This experience was a shock to about the green paddy fields, the lonely farmer my usually ordered world, but also a reminder on the horizon, the unexpectedly healthy dogs… of sorts. That there is no pity or sympathy, just on the other, I had to stop the sizeable uncle a feeling of actually knowing that I am a part of sitting next to me from squeezing me into the more than the fleet streets of Delhi, and that life wall. Not surprisingly, no one came to check our is alright even outside the sheltered confines of tickets. It would be nigh impossible for anyone my existence. to meander through one of these coaches; this train had fifteen of them. And yes, there were It was a pity that I left behind my camera this one people hanging from the doors, like in films. One time. But then again, staying true to the theme man managed to attach himself to the door, in of this experience, it is fitting that it remain in the nick of time, at a place called Phaphund. memory only. For those of you who don’t get the irony there, * A relatively cheaper tablet phone.
Sonal Jha is a literature graduate, avid sports watcher, couch potato and travel skeptic. She loves her typewriter.
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In Pursuit of the Northern Lights Text and photographs by SHRUTI SUD The biggest obstacle to my journey in November 2011 was getting a reservation on a train out of France. Even for Eurail pass holders, all trains exiting and entering France require a reservation. The best route to Sweden was a train from Paris to Frankfurt – completely booked for the next ten days. So instead, I took a detour by way of Leipzig; Leipzig of fairytale Christmas markets, friendly people, and conversations about postwar Germany.
amused yet sympathetic, but unable to decipher exactly what kind of chain I was referring to.
Hearing all this commotion, the conductor came to enquire its cause and I rattled off the entire story to her – that I was travelling alone, that the train I had missed would have taken me all the way up to north Sweden, that all my plans would now go for a toss – and begged her to get the train stopped. She promptly refused, but left saying that she would see what A crowd of Swedes surrounded I reached Jönköping safe and she could do. A middle-aged Swede me, amused yet sound, after a journey of about sitting next to me took out his laptop 15 hours. My plan was completely sympathetic, but unable to check for alternative trains from fluid now, since any train going up to decipher exactly what any of the stations along this route. kind of chain I was from Jönköping did not require a In a few minutes, the lady conductor referring to. reservation. There were 3 connecting returned to say that she was trying to trains that would take me to Kiruna in make the train stop for me but couldn’t northern Sweden. The first was caught confirm this yet. without incident; while sitting at the Skövde Central to catch the second, I could see platform She came back yet again to explain that the train 1 on which my train was scheduled to come at I was currently on was moving westward. The 6pm. A train pulled in at 5:50 pm, and I jumped night train I was meant to be on was moving in to secure a window seat. I had only begun to north, and its route coincided with this train only realise that something was wrong when the train till the next station, Laxå, where neither train was began to move. Hysterical, I started shouting meant to halt. Being an “emergency”, however, “Chain! Chain!” as I frantically searched for a both trains would stop long enough for me to chain, the kind found in trains in India, which switch. can be pulled to stop the train in case of an emergency. A crowd of Swedes surrounded me, I couldn’t believe my ears. As a reflex, I wrapped my Bricolage Magazine
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arms tightly around the conductor and showered her with my gratitude, continuously thanking her and offering her apples. She was very businesslike, replying that it was her duty, and gently refused the apples. I persisted, and we ended up happily munching apples in her cabin. When she saw me off at Laxå, she instructed me to wait at the platform, stand in the light and wave my hands wildly at the next train which came in because it would stop only if they saw me there. She left me with a big hug.
On we walked towards the campsite. Despite the absence of artificial light, visibility was very high because of the moonlight reflecting off the snow. It was surreal. We walked till we came across this large expanse of even, barren land, which our companion said was probably a frozen lake, dangerous to cross. Nonetheless, we went across slowly and made our way to the other side. Then 20 meters onto a narrow path at the lake’s edge, the ice started crunching under our feet, making
Laxå was a tiny, dark, deserted station. I was to expect the train in ten minutes, but there was none in sight. Freezing in the bitter cold, I wondered what I would do if my train never turned up; but I didn’t need to wonder too long. I waved as wildly as I could to make it stop, clambered on, and slept soundly through the night. When I woke up the next day, the scene outside the Kiruna window was other-worldly. Faint light, a scrubby, snow-covered landscape, and every minute the water below come out. It was time to head we seemed to pass a lake Not for no reason is back. Sweden known as the land of a million lakes! I took a train to Narvik the next day, intending to I changed one last train to get to Kiruna, where head back to Abisko by nightfall. I felt like I was I met a few acquaintances, and made some new travelling into nothingness. Everything seemed friends. We decided to head out to the camping so pure, probably because everything was white. ground to spot the Lights that night, despite a And then we went over the fjords. Fjords look snow storm; well-equipped with our jackets, caps like calm, still rivers, grafted from glaciers and and gloves, and filled with determination and a always positioned between steep cliffs. They sense of purpose. This being my first proper tryst were spectacular. with snow, I took in the scrumptious feeling of my snow boots going all the way inside the soft The train back to Abisko got delayed, and I powdery snow without getting my feet wet, and reached when it was pitch dark. The Abisko insisted that we stop to make a snowman. This Turistation was but a small hut with no electricity turned out to be a tough task, and all we managed and a single line of tracks. I was the only person was a creature halfway between a snowman and who got off there, and all I could see was a lot of a miserable owl. gleaming snow, and forests. The conductor told
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reportedly high – both ideal for spotting an aurora – but soon enough, a menacing white cover of clouds slowly took over the blanket of stars. As luck would have it, for the four hours that we were up there (the space station closes at midnight), the sky didn’t clear up once. But it was fun trudging around the mountain in the knee-deep snow, despite being tiring: with those suits, weight increases by 10-15kgs and it becomes difficult to walk. We walked up a cliff facing vast nothingness; the sky a Fjords, en-route to Narvik blurry greyish-white, and behind and below us the snow gleamed in the same me that I would arrive at a tunnel 200 meters unearthly way as the previous night. We stood on, the other of side which led to all the hostels. there looking at it till we could no longer feel our Those were the scariest 200 meters of my life. nose and ears. That night, I tagged along with my roommates to the aurora station, built on a mountain and accessible by a cable car which costs a whopping £60. Everyone there seemed to have pre-booked packages with the hostel which included this trip, despite the cost. A good decision, as it turned out: this station was claimed to be quite unique. At the base, we were given extremely heavy (and uncomfortable) body suits and boots because the temperature at the top of the mountain was -35 degrees. Going up an open car in the dark and gleaming white can be quite an eerie experience. The only light apart from the snow was the red light of the station – red, to help dilate the pupils and enable them to spot the Northern Lights. Any kind of light contracts the pupils but red light contracts them the least. Inside the station was a small aurora museum and a cafeteria. Outside, there was a tower that offered a 360 degree view of the sky. Just before we had got on the cable car, the sky had been spectacularly clear and the activity levels were
This was my last night before heading back, and so my last chance of seeing the Lights – steadily slipping away. Determined as I was, I decided to nap for a bit and then try again. I woke up at 5a.m., my limbs sore from all the trekking, and I was still half-asleep. I stepped out the main door of our lodge, and there was a cold draft of wind outside to greet me. My first instinct was to rush back in, but I reminded myself that this was my last chance. As my eyes acclimatized to the darkness, I saw a faint, greenish glow in the sky. It grew in size, became paler and started swirling around. Fidgeting in my jacket for my camera, I realised that I’d forgotten it at my bedside. I didn’t dare leave the spectacle playing out before me, so I stayed put and devoured the lights with my eyes. Those few moments I can never forget; they were ethereal, more so because I was out there, alone, in the dark watching this magic unfold before me. It was my little secret.
Shruti Sud, a compulsive traveller, crisscrossed Europe during an exchange programme last year. She is currently touring the arid lands of Rajasthan selling cigarettes, and aspires to become a travel writer someday. She occasionally blogs at Travel Tales Chest (traveltaleschest.wordpress.com). Bricolage Magazine
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Blank pages
by PAVITHRA SRINIVASAN strange velvet-covered boards with bright bits of paper pinned to them. In the centre of the room sat a silver-haired woman in a colourful, flowing skirt. I remember a smile like a baby’s – wide, disarming, guileless. Her eyes crinkled when she smiled, and she smiled a lot. She didn’t look like anyone I had ever seen before. Amma introduced me, patting my back encouragingly to make me shake the woman’s hand. She smiled some more, said she was very pleased to meet me (“Why?”, I wondered) and said her name was Zoe. And then it clicked; she was foreign! Her skin was deeply tanned, but she was unmistakably, indubitably, not from here. Amma then told me that this was a creative writing class. She gave me a little exercise book, a couple of sharpened pencils, and a hug. She said she’d pick me up in an hour and left. By this time, a few other kids had trooped in. Zoe made us all sit in a circle on that lovely wooden floor.
I was nine years old when Amma found a crumpled piece of paper in my closet. Smoothing it out, she sat (I imagine) at the dining table to read it. It was a fine Sunday morning, and I was fast asleep. That Sunday, I was woken up with a tight hug. My mother had found a little piece I’d written for English class in school. It was about the ocean and the waves and the sun. It was all of twelve sentences long. I remember writing it in a hurry, and furtively tucking it into my schoolbag. I don’t remember how it escaped my bag and found its way to my closet.
For the next month or so, Zoe must have taught us what she thought made good writing. To be honest, I can’t remember any of that. Zoe made us write a page a day which we would have to read out to the little circle. The idea was to construct a whole story page by page, day by day, so that we could incorporate feedback (from Zoe and my sullen group of peers) each day. I didn’t see the intention then, and I don’t think Zoe ever spelt it out in so many words. What I remember most clearly, like a blinding ray of winter sunlight, is the terror I felt at being told to write for an audience. I had never in my short life been asked to do anything so intimidating. I felt betrayed by my well-meaning Amma. I did the only thing I could think of—I refused to write anything at all. But outright disobedience was too much for me. So I made up by forcing myself to read off a blank page every day.
Soon after, Amma took me to a bookshop near home. The sign outside read “Goodbooks”. We walked in, and the smell of new books, mingled with polished wood, greeted me. We walked to the end of the shop, not stopping at any of the shelves though I so wanted to. We climbed a winding staircase and entered a huge room. That was the first time I saw a wooden floor large enough to skate on. The walls were lined with For a month, I invented a story about a family of
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mer-folk that lived under a mythical sea, eating off pearly plates and going to school on seahorse-back. It took all my imaginative powers to sustain a page’s worth of story on the first day. But it became progressively easier; addictive, even. My story, my little mer-son’s fight with a passing octopus, my mer-house and the complex problem of how to design its windows – these preoccupied me through school each day. And when I would clamber up the winding staircase, a giddy rush of excitement would catch me in its wake and whirl me through the hour in the wooden-floored room.
though I cannot remember how it ended. To write is an art; perhaps one of the highest arts afforded to humankind for its ability to give shape to thought, and to aid memory. But in our rush to write, we do not realize that the act of writing is almost as final as that of pinning a vibrantly coloured butterfly to a board.
My mer-family no longer exists except in my memory. To have pinned it down would have preserved it, and my nine-year old self that created it, for all eternity – or at least for as long as that exercise book lasted. It I would would have been my rare butterfly.
I can see myself now, a too-thin girl rather remember with a Little Lulu haircut and an how my characters empty exercise book, excitedly But I chose to let it swim. stepped outside my “reading” out my story. I spun an blank pages, taking ocean, made Zoe smile and watched Even today, when I look for that on almost corporeal smugly as the circle gasped and elusive, perfect word in the midst of shapes clapped when my mer-folk escaped a writing something, I see the shadow brutal shark. A part of me wishes I had of a silver fish darting between rippling a record of those fantastical, childish words. fronds in a sun-kissed sea. And as I chew But that would make it all too concrete, too my pen, fretting over that word, I see myself final. swimming desperately after that fish. The fish laughs and darts on and on, and suddenly, I I would rather remember the astonishment I felt realize that it will not be caught. as my story progressed. I would rather remember how my characters began to step outside my And so I give up chasing after it, making do with blank pages, taking on almost corporeal shapes a less-than-perfect word for my essay or poem. and sauntering before my eyes until I could reach After all, I think, a very early lesson taught me out and graze them. I want to remember the that the joy of story-telling can be entirely pride in Zoe’s eyes the day I finished the story, independent of the impulse to record it. Pavithra Srinivasan is a graduate of literature from Lady Shri Ram College, New Delhi and a post-graduate in journalism from Asian College of Journalism, Chennai. Currently at the end of a life-changing year at the Young India Fellowship, a fully-funded liberal arts scholarship in collaboration with the University of Pennsylvania, she will soon be heading to the University of Oxford for an MSc in Social Anthropology. She hopes to wed anthropology, literature and multidisciplinarity in her future engagements. She is also a Bharatanatyam dancer and enjoys music, especially classical.
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Artwork: “Egg” by MEDHA KULKARNI medha-kulkarni.tumblr.com
Poetry
Two Poems by BEDATRI D. CHOUDHURY
II.
I. Don’t be scared of the forceps, child, Although the knives have been sharpened well. The needle will only prick for a second, And you will only bleed for a while. The steel may pinch your unformed toes And bring a soft cringe on your slimy forehead. It’s only a few hours’ doing, child – Don’t let all the blood scare you. Your mother will probably heave a sigh Because this was the way you had to die; Only from the clanging of metal claws, Cocooned in mists of injected anaesthetics, Far away from the wars we adults fight. Don’t cry, dear child, you’ll be alright.
I’ll write to you of my days here – How I ration out a little of myself to the dust every day, And how I master the art of staring at these red walls. I’ll write to you about the rains – How they break and make And how they break again. I’ll write to you of these songs – How they stay stuck to my head And how they all have no words. I’ll write to you of the poetry these men write – How they sometimes lack in metre, And how they sometimes make sense. I’ll write to you of the women here – How safe they feel behind their layers of khadi And with their heads of unkempt hair. I’ll also write to you of the voices in my head – How they tell tales in unknown tongues And sing long forgotten songs. I’ll write to you... One of these days.
When not at her desk doing mundane, office work-like things, Bedatri D. Choudhury chases people with a camera, or adds finishing touches to the world inside her head. She still writes using paper and a pencil (and sometimes a pen). Being a student of literature, she over-analyses and overtheorises in the process of making sense of the world around her, and gains immense pleasure while at it. She blogs at Buckets of Rain (beadysea.blogspot.in). Photograph by Bedatri D. Choudhury. Bricolage Magazine
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Short-Term Memory
I.
Shaleen Rakesh
Private Staircase A private staircase from the roof down to the hall the space in which no one is seen the timelessness of balconies the closeness to an opening round the bend here there are stairs on the air here we should meet I’ll bring the silence 
 you bring the possibility.
II. Memory Sometimes between us it appears to me there is the joyous memory of shared times here we are projected face to face in a picture for understanding if not living quietly here we are in reality as we were dreamed.
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III. The Brightest Star The night was a flood of tall blue trees the air sang as a music box and all the sky lamps were full of intent Your face was glowing like a series of interactive photographs like your love glows in my prayers The trees tell me that at night you are the brightest star and the photographs confirm that in the morning for you I will learn to stay.
Shaleen Rakesh is an activist and frequent traveler, currently working in Delhi on sexuality, gender and public health issues. He grew up in a liberal middle class family. His father, the well-known Hindi writer, Mohan Rakesh, was simultaneously an inspiration and a deterrent for him to start writing. He has been using social media as his primary form of creative expression including photographs, travel documents, letters and poems. This is his first formal submission to a magazine/journal. Blog shaleenrakesh.blogspot.in Photograph “My dream is to fly� by Nidhi Srivastava nidhis.tumblr.com
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Time Travails Nandini swaminathan
I. Disconnect A distant dream drenched in the sweat of cold reality time stretches on, it barely heals Clutching, goading throwing up thoughts stirring up feelings dragging out memories A confused existence a recurrence of thoughts a realisation of hopes of what might have been Time sweeps you away like a raging whirlwind fear, nostalgia, denial, hopes dance around, frenzied, gloating Standing in the midst of an almost predictable absurdity walking along the path to…who knows meeting everything coming your way Finding yourself in a world of confusion A lifetime is not enough.
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II. The Temple I stand alone. The trees are my only companions, a hunted tiger seeks my refuge Within my depths you will find the dust of ages, the footprints of sages. The bell still hangs up there rusting away into nothing dacoits are my only visitors laughing boorishly gloating at their loot. There was a time when my walls echoed with the chanting of prayers, the mumbling of priests, the deep vibrations of the bell Now all I hear is the screeching of bats the squeaks of rats the hooting of owls the chirping of crickets. The sacred idols stand lifeless their eyes blank adorned by nothing but cobwebs and rags The air smells of a bygone era of fervent prayers by the light of lamps
Nandini Swaminathan is a twentysomething temperamental writer, dreamer, offand-on photographer, connoisseur of all things beautiful. Musings of a Hyperactive Mind moopflower.livejournal.com
Someday I will be ‘unearthed’ and my worth realised;
Photograph “Ticking Clocks” by Serena Thangjam
until then I stand alone in this forgotten place I can call my own.
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Art
Buffet, 2012 • digital • 2000 x 2000 pixels
seven pieces by
Mattia Ammirati Bricolage Magazine
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Samulecolt, 2012 • enamel and marker on paper • 75 x 100 cm
Putti - Putto 2, 2012 • ink on paper • 15 x 15 cm
Pop Surrealismi - Bauhaus ink on paper • A4
Decomposizione • pen on paper • A4
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San Giorgio e il Cane pen on paper • A4
Mattia Ammirati has been drawing and painting since he can remember. He has participated in numerous artistic and cultural initiatives, and his work has been exhibited in Siena, Rome, Trevi and Perugia. He holds a degree in Visual and Performing Arts from the Pietro Vannucci Academy of Fine Arts Foundation in Perugia, Italy. In 2010, he published his first pulp novel, Un Posto Pieno di Sole (A Sunny Place; Albatros). He lives and works in London. Art blog: www.nonsidormiramai.blogspot.com
Carnivora con pappagalli oil on panel • 21.5 x 30 cm
LEAK
AGE
Anunay Ranjan
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Anunay Ranjan is a graduate of NIFT, Hyderabad, India. He is a designer, photographer and fashion illustrator based in Bangalore, India.
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Interviews
Sophie Tsiknia Sophie Tsiknia has been training in opera singing as a soprano since 2006. Based in Athens, she has performed in various productions, including Ariadne, Woman Prometheus, and a performance of Divine Dance at the ceremony for the lighting of the Olympic flame in 2012.
On Opera in Greece Kriti bajaj
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Is Greek opera a genre, different from other professionally. It was my music teacher at school operatic traditions? Could you tell us more who used to give me solos and that gave me some about it? confidence. Also, my German teacher back then happened to be a musician as well and when Opera is a genre itself, and we have different she heard me sing, she told me that I had to do traditions or schools in opera, like the Italian bel something with that voice – meaning that I had canto tradition or the Verismo tradition. In opera, to start some training. It was then that I started we usually talk about the Italian, the German, the considering becoming a professional singer. French and the Russian traditions. There were some musicians – there still are – composing Of course, it was too early to start working on my Greek opera: Greek in both language (libretto) voice because I was still a teenager and people and music. It is, in many cases, influenced by warned me against taking voice lessons before traditional and Greek folk music. This creates the age of 16. Knowing that I was too young some tradition, but not one that can be compared to start a formal vocal training, the only thing I to the Italian or the German one. could do was listen to the great operas. I started exposing myself to many operatic composers and On the other hand, we should not forget that I began looking for different interpretations of the opera as a genre itself began as an effort to one aria, and this is how I also familiarized myself revive ancient Greek tragedy in the early 17th with the great opera voices. It was a revelation! century. This means that opera was, from the very beginning, meant to be not only a musical When I finished school, I decided to take singing form but also a theatrical one, and this is how lessons, although the first four years the training it should be approached and performed. In this wasn’t intensive. I only had one voice lesson a sense, the very roots of opera are connected week, and I was also studying English Literature to the very roots of theatre in ancient Greece, at the University of Athens. despite the fact that opera is a wholly different genre. How long have you been performing as a professional artiste? How did you become interested in theatre and opera? I haven’t been singing for very long. My first performance was six years ago. I was terrified I first became interested in theatre. I remember to hear my voice in the theatre. It is a feeling wanting to become an actress when I was still in that most singers are familiar with; they have grade school. I was thrilled and mesmerized when definitely experienced that shock in their first my parents took me to a theatre performance; it performances. I watched the video of the felt like magic and I wanted to go on stage and take performance later and noticed all the mistakes part in the action. I don’t remember exactly what I made, all the things I missed, and I was kind of play that was, but it was a musical one disappointed. Of course, it didn’t sound awful because I can recall wanting to sing along. I was to those who listened to me; the problem is that also interested in music and I used to take piano you are always expecting yourself to be perfect lessons, but I knew I wasn’t destined to become a on stage – but there is no perfection on stage, pianist. It was in high school that I started feeling not to you. It may sound or look perfect to the that my voice had some potential. audience but even in this case it depends on the audience. If the audience comprises of “trained Is that when you decided to take up singing ears” – musicians or singers – they will be able to formally and begin training? give you a masterclass based on the notes they have taken on your performance. However, no Well, I had always enjoyed singing, but hadn’t one is going to be a stricter critic than your own realized I had a voice I could use to sing self. At least, this is how I feel about myself.
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Apart from technique, what else do you had some very basic training in acting through focus on when performing – or critiquing a these workshops. What I cherish a lot is the performance? ancient Greek drama and dance workshops I attended through my collaboration with the Singing and interpretation is built step by step. Ancient Greek Orchesis Group of the University You fix some technical things and then you have of Athens. I learned many things both through to focus on interpretation. Sometimes when you the workshops and through our performances. focus on interpretation, some technical things are The most important lesson was that movement, neglected, and this is when you have to go back voice and acting should be one thing and one to technique, fix the problem that has emerged reflex, and each one should be incorporated into the other. I try to keep that in mind in every performance. This is how ancient Greek drama used to be; song, speech/acting and dance were considered to be inseparable, and all three of these elements formed drama. What has been your favourite or most cherished performance?
Sophie performing Cinema Paradiso, Nakas Hall
I don’t have one favorite performance. I can think of many performances that I can call my favorites because I sang well, but even bad performances have taught me something. If it hadn’t been for bad performances, I wouldn’t have gotten better. It is especially after the not-so-good performances that you think about what you did wrong, and why; and this is a very useful process. It is a masterclass in itself. This is how it works; it is then that you reconsider things and sometimes you decide to work differently on some points or even approach your art in a different way, and that is progress.
and focus on interpretation again. I guess you understand now why a performance is never perfect. One performance is never the same as the previous one, and it shouldn’t be. The artist must grow performance after performance. Becoming better should be the goal, and this Have you ever considered opera a full-time is also your duty as an artist; perfection should career option? never be a goal in art. This is what I learnt from my first performances. Of course! Actually, this is the plan after I get my Diploma in Singing this June. I have been singing How do you feel you have progressed since your semi-professionally till now. I have to make ends early performances? meet, I have to pay bills like everybody and I also have to pay for my singing studies. I haven’t had a Of course, I have come a long way since then, steady income working as a singer so I did various both in terms of singing but also in terms of other jobs in the past along with singing. I have understanding what singing is about and what I also studied English Language and Literature, should expect from myself. Along with my voice and I’m also working as an English teacher, which and music lessons, I attended workshops and I I can say I enjoy very much. Kriti Bajaj writes, blogs, wanders and dabbles in photography. Her work has been published at IIC Diary, Fezana and The Culture Trip. She blogs at Reflections (partingthesilk.blogspot.in). Bricolage Magazine
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Hidden Inside I
ALESSANDRO ANEMONA
glimpses of the hidden inside by Alessia Maiolo
The frantic research for a whole and monolithic identity, for a static balance, leads to frightening realizations. Alessandro Anemona, an Italian photographer based in Rome, translates into pictures the awkwardness, alienation and loss generated through the clash of the polysemy of reality with the constructed nature of truth and the individual. Such feelings, close to anguish, are conveyed through the female body. Contracted, relaxed, dismembered in its details, that body is manipulated through an exceptional sensitivity that never deconsecrates or commodifies.
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Skizzofrènia
Our mental health and lucidity are two steps away from insanity. Mind structures, through which experience and knowledge are filtered, are precarious constructions, about to collapse at any moment. Our uniqueness stems from the most hidden follies we have always been taught to demonize. Stamped and ignored, they keep growing and growing; deformed, creepy and charming at the same time.
If one wants to cling to the acknowledged reality, the preservation of balance is a constant and ever-lasting duty. The awareness of the infinity of human potential creates disorientation and fear, as it leads individuals to glimpse the unknown. The need for control and safety hold us within neat boundaries and minimal spaces. Which artists would you define as having influenced your photography? Who have you been most inspired by in terms of artistic and technique choices? The list is long. Just to narrow it, I would start with Egon Schiele‌or maybe Caravaggio? It is complicated. I could define many artists and trends as my sources of inspiration and often there is no clear link between one and the other. I like Cubism. I like Japanese manga. I like Amelkovich, and many photographers unknown to the wider public. Why do you work with such minimal colours, contrasting bodies against dark and empty backgrounds? I try to communicate concepts, simple concepts. I believe that narrowing down colours and elements of composition allows a more immediate and neat communication of those concepts. Why is the female body a subject and means of expression in your works? Like many, I see beauty in the female body. Above all, I seek to represent an aesthetic ideal that is actually beyond woman and man, male and female. I often portray athletic bodies, because in certain positions and contexts, they almost lose their sexuality. Paradoxically, making some features less clear enables me to express concepts more clearly.
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Hekate IV You have done projects on Hekate, the cosmic ruler, followed by nymphal creatures in Tale of the Woods. Now your work in progress is about Madonnas. Could you tell us more about your use of mythological and religious iconography and symbols? Although I define myself as an atheist, I am interested in religions of different places and times. I am fascinated by the recurrence of universal meanings in different and distant contexts, and how their respective symbols manage to condense them powerfully. Alessandro Anemona’s works have been exhibited at several galleries and museums across Italy. The last exhibition was held at the end of 2012 at the Macro, a prestigious museum of contemporary art in Rome. www.premioceleste.it/artista-ita/idu:32546 All photographs courtesy of Alessandro Anemona.
Alessia Maiolo is a 24 year old Italian and aspiring journalist. She is a media graduate from SOAS, University of London. She is keen to write about current affairs, culture, art and cinema, has a special interest in investigative journalism and documentary production, and a passion for the Asian world.
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Photography
Gente de San Crist贸bal Sara Boccacci This project came about almost by accident. I was in Mexico for four months, three of which were based in San Crist贸bal de las Casas, in Chiapas. I was working on other photographic projects, learning Spanish and helping some friends in their disastrous attempts to keep a juice bar alive. Apart from that, I spent most of my time in my room, at the computer, sleeping, eating, watching trashy Mexican movies with friends, and smoking cigarettes.
I gradually realized that the spirit of the vibrant San Crist贸bal was reflected mainly in the lives of its inhabitants; the majority just passers-by, travellers, craftsmen, musicians, artists, students, activists and dreamers. Each with their own story, goals, projects; but all there to contribute to this place, to create and share a part of their lives with each other. I wanted to capture the life of SanCris through the people who have made the city so special to me, and I did it by watching their lives through the peephole of their rooms. This is what I found.
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Sara Boccacci is an Italian photographer and anthropology student based in London. Her passion for photography follows her passion for the world, its curiosities, its comical and its less comical sides. Her work has appeared at GlobalPost, LiveMint and Repubblica.it. saraboccacciphotography.wordpress.com
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Scenes from Konkan AVIGYAN DUTTA
The beauty of Konkan lies in the myriad hues it offers to the viewer.
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This part of Maharashtra (India) surprises with its ever-changing colours of the soil, sky and water in a span of less than 10km.
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Juxtaposed with the serene beauty of the region, it makes for a visual experience like no other.
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Avigyan Dutta is a photographer, foodie, blogger and MBA student, whose love for the art is only surpassed by his love for travel. What started off as a hobby grew into a passionate love affair with the camera. He has photographed Indian weddings, rituals, festivals, concerts as well as maintained a travel journal of scenic landscapes and experiences across Asia and Europe. His work has appeared in numerous publications, and he has worked as a photographer with Magic Bus Entertainment, the Indian Wiccan Community and Vodou Temple, and Hochschule Pforzheim. He currently lives and works in Germany. www.facebook.com/avigyanduttaphotography
We found ourselves chasing our own tails in Amritsar’s wonderfully chaotic streets, hungry but happy to finally be there.
The Colours of
Amritsar
Nanya Sudhir
Like the millions who make the pilgrimage to see it.
Jallianwala Bagh provided a really raw sense of the value of being a free Indian. I can’t even imagine how the people who live in these apartments must feel, looking out at Jallianwala Bagh every day.
Peeking through the window above the martyr’s well.
Footsteps in fading winter sun outside the Jallianwala Bagh museum.
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They say the best time to visit the Golden Temple is near sunset. It isn’t difficult to see why.
The temple, of course, is golden...
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...but at this time of day, so is everything else! The pool of water that it stands in, the long white boundary walls that surround it, everything glints gold.
Gorgeous, fluid gold.
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Through these arches are the great dining halls, where langar - communal temple fo It’s like a mildly inebriated man once told us: “Punjab isn’t a state in India. It’s a state of mind.”
Nanya Sudhir is a 21-year-old economics graduate with her head in the clouds, and lives in constant dread of being labelled ‘normal’. Blog: Independent Random Variables independentrandomvariables.blogspot.in
ood - is served.
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