July-Aug 2012
Vol 2 Issue 4
60 Pages
`50/-
Reading Hour short fiction
essays
verse
n
reviews
Mystery of the Nile sreelata menon
n
Warbler World sarah rand
n
Mangrove Element padma prasad
n
From Small Beginnings madhukar shukla
n
In Conversation nirupama subramanian & amitabha bagchi
Stories / Poetry by: abha sah amit charles anoop mohan arjun rajendran mihir chitre nandita bose nidhin shobhana sharvani h s usha kishore vivek sharma
dibyajyoti sarma somnath mukherji
geralyn pinto swagata basu
Contents Poetry
Fiction Decision
3
dibyajyoti sarma
Xeno
Building the Rainbow Bridge
19
What They Fear
23
Backwaters
30
Walking for Water
38
Kokila Sandesa
anoop mohan
The Librarian sharvani h s
Rain mihir chitre
Aduppu Memories Bindi A Waiting Krishnachura Freedom Trap
48
usha kishore
49 53
nandita bose
abha sah
22
arjun rajendran
nandita bose
swagata basu
18
somnath mukherji
40
nidhin shobhana
13
amit charles
shankar rajaram & venetia kotamraju
nidhin shobhana
9
vivek sharma
17
geralyn pinto
Shadow
Seven Thousand a Day Stillborn
Unrequited done and dusted
51 59 59
First Person
Essays
Warbler World
Mystery of the Nile
10
sarah rand
27
padma prasad
sreelata menon
From Small Beginnings madhukar shukla
In Conversation Amitabha Bagchi & Nirupama Subramanian
32
Mangrove Element
14 45
Light Stuff
36
Are you reading this?
42
the last page
60
Inside back cover: ‘Hyderabad in the Rains‘ , Satish Kumar, watercolour on paper Errors and Omissions: Vol 2 Issue 3: The film ‘Anthony Gonsalves‘ was directed by the talented Ashok Rane 2
Reading Hour
Fiction Decision
dibyajyoti sarma
D
iganta was convinced that there was nothing that could surprise him anymore, not now, not after all those years of hopelessness which had eventually turned into horror. Not after he had survived the Rangia Army Camp, where he was beaten to a pulp, his leg broken and his wrist fractured, before they were finally convinced that he had no connections with the Organisation after all. Diganta was sure he could survive anything now. If he could survive Kalitada’s death, anything else would be easy. But when the woman with the eight-year-old boy beside her, squeezed herself to one side to make place for him to sit inside the crowded bus, Diganta was a little disconcerted. As he hesitated, struggling for a foothold in the crowd the woman said, “It’s okay. Sit.” She appeared to be in her late 30s. Her voice was authoritative and inviting at the same time, like his mother’s. Diganta had not heard his mother’s voice in years. The plan was meticulously synchronised to the last detail. This was the last bus to Barpeta on the eve of Magh Bihu; understandably, the bus was full beyond capacity. All Diganta had to do was to find someone to hold the box of sweetmeats for him, someone the Army men would ignore during the routine check at Rangia. He would alight there, have a tamul1 and take a piss by the bog near the road, so as to conveniently miss the bus. That would be it. Jul-Aug 2012 Vol 2 Issue 4
Dibyajyoti, a journalist with an English daily based in Pune, is working on a series of interconnected stories against the backdrop of the insurgency in Assam, and hopes to find a publisher soon.
Mission accomplished. Dhaniram would pick him up after it was over. By the time Diganta boarded the bus, not only were all the seats occupied, but even the aisle between the seats was a crush of travellers, like the bundles of paan2 leaves sold in the market. He had to push through several people at the door before he could enter the bus, while being careful that no one bumped the polythene bag he was carrying. Most of the passengers were working class men from the villages near Barpeta, going home for the community feast at their villages. Diganta pushed his way through, scanning the passengers, looking for a prospective target. He was beginning to feel uncomfortable. It wasn’t fear, but a sense of displacement. He was not even supposed to be here. Dhaniram had been assigned and was more than willing to do the job. But the device Diganta had built was unique, and extremely fragile. He could not trust anyone else. It was trust that had been bothering Diganta for quite some time now. Since Kalitada’s death, Diganta did not know what to believe any more. He was beginning to understand that the idea of ‘Freedom’ would remain a distant dream as long as he was alive. Then why these operations? Because it was the only thing they knew how to do. In the last few months, he had been constantly wondering if he should drop everything and just go home. This bus could take him home. But Diganta knew, after 3
Golden Cheeked Warbler
birders were nodding in agreement. To me long journey to the northern reaches of North it was like confetti being tossed up in the air. America. These little insectivores come to I tried to grab at a few names, but then gave Central and South America in the late fall and up and decided to just enjoy the experience. journey back to North America in the early The woods, the bug-bites and the birders spring. The journey is long and treacherous were all part of a scene and I tried to accept and many don’t make it. It must take so much it unconditionally. I sat at a water feature with energy, so much courage, so much faith and John, an experienced birder from Houston. He so much optimism to do this year after year. suggested that I go to Warbler Woods close to How do they do it? Where do they get their San Antonio and he told me that it is a Mecca motivation and their determination? If we for migratory warblers. humans had to do this year after year, surely It seemed as if fate had determined that I our species would be extinct. Without a doubt! learn about warblers. So I made note Remember that bunch trying to return of the email address and looked it to Jerusalem from Egypt and what did up when I returned to San Antonio. they do? They spent forty years and Warbler Woods is a Bird Sanctuary got lost and were challenged every in Cibolo, close to Canyon Lake. I step of the way. Luckily, that once was went there on April 29th and, after all that was required of us humans. a trail walk, settled at the water An annual trek covering ten times the feature. I sat for several hours. distance would defeat us! While such Various birds stopped by for a quick, irrelevancies were flooding my mind, Scarlet Tanager energetic bath. Our guide, Susan, the guides were pointing out different and the other birders identified types of warblers. specific species even as they approached. I sat I saw all sorts of tiny birds. Colourful stunned. I had had no idea that the process of labels like Prothonotary, Common Yellow, identification included listening to the song Chestnut-sided, Pied and Blackburnian were and the call, observing the flight patterns and being thrown around by the guides and the Jul-Aug 2012 Vol 2 Issue 4
15
Fiction The Librarian sharvani h s
I
t was the first time that I was face to face with this sort of temptation. My desire was heightened by the fact that she seemed oblivious of it. I had walked by her thrice already, staring rather hard despite myself, yet she was so engrossed in her book that she didn’t spare a single upward glance at the predator stalking her. Oh wait, maybe predator was a bit harsh. I wasn’t really doing anything wrong, just having borderline criminal thoughts. That was another first for me though. Who would have thought that Ashok Sodhi, Chief Librarian at Books for All, Bangalore, was even capable of criminal thoughts? Most of my friends think that it was my destiny to become a librarian. All the stereotypical notions about mild mannered, friendly yet firm librarians are certainly true in my case. I’d always been a helpful, affable guy. And here I was, thinking about taking something that wasn’t mine! I suppose this was my alter ego raising its hood. Anyway, I knew I wouldn’t act on it. I knew how things would turn out. It had already happened twice, just so. After closing her Jane Austen novel, she would get up, trying to return to the present century. By the time she recovered, she would almost be out of the gate. Then, as she dug into her bag for her keys, she would realize her mistake and run back inside. Grabbing the bangle she had left behind on the table, she would give me a half smile and hurry back to her vehicle. I Jul-Aug 2012 Vol 2 Issue 4
Sharvani is an engineering student from Bangalore, with varied interests, from classical dance to political science. She explores the practical side of the world and hopes to be a published novelist.
don’t know whether it was Jane Austen’s famed pen or that she was just naturally forgetful. I expected today was going to be the same. She was walking out; her mind no doubt still at Mansfield Park (I’d peeked at the title). I waited for her to turn around. She didn’t. I waited for her to remember and rush back inside to retrieve the bangle. But all she did was strap on her helmet and drive off. She’ll come back, I thought. Her bangle was waiting for her at her usual table. I looked around. There were two other people browsing in the aisles. It was just half an hour from closing time. I walked to her table and busied myself with arranging the books. I was going to make sure nobody touched the bangle. It was five minutes to closing time. I had got rid of… I mean, issued books to the two customers. It was Sunday tomorrow; a day for people to throw away their gadgets and pick up a good book. Or not. Still, there was no harm in optimism. That’s all I seemed to have nowadays. That and a gold bangle in my library. She hadn’t come back. Maybe this time she really had forgotten. Well, she would return on Monday to collect it, I thought. I lived in a small apartment above the library. It had one bedroom and one storeroom, for my books. A quaint, bachelor’s house. But the rent was reasonable and the neighborhood well developed. Or rather too developed. It was 23
Essay From Small Beginnings madhukar shukla
Prof. Shukla teaches at XLRI, Jamshedpur. His interests include social entrepreneurship, creativity and social innovation, sustainable development and livelihoods.
E
who worked hard to make bamboo-stools ver since I got interested in the field of throughout the day, and yet earned only 2 Social Entrepreneurship, admittedly not cents: too many years ago, I have been fascinated by “… When Yunus asked why her profit was so the small beginnings of some life or worldlow, she explained that the only person who changing, social ventures. would lend her money to buy bamboo was the Describing the birth of SEWA, the largest trader who bought her final product— and the trade union of unorganized women workers price he set barely covered her in the country, Ela Bhatt once wrote: costs. “In 1971, migrant women working (Yunus) wanted to see if there as cart-pullers in the city’s cloth were other villagers in similar market came to me at TLA (Textile circumstances… and compiled Labour Association), where I had a list of forty-two people whose started my work life working for capital requirements, in order to textile mill workers of Ahmedabad. buy materials and work freely, The women who lived on the added up to about $26.00. footpath, were seeking help for better Through the years he would living conditions. Next month came recount that story hundreds the head loader women of the same of times… I felt extremely cloth market, feeling agitated about ashamed of myself being part very low rates of payment (30 paise Prof. Madhukar Shukla of a society that could not per trip carrying the bale of cloth provide twenty-six dollars from a wholesaler to a retailer). They to forty-two able, skilled human beings who felt exploited by the traders. Then followed the were trying to make a living.” used garment dealer women in search of credit Likewise: facility... That was 1971. Some of these urban, Delhi-based Goonj, which collects around poor, self-employed women workers came to 80,000 kilos of garments every month and the meeting that I called in a public garden brings them to the needy across 20 states, where we formed our trade union (1972). started when its founder Anshu Gupta was We called it the Self Employed Women’s struck by a bundle of garments lying unused Association, SEWA.” in his cupboard: “Here we are, a young family Similarly, David Bornstein describes how of two adults, new home-makers for just three Grameen Bank was born out of Mohammad years, not wealthy by any means and we have Yunus’ chance meeting with Sufiya Khatun Jul-Aug 2012 Vol 2 Issue 4
27
In Conversation... amitabha bagchi Amitabha Bagchi, author of Above Average lives in Delhi with his writer-wife and son. He teaches at IIT Delhi, and recently launched a second book in the market: The Householder.
nirupama subramanian Nirupama Subramanian, author of the bestseller Keep the Change lives in Gurgaon and works as a performance consultant, facilitator and coach. Her second novel Intermission recently hit the shelves.
32
Reading Hour
Fiction by nidhin shobhana
Aduppu Memories
T
he storehouse resembled an empty, silent field after a public meeting, strewn indifferently with the remnants – redundant paper, crude plastic bags. The dry twigs that were stacked unevenly in the storehouse were hardly enough to satiate a burning aduppu1, or for that matter, two empty but noisy stomachs. Sosa glanced through the rusty grills of the storehouse window at the erratic fury of the monsoon that danced over her roof. A storehouse full of dry firewood before the onset of the monsoon will always remain a dream, Sosa thought. The monsoon reminded her of Paulo, her beloved. Unpredictable, furious and painful! “Let me go fetch some firewood from the courtyard.” Sosa gestured to Mandakini to keep an eye on the rice which would be boiling over soon. Mandakini, Sosa’s eldest, was quick in reading her mother’s gestures; she was used to them. Mandakini was named after an erstwhile naxal leader from Calicut, Mandakini Narayanan, who had worked with the ‘Friends of Soviet Russia’ in the 1940s, well before our Mandakini’s birth. She was never told about 38
Nidhin is doing a Masters Programme from the Tata Institute of Social Sciences. Writing for him is an important exercise in documenting memories; it also helps him get free of them. It lends ‘meaning and power to (his) present’.
the significance of her name. She thought of herself as a misfit. Her three younger siblings were named Mercy, Varghese and Franci. A ‘Hindu’ name in a ‘Christian’ family seemed to her inappropriate. Sosa battled the fury of the rain and scanned the length and breadth of her narrow rectangular courtyard. Three jackfruit, two mango and two coconut trees crowded its peripheries. Sosa’s maternal house had always stocked firewood well before the monsoon; the best kindling – dry mango and coffee wood, arranged neatly in rows of two! But today there were fewer or no options. She desperately wanted a meaty piece of wood which would burn for a long time, a very long time. At least till the rice cooked. Mandakini kept the aduppu burning with the pink notices that Paulo had printed for a protest meeting. The notice stressed the need for land reforms to wipe out poverty and inequalities. Mandakini was impressed by the fact that paper burnt easily, but the fire would not last long. It was dying down! She had never seen Paulo, her father, close enough. She could never catch a glimpse. He was like the swiftly shifting sand and memories of him were few. But he slept at their place, alongside Sosa, every night. That, at least, was reassuring! The younger ones were at Sosa’s parents’ Reading Hour
First Person Mangrove Element padma prasad
“O
nly you, Madam?” The boatman’s eyes summarize the situation and reach strange conclusions. “Yes, only me. Shall we go?” I replied, ignoring the message on his face. We were standing outside the governmentrun boating office in Pichavaram. It was about 10 a.m. on a Friday in the middle of August, when I got there. The only other customers for the boat rides were a bunch of young boys, all frisky and restless, extremely conscious of my femaleness. I pretended not to notice this, marched up briskly to the counter to purchase my ticket and just as briskly lined up at the starting place; that was when my boatman
Jul-Aug 2012 Vol 2 Issue 4
Padma is a writer and painter. Her work has appeared in Eclectica and A Thousand Worlds - An Anthology of Indian Women Writers. She is currently working on a collection of short stories, tentatively titled All Except One.
said, “Only you, Madam?” Any coyness, any embarrassment on my part and I would lose control of the situation. I squared my shoulders, hitched up my sari firmly and followed him with enthusiasm. I guess the boys got my message; I was secretly amused to see them calm down, realizing they had better get started too. Pichavaram, I had already read on Wikipedia, is the second largest mangrove swamp in the world. It is about four hours drive south from Chennai, on the east coast. Tamil Nadu tourism has a beautiful ‘3D virtual’ tour of the place; the pictures are extremely scenic. Still, I thought, it’s just a nice boat ride through a
45
Poetry Kokila Sandeśa
shankar rajaram & venetia kotamraju The Kokila Sandeśa is a medieval Sanskrit love poem set in southern India composed by Uddaṇḍa Śāstrī, a 15th century Tamilian who settled in Kerala. A koel is commissioned to carry a message from the pining hero, who is stranded in Kanchipuram, to his wife in central Kerala. The route the koel must take – across a lush landscape thickly carpeted in betel nut or cardamom trees and crisscrossed by rivers; among the local temples alive with myth; and within the fabulous cities whose palaces push the stars out of their orbits – is illustrated in exquisite detail by the hero. The verses below, excerpts from the first English translation of the poem, describe some of the stops on the koel’s route including Srirangam and Calicut, as well as the bird’s destination, Chendamangalam, which is just north of Kochi. The final verse is taken from the hero’s description of his beloved. When you see – and they’re a sight worth seeing – the beautiful Dramiḍa girls on the river’s banks emerging from their bath, the beauty of their round breasts set off by drops of water, their sacred marital threads stained with fragrant turmeric paste, you will I expect be delayed, my friend, if only for a moment.
∼⋄∽
On Srirangam: Thereafter some way away you’ll see the Kāverī, swans diving into her waves. She looks like a stream of rut flowing from the elephant that is the Sahya mountain. If the Kāverī is the earth’s pearl necklace, Raṅga’s lord, reclining on Śeṣa, dark as a cloud, is the emerald pendant at its centre.
Jul-Aug 2012 Vol 2 Issue 4
∼⋄∽
51
“...a wife is the peg to which her husband is tied. Now and then he might graze in fresher pastures… so what, he does return to the peg, doesn’t he? Why should anyone get upset about this?” praises of your own little self, and you consider yourself a paradigm of perfection and virtue? I wish you could see yourself in the mornings, clad in just your briefs, standing in front of the wash basin, all four fingers in your mouth, hawking away… If Apoorva had eloped with you, I am certain the two of you would not have been able to stay 54
together for long. Neither would have found it possible to ‘endure’ the other. Neither of you has the temperament to accept another in his totality, good and bad all together. I read your declaration of love, your ikraarnaama1. It was lying on your table. I found it strange; ridiculous, actually. You have garbed your relationship with Apoorva in a Reading Hour