Published by MCH Literary Club Manipal Centre for Humanities, Manipal, Karnataka- 576104
Only the copyright for this collection is reserved with Chaicopy. Individual copyright for artwork, prose, poetry, fiction and extracts of novels and other volumes published in this issue of the magazine rests solely with the authors. The magazine does not claim any of those for its own. No part of this publication may be copied without express written permission from the copyright holders in each case. The magazine is freely circulated on the World Wide Web. It may not be sold or hired out in its digital form to anybody by any agency whatsoever. All disputes are subject to the jurisdiction of the courts of the Republic of India.
In the new year, Team Chaicopy got together once again to brainstorm what our next edition would be. After much discussion and deliberation, we decided that our sense of Indianness or our inherent desi-ness brought us together as a community. From our love for block print and jhumkas to the annoyance while answering the questions of that one curious aunty, we truly have so many experiences in common, and we decided to celebrate that in this issue.
The title ‘Horn OK Please’ was chosen because we believe it captured the essence of desi-ness. No one can miss this iconic line at the back of the trucks (but how many of us know what this means?). Nevertheless, by capturing the essence of desi, we hope this edition helps you respond with something that you relate to a sense of Indians and even see what our authors have to share on the same. So grab your cup of chai or kaapi, and let’s enter this little disco-lighted truck, shall we?
You will find engaging prose, poetry, and photographs from around the country with stories such as ‘Papa ki middle-Class Pari’, ‘How Indian can India Be?, and ‘Yeh Haseen Wadiyaan’. These are just a few of the contents of this colourful issue.
For many of us at Chaicopy, this is our last edition, and while this was a bittersweet edition for us to be a part of, we are grateful for each and every one of you who shared your work with us, and we hope we were able to do it justice. We look forward to continue
to support the journal.
We hope you enjoy reading this edition as much as we enjoyed putting it together. Happy Reading!
With love, Mythily Zanjal and Chetana Agnihotri (and all of Team Chaicopy)
Ingredients
Untitled | Visual Art | Chetana Agnihotri
Chai Expressions
Healed | Short Story | 1
Swayama Sengupta
Where I'm From | Poetry | 9
Ipsita Misra
Sex-Vex | Visual Art | 11
Azra Bhagat
Papa ki middle-class Pari | Short Story | 12
Suzanne A. H.
The City of Joy | Poetry | 18
Ipsita Misra
Untitled | Visual Art | 20
Ishani Kadu
TINNITUS | Short Story | 21
Thiyagaraj Gurunathan
A Trip Down Memory Lane | Visual Art | 32
Aparna Adiyolil
On Transit House, Kolkata | Poetry | 35
Madhumita Roy
We Are Like This Only | Short Story | 37
Chandrika R Krishnan
A Scent of Nostalgia: The Sand, The Sea and The Warm Memories ~ A Triptych of Images | Visual Art | 40
Jayden Pais
Kaapi Sessions
Juxtapositions | Creative Non-fiction | 42
The Exasperated Idealist
Ma's Biryani Recipe | Creative Non-Fiction | 44
Aditi Srivastava
Untitled | Visual Art | 46
Ar. Nikhil S Kohale
Puran Poli | Poetry | 47
Aishwarya Javalgekar
Yeh Haseen Wadiyaan | Visual Art | 48
Manasi Chattopadhyay
The Jewel of Ravangla | Visual Art | 48
Manasi Chattopadhyay
Timeless Beauty | Visual Art | 49
Manasi Chattopadhyay
The Roadtrip | Poetry | 50
Aishwarya Javalgekar
How Indian can India be? | Creative Non-fiction | 52
Lakshmi V.
Being A Bengali Through the Lens of Fashion | Creative
Non-fiction | 58
Ipsita Misra
Symmetry Etched in Time | Visual Art | 61
Manasi Chattopadhyay
Walk The Wall | Creative Non-fiction | 62
E. Dawson Varughese
The Contributors | 69
The Teatotallers | 73
CHAI EXPRESSIONS
Healed
Swayama Sengupta
“Ma, gormagorom cha ready, here you go.”
“Thanks, Manai.”
As Jhumki and Manai each blew and slurped from their steaming cups, a perfectly synchronized “aaahhh” chorused out of their relieved throats.
“How’s the tea?”
“Good, my throat’s been itching and hoarse all day, I really needed it.”
“Well it is the season of transition after all; Boshonto has that effect on people, not too hot, not too cold, you cannot decide whether to switch on the fan. By the way, winter was shorter this time, tai na?”
“It really was. Back when I was little, winters used to be long and chilly. They started all the way from the end of October and ended somewhere around the beginning of March. As you know, Krishnanagar was fabled for its extreme temperatures.”
“And why is that?”
“Really, Manai, sometimes I wish I had never taught you Geography. It is because the Tropic of Cancer passes through the district of Nadia.”
“Sorry, go on.”
“That’s it.”
“Please, ma, could you not tell me more about your childhood? Please, please, I made you tea.”
Jhumki set aside her cup, sat with her legs crossed on the sofa and began, eyeing the ice-cream cart ringing by, “You have so many flavours these days, when we were kids, they made a 5 paisa plainbodied colourful ice cream, and the fun was that you could stick out your tongue to show the colour. Red was my favourite, and orange was Rinku’s.”
“You mean Rinku Mashi? She is anything but fun.”
“Well, she was not a mashi back then and you could always treat yourself with the milk ice cream sprinkled with coconut shreds… oh, that one was heavenly!”
“And how much did it cost?”
“10 paisa…would you just stop interrupting me and close your mouth already? We are talking about the 70s. Where was I? Oh yes, and the one that we could just dream of yet dared not grasp was the 1 rupee ice -cream. It looked a little like a Chocobar and was beautifully wrapped in a box. Simple, isn’t it? But to us, it meant more than a Magnum or a Cornetto. I loved ice -creams just as you do.”
“You mean you did not have pharyngitis then?”
“I very much did but I did not care, I relished on ice creams and ended up with a throat infection, stuffed my face with chanachur and dalmoth, and devoured lemon drops and suffered from acute
stomach aches. Oh, they used to hurt so bad,” Jhumki guffawed, her amber eyes sparkling from recalling her golden days.
“They still do”, murmured Manai who, though enamoured, could not help but point out the truth.
“Yeah,” Jhumki said, glancing from the corner of her eyes, “but back then parents did not have much to say or should I say ‘protect’?
Stomach aches, runny nose, bruises from playing were treated as, well, stomach aches, runny nose and bruises, not an emergency ward. Didn’t they?”
“Oh absolutely,” confirmed Anjan, just ending a phone call. “And there were some unsaid rules. You could have as much fun as you wanted in a day but not without completing your homework. Besides, there was a specific hour for returning home: before sunset. Then it was- back to studying, and by 10, the lights were to be switched off. No all-nighters. Get up early next morning and…I particularly remember the back and forth rocking rhythm we used to get into while memorizing the tables:
And to answer your second question, nope, it was not or maybe…? Jokes aside, did that mean our parents did not care for us? Of course they did. , I seem to see that Nowadays, we protect and shield you kids from any problem at all. That is different from what our parents did.”
“What about you, baba? What did you do for fun?”
“Oh, were should I begin? Ah, during rainy days, I remember, your jethu and I went straight to the gutters for fishing. Guess what our equipment was….nope, not a fishing rod, but the good old gamchha, to be precise. We had a blast fishing the rainbow coloured Kholshe mach and collecting them in Horlicks jars. I tell you; they were no short of aquariums and we had plenty of those decorated on the bookshelves, something worth looking at and be proud of while solving those algebra. My baba? Definitely not, we made it sure that he did not know a thing about our fun or we could be thrashed for splashing around the gutter.”
“Wait, did you two know each other since childhood or were your parents the same? And was the ‘emergency ward’ targeted towards me?”
“Baba lived at Ishapur, a hundred miles away from Krishnanagar, so it was not funny, and I am pretty sure most people had similar disciplined lifestyles. Also, I could hear the other kids of my para (neighbourhood) all reading aloud, while a few played harmonium.
Grinning at the last bit, Jhumki proceeded to add her share, “And I just loved sports days when we used to organize ekka dokka, kitkit, kumir danga, kabaddi, skipping, racing competitions in our yard and the winner was awarded with erasers, pencils, lozenges or even a pack of salted peanuts. Oh I could still hear the repeated chants of kitkitkitkit while playing the game. Once you stop murmuring, you get disqualified. That’s the only difference with Ekka Dokka. And my grandma used to judge as well as oversee them should we cheat.”
“You forgot danguli, aish baish and pittu. And your ma is right about the award ceremony, but in our case, the winner was awarded with luchi aloordom. ”
Dui ekke duu-ui
Dui dugune chaa-ar…”
“I don’t remember playing them much, but I loved playing with dolls. They were not Barbies; they were miniature clay dolls bought from the renowned Ghurni. If my doll bridegroom was to marry the doll bride of Rinku, my cousins and I dressed him in his bridal attire and headed out to Rinku’s house, where we were welcomed with papad bhaja, chanachur, lollipops and Campa Cola.”
“Can you recall a specific day, ma?”
Stifling a laugh, Jhumki recalled, “Indeed. Once, Rinku and her brother Bonny were to visit us with their bridegroom to wed our bride. So, you could imagine that it was a busy day; so many things had to be done. One was cooking leaves in her little kadhai with the spoon I had sneaked out from the kitchen, the other was making a house for the couple-to-be out of a shoe box, another dressing the bride. I stood at the entrance to usher the guests in with a garland. Since they were a little late, I went inside to check on the preparations and saw my youngest cousin standing near the food shelf with one hand inside the dalmoth packet we had stored for the gala. She froze with her red bulging mouth. And I would never forget the moment I went ahead, smacked her face, and out flung her mouth stuffed with our precious spicy dalmoth. Oh, she was so adorable! The wedding, of course, was postponed for the next day as someone reported me to the headquarters immediately.”
Manai wiped off a tear, “That was so sneaky of her. But that means you got dolls and dresses on your birthdays, right?”
“Not me”, claimed Anjan, “Birthdays were special because of the books we used to get, especially Indrajal Comics: Phantom, Mandrake, Flash Gordon, Bahadur, Goenda Rip. You name it, we devoured those…”
“Not to interrupt you but we were really protective of them too. There have been times when people had not returned them after borrowing. Do you remember when the Phantom got married to Diana Palmer?”
“Definitely! Everyone had a copy of that. Besides, Hada Bhoda, Batul the Great, Nonte Phonte, Amar Chitra Katha, Chand Mama, Chacha Chaudhary, Gablu were other attractions. We read them and had a serious talk among ourselves. If I had not read something, I asked it to borrow it and swapped my marbles in exchange.”
“Um, but, why did you exchange stuff, baba?”
“Because, it felt like we were grownups doing business; that was the fun of it. The thing is, internet did not exist then and neither did cell phones. Televisions did emerge but we bought them much later.
I still remember our fist T.V., it was huge, was fitted in a wooden case which could be slid off from both sides, and resembled a microwave. But people actually socialized and did things for fun in very different but simple ways. Yes, one more thing that existed was the radio. Remember the jingle of Boroline, Jhumki?”
Humming in approval, Jhumki nods, “Shurobhito Antiseptic Cream Boroline…”.
“Akdom! Do you know that after finishing homework, we circled around my uncle, who used to narrate about his time in Bangladesh? We asked him to tell us stories about his childhood, just as you are asking ours, and how he famously survived the dreaded dacoits by attacking them with his ultra heavy cycle lifted above his head roaring HA-RE-RE-RE-RE-RE and hurling it on them.”
“Listening to stories from grandparents about their lives in Bangladesh or anything was the part of the charm. Like baba, even
we used to flock around our dimma and enjoyed hearing them. She would tell us how girls of her age had to learn rifle shooting for their safety during independence; how she had to leave her beloved desh and friends and cross the border with her family, how she used to secretly read Sarat Chandra Chattopadhyay’s banned novel Pather Dabi, and on hearing the boots of the British sentry on the streets, hid it under her pillow and blew off her candle. So, some days the stories took an adventurous turn while sometimes we demanded ghost stories. And what could be a better time to listen to spooky tales other than Kalbaishaki, the unstoppable thunderstorms in the blistering month of Baishakh, after we all ran and collected a bucket full of mangoes from the streets. Dimma, power cuts, ghost stories, Kalbaishaki and a taste of the freshly collected mangoes: moments to live by.”
“Aww…that is so cool, ma.”
Anjan beamed as he spoke, “What was cool was the Kuler achaar (Jujube pickle) that my mother and grandmother used to rest under the sun on the terrace which, probably, had the best taste. The only thing that could make us come running down was the ferriwala who came to sell practically everything on his cycle ranging from stationary goods like glass bangles, ribbons, perfumes in colourful glass bottles, rings to hawa mithai, kulfi, soan papdi, brass utensils and even gas balloons. And the ferriwala would announce his entry in the para shouting, “Kancher churi, malai Kulfi, angti, bashon nebeeee…” in his most peculiar and shrill voice. Ah, those were the days…! Why the long face, Manai?”
“Your days seem to be happier, greener and uncomplicated; does that mean our times are not good enough?”
Maybe we had parents and were small and so had fewer or no responsibilities like now, but not entirely without complications”, said Jhumki, “Look at the brighter side, medical science has advanced and so has technology. But to me, the things that seem to have been missing are humility, the urge to respect if not return to roots, the simplicity and finding happiness in little things. You see, it is kind of a pattern that has been passed down the generations and it goes like this, “Back in my days…”. Maybe someday you would say to your kids how Walkmans and Compact Disks used to be a thing in your days. Hence, carpe diem. Make your fullest now.”
Nudging his eyebrows Anjan asked, “Speaking of which, shouldn’t you better study and make the fullest of it?”
“Oh, yes! Manai, it’s been more than an hour, but you need not worry, I would go to the exam hall with you and write your Geography paper instead.”
“Got it, ma, going.”
As Manai left the room, she heard her father asking her mother, “How’s your throat?”
“Healed.”
“Happy? Yes. Greener? Oh yes. But I don’t know about happier.
Where I’m From
Ipsita Misra
I’m from the red soil of Bengal, From the blue skies of the summer heat That at times seems perpetual, And from the bitter winters thereafter.
I’m from the fish vendor’s everyday shouts About Hilsa, Pomfret, and Katla.
I’m from the school building in the remote village, Where I fell in love with books.
I’m from the lovely smell of old pages, Of these books that had been someone else’s memory too.
I’m from the smell of rice and fish curry, From rosogollas and aloo dum too, And from a rational two-piece school uniform With hair let loose.
I’m from the school where at times I wondered. “Someday this will end,” And cry thereafter.
I’m from the ink I spilled onto pages after pages, When I wrote my heart out in my adolescence.
I’m from that railway station Which has become so familiar to me from vacations To 200 kms away into the city of Kolkata.
I’m from a land far away Created only in my imagination, A world built out of daydreams.
Azra Bhagat
When it comes to sex — No means NO. But how can we expect anyone to understand no when we have never been taught to say yes! In a country like India where women who want sex are labelled #sluts #slags and #hoes amongst other dirtier insults there is no space for sex positivity. With negative images of rape and sexual violence positive desire, especially for women, recedes into the background. It is only when women are not shamed for accepting their sexual agency will they allow themselves to say yes! Loudly and univocally which will make the no much more meaningful.
Papa ki Middle-Class Pari
Suzanne A. H.
I chose a particularly blazing day to break my public transport celibacy. It wasn’t an ordinary summer day, no sir. The sun felt different, straight overhead with a frightening glare, somewhat like a tired man riding on the pique of a mid-life crisis. Those are amusingly murderous. Try walking on their lawns. The sun looked like said angry man was forbidden by his wife from downing his third cold beer after a long day at work. My shirt clung to the back, nasty sweat trickling down. I sighed heavily, blinking away the white flashing brightness of that day.
I looked around myself at the exhausted faces of fellow travelers, an old woman, a pair of boys and a few manual workers. They didn’t look nearly as dead as me. They looked bothered sure, but practiced. I felt very aware of my novelty. It’s another thing to ask for help as a child but a twenty-four-year-old woman! It’s mortifying. I told myself to follow, blindly follow these good children of God as soon as the bus arrived. How would I know it’s the right bus?
I shrank back in my seat, fanning myself with the palm of my hand. The bus stand was beside a lower public school, separated from its premises by a shabby brick wall. Students had painted it with a pair of toddler green mountains and a sun in between. It was beginning to chip off at the edges. As the clock struck noon, I heard the bell announce recess. Within a blink of an eye, Armageddon had been unleashed on the poor three-by-three bus stand. Children of various shapes, sizes and energy crawled into the space like thousand damning worms from the underworld. I panicked and grabbed my
bag, standing up so fast my head spun. Vendors came rushing in with ice lollies and roasted peanuts, calling out in a classic nasal tone. It seemed like an impossible task to tear through the crowd.
“Aunty! Aunty! When is the next bus coming?” I yelled across to the old woman. She scanned me head to toe with a tinge of judgment.
“Where do you have to go?” She frowned, unbothered by the children wriggling around her legs.
“Pashupin garden.”
“That is downhill. From 12:15 buses will start coming in. Get in on any.”
“Any?”
“Uh...check, and then get in.”
How do I check? Where do I check? Will it be written on the bus?
I wanted to throw up. Fishing out my water bottle, I took a thirsty gulp.
There is nothing more comical than a middle-class girl raised with upper-class protection. I never had to take the bus as a child, growing up around parents who could afford to have me driven around in a private car. The cherry on top was their satisfaction knowing their little ray of pusillanimous sunshine was safe and secure within their protection. What they couldn’t afford was to keep me cocooned away from the inevitable desi phenomenon of life in Bharat.
submission. Cabs and autos were on strike. Unfortunately, my parents couldn’t send me off to college in another state with the protection of a private car. I could have probably joined the sun for a cold beer myself. I desperately looked around for a sign that could direct me to the right bus. The lone electric sign board was flickering with the last few breaths of life, about half the letters missing. Sighing, I waited for the clock to read Twelve fifteen. With every passing minute, the crowd began to dwindle. At twelvefifteen sharp, the school rang its bell again, marking recess’s end. A remaining few loitering rebels ran back to class. Only two little girls in uniform stood timidly on the bus stand with anticipation and familiar nervousness in their eyes. The one with a pair of curved ribbon braids was comforting the other, who appeared slightly younger. She seemed distressed, as if she had eaten something bad. She clutched her belly as the other girl offered her a drink of water.
Two minutes later, one bus arrived. To my relief, an enthusiastic conductor was hanging off the door and yelling, “Pashupin Garden! Pashupin Garden! Ha, madam Pashupin Garden?”
He was looking right at me. I spied the little girls climbing onboard. I would have too if the bus hadn’t been so very crowded. There seemed to be no space to step on. I receded at the sight, the repulsed look on my face probably noticeable. The conductor asked again, “Arey madam where do you want to go?”
“Pashupin Garden,” I mumbled.
“Then come na.” He said, agitated. “Pashupin.....bhau, come.. come...pashupin!” He took his business to passersby.
“There is no space,” I said nervously. He blinked at me, incredulous.
That day had finally arrived. It was the last day of my portfolio
“Uff... there is plenty. See, madam, who knows when another bus will come, so hurry up.” He called, jumping out.
“But I was told buses will keep coming till one!”
He chuckled, “Arey do whatever madam. This might be the last bus for all you know. Who can predict the traffic huh? Arey chalo re, let’s go.” He smacked the bus three times.
The engine roared to life.
“Wait!”
I squeezed my way in. The stench was the first thing that hit me, ripe and strong. Then came a wave of humidity. Before I could fully enter the aisle, I felt like I was cooking from within. I felt the curious looks of people on my mostly covered skin. Maybe it was my clothes that rendered me a stark misfit, or perhaps the dumbfounded look on my face. I felt the heated stares of aunties, uncles and children alike. The bus sprung to motion, and I nearly fell forward. Grabbing the nearest handle, I sighed in short-lived relief, for the very next moment, my face met the sweaty armpit of a morbidly large man who was holding an overhead railing. I felt tears burning at the back of my eyes. Profusely wiping at my face with my own sweaty palm, I looked around hopelessly for a window of air.
“Madam you please go sit in the driver’s cabin.” The conductor frowned, pointing to an equally packed area behind a glass partition. How? I thought to myself. How can I possibly squeeze into that?
Not wanting to come in contact with another armpit, I tore through
the crowd, a sudden sense of determination oozing out of my pores along with sweat. Nobody heard my ‘excuse me’. So I resorted to elbowing people with a rock over my convent-educated heart. To my surprise, no one seemed to mind my elbowing, as if that was how one was supposed to travel in buses. I reached the cabin and toppled to the other side, falling onto a tiny space that wouldn’t even fit half an infant. At least there were no armpits this time. There were only ladies and children in this area. Next to me sat a woman with a bright red pallu covering her face. Her husband presumably, stood guard right by the cabin door. In front of me were the same two school girls whom I had seen at the bus stand. I felt strangely relieved.
It was a half-hour ride with multiple stoppages. I was beginning to grow used to the environment. The heat was starting to get bearable. Even the stench was fading. That or my olfactory senses had been burned off by the noxious odour. Nonetheless, I was beginning to calm down, allowing myself to concentrate on Par desi blasting out of the stereo when I noticed something that made me freeze in terror. The younger schoolgirl sitting opposite me was going to get sick!
Nobody else noticed it. Her friend had dozed off by her side. The rest of the passengers were in their bubble unaware of what catastrophe lay ahead of us. The girl was retching. At first, at an interval of a few minutes then every few seconds. I was beginning to hyperventilate. I felt my cheeks rush with heat. If I get puked on, I might cause some harm, I thought. I stared at the girl long enough for her to notice. She looked at me, eyes scared and worried. Her mouth was twitching, mere inches away from mine. I couldn’t believe this was going to happen!
I held her gaze and widened my eyes. A warning was shot like the
one mothers give their children in public. Tilting my head ever so slightly, I flared my nostril. She received the warning. I saw panic register in her eyes. The poor girl squirmed away, pulling her head down on the board separating us. This time I did not sigh in relief. Instead, I kept my gaze firmly on the girl. My feet began to tap uncontrollably. I felt like a ticking time bomb was placed in my heart. Her body jerked now and then as she repressed her vomit. Throughout the remaining ride, she kept her head down, rising only thrice in totality to check if I was still looking. I was. I maintained the stony look of warning each time, “Look, kid, you throw up on me. I throw up on you.”
The City of Joy
Finally, upon safely getting down at Pashupin Garden, I felt the cool marine breeze wrap around me. The crowd was dispersing to their final destinations. The two school girls were whispering to each other, looking and pointing toward me. I spotted the majestic sandstone building of my university on the horizon. Never had I been that happy to see it. I smiled to myself, clearly high on making it on my own. The bus driver’s playlist was still audible to me, although not in the obnoxiously loud way it was in the cabin. As I walked away from my adventure, I hummed to masakali masakali.
Just then, I stopped mid-track at the bellowing scream of an uncle. “Hai bhagwan! What have you done!”
I turned around to face the commotion. The little girl couldn’t hold it in any longer. She threw up right outside the bus, as soon as she found level ground. Her victim; that uncle. I couldn’t feign remorse over bullying the poor kid when the odour of regurgitated lunch travelled far and wide. I was only human and I survived. If no one, not even I, Darwin would be proud. That’s what I told myself as I skipped my way to hell.
The city of joy, Shining its bright lights, Heart of Bengal, Kolkata, forever.
A city with its charm, Packed into earthen pots, Steaming momos and biryani,
From the neighbourhood shops.
The sweetest language, Spoken by neighbours
And the people at the bus stop.
Living up to cliche, Sweetshops and classical music tunes echo loud
From
Secluded neighbourhoods
Intermingled with pop music
To the bustling streets. Men in dhotis and Punjabis
Amidst women flaunting their saris and bindis.
Men in suits and spectacles, Women in their summer dresses.
Ethnic and western
Mixed in one land.
Children shouting from morning till evening,
Ipsita Misra
Playing cricket in the small lanes beside every house.
Coffee houses full of lively discussions, Followed by trips to the Oxford bookstore. Vendors selling their wares
At the top of their voice
“Dosh taka, dosh taka, dosh taka!”
Birds chirping in the shining dawn
Crows cawing at the closing dusk. Lovers sneaking out at night
To attend a concert or a protest.
Unbearable heat in summer heat, Sweating, sweating, Sighs in between.
Posters of the hammer and sickle, Painted red like blood, Standing out under the summer sun. An old man sitting on a rooftop, Sipping tea, reading a book. A shopkeeper closing his shop
To catch a nap before evening falls. Kolkata, the heartland of Bengal, A city with peerless charm.
Ishani Kadu
Thiyagaraj Gurunathan
Sound 1: Missed Alarms
After a whole night’s travel via cab from office to home and a latenight cup noodle to serve his hunger pangs, Toru tried to fall asleep to restart his schedule for the next day, which was destined to follow the same pattern. An average day, for an average Indian worker, working for an MNC. The local elections are something which the global conglomerate that Toru works for ostensibly ignores— because one needs to work more and work hard, if not harder. It was a huge deal for Toru to get back home amidst the crowd and bustle of the traffic jam caused by the campaigning and the patriotic rush of the party members. The city, known for its traffic, nightlife, and party culture, was getting these identity markers redefined during the election days. Horns and fireworks blazing, with people from different parties crisscrossing each other to secure their wins, created a spectacle—too deafening for one’s ears, too blinding for one’s eyes. A sensory overload. It was very late at night when Toru reached his flat. He picked up his phone and saw that it was already switched to its bedtime mode; it was 23:35. He checked whether the alarms were on and if the volume was high enough to wake him up the next morning. He placed it at arm’s length and closed his eyes. Suddenly, he felt an abrupt jerk in his body, disrupting his efforts to sleep. It was not his phone but the late-night DJ organized somewhere near his residence. At this point, he honestly did not care if it was the partywalas or a shaadi. As he lived on the top floor of his building, the DJ-blazing woofers did their damage straight up. For your information, dear reader, it is certainly against the Constitution to flare up people’s eardrums after a certain point in
time. But then, it simply did not matter tonight. They say ‘the city never sleeps’, and for that to be true, the citizens should not sleep either. Seeking a bare minimum agency in his life, Toru wanted to resist the larger criterion of this nocturnal citizenship and tried to sleep amidst the chaos that ensued in his routine. He eventually slept, too, successfully.
He woke up the next morning when the sunlight started creeping in through the windowpanes, bringing in the summer heat in March. His phone was lying dormant; silent and dark, as if angry at the main character. Toru grunted in regret as he did not hear the alarms that he had set in quick succession to ring every ten minutes after the clock strikes 6 a.m. He thought perhaps his body had shut down his ear as a protective mechanism to soothe itself after a whole day of chit-chats, pom-poms, $@#*%!, and the playlist, which had gone straight to his middle ear through his noise-cancelling Bluetooth earphones. The harm was done, and Toru, of course, knew that he was late. “But how late was he?” was the question—was he too late, or ok-ok late, or a mess-up that would cost him a half-day paycheck late?
Toru checked his phone to find out the exact time, and it was 07:03. An ok-ok late, manageable as is life. He just had to do things at a little faster pace, skip his yoga routine and exercise session, and he would manage to clock in just on time. After clearing the pending alarms and the ones on snooze, he woke up from the comfort of his bed and got dressed. Locked himself out of the apartment. And the day restarts again.
Sound 2: The Green Garbage Truck
As he was stepping out of the parking space, he was greeted by a
familiar sound—actually, a song. A cute nursery rhyme kind of song sung by children. One who is not familiar with the context might be mistaken to assume that this tune flows from a nearby school’s assembly. A small green garbage truck slowly treads in his apartment lane to clear yesterday’s garbage. The slowmoving mini truck unveils itself as the song’s source. The sanitary workers driving the truck visit the apartment every day in utmost punctuality—discarding the benefit of the doubt usually weighed on governmental proceedings to be deferred infinitely in lethargy. The song is composed of the following lyrics, as it is broadcasted to all the residents:
arrived ten minutes after the garbage truck visits his residential space. He rushed to the bus stand from where the workforce gets picked. Despite waking up late, he was on time since the traffic caught hold of the bus. Traffic is one such human event where everything slows down, and time seems to flow faster. Once the bus arrives, he gets on to catch the empty window seat waiting for him. As he looks at the city traffic outside the window, his eyes slowly sink, trying to complete the seven-hour sleep recommended by his doctor. Unmindful of the random Bollywood music playing on the bus, his reality slowly fades out in the background as he courageously takes a nap, knowing that the bus will take at least an hour to reach the office at this pace. His friend Raj, who gets on the bus at the next station, wakes him up as they reach the office in an hour—just as Toru guessed.
The song moved Toru as much as the truck kept on moving from one street to another. He felt that the idea of calling the children to sing for a clean and sustainable country is cute and complimentworthy. However, the motive of his interest stemmed from his rural childhood. He remembered how when he was a child, he was discriminated against under the label of being “unclean”. Even as a child, unlike his other classmates, he made a special effort to dress up nicely and present himself well. However, it welcomed him more hatred than compliment—something which eluded his grasp of logic and reason.
Now, with the village and his childhood in the past, Toru is part of a fleeting city—an icon of a nation—where a truck comes each day to clean the garbage of the city. As he was walking adrift in his thoughts, Toru was pulled back by the song again, which for him not only just served as a reminder to be eco-friendly but also reminded him that it was almost time to catch his office bus, which
Sound 3: Lingua Musica
Toru’s company had a huge cafeteria and food court to satisfy the culinary cravings of the workforce, given that the consumption here proportionately directs the production of the company’s assets and market value. People from all sorts of backgrounds and ethnicities converge at this single point to break their fast-paced routine. After which, the workers, including Raj and Toru, aligned themselves at their useful cabins and devotedly began to proceed with their work.
Since early morning, Toru was experiencing a sense of discomfort in his ears which visualized itself in his face. Raj was quick to pay attention to his friend’s unusual change of expression and questioned him, “What’s up with the new rasa, bhai?”
“Rasa?! What do you mean?” asked Toru in a perplexed manner.
“I am talking about this” Raj made a cringe facial expression, mimicking his friend, and asked again, “What happened? Are you good?”
Toru chuckled and explained, “Nothing, yaar. My ears have been aching since this morning. These DJ walas made quite a ruckus last night; maybe it’s because of that.”
“You should have gone and joined the vibe. Live your life, bro,” replied Raj.
Toru was not in the mood to discuss the vibe, let alone discuss the sustained vibrations which his ear echoed mildly. Concerningly, Toru took to Google to check his symptoms. It displayed variety of diseases for the anxietycrippled Toru to pick on. “Middle ear infection”, “Swimmer’s ear”, “Mastoiditis”, and “Tinnitus”. “Ah! TINNITUS” exclaimed Toru. It closely aligned with what Toru suspected himself, given how the symptoms matched. As Toru was trying to book an online appointment to fix his ear, Raj nudged him to visit the mess as it was already lunchtime. It dawned on Toru only at that moment that he had not taken a meal for the last thirteen hours after his halffinished cup of noodles last night. His emotions took a roundabout towards absolute hunger from his health anxiety.
Unlike his closeted office space, which is kept clean in privacy, the food court was a cluttered economy in itself. To cater to the various people’s cravings and their ethnic cuisines, there were multiple stalls arranged in an arcade with a long line of customers waiting in front of each stall. However, the dining area was a huge space set in the middle of the squared food arcade with a capacity to occupy at least five hundred people in a sitting. The food court was also arranged as a recreational space with multiple television
and surround music systems. As Raj and Toru arrived at the food court, Toru started bringing up his rasas onto his face again. Some bunch of guys in the dining area were playing a Punjabi pop song at full volume—they seemed to enjoy it, although some co-workers showed visible signs of discomfort with the loudness. Raj, who went to fetch the order for both, came back to see Toru in distress. Without any reply, Toru got up from his chair and went to the group who were playing the loud music.
He reached out to one of the guys and politely made his request.
“Can I borrow the remote from you, please?” asked Toru.
“NO” the guy said and turned back.
There came a reply which quite unsettled Toru. Usually, the workers at the MNC were decent enough to accept such requests and cooperate with the other staff present. This was new to him, and he took a moment to regain his composure. He slowly bent down towards the guy’s ear from behind to explain his concern again. Toru made his request a bit clearer this time.
“I would just like to turn down the volume a bit, and you can continue to listen to the song”, said Toru.
“Not happening”, he said in a blunt and dismissive tone.
Toru was almost done at this point, and he was in more pain as they were all sitting right beside the speaker setup. Not tolerating the loud noise and the guy’s cold response, Toru picked up the remote by himself.
“As if it’s your father’s property”, Toru murmured to himself
in anger. “No point in being polite and humble these days”, he continued as he turned down the volume. After toning it down to a bearable level, he returned to his seat.
“Hey, dude. What happened?” inquired Raj.
“Nothing. I just turned down the volume,” replied Toru. “Achcha” said Raj.
Raj noticed signs of commotion and disturbance in the area. He went over to talk to one of the guys there.
“What were you telling them?” questioned Toru, upon Raj’s return.
“Arey! They misunderstood you. They assumed you were from the South and wanted to play songs from there which they don’t like, it seems.”
“What even? Just because I am dark-skinned? What in the name of racism. Too quick to assume and judge, these people. Disappointing!” grunted Toru dejectedly.
Raj was not sure if he was grunting due to his ear pain or these incidental remarks.
“By the way, why were you pointing towards your ears while talking to them?” inquired Toru.
“I told them that you have got this ear issue today for real and that is the reason behind your action. I had to convince them, you know,” said Raj.
about my problems? As if they would give a damn about it in the first place.”
By this time Milind, a junior from Toru’s team, joined the table and was listening to the latter part of the conversation keenly. “Bhaiya, look at them. All of them must be going to gym daily. Do you think it is wise to envy them? Why would you ask for a thrashing?” chuckled Milind, along with others.
“Do you not think that I would land a single punch at least? That’s what matters. Even if it is one punch, it should be worth it,” said Toru.
“But the actual question is not about all this”, Toru continued. “Why do they think one should not play South Indian songs in the first place?” raised his question.
In the meantime, the other group did not turn up the volume again; besides, Toru and his mates finished their meals too.
“There is quite a Telugu-speaking population in our company, and they often play their music for the most part in the cafeteria. This leaves the others frustrated as they want to play their music loud, too!” said Milind.
“Everyone can play music they like, Milind. This is a cafeteria, not a battle of bands. One has to play it with some courtesy to others. That’s it,” said Toru.
Toru was even more frustrated at this, “Why should they know
Even after returning to this cabin, Toru was feeling restless about the whole incident and wanted to declutter his thoughts. He took picked up his phone to scroll through Instagram and, as a matter of coincidence (or was it?), read a WHO warning which showed up in
in his feed. The post read like this:
“Did you know? 1 in 2 young people are at risk of hearing loss due to unsafe listening.”
Toru took this as a sign and chose to write about the issue to HR. He soon forwarded the mail to his co-workers’ inbox too. The thread got interesting as it gained some response on the lingua franca Hindi and its corresponding lingua musica.
Sound 4: Email Notifications
[19/03/2023, 14:05]
Hello everyone,
This has been a pressing issue for a while and I think many would resonate with it. It’s about PLAYING LOUD MUSIC in our dining space. Many people experience severe discomfort, migraine and anxiety due to such heavy auditory disturbances. One can listen to whatever music of their choice and enjoy their meals. We need not just share food but also share music with each other! However, in this process, let’s keep in mind that all are comfortable with the volume of the speakers, given that the cafeteria is a very chaotic space already -- commotion of people, vessels clamor and to top that LOUD BOOM MUSIC.
I really hope that this message is received in the right tone, as it is written, by all the workers present. I also request the concerned authority to intervene and set some permissible noise limits, because we all share the same dining area and let’s make it comfortable for all. I am looking forward to your prompt response about it.
Kindly play music for your enjoyment and not for others misery. Thanks
[19/04/2024, 14:06] All the employees, please take care of it��
[19/04/2023, 14:07] What about songs in other than common language Hindi?
[19/04/2023, 14:09] They use to play music at very high volume and intentionally even after saying NO for playing those songs.
[19/04/2023, 14:20] There is no common language, it is already discussed with HR. People can listen to songs in all languages. You can discuss with him. I agree with volume thing though.
Sound 5: Tinnitus
The mailbox disgusted Toru the most due to the absolute lack of cultural awareness, which went on for a toss at this upsetting thread on the common language and the subsequent common music. Toru’s friends gathered around him as the inbox heated up and they curiously read the growing thread.
“Common language. Common music. What’s more? Common people and the not-so-common? I would not be surprised at such classifications in future,” mocked Toru sarcastically.
Later that day, Toru came to bed following the same traffic and hustle-bustle just like yesterday. He ordered food for himself and finished his meals before hitting the bed. He could not make his appointment with the doctor yet. As he tried to close his eyes and chose to sleep, he could not. Not because of the DJ again but because of the silence he felt in his room.
The silence was deafening for Toru after all the noise and the meta-noise of the day. The constant buzz of the city took shelter in his ear, or more so in his mind. As his earlier Google Search confirmed, Tinnitus (pronounced tih-NITE-us or TINuh-tus) is the perception of sound that does not have an external source, so other people cannot hear it. This sound now is exclusive to him as his own precious, even if he does not want it. He can only wait for it to fade away in the background like all other sounds and things in life. Finally, Toru came up with a solution as he tiredly got up from his bed and stretched his arms to switch on the fan. The fan slowly rotated to take on its medium speed, whirring and filling noise to put him to sleep.
A Trip Down the Memory Lane
Aparna Adiyolil
“You need to walk around a city to really get to know it,” Achan reminds me everytime I board a train to a new city. India is known for the beautiful, bustling streets that never fails to fascinate. Roaming these streets has always been the best part of travelling around India. At the end of the travels, all that remain are the photographs and the memories. Perhaps they don't fully capture the beautiful feeling of exploring a new city, but these photographs are souvenirs from some of my most memorable walks around South India and they always take me on a trip down the memory lane.
On Transit House, Kolkata
Dr. Madhumita Roy
The red walled mansion witnesses a lot
As new guests arrive and depart
The pani puri seller with his everyday fare,
The observant chaiwala,
The group of middle-aged men in the nearby square;
With its weary eyes, it often strives to see
How the city lights glare
Amidst the evening crowd
With its straining ears, it hears
The chiming bells of a temple nearby
With its sensitive nose, it smells
The coffee fumes from the closest cafe
With its entire being, it feels
How a bright evening glides past into night.
Just like an ever-watchful sentinel.
We Are Like This Only
Chandrika R Krishnan
A well-placed elbow into the rib of the person next to her helped Asha get a foothold onto the bus. Well, it also fetched her some choice words that were better left unsaid. Asha pushed aside the fleeting guilt that the woman who bore the brunt of her jab was left behind.
The bus crawled out of the bus stop perilously leaning towards the left but then after waiting close to half-an-hour, Asha wouldn’t want to risk waiting for the next bus.
The powers-to-be in the transportation world of Bangalore, seemed to be working under some peculiar system. For a better part of an hour, she saw what seemed to be four-dozen buses plying on the Vidyaranyapura and Yelankha route, while a step motherly treatment was meted out to the kodigehalli-Thindlu route! Multiple letters and complaints apparently fell in between the concrete cracks and lost forever.
It was with little wonder that she raced towards the bus, her youth and yoga helping her overtake a few, jab a few more and stomp on others feet, to come first like the very first Jalebi race that she had apparently won when she as in her first year of school.
Hanging on for her dear life, an arm wrapped around the rod, she managed to get her bus pass out to show to the much-harried conductor. Getting a seat in a bus was like playing a musical chair on a daily basis. When the music stopped aka the bus approached
a stop, it would be anybody’s guess who gets off the bus. It was with alacrity and a few more jabs that Asha managed to find herself a seat though for the life of her, she could not stop wondering why anyone would take this over-crowded bus when there were a million buses she could take for she got off a couple of stops away en route! People were indeed funny that way. She was happy that there weren’t any pregnant women or older women in her vicinity for her conscious to smote her and make her give way to them. Despite the jabs, she was a kind girl. Don’t get her wrong. It was just that she spent the better part of the day standing as a part of her punishment for non-completion of her notes. She should have known better being as it is in the dreaded XII grade where teachers and parents had a collective meltdown more than the children who were studying did.
The over-crowded bus groaned its way through the famed Bangalore traffic and just as Asha was about to doze off, Murphy’s law came to play- If there is a worse time for something to go wrong, it will happen then.
Seated next to her, the middle-aged woman was on her mobile phone to someone called Shanti and by the time she disembarked, she knew all about her jobless husband, her mother-in-law who was a dead weight and about finances, recipes and her son who could do no wrong!
Disembarking from the bus, Asha crossed the street only to realize that she was trailing the woman who she had jabbed when she boarded the bus.
Looking at her bag laden with some shopping, she felt herself go green with envy. From the looks of it, the bus that came after hers had somewhere down the line overtook hers and breezed its way to
the destination.
She sighed. Life like people were like that only!
A Scent of Nostalgia:
The Sand, The Sea and The Warm Memories ~ A Triptych of Images
Pais
I invite viewers to a visual journey of emotions and feelings, a glimpse of nostalgia from my childhood.
Jayden
Jayden Pais
KAAPI SESSIONS
Juxtapositions
The Exasperated Idealist
Living, breathing contradictions tremble beneath the foundation stones of each of our households.
Our stories, star charts and superstitions bleed into one another, till there’s no way to tell where one begins and where the other ends.
We grew up writing essays titled “My Favourite Festival”; switching between Christmas and Diwali each year.
Our classroom desks engraved with our initials, our sidewalks lined with crimson, our masticated pans—we really love to leave a mark everywhere.
There’s something really beautiful about how easily we share things—including families. As if by some unwritten desi law, your friend’s sister becomes your didi too; your mother becomes the entire colony’s chachi ji, and every shaadi in the vicinity is everybody and their brother’s business too. Yes, it’s disconcerting. Yes, it’s an invasion of privacy. Yes, it’s how we’re built as a community. Because love in this country flows with a wild abandon, and almost inevitably, spills over, beyond the suave, urbane boundaries of hum do, humare do. And love, sometimes, manifests in annoying ways.
So when your father’s aunt’s mother-in-law and all those other, obscure relatives pop into existence out of the aether, and sit you down to prod and pry around in your life—take a deep breath and buckle down. Our towns haven’t yet been infected with this disease of minding their own business. They’re ingrained with an easy familiarity that comes when lives intertwine like sacred thread—familiarity which breeds an equal measure of both love
and contempt.
And the outpour isn’t restricted to the living. While grief itself ends in five stages, our t-shirts go through seven cycles of reuse before ending up on the kitchen floor. That almirah that’s seen Baba Azam in his infant underpants? The silk sarees that your grandmother once wore? Your mother’s kitchen drawers, regurgitating all the plastic she’s ever owned? We keep everything- just in case, you know. We’re not hoarders, we just never know when to let go.
And yet, for a nation that’s so entirely in love with love itself, we’re pretty darn good at being haters too. Our leaders could brazenly stand and bay for blood, while schoolgirls silently whisper, “Do you have a pad?”
We love to tell people whom to love—and whom not to. Because love too comes with its own terms and conditions attached.
We’re reared on a steady diet of contradictions. Our schools exhort the virtues of saving the environment—on a hundred bedecked, bejewelled papers, every year. Your daughter is the Laxmi of the home, till one day she’s paraya dhan.
We take so much pride in our culture and heritage that we make a point of booking a Europe tour every chance we get. Women don’t venture out in the darkness of the night, only so that a third of them find their tormentors within the confines of the prison cell called home.
We’re so modern, we forget our traditions. We’re so antiquated, we defy logic.
We’re a boiling pot of juxtapositions.
Ma's Biryani Recipe
Aditi Srivastava
Ma keeps the rice to soak for some time when she makes Biryani
That’s when the water seeps into the center of the kernel
She says it makes the Biryani taste good - the rice grains fluffyfalling apart
That’s the sign of an excellent Biryani - when the rice grains do not stick to each other -
do not form a hideous blob, but each grain has its own glory and falls apart
The quantity of rice depends on the number of guests and us
Us? Papa, my brother & I; ma often tends to forget counting herself
But she makes extra in case someone wants to have more
2 guests - 3 cups of rice
4 guests - 4 cups of rice
6 guests - 5 cups of rice
The soaking period lasts for around 45 minutes
These minutes - 45 - are for the rice to soak
Not for the hands to rest
She prepares the masala- a concoction of spices that will make the Biryani Awadhi.
Kevda - rose water - Ma is not quite fond of it, but it is for the guests
The meat is prepared & cooked & a few pieces are removed for my brother & I to taste
Ma? She doesn’t like to taste the food while she cooks We approve. The meat is oozing flavors
But this is not a random dish - there’s more
Onions are fried
Kesar dipped in water - mixed with about two teaspoons of milk. It is poured over the rice
Then comes the assembly.
She lays down a layer of rice - chicken on top - then comes the fried onions
There is another layer - rice - chicken - onion
The Bihari woman has learned every detail of the Awadhi Biryani
She never fails to impress with her skills - she had to learn - how to cook
She takes a spatula with a long handle and makes holes in the stacked beauty
The kesar is then poured in those - it is to color the rice - not entirely - just some of it
Everything is assembled in the kitchen - full of heat
Ma calls it her office
The lid is put on
The Biryani is left to simmer for 15 minutes - we call it Dum “Bs biryani me Dum lag jaye, phir khana ready hai”
These minutes - 15 - are for the Biryani to get Dum
Not for the feet to rest
She prepares the Raita
Curd - spices - Onions & green chillies
We do not want a lumpy raita all mixed together - thoroughly
And it’s time!
The Biryani is served
Everyone looks for their favorite piece
“Take more rice! Eat properly” - Ma has the worst habit of overserving!
“You two also come & eat.”
A spoonful of rice - A dollop of Raita
“This is heaven!” - She gleams with pride & joy
This is Ma’s Special Biryani Recipe!
Ar. Nikhil S Kohale
Puran Poli
Aishwarya Javalgekar
Aai, can you make puran poli?
She dumps dollops of steamed dal and jaggery into the special metal machine. I grip it between my thighs, twist the handle as she tells me stories on demand.
My child hands go round and round the machinery grinding the concoction, shredding it into noodles of orange-brown sweetness.
She gives me some in a tiny bowl –a special treat before she heads back to the kitchen and cooks the puran into polis.
We eat them together at the table, her with ghee, me with milk.
Manasi Chattopadhyay
The Jewel of Ravangla
Yeh Haseen Wadiyan
Timeless Beauty
The Roadtrip
Aishwarya Javalgekar
We bundle into the car in our traditional outfits.
Scattering your ashes is a road trip.
I watch the empty city slowly coming back to life.
I imagine a longer road trip.
The four of us are driving down to Kumta.
The village you were born in. The village you always wanted to revisit.
A car ride would take 13 hours and 4 minutes with no traffic, a quick Google search tells me.
But it will have to be extended for the sake of this movie.
Maybe we take a wrong turn and end up in the middle of nowhere, forced to sleep in the car or take refuge in a small hut.
Not an abandoned mansion, this is not a horror movie.
Maybe we meet someone along the way.
Someone who inspires us and helps us see the rut of repetitive patterns we’re stuck in.
Preferably not a woman, or at least not a manic pixie dream girl.
I won’t allow that in my movie.
One of us finally figures out what career they want to pursue.
One of us finds love with the non-manic pixie dream girl character. This will be me. I don’t make the rules.
One of us makes peace with being alone.
One of us decides they are better off in Kumta and quits their
high-paying job to open a small farm and live a tech-free life. All of us mourn your loss.
We finally reach Kumta and visit your childhood home. Strangers live in it now, but they welcome us inside. We see the mango tree you once climbed. We submerge your ashes in a water body. We imagine a world where you are happy. If there is a heaven, maybe yours looks like this. I have a crisis of faith, but that’s a loose end left unresolved.
The movie ends with the road trip. There is nothing beyond the road trip.
How Indian can India Be?
Locating Indian
A 77-year-old sovereign, secular nation, India, is seeking to understand what it means to be Indian – 1.44 billion people, infinite identities - far and few definitions and qualifiers. Help identify a typical Indian.
This was a classified ad that showed up in the newspapers. It did not create much stirring but, in all fairness, this was expected; it had been a few years since the diagnosis.
India, the nation was just 77, but Indianness was a feeling that had a longer existence. It moved in and out of negotiation, protests, conversations, and art. This vague blob of memory, Indianness, has become a funny thing. It was present in different places and had the vibe of an elder sibling. The role was mandatory; it was crucial in the large exercise it undertook forming the nation called India. It started with a broad set of definitions of what can be this Indianness. In other words, in India, the body was trying to define the soul, Indianness and how it can be identified through broad definitions. But these were not exhaustive and had cracks in it. Years have gone by, and in recent times, things have been changing to no one’s surprise.
The everyday case of all-inclusive tea.
It is Indian to drink tea. The Indianness extended to a wide range.
Lakshmi V
It is Indian to be able to go to a chaiwala and ask for a cup of tea. It is usually served in cutting chai1 glasses. The proximity to the stove warms the glasses on the outside inside which the hot tea is poured. The tea is a milk-based tea brew made from tea dust, usually made strong, spicy, and sweet (unless told otherwise). It is also Indian to have tea in a different setting. The long Darjeeling tea leaves are steeped in water and served in ceramic teapots along with milk. It is served in trays, and one could make the tea to their preference – light or strong, sweet or sugarless. These are two distinct ways of drinking tea. A Naxal comrade from Bengal can quip that the former is proletarian tea since it is made from cheaper tea dust and is made strong and sweet, while the latter to be bourgeois tea, made from more expensive tea leaves. But little does the comrade know that the tea-plantation workers in Darjeeling, over generations, have been drinking the alleged bourgeois tea2. So, Indianness hovers and wraps itself like a thin film across different understandings of having and drinking tea, as well as their significance and presentation under India. Indianness has been deliberate and careful about gently effacing individual identities and putting India in front and centre. While it retains conversations about both communism and the significance of tea and its methods, they all come under India. It is, however, not without fractures.
The Curious Case of Carnatic Music
Along with the formation of India, some art forms latched on different locations, and one such location was then Madras, and now Chennai. In 2017, UNESCO Cultural City recognized its
1 Cutting chai, a concept of serving only half a cup of tea in a full cup, emerged in Mumbai.
2 Specific Focus on Chapter 3 - Feminist Furies - Haksar, Nandita. (2018). The flavours of nationalism: Recipes for Love, Hate and Friendship. Speaking Tiger Books.
varied musical traditions. Amongst others is Ghana Pattu, sung in Madras-Bhashai, the local Chennai Tamil dialect, with high energy beats and more popular in its reach and promptly relegated to ‘folk’ music. Then, there is Carnatic music, sung in different languages, including Tamil, Sanskrit, and Telegu, in varied ragas3 often presented in concerts called kutcheri, which is qualified as ‘classical music’. The history of Carnatic music has a longer trajectory; it has its repertoire of songs on different faiths, castes, and classes, written and performed by an equally diverse population. In Chennai specifically, Carnatic music has come to be taken up by the Brahmin community, which seeks to control the art form. Unlike the case of tea, there are thick lines used to secure Carnatic Music by qualifying those who can learn Carnatic music, let alone perform on stage. It has nothing to do with the ability, talent, or skill but is just based on identity and social location. While India asserts that Carnatic music is undoubtedly Indian, India always had to keep an eye on it. The co-opting of an art form by few who restricting access and controlling narratives was a problem. India has been trying to keep this under check. The Alzheimer’s disease located within the body of India started to show up in early stages. There was some degree of forgetfulness and confusion. In 2018, established musicians T.M. Krishna and O.S. Arun (two separate incidents) wanted to perform Christian Carnatic. They were trolled, and their performances (means of livelihood of an artist) were cancelled. They were also greeted with violence4. For a moment there, India had forgotten her Indianness, but she recovered quickly. T. M. Krishna performed at another place. But then, these memory blips became common. In the subsequent performance in Chennai that followed the controversy, a member of the concert hall (called Sabha) introduced
3 Ragas are specific to Indian music that follows a melodic pattern that introduces different moods
4 The incidents happened in 2018, and plenty of online news articles are available for further details, including the one linked here.
T. M. Krishna and went on to say that he wished that ‘Lord Krishna’ would take this T. M. Krishna away5. The audience immediately booed the person away.
In the recent years, T. M. Krishna has been taking the art form to alternate forums, be it performing at beaches or churches or performing Jogathis6. He also composed and performed ‘nondevotional’ contemporary Carnatic music to lyrics written by Perumal Murugan, a Dalit Tamil writer. It also included a song honouring Periyar, an important anti-caste thinker who called out Brahmins and fought to end caste discrimination. In this subversion, Indianness was vibrant and thriving, making an art form that often calls out from within and, at the same time, opens it up to a wider audience and newer ways of performing and reaching newer audiences.
Alzheimer’s strengthens its hold, and the cracks in Indianness have recently become more pronounced, and the plurality away is being undermined. The control over who sings what song where became more apparent. In 2024, the confusion made it to social and print media, stirring the long pending controversy. T. M. Krishna was conferred a title called ‘Sangita Kalanidhi’ by the Music Academy - Chennai’s most important performing arts centre where the top senior artists get to perform. Such a place, conferring their important honour to T. M. Krishna distressed many Carnatic musicians. The controversy stemmed from those exact places of trouble.
The popular Carnatic musicians Ranjani and Gayatri withdrew from the prestigious annual conference hosted by the Music Academy via a Facebook post (image linked below). They did not want to be a part
5 Incident reported from a personal experience
6 Jogathis, a community who dedicated themselves to God, servants to God, some of whom also identify as transgender persons
of the conference convened by the awardee, which would be T. M. Krishna this year. One can trace the articulations of ‘caste’ and the different position in the letter. The Carnatic musicians and loyalists, largely belonging to the Brahmin community, felt Carnatic Music was being sullied by acts of T. M. Krishna, while others defended T. M. Krishna. A few more articulated that they did not understand why he would accept the award in the first place. With some pointing out that T. M. Krishna’s social location made him stand out, but things have not been so kind for others whose voices are not heard. The vast diversity of narratives shows the plurality of opinions across various digital and print media - can Carnatic Music be considered a signification of Indianness at all? Can Carnatic Music, an art form be shoved of its origins and come to represent just one community? How is the resistance being viewed and articulated?
With the many holes poked in this fabric of Indianness – this crisis in the Carnatic field is just one of them. But with the manifestation of Alzheimer’s disease becoming more aggressive. The imposition of this disease is cruel – for those enduring it as well as those bearing a witness. There is a cure, and scientific advancement has been continually happening, but the reality is brutal to endure. The reality of living without memory, on one level, is heartbreaking since one would not remember one’s loved ones. However, on a deeper level, it also affects the process of remembering muscle memory, language, and movement. These realities have prompted India to circulate the classified ad – to preserve its personality.
What India is left with now are questions – that look to reclaim and reassess the foundational cracks in Indianness. It starts with – what does it mean to be Indian? If one says tea, then it is a little easier, but does it mean those who don’t consume tea are not Indian? In the fraternity of Carnatic music, Indianness is shared and common to all based on the art form? What happens when access is controlled, and someone cannot fight it? So then, is it possible to locate a typical Indian? Would it be someone like T. M. Krishna or plenty of others whose names are not known? Would it be those who are chipping in debates, like Ranjani and Gayatri, who want to protect the ‘purity’ of the form? What happens to those who identify with the art form for art’s sake – is such a position even possible? In pursuit of the pure art form, what memories are fading away? What will happen if Indianness is completely lost from the awareness of India? Would the very notion of its principles be forgotten? What would it then be to live in a geography (or the body) without its memory? Will people not remember the long lines of who they are, the best and worst of it? Can one think of India without the Indianness?
Being a Bengali Through the Lens of Fashion
Ipsita Misra
To me, being Indian, and in particular, being Bengali, comes strongest through fashion. Of course, there are other things too – a bus packed completely with people, with nary a nook or cranny left for space, and the summer heat of my hometown, as well as masala Bollywood movies and dance numbers. But being Bengali, wearing a sari with kohl-laden eyes, with dangling earrings and looking like the epitome of a literature student is the strongest form of Indianness I have felt.
In a counterintuitive twist, I started loving Bengali culture and being Indian in the fullest sense I understand only after I moved out of home, out of West Bengal. My childhood was during the post-globalisation era, when foreign influences were ushered into India and reflected extensively in Bollywood movies and a change in fashion. Suddenly movie heroines were wearing dresses instead of salwar kameez and saris, and suddenly there was Barbie as a plaything in every child’s hands, and suddenly the long chains of KFC, McDonald’s, and Starbucks began to crowd every metropolitan lane.
These things were very exciting to me as a child, because I lived in a small town that was secluded from these influences. So, every time I came to the nearest city, Kolkata, I was in awe of the evidence of globalisation I saw. At that time, I did not really relate much to my Bengali roots. I have always been experimental; I like to try different foods, different shades of lipstick, and different haircuts, and during my childhood my main obsession was to dye my hair blonde. When
I was 13, I downloaded a photo editing app and edited my photos in a way that made me look like an unreal Barbie doll just so I could see what blonde hair looked like on me, as, growing up in a strict household, I was not allowed to dye it at home.
But blonde hair was more than just a childish fantasy for me – it was a sign of freedom, because America represented freedom. With the statue of liberty and the tales of how men and women were so equal- there were no barriers to women’s clothing or who they dated- it appeared to be some kind of paradise. The same went for Britain- I was especially fascinated by their accent, which appeared to be quite sophisticated in my teenage ears. In school, I was good at English and looked a little European, so blonde hair represented a sort of English freedom for me. The aesthetics of fashion represented not just a different look, but an ideology that was not Indian, that was less restrictive.
As I grew into my prepubescent and teenage years, I became more and more gothic – the fascination with blonde hair dissipated, and dark hair with highlights, piercings, rings on all fingers, kohl and eyeliner laden eyes, and black lipstick replaced that fascination. We were obviously not allowed to wear makeup at school, but the ideas we discussed in our school, one of them being that wearing makeup is just plain wrong, were so strong and seeped into our regular lives to such an extent that I could not even try those out at home. This is being Indian at its very core in another sense; while individual freedom is prioritised in the West, freedom of this sort is only a dream for students that are under the education system of India. Where hierarchy is strictly followed and students have to obey their elders, there is little space for discovering our individuality. Sometimes, I did put makeup on secretly – putting kohl on my eyes and on my lips because I did not have black lipstick and wanted it. But this act of rebellion was accompanied by a little bit of shame.
My love for gothic attire transitioned to love for the Indian aesthetic soon after. I finally learned how to wear a sari on my own, and I wanted a nose piercing to be closer to my roots rather than to be gothic. As a student studying literature, I also started appreciating how I looked in saris and long dangling earrings, which gave me a very artsy look, one typical of the Bengali woman. I began to take pride in my roots, coming from the state where Rabindranath Thakur was born and wrote so many beautiful plays and poems. I loved the fact that Sukumar Ray also blessed us with his brilliant poems and short stories, and Satyajit Ray directed so many beautiful films. I loved the fact that I was from the state that Mahasweta Devi resided in and wrote so many hard-hitting stories in.
The transition in fashion helped me to explore my other interests too. I was always interested in reading books and watching movies, and gradually, I began to discover my musical talents as well. My sister is a singer, composer, and musician through and through, and I have also developed a keen interest in singing and composing, though writing is my first and true love. Like a stereotypical Bengali, I have been exploring other art forms as well, such as dance and acting, and have discovered that I enjoy these too.
Yet, while all of these things contribute very strongly to how I feel as an Indian, I must reiterate that my strongest connection to being an Indian Bengali has been with the way I have changed in terms of the aesthetic I wear. From wanting to let it go in my childhood, I now wear it like pride, with sheer confidence. I suppose that is what I have become and am still in the process of becoming – an Indian woman confident in her Bengali roots.
Walk The Wall with Meneka Mufta
E. Dawson Varughese
MM: I’d like to begin with a question on location; you are after all, ‘The Wall’ of Tulsi Pipe Road and just like the tracks of the western line to one side of you, you’ve seen a lot of traffic.
WALL: Let us not forget that I was created to stand between the tracks of the western line and this road; this was and has always been my job. I mean, what thing doesn’t love a wall? We are steadfast, resolute in our mission to keep the trains on one side and the vehicles on the other. We would be missed if we didn’t fulfil our duty, think about it, what would the public do? Wander aimlessly across boundaries, into dangerous situations and locales? Walls are necessary Menekaji. Of course, there is the argument that we are doors, personally, I find this ridiculous – how can we be doors if we are walls? One, is solid and committed to the status quo, the other an aperture into the unknown! Walls are walls and for all this ‘New India’, post-millennial boom talk, our lives have barely changed, we still do the same job, in the same place day-in, day-out.
MM: Right, but surely as a Wall in an urban centre, you’ve noticed the changes? You can’t fail to see the writing on the…. pages of The Hindu for example?
WALL: Sure, I see them in the hands of the commuters, on the mobile phone screens of those standing under the trees on Tulsi Pipe, waiting for their ride. And the billboards of course, I see those. Plenty of changes to be seen on the billboards – home loans, electronics, ‘fashion’ and there are the film posters, well they don’t
look like they used to. Yes, I’ve seen the changes, I’m not suggesting that we Walls don’t ‘see’, we have eyes you know Menekaji, we see more than you might realise but since everything around us seems to be in flux, can’t you see understand why it is so vital that we remain the same? The Tulsi Pipe Wall is majestic. It’s tall enough to block the view of road and rail, yet at various points, the break in the wall for the western line station allows one to well, breathe. The road just couldn’t function without its wall; it’s simply an integral part of living.
MM: So are you saying that in ‘New India’, you are the same as you’ve always been?
WALL: Well, yes, basically, I mean there have been a few changes but you know, essentially the same…
MM: Could you say something about these ‘few changes’….?
WALL: […] Well, it’s hardly worth mentioning, I mean anyone who knows Tulsi Pipe wouldn’t really notice them..
MM: Notice what?
WALL: The…. the odd bit of ‘artwork’ as some people have referred to it as being. I’m not sure that’s the term for it but still… you know,
pictures often deface walls more than they actually decorate them! That’s why we are municipally white-washed… Us Walls enjoy being routinely white-washed; we feel more confident, its own duty to look good, we take our job seriously.
MM: So, what does this ‘artwork’ look like? When did it appear? And who is responsible for it?
WALL: Well indeed, who is responsible for it? I mean, what can we do about it? It just ‘appears’! People come with their paints and moreover with their ideas and this concoction results in what you see here. Take this one for example…
MM: Are you saying that you don’t agree with saving India’s tigers?
WALL: No, Menekaji! It’s just that well, this is a real wall and not some small, side street structure, this is Tulsi Pipe Road Wall! I’m just not sure that this kind of messaging - because really, that is what it is, messaging! – should inhabit us, it’s a breach of our personal space, you know? And I mean these messages, they are hardly silent. Anybody would think that the words of prophets are written on these walls – they are penned with such gusto, with such fervour and commitment!
MM: I’m surprised you’re not feeling more honoured by this public demonstration of voice? Some of this artwork is really timely, I
mean urgent in its expression. I saw this one earlier….
WALL: Yes, it is Menekaji. It’s difficult for me but I guess that I should admit that I am proud, silently proud. To be honest with you though, I’m struggling with the change. I have always been a Wall and I’ve been used to being one; these changes are challenging, I am no longer just a Wall. I seem to have had some kind of responsibility foisted on to me, I am here now to ‘speak’ and that didn’t used to be the case. See, I remember the days of carefully painted advertisements, it wasn’t that long ago. The men would come with their paints, carefully, dhira dhira, the images of cooking oil, the names of soap and Lux Cozi ‘innerwear’ would appear on my whitewashed sides. But I didn’t mind. What harm is a bit of advertising, shaped by the painter’s brush and kindly hand? You see, I never had to engage with the cooking oil or the soap, it didn’t ask anything of me…. but these new images are different. As the paint clings to my sides and the images of gender violence, child abuse and exploitation appear, I feel a kind of pain. Don’t worry, I don’t expect you to believe me. With all respect Menekaji, what do you know about being a Wall? And being a Wall on Tulsi Pipe where hundreds, thousands of people
pass me by every day, and they look at me - they look at me Menekaji!
MM: Yes, I see how these images might affect you, they are not simply artwork for the looking, they ask something of the onlookers too, you know? See here, this one, how can one not respond to this? You might be outraged by it or you might be empowered by it, immediately searching out the #RESPECT WOMEN Twitter handle….. I did… It might help you to know, Wall that the public can be affected by this artwork too, it’s not only you struggling with the bold and brave messaging.
WALL: Ha ha yes, I’ve seen it happen many times! People stand and look at this image, they photograph it, they share it with others online, and they connect with the hashtag!
MM: Ahh so maybe now you see how you are facilitating such a sharing of experience Wall? If it weren’t for you…
WALL: I haven’t really thought about it like that, I’ve only really felt that these images have been a burden, they have challenged me and I have been lost in the implications of ‘showcasing’ them here on Tulsi Pipe…. but now I hear you say it like this… I guess, yes, I am helping the people… I am a medium for some kind of social and cultural expression… maybe even change!
MM: Indeed, and how special that is given today’s insistence on all things digital!
WALL: I must admit that when this image appeared on my side, I was delighted. Look at the colours, the wind in her hair, the radiant sun behind the bike… the freedom of it all!
MM: Yes, this is a wonderful image. How did it make you feel, Wall?
WALL: Honestly, I felt hope when this image started to appear. The yellow paint was warm as it fell on my February-self and I felt like the bricks and mortar of my being were stretching out into the city with its rays of light!
And you know Menakaji, they keep appearing, these images. They come and go, but they keep appearing, they change and they challenge us in all these various ways. It’s a privilege of sorts to be the conduit for all this change. The future, although challenging, feels bright.
MM: Where do you see this leading, all this change? What does it mean for you Walls?
challenging, feels bright.
MM: Where do you see this leading, all this change? What does it mean for you Walls?
WALL: We Walls, we are the unsung heroes of this city, we endure, we tolerate, we transform but who really sees The Wall? The artwork has brought us attention that’s for sure but we should be celebrated, we need something more than simply ‘being’. This New India is forever celebrating – literary festivals and prizes here and there, Film awards, media awards, television dance shows, everything is looking for its minute of fame these days… But really, who is doing anything for us, the Walls?
MM: How do you propose such a celebration of you, the Walls?
WALL: There should be a film made about us, charting our lives, the years we have stood here in this city, surviving, it would tell the story of our ideals, our angst and our hopes…. and it should be called… Deewaar.
The Contributors
Aditi Srivastava
Aditi is a storyteller, a performer and a professional content strategist/writer in the corporate space with her specialisation in branding, marketing, and communications. She is pursuing her master’s in english from the Manipal Centre for Humanities. She writes in Hindi, Urdu, and Bhojpuri. In her free time, you will find her giving unsolicited advice to her friends, painting or dancing in her kitchen while cooking her heart out.
Aishwarya Javalgekar
Aishwarya Javalgekar (she/her) is a queer feminist writer and poet. She edits books and produces podcasts for a living and explores the intersections of gender, media, identity, mental health, and the body through her writing. Her works have been published in over 30 magazines and platforms including Rigorous Mag, Sahapedia, and Muse India.
Aparna Adiyolil
A poetry-enthusiast with a tendency to find poetry in everyday life. Oddly fascinated by nature, literature, fine food and photographs. Currently pursuing post-graduation at Manipal Centre for Humanities.
Azra Bhagat
Azra Bhagat is an artist and designer who is interested first and foremost in language and its relationship to design. An avid reader Bhagat is interested in the socio-political landscape within which her work exists. She strives to create work that makes a comment
on ‘the system’ be it capitalism, patriarchal norms or ecological issues among other things. Azra began her journey towards a creative career with a BA (Hons) in Graphic Design from London College of Communication where she worked in many different mediums. Azra was part of the group show ‘The Future is Now’ in 2018 curated by Arshiya Lokhandwala. In 2020 she was one of the artists in residence at the Sowing Seeds Art Residency in Udaipur.
E. Dawson Varughese
E. Dawson Varughese is a cultural studies scholar who researches post-millennial Indian visual and popular literary cultures. She is Associate Professor at Manipal Centre of Humanities. She is the author of five books including Visuality and Identity in postmillennial Indian graphic narratives (Palgrave) and forthcoming in 2024, is Post-millennial Indian Speculative Fiction in English: desi dystopias and ideas of Indianness (Bloomsbury).
Ipsita Misra
Ipsita Misra is a third year literature student at Azim Premji University. She is from West Bengal, and has loved reading since her childhood and began writing then as well. The love she had for writing developed and morphed into a dream to become a professional writer one day. She has experimented with various genres of writing and will continue to do so. She hopes that this journey will lead her to important insights.
Ishani Kadu
Ishani is a first-year BA student who loves art, dosas and going on little walks. She’s also always on the lookout for new music and movies.
Jayden Pais
Introducing Jayden Pais, a luminary emerging from the enchanting coastal haven of Goa, India. With a passport stamped by adventures across the globe, he seamlessly intertwines the roles of an athlete and an artistic virtuoso behind the camera lens. By day, he dashes across the field as an athlete; by night, he paints stories with his lens. Firmly grounded yet fueled by boundless imagination, Jay believes in the power of visual storytelling, a vital part of human evolution. As he puts it, “A picture speaks a thousand words” – pun intended. Whether those words are sunny or stormy, that’s for the viewer to decode.
Lakshmi V
Lakshmi V is a researcher and writer pursuing an MA in Sociology at the Manipal Centre for Humanities. She has previously worked in the performing arts discipline across Chennai and Bengaluru, which informs a larger part of this article.
Manasi Chattopadhyay
Refer to The Teatotallers section.
Nikhil S Kohale
Ar. Nikhil S Kohale (Associate Professor, MSAP) is a design enthusiast, in general, with a curious interest for graphic design and typography. From selectivity of a minimalism to the abundant richness of everything else, he admires the relevance of various nuances of expressions. As an architect and a learning educator he likes to experiment with various forms of textual as well as visual compositions.
Suzanne A. H.
Suzanne A. H. is a 23 year old writer from Assam. She explores the themes of realism mingled with surrealism. “A sonnet to make a wish” and ‘grown ups’ are two of her pieces that have been published in the Borderless Journal and Muse India respectively.
Swayama Sengupta
Swayama Sengupta is a doctoral scholar from the department of English, Amity University Kolkata. A double gold medalist from Adamas University, she is intrigued with things dealing with heritage and takes immense pride in returning to roots, whatever forms that might be. Currently she is learning Japanese.
Thiyagaraj Gurunathan
Thiyagaraj Gurunathan is a small-town guy from Tamil Nadu, who loves peace and tranquility of the rural landscape (who does not?). At present, in the hustle and bustle of Roorkee and his PhD, he seeks to find oasis of calmness in his IIT campus. He loves to read Murakami and aspires to write simple yet profound fiction like him someday. However, right now, he is busy writing research papers.
The Exasperated Idealist
Dreamer. Writer. Student. A pseudonym, because, well why not. That which we call a rose by any other name and so on and so forth. An idealist. Exasperated, as anyone looking at the state of the world should be. Living in the future tense.
The Teatotallers
Editors-in-Chief
Chetana Agnihotri
Chetana Agnihotri is a third-year student pursuing her BA at MCH. She is mostly seen either listening to music, or trying to talk about the latest show or movie which she has seen. She loves a good cup of tea or coffee, and an obscure poem from the Internet, or anywhere.
Mythily Zanjal
Mythily is a final-year MA History student at MCH. She is a big fan of true crime stories, whether in novels or documentaries. She enjoys leisurely strolls through museums, loves her coffee, and finds joy in watching the rain.
Fiction
Dishari Ghosh (Head)
Dishari is a final year Masters student at MCH, who believes most in engaging with different perspectives, both fictional and real experiences. She’s often seen collecting [or swiping through IG/ Pinterest pictures of] aesthetic mugs, stationery and bookmarks. With her family, she loves road-tripping around the country, chasing sunsets, and soaking in narratives.
Abirami
Abirami is a 1st year masters student who is in a quest to explore and learn with an open mind on what life has to offer. She’s a core foodie who’s deeply interested in learning different cultures, art
forms, tricks and tips of life, listens to a wide range of music and is always open to new genres.
Angadh Singh
Angadh is a third year BA student and musician, when he isn’t recording or producing music, you will find him on his desk lost in his desk lost in his favourite music like Periphery or Animals as Leaders. He also loves volunteering to help stray animals and feeds them in his free time.
Anirudh Prabhu
Anirudh is a 2nd year BA student who loves origami, photography, and all things food. His passions lie in getting out into the world and exploring things through the lens of poetic romanticism. He also likes Frank Sinatra.
Gayathri
Gayathri, a first-year MA student at MCH, finds joy in the art of storytelling, immersing herself in books and poetry, with a special affinity for the works of Sylvia Plath. She likes to spend her day rewatching “Derry Girls”, or listening to Hozier while enjoying a walk around campus.
Manya Kapoor
Manya is a 1st year BA student and loves to write short stories inspired by songs, photography and reading. You can normally find her curled up with a cup of tea or coffee and a good book with music drawing out the world around her.
Raaghav Chapa
Raaghav is a wannabe Journalist not pursuing it. He is an avid photographer, videography fanatic and practically lost in random
YouTube videos all the time. His day consists mostly of daydreaming surviving a jump out of an aeroplane 35000 feet in the air without a parachute.
Saujanya Satyanarayan
Saujanaya is in second year BA and loves writing poetry, Bharatanatyam, and hopping cafes the most. You can find her curled up in a corner watching Christmas movies, listening to Prateek Kuhad or reading a rom-com book. Filter coffee is the only way to her heart.
Tenzin Dekyong
Tenzin is a third year student at MCH. She hopes to successfully graduate with a major in History and pursue further studies.
Non-Fiction
Nandana Joy (Head)
Nandana is an undergraduate final year Sociology major who reads as much as she eats, and eats as much as she breathes. She likes conversations that end in laughter, but she’s not sure if she likes referring to herself in the third person.
Charvi Bhatnagar
Charvi is a first year Masters student at MCH who herself is a master of none. Dabbling in different hobbies, be it art, poetry or academia, she’s headstrong about her tastes and finds comfort in instigating an expression. She is also seen cracking lousy old one-liners that never land and never can be amounted to be hilarious. To befriend her, just slip in some words about cats or naps and she’d instantly adore you.
Meghna Haridas
Meghna is a second year MA English student, she thrives on her coffee, nonstop movie marathons and her Spotify playlist. She loves to write and to speak even more. Ironically she is most relaxed on stage. Whether it’s Bollywood gossip or international affairs you will see her in the group discussions.
Siri Lucille Chenni
Siri is a final year BA student of history. They like writing, long lazy winter days, dogs and visiting museums. They mostly engage with topics like gender and climate justice, anarchism and queer rights. They are easily impressed by cat videos and bare minimum cooking skills.
Visual Art and Graphic Design
Amelie Dutta (Co-Head)
Amelie is a final year BA student at MCH who enjoys photography, sculpting, and painting open scapes. She is a certified scuba diver and an avid traveller who loves birding. She is obsessed with Hindi retro music and is often found humming one.
Sagarika Wadiyar (Co-Head)
Sagarika is a final year BA student at Manipal Centre for Humanities with a love for cats and anything artsy. She spends her time painting in watercolour while her favourite songs play in the background, admiring the moon, and capturing everyday moments of laughter, sunlight, her friends, and other simple pleasures.
Anosha Rishi
Anosha is a second-year BA student. She loves little trinkets,
doodling on the sides of her notebook and watching Wong KarWai movies at night with some iced coffee. She also treasures her Pinterest board containing obscure cat memes.
Anusha Shetty
Anusha is a second year MA English student at MCH. Cats and fries are her pure form of love. She loves drawing and journaling but is slothy to bring her creative side upfront. Cuddled up on her ofa watching TMKOC or Shinchan is her solace.
Manasi Chattopadhyay
Manasi is a BA 3 student at MCH. Rains, warm coffee, books, handwritten stuff, poetry, painting, dogs and music is where her heart lies. A photographer by hobby, she captures what soothes her eyes and a foodie as all Bongs are, she also loves travelling.
PR and Social Media
Sreya Das (Head)
Sreya Das, a final-year BA student at MCH, is dedicated to cultivating skills that bring out her best self. Her passion lies in the classical dance form of Odissi, and she finds creative expression through poetry, drawing inspiration from people, places, and situations. She treasures those quiet times when she’s with a book, a cup of coffee, and a natural setting.
Akanksha Bannerjee
An MCH student with a voracious appetite for literature, Akanksha wields her pen to annihilate the monotony of her last year of college (that is, when she isn’t composing five different songs in her head, drawing her outlandish imaginations on paper, or creating
daydreaming about the interior design of her future house!)
Amshula Ravi
Amshula Ravi is a final year BA student at MCH who loves to explore different avenues in reading and writing. She likes listening to music, especially the soothing waves of the sea crashing the shore and outdoor walks. She is always open to learning something new and is also fond of engaging with things that excite her.
Thrishaana
Thrishaana is a second year BA student who you will always find planning her next trip. She loves her dog Toby (who she insists is not fat), watching the sunsets in her balcony and going for walks, but above all, she loves capturing these little moments.
Varsha Dev
Varsha Dev is a final year Masters student pursuing her love for history at MCH. When she is not busy meeting deadlines, she enjoys a good conversation over tea or catching the sunset at the beach.
Vidmahi
Vidmahi is a final year BA student who has a long list about what she loves. Dance, theatre, books, coffee, tea, quality time with friends/ family, evenings spent watching sunsets, MCH, Chaicopy, the list goes on. She’s glad that both MCH and Chaicopy are on the list.
