FLOP July 2008

Photography is one Reality at a Second And Cinema is 24 Realities per Second.

C. Chaplin

CONTENTS : Penny in the Mud 1 Articles 3 Interview : Workshop 5 Dare to Click (Humor) 9 Vincent's Moonflower 11 Interview : Shakuntala Patade 13 Diary of a Ridiculous Man 21 Knowhow 23 Amma & Ajji 25 Meera 27 Pot Pourri 29 Dead Men Talking 35 The Voice 37 The Man who came to Life 39 Photo Stories 41 God Almighty 43 Keats' Lie 45 Drunken Man's Sermon 47 Interview : Lord Faustoos 49 Interview : Tushar Patel 53 Cartoons 57 Poems 59 The Barak and the Bamboos 61 Buddha Purnima FairColorful, Raw & Unique 65 Interview : Graphic Design 67 Danny and Damien 69 Team 70 Contributors 71 FLOP SERVICES 73 Contact Us 75

Startup Somewhere

It's easy to talk about voids, conflicts, hypocrisy and what not when it comes to matters of high thinking. But that's not the intention and that's not the point we are trying to make. And that's certainly not the solution we seek. It's simple, all we are trying to do is talk about what we love doing. If people call it Art, may be that's the name and description it deserves.

And assuming what we love is Art, FLOP is about Art- the art of doing things, which could be common but not commonplace, and which, in some cases have even managed to define cultures and countries.

So now it seems, FLOP can even be about a culture, a culture we are trying to develop through this magazine. Somehow Art and the masses seem to exist on two different plateaus, each at peace with itself, but existing disjointed, and at times disenchanted with the other. Is that because there is something wrong with either or simply because nobody ever tried to bridge the gap? If so, then FLOP is about that too, bridging that gap.

In fact as an afterthought, it so appears that it can't be about any one of the above. FLOP, if it is to work the way it should, has to be about all threeabout bridging this gap, so that we can build a culture defining itself and almost obviating the need to do away with all that is commonplace. If we can

ensure quality through our collective efforts, will there be any such thing as commonplace, especially when we, through this magazine, ensure that quality becomes commonplace. And as often happens, quality is compromised upon for sustaining oneself and ones works. So does it mean if we build a community of like minded people willing and eager to promote and buy one another's quality works, we can assume quality will remain and will not be sacrificed? Let's hope so and hope so intently that the efforts we put in portray the kind of urgency, which is contagious and hard to avoid. So let's spread.

And here is how we operate‌ Post original content under the suitable category (Literature, Photography, Music, Paintings, Graphics, Cartoons, and Short Films) on our website http://www.flopmag.in After the initial screening by our review committee, it goes online and is open for voting/rating.

Based upon your votes and those of the review committee, which even you can be a part of, we decide what goes in this bimonthly issue. If you are published you are paid as promised on our website, but more importantly you become a part of the review committee for the next issue.

Penny In The Mud Duckling

By Shweta

Prostitution I am doing nothing of that kind' the duckling scowled at her mum.

'Trust me this will make you look beautiful' the swan looked at the bottle of fairness cream in her hand and then at her ugly child.

'Please use some and then the men will come flocking' the swan was close to begging; and tears.

'I don't want to be beautiful, I'd rather be different; and have a spine' The mother couldn't bear the shame of an ugly child.

She thought, 'Even if I lack a spine, I have a sharp enough beak.'

Peck. Peck. Peck. Peck. Peck.

Murder

By Subodh Even ten years ago, I remember we had pleasantly chilly winters at Mumbai. But for the last half decade, winters here have come like tourists on shoe-string budgets -any budget for that matter would seem shoe-string in Mumbai- hitchiking through God-knows-which places and finally arriving here to stay only for a weekend. This year though the city is having slightly more than a cold weekend it seems, something more like nice, shivering nights at a stretch. A couple of nights ago, I was feeling realy cold on account of the falling mercury and the midnight TV news report on Nithari killings and the South Bombay "Beer Can" serial killer did no good. I decided to jump onto my bed, pull a thick rug and retire. The next morning I woke-up later than usual. On such mornings you don't even feel like sliding a finger outside the rug. That morning, the newspapers had already come, the milkman had gone and the house-maid was happily composing symphonies out of my door-bell. I hesitated a bit but the thought of washing clothes and scrubbing utensils under the cold water unnerved me. I finally crawled out of the bed to open the door. (She headed straight for the sink.) I was in no mood to wash myself in the cold basin, instead I set a pot of tea on the stove and stood in the balcony - a perfect cold, lazy morning's job. And on the peepal tree facing my balcony, I saw murder! As if the sight wasn't enough, they started croaking nastily and noisily at once. I cried, I yelled, I shooed. I clapped, I slapped, finally I fetched my pellet gun from the cabinet and fired one shot. I don't know if any of them was hurt, but there was a very short dead silence and then within micro-seconds, with an ever more louder clatter of wings, the murder rose and broke-up in the sky.

By Kyunbit

Picked up a long-expired bottle from the overflowing medicine box. Had bought it in a heavily discounted sale on Independence Day. Threw it away into the trash can; the glass bottle broke. The soaked label could still be read. 'Patriotism Tonic'.

Articles Blinkers

By Hogwash

Yesterday was a Monday, but that doesn't matter. Yesterday someone indicated again, and that does.

If wishes were horses, we'd have learned riding by now. Still, we wish it had not happened. It did. To start with, we wanted others to indicate, but they wouldn't. And now as we've got used to them not indicating, such incidents mar our intents again.

All this when more than half the population had given up on blinkers and the rest had so peacefully and without a whisper come to expect anything but others indicating which way they wanted to go.

One bike rider in a clear case of indulgence, indicated as he was about to go left on National highway near ChainEye yesterday evening. The man behind him, having forgotten the existence of indicators, thought it was his headlight blinking and slowed down to indicate thus. Accident happened as the people following these two with no idea as to what was going on tried to figure out the same without slowing down and before they could figure, they were too close to figure. Finally they figured it was nothing but a case of indicating. No casualties have been reported so far. Only one of the persons lost his wallet and last reported was in a gutter nearby looking for it.

Amongst that entire chaos, one thing to note is the extreme event of left blinkers of all the bikes starting to beep simultaneously after the accident. Though there was one bike which had its right blinker beeping. Police questioned the man who owned the bike. Upon further inquiry his claims as to his left blinker not working couldn't be substantiated as there was no left blinker on the bike. He too was in the gutter looking for it.If words from the Commissioner of Police, Mr. AppleOfmyEye, are any indication it seems somewhere deep down it's this missing

left blinker responsible for the entire mishap.

The person questioned is the man who had indicated. Big question that police face now is, if the man's claims are true and if his left indicator is not working indeed, how can they convict him of careful driving, and then in all probability the man following him will be in the dock.

And as fate had it another major accident was reported to have taken place near RainEyeLakmeBuy square an hour earlier as four bikers bumped into an ambulance. Two men from the ambulance staff, who were responsible for waiving to indicate, were taken into police custody. Upon questioning one of them admitted to have slept off on duty. Nobody in the police station was awake to record the statement. They are planning to question them again sometime tomorrow morning.

As for casualties, two of the bikers sustained minor injuries. One of them hurt his leg, while the other is experiencing involuntary blinking upon seeing a turn. Last reported hospital authorities were planning to employ him to indicate. They are to have control switches attached to his eyelids and have two flaps controlled through them for indicating. He has also been given strict instructions not to sleep as then he couldn't blink.

After these accidents ChainEye based HalfBlindAllAtSea automobiles have decided to remove blinkers from their vehicles. Their bikes, which have all been coming with four blinkers so far, two to indicate if one wanted to go left or right and other two for signaling if one wanted to stop on the left or right of the road respectively, will from now on come without any of these. “These two extra indicators are there to avoid confusion, now you know what to use while stopping. Our motto is 'indicate profusely'” the company is reported to have said then.

So what brought about this sudden change in direction for them? MD, Operations, Mr. AllinControl had this to say in response, "After what happened yesterday we were left with no choice but remove blinkers" he was quoted.

But protest with regard to this decision started soon after in all parts of the city, as their existing customers felt cheated. "We paid for the blinkers unnecessarily, only beeper came as an accessory" One of the protestors complained.

“Last year my grandfather had to undergo an operation due to overuse of his right thumb, doctors blamed it on indicating and now manufacturers say new customers don't need to pay for it" added one more. Upon being approached with such questions Mr. AIC explained, "We are not reducing costs, we're going to release a press statement in this regard shortly".

Later that evening, the MD announced their plans about keeping the costs where they were and using the money saved from blinkers for making engine and wheels so good that you'd be done with the turn even before people following you realize.

“But what if they are on the same pair of tyres?” their competitors are asking.

“We always provide helmets as subsidized accessories.” Pat comes the reply from HalfBlindAllAtSea. Suspecting enforced use of helmets protests have multiplied manifold.

Idiots

By Hogwash Idiots, for heaven's sake, wanted some idiots badly. Stupidity has gone out of fashion it seems, or perhaps knowledge has devoured it.

We owing to an inborn desire to excel, which as a matter of fact, happens to be a mere euphemism for outsmarting others, tend to cover patches of foolishness with a veneer of knowledge, but if analyzed keenly, this very shroud, shroud oh yes, “shroud” that's right, that's the word I was looking for, would come out as something shallower than puddle of affluence. But unfortunately ostentation of knowledge has acquired such an exalted status in our minds that other show-offs are suffering unreasonably at the hands of such empty vanity. And damage is more serious than I seem to be hinting at so far. Knowledge has not only killed foolishness, but it has also greatly and fatally wounded genius, for both folly and intelligence happen to be, and that I wish were a mere coincidence, offspring of free thought.

Thinking, unlike we humans, amazingly enough does itself more good than harm if left unfettered and completely on its own. Genius was never born of anything, but free, useless thought and let me repeat it to you, that knowledge is killing it.

It's but natural that the mind would look for alternatives to occupy itself with, so in case original thought finds itself amongst minority, there is nothing much it can do, except for giving in to other contenders, and knowledge as it stands, proves to be worthy enough a replacement. Forget, as we do, the fact that once knowledge was nothing but someone's brainchild or one of the things that had evaded human mind, and in some cases eye, until it was discovered. And I hope, you'd be kind enough to yourself to figure out and then appreciate the difference between a discovery and an invention. What appeals to you more is no more a matter of concern for me, but not knowledge, for god's sake, if you believe in him, otherwise to do justice to your own faculties.

Human brain, my friends, is too precious a thing to be occupied with borrowed learning. Man, oh man, to breed genius, you have to live with stupidity.

Let us give ourselves a chance, let us allow ourselves to be judged and in case time stamps you as a fool, enjoy the freedom it gives you.

Foolishness has more advantages than one can possibly imagine, that you can take others for granted, is just one of them.

Music Band WorkShop

style to the music. So it's a band not a solo project.

added a humourous twist to them.

HK : Or taken Humour and added a little twist of life

When, as a band, did you actually meet and form?

to it.

Did the music come after you had the musicians or

When Satan and god had sex, the big bang happened. However since Satan was prone to multiple orgasms another bang happened.... and that's how Workshop was formed. A poly-rhythmic drummer, a classic rock chromatic scale playing bassist and a fiery demonic monster all combined, with their powers united as one, a musical comedy of sorts is the best way to define the creative power of Workshop. Playing a vast span of genres ranging from EMO to Garba to Bhangra to pop, but all injected with the venom of demonic metal is what the musical creations of Workshop could be classified under.

did you know what you wanted in terms of sound and

What do you have to say to all the 'purists' who might

picked people who you knew would bring that to life?

disapprove of metal being used as a tool to tickle?

DS : I think my 1st answer takes care of the how we

DS : There are purists everywhere, it's no point

met and formed this band part. We all knew one

fighting anyone really, we are all for peace and live

thing right from the start, and it was that we didn't

and let live so we just do what we do and those that

want to limit ourselves to any particular style, but at

like it will support us and those who feel otherwise

the same time we knew that humor and metal were

can continue to do so.

two elements that would remain constant with our

RD : And if you use metal to tickle yourself, that is

music and that's how it's been, we did arrangements

serious S & M.

for the songs together. Like I mentioned before

HK : You know, comedians could come after us for

everyone has got his style of playing to the band's

using Comedy as a tool to Musically Stimulate Ones

sound.

Ears (I'm not too sure they have a word like “tickle”

RD : We all knew one another while playing for

for that)

different bands on the circuit, and one thing we knew as sure as hell was that we were among the

What is the inspiration for the lyrics of tracks like

funniest bands around.

'Chhati ke saath panga' or 'Khooni Murda'? Is that

HK : These band-mates of mine sure as hell know

based on any real life event?

how to cook up a story. That's how Tool was formed.

DS : Not a real life event but from B-Grade movies

Of f late you have been majorly concentrating on

HK : Anyone who will buy our albums and sit through

Well err somewhat. These guys liked the idea so they

and their extremely graphic and witty posters.

your new music project WORKSHOP. Can you explain

our shows really.

STOLE it. Talk about being image conscious.

However the Murda has been converted into a Murga

more about it, how did the idea of doing something

now.

like this came in the first place?

Why the name WORKSHOP?

In terms of musical style, who's really influenced

HK : Khooni Murga is a message to all non-

DS : Actually I am not concentrating more on

DS : A workshop was the reason we started the band

you?

vegetarians out there, someday you might need a

Workshop, DR will always be my priority, it's just that

and hence the name.

DS : For this band there is no particular influence, it's

bigger plate to serve a Rooster who's after your life.

Workshop is new so people assume other projects

just music, funny things and life in general.

are taking a back seat which is not the case.

You guys are releasing an album, aren't you?

RD : I guess we wanted to be on the lines of Freak

'Musical masturbation' is how you describe this band.

Workshop is a fun band which Hamza has been

DS : Yes, that would seem to be the situation.

Kitchen when we started out; but because of our

How big was the role of pot and porn in shaping up

pestering me to revive for a long time, originally I

HK : An Album ? What the hell! How come nobody

varied backgrounds (extreme metal, blues and

this album?

was conducting an ESP guitar workshop and I asked

told me about this ?

progressive metal), today we sound nothing like

DS : None of us smoke or smoke up, we are

them.

thankfully imaginative enough and do not require

Hamza and Riju to be my backup and we worked our 3-4 instrumental music pieces, which we played

What are the best and the worst things about this

HK : I'd say a part of our sound comes closest, in

substance abuse to reach creative peaks, however

repeatedly for 2-3 such Workshops after which for

band?

terms of feel and antics, to Primus. However this

porn is good but doesn't really play a part in musical

some odd reason, that I can't recall, we found

DS : For me personally it's just been good fun so far,

was truly unintentional as neither Sahil nor Riju

masturbation unless you consider Victor Wooten

ourselves registered for the band competition at KC

everyone is enthusiastic about the project so that's

listens to them. As far as influences go, well, Himesh

Bass solo's to be pornographic in nature.

College in Thane where we created a big noise, if

the best part and there is nothing really bad about

Reshamiya, Falguni Pathak, Bonney M, BEST bus

nothing else, with our brand of humor and music with

this band, it's just that sometimes with the barrage

conductors, Indian Linguistic Heritage Protection

songs like Pudhe Sarka and I Came. I had even

of jokes amongst ourselves we ask 'How Much Is Too

Association, Society of Protectors of Linguistic

base when they tried to explore their funny side with

created lyrics on the spot. A video of this

Much?’

Indian Languages, Jim Carey, Jay Z and Bal

'Oops..'. How much risk are you taking by doing

performance can be found on youtube for all to view.

HK : For me the worst thing about this band is

Thackrey. J This is a highly edited list by the way.

something like this in India?

After that there were many repeated requests from

playing on a Left-handed Electronic drum kit. It helps

Hamza to jam and do something, which finally got

one become ambidextrous though. However at times

How much have all these conflicts, monsoon floods,

skills, nor were we a serious metal band trying to be

Not too long ago COB lost a chunk of their core fan

DS : None of us have Alexi Lahio's hair or his guitar

the better of me (persistence pays off I guess :P) and

it can be a real pain in the ass (the left handed set

problems with cops, with peddlers and erratic

funny, in fact I'd say we are a funny band trying to be

we got together, worked out the entire plan for the

up, not the kit [Yamaha endorsement team kindly

behavior of humans in general affected your

metal.

band and took it forward.

take note])

thoughts, music and lyrics?

HK : He tried explaining that to me, but I didn't get it

DS : Since we don't smoke pot, we haven't had to

either. (Pats back of the interviewer) I hear you buddy.

Who is your audience?

Is this a Demonstealer showcase band or more of a

deal with peddlers or cops or erratic behaviour of

DS : Anyone and everyone is our audience, be it a

collaborative project?

stoners and random folk for the most part but I guess

Himesh fan or a Death Metal head or even someone

DS : I don't think there are any Demonstealer

everything in life influences us in some way, not

who likes good humor. We set no boundaries; some

showcase bands, if it was, I'd just call it 'The

quite in a way that can be put onto paper in an

DS : Would be kind of pointless if we didn't play live,

will like us, some will love, some will hate us and

Demonstealer Band' as opposed to Workshop. But

interview but yes we pretty much like to keep things

we plan to hit the gig circuit once the album is ready

some might even throw inanimate objects at us, but

yes it's completely a collaborative project, everyone

simple.

for release.

it's all good.

is involved, everyone brings in his influences and

RD : Yeah we've taken different aspects of life and

Any plans to go live as the band WORKSHOP ?

Most of your songs are both a bit comical & scary,

What kind of gear did you use? Did loops and

any particular lines you are following?

samples form any major part in recording?

himself from his Demonstealer Persona.

DS : It's no holds barred and we are going where the

DS: We are a live band, we don't use loops and

How would you describe the perfect world?

wind takes us.

samples in our songs, except maybe in one song we

DS: 38C x 2.

HK : Which is ironical because we are all slightly

will but that is yet to be seen, we record using tons

RD: Without undergarments this time…

of different gear, a guitar, a bass and an electronic

HK: Development of Prototype PNS-1903 Version 3.16 Beta still in progress.

overweight. :P

drum-kit are the basic tools we use, beyond that I What kind of feedbacks are you getting from friends

cannot say as then I might have to kill you.

etc. concerning this kind of music?

RD: Sahil made me convert to a Greg Bennett

DS : Well, so far it's been good feedback, the song

Fairlane FN5 4 bass. But it owns.

'Bunty Aur Malika Shavewhat” has been a huge hit at

HK: Sahil made me convert to a Greg Chappell, but I

gather of friends where I have performed an acoustic

declined. Anyway jokes apart (of what I do) at home I

version, as well as the original versions of CKSP and

practised on a Mapex Kit and Paiste Cymbals.

KM have got good reviews. So we hope the album will receive similar positive feedback.

Any kind of art work which you plan to release with

RD : Till now it's been mostly positive. I'm not sure

Workshop?

how many of these songs we can play in front of our

DS: We do certainly hope that our album has a cover

parents though.

otherwise it would be rather strange and we might

HK : Also what we've learned is, “These songs aren't

be fighting plenty of people in consumer court. So

for the faint of heart” (Hold on I'm beginning to sound

yes, we will be looking at having something that is

like someone here).

funny because it's no point having a gore grind style cover for our band. It defeats the purpose unless of

What's the one thing you guys would suggest to any

course gore grind means a picture of Al Gore on

metal-head before he gives this rather weird music

MTV's grind, or something to that extent.

the first shot?

RD: There might be undergarments involved though.

DS : I'd recommend he puts on his dancing shoes and

HK: Right now we are thinking of a Bright Pink

his funny hat.

Leather Jacket designed by Armani for the Cover.

RD : I'd recommend a booking in a mental institution, or (KVLT!!!!) metal institution.

What other projects are you guys involved with apart

HK : I'd suggest a Bed, a tablet of Crocin, 250 ml of

from this, musical or otherwise?

Cold Water, 3 Teaspoons of Turmeric, Ray Ban

DS: I'm playing in Demonic Resurrection and

Sunglasses, Some Australian Chicken Wings and a

recording material for Reptilian Death and Infinite

Brain Output of 12.56 % Efficiency.

Hate Project, I work with Furtados Music otherwise and record bands at Demonic Studios.

What was on your playlist while the concept of

RD: I'm currently busy at work as a copywriter. So

WORKSHOP was being formulated?

really have no time to play for other bands.

DS : To be honest there is no recollection of anything

HK: I play for Apollonian Quest (Progressive Death

in particular, I've been spinning bands like Arsis,

Metal), Coshish (Alternative Hindi Rock) and my yet

Deicide, Emperor, Anata, Soilwork etc for the last

to be named solo project (Oddtime and Polyrhythmic

few months but there is nothing quite humorous

Chaos). Also apart from working as a Full Time

about any of those bands.

Fitness Instructor and Dominos Sales Executive I

RD : Helloween, Manowar, King Diamond, Maiden etc.

somehow find time to pursue my course in

I guess.

Automobile Engineering and Teach Drums (people

HK : Tool, Porcupine Tree, Death, Pain of Salvation,

how to play drums rather).

Nine Inch Nails, Nile, Isis, Mastodon, Devin Townsend…Hmmm weird. Weird indeed. Truly weird.

This music comes across as a huge contrast from Demonic Resurrection. Was it challenging to jump

How much time did you guys spend in studio to finish

across like that or did it come rather swift?

this thing up?

DS: Like I mentioned the base of this band is metal,

DS: We are still in the studio, in fact I live in the

so not really and I was always funny so that really

studio, and thankfully it's got a nice bed also. And

wasn't too hard, plus I'm a Gemini so one side is for

we've been recording since April 2008.

DR and the other side for Workshop so it's just a

RD: FREEEEEE!!!! The vocalist owns a studio.

matter of changing faces.

HK: Thank fully I don't live in a Studio Apartment. My

HK: In case you're confused over the “Changing

house is fully equipped with bedrooms, toilets, a hall

Faces” bit, he has ordered a Fully Prosthetic Sahil

and a kitchen.

Makhija Face from Faces-R-us to differentiate

Dare to Click Winners

We found the following entries worth mentioning for its popularity and uniqueness in representing “Humour”

Nitin

Warm wishes to all the participants and looking forward to your contributions in future.

“Humour” – it was a tough one to begin with, we received more than 50 entries in our inaugural challenge. Some were outright funny, others were more subtle while some very intriguing. It showed how one subject can be perceived differently by different photographers, and that is the Fun of Photography.

Wish you all had as much fun contributing and voting for your favorite entries as we had selecting the final winner. The choice was unanimous due to the degree of perfection in execution, concept, relevance to subject and the feel of the photograph itself.

The winner of our first Photography Challenge is Mr.Vivek Desai.

Vinay

Vincent’s Moonflower

By Sagar Bhanagay

Yellow was the color that was splashed till the edge of the horizon. This vast sunflower farm was in full bloom right next to the river. The breeze tickled yellow ripples & the wind ruffled yellow waves in this vast ocean of yellowness. Such magnificence lay spread in this remote village of Amsterdam that no artist could have resisted the urge to be here and paint the canvas yellow.

These sunflowers were the yellow-equivalents of daffodils that had evoked such a strong outburst of joy in Wordsworth.

A painter did indeed visit this farm often. Villagers called him Vincent. He acted a bit strange. He seemed engrossed in thought, looked shabby, cared little for his attire or for food and was often depressed, wonder why! He also looked frail & unhealthy due to his ignorance, but little did he care. A short tree besides the river cast some shade & served as an ideal spot for the painter to setup his wooden-stand & unfurl his canvas over it. Master strokes of yellow paint were cast over this canvas with such finesse! Some bold, some subtle, some pure, some shaded, some smooth, some broken, some distinct, some overlapped. All in all, they rendered such a magnificent effect that often one couldn't tell what was more adorable... the farm or the canvas!

Vincent was a little known artist of that time and was often cash-stricken. He relied heavily on his brother for expenses and support. He went through acute bouts of depression. People felt that his solitude & unreciprocated loves aggravated his suicidal tendencies. He befriended the prostitutes and quarreled with his kith. Very few realized the value of his work and the caliber of the artist within him. Not many befriended him; as all that they saw was that he was different.

A sunflower bud right next to Vincent's tree acted weird too. It had been quite a few days since its birth but it hadn't bloomed. It looked pale & white. Most felt it was stillborn but her mother was wishful. The neighboring sunflowers sympathized with her father who had nearly given up hope. These sympathies became a burden upon her mother whose hopes hadn't died just yet & she didn't let these sympathies overweigh her spirit. Everyday she prayed her heart out to the sun-god for her daughter's well-being.

The sunflowers have been ardent devotees of the sun. So much so that they all wake up to the first golden rays of the dazzling orange disc rising over the horizon. They are so awe-struck by this yellow ball that they seem to ignore everything else! They follow it's path right till it gets

incandescent-white overhead at noon & then mellows to it's yellow & soothing orange as it sets in the west. The sunflowers detest the night, as it engulfs their god. Over time, they have grown superstitious & tabooistic regarding the night. The night, they believe, brings evil spirits & the moon & stars are friends of the devils as they appear when their god is away. The night belongs to the demons, they believe, and all droop and sleep tight till the next morning when their god once again salvages them from their cold slumber.

One night, the mother sunflower woke up to the soft melodious words being hummed next to her ear. At first she was startled as she too was wary of the spirits of the night, but was courageous enough to open her eyes. To her joy, her little bud had bloomed & was singing! It seemed as though all her prayers had finally been answered. The moonlit bud seemed awe-struck by the moon as she sang to him. Now this was queer! "Sleep, sleep child" patted the mother in vain as the little moonflower hummed all night. She was different!

The next morning all the fresh dew-sprinkled sunflowers tossed their heads up and marveled at their god, whilst the pale white moonflower was fast asleep. But her mother was happy that she wasn't stillborn but was different. She marveled at the moon instead of the sun, that's all. Soon, word of mouth spread and all sunflowers got to know about the weird habits of this moonflower.

She seemed to grab more attention than the priests of that farm!

The elders felt defied. They were the most stringent advocates of the sun-god & would not tolerate the birth of any other deity or any other religion. "What's a moon, Pa?", enquired another young sunflower who received a tight slap on his cheeks. "There's only a sun", replied the disgruntled father. By now, the elders grew wary of their younger generation questioning their beliefs & feared that they would stray along the forbidden paths. They decided to stay awake that night & see for themselves the queer behavior of the moonflower.

It was a glorious full-moon night & a spectacular moon loomed over the horizon. The stars looked like pearls strewn over black velvet. The delicate twinkling of the stars was occasionally rivaled by the soft sparkles of stray glow-worms. It was glorious, but the sunflowers were but the sunflowers were conditioned to hate it! As expected, the moonflower woke up & sang the prettiest of words a poet could pen. To everyone's surprise, the same artist was there that night too as he painted 'The starry night'. All looked on as the two master artists poured out their art that night.

One sang whilst the other painted. But all that the sunflowers saw was that they were different!

These artists were good for nothing burdens & seemed to have a bad influence on their ingenious younger generation. How they wished both were dead!

The next morning a meeting was called by the sunflower priest to determine the fate of the rebellious moonflower. The moonflower, as usual, lay drooped & fast asleep. The priest accused her of defying their sun-god and converting to a parallel religion. He also alleged that the good-fornothing depressed painter had an evil influence on her & thus she was squandering her life away in the pursuit of worthless poetry. Such people are a burden to the ingenious society & deserve to be taught a lesson! He emphasized that the moonflower had brought disgrace to their community.

"What punishment do you'll recommend?" asked the priest with the grandeur of a moral-policeman!

"Cull, cull", yelled the thoughtless gullible mob. The 'honour-killing' of the moonflower was executed that afternoon, much to the wails of her inconsolable mother.

The painter too never returned to that sunflower farm again. News was that the depressed bloke had shot himself in the chest and had succumbed to his injuries. An artist was culled, whilst the other had killed himself. The world had been relieved of two burdens to mankind.

Peace and honour seemed to have been finally restored in that sunflower farm. All sunflowers got back to the rituals of their religion as they tossed their heads up and marveled at their magnificent sun-god. A major cultural calamity had been averted by the considerate elders and order had been reinstated. Everything seemed to be back in harmony. Yellow, was the colour that was splashed till the edge of the horizon.

Painting Interview Shakuntala Patade : A late beginning, an intense one.

The characters in her paintings have eyes which are alive but not open. As if saying, if I am visible it is only because you choose to see me. All one hears is: You are responsible for this. Her art leaves a very disturbing effect on the person who sees them, telling the viewer what he/she ought to be doing without giving any suggestions on its own.

No wonder her most famous works are a reflection of our most disturbing realities; at times at strife with us and our acts. Her art sees what one deliberately ignores.

She spent ages researching the colonies of prostitutes. She still knows the names of each and every one of them who ended up as faces on her canvases.

In 2002, she did a series on the Gujarat riots. All the galleries she approached absolutely refused to display them. It was considered way too dangerous, by everyone, perhaps by herself too. She didn't stop though.

The series kept coming out of her view as more news, more horror trickled in.

But all that diminishes before the lady herself. At the age of 76, her laughter has the sound of having overcome all that.

As I open the first page of her art record book, I encounter two beautiful ladies, one on the canvas and one standing in front of her: she when she first began to paint.

Is that your first painting?

Yes. When I began painting, what was put on canvas was my innermost expression. There was an innocence about that work, discovering painting for the first time.

So the first ever paintings that I made were all nudes.

Yeah, they are really beautiful. The lady for example is nude here and she has a beautiful body, but all you want to see is her face. Focus is so intense that you can't look away from that face.

You seem to be in love with this painting.

I am .

I mean it is awesome; anybody who sees it will be in love with it.

Really? (She laughs gently at me, teasingly.)

Well , these are even my favorites but they were altered later by me. Covered up.Back when I first painted them, I felt no embarrassment about the nudity in it. Soon though, my students began to know that I paint, and they would come over for a visit, curious. I began to question if it's alright. Sometimes I would think of my relative's reaction when they will see it.

rather prone to happiness. Also I have my painting. I find great joy in it.

One page, containing love and madness, death and immortality. Is this the power of art?

Is that the reason why your style of painting has different phases, different styles which differ in their mood so much?

Could be. There was this incident that happened long time back, during an initial exhibition of mine: I found a foreigner looking at my paintings very intently. I went to him and asked him what interested him so much. He told me that there is a certain line, certain methodology that he sees here. A pattern of characteristics that is found in works of artists who start to paint late in their life. He told me that Rabindranath Tagore had similar characteristics in his art works. He too started painting pretty late in life you know.

I was completely flattered, but then these are technicalities, I don't give them importance. My work is to paint. Analyzing - you would do it better. One generally acquires techniques when the expression has any use of them. Sometimes I will do something, and later find that I am not able to do it again. I believe it's just someone else doing it all through me.

I consider that these are the records of our times.

One of the women depicted here found justice only recently. Her molesters finally got punished.

For the first time I detect a dark tone in her voice. It carries a feeling of being avenged. I try to understand the passion behind the work

As I flip through the record of her works, I encounter her controversial series on Gujarat riots.

A tragedy behind each painting… …or a glimmer of hope… “ This painting is about a girl, who is a Hindu , and her lover , who is a Muslim. The mob came to kill him, she tried to save him. They killed her. She died saving him.” She picks up a painting and explains.

You see our generation was lot more hypocritical than today's generation.

Today of course, I could show these paintings to my nephew and wouldn't think twice about it. At that time it was a big issue though. So I later draped all these forms with a sari. And suddenly all my paintings were sold.

(We both begin laughing hard at this point.)

But, yes, now I regret it.

I think I can now go back to that innocence, touch it back. I think my next series would be on nudes.

May be it's derived from the pain she had to bear as she was prevented from displaying it, from spreading the message. The pain of having seen it all .I then come across a particular painting of the series and kept gazing at it

You began to paint in your early 40s .That's the time when most people stop. What was it that made you start painting so late?

Sorrow. It's a very powerful emotion, it can drive you mad or it can make you creative. Thankfully it did the latter to me.

She who paints intensity, she who gives you eyes gazing deep into you, has drawn a face with eyes closed, and it's hard to look away from it. The face of the corpse has so much pain, but strangely there is also a feeling of immense peace that surrounds it and the viewer.

She looks at me with her understanding eyes, the kind calm back on her face, and answers my unasked question.

(She laughs at the memory. Her laughter is very warm, like the tree brown shade of her paintings. )

It's called “Forgive them Lord”.

But you as a person are so lively, apparently quite a contrast to what one sees here in these paintings.

It is something about sorrow again. You eventually overcome it. And then the things that bothered you once, they don't look significant any longer. You learn to get over them; naturally that makes you

All Paintings By Shakuntala Patade

Diary Of A Ridiculous Man

1st of June 2006 Bungee jumping is scary. For a moment you forget the rope supporting you all together. And then the jolt and you are back to your senses. Feeling after all that is heady.

6th of December 2006 It's the anniversary. It's the day that jolted Bombay eventually. It's the day we should never forget.

The day that reminds us of all that should be important and all that should not be. Met Arahaan today at the orphanage. He takes after his father. Met Saleema too, she turns 16 today. Her mom was a teacher. She couldn't teach grown-ups though.

4th of April 2007 He was shot today. Men like those are supposed to die like that. We can't tolerate such men. They are irritatingly patient. They don't raise a hand. Assassination.

5th of February 2008 Somebody told me it's my birthday. It's my sister. So far I have no reason not to trust her. My friends turned up with a cake. I was already partly asleep. TV was on. They took their time. I cut the cake. "Blame the day, blame the day" all of them kept shouting. I don't know why. They left around 2 in the morning. Couldn't go back to sleep till 5.

5th of February 2008 I threw a party. It cost me a lot. One of my friends almost got me a shirt. It doesn't fit. I am supposed to go and get it exchanged. The shop is close to my office. It's a nice office, I had been there recently.

14th of February 2008 I have found a date. They say it's about celebrating love. She stays over. Her boyfriend couldn't make it.

2nd of March 2008 I am sleepy. Can't get up and get to work. Don't feel like doing anything. My friend yawns and complains, "it's a sleepy day". It doesn't seem like my fault after all. The day is sleepy.

3rd of March 2008 Two days and two entries, I am getting regular at this. Earlier I used to do it when i had nothing else to do. So what does it mean?!

22

Knowhow BY Rohan Ananda Ramaswamy

often it got annoying. But kudos to “In the End.” Seven years and still going strong.. In the mean time, LP was out with Minutes to Midnight and no one knew of “Bleed It Out.” The songs that are popular are popular for a reason. I accept that.. All I am saying is that in clutching to what we know, we are missing out on so much else, of which we know nothing.

Bodom’s maniacal riffs, or feeling lost in Floyd’s bridge or finding hope in Dave Matthew’s lyrics or pure unbriddled joy from a Dropkick Murphy’s drum roll, music will move you to the depths or heights within you that you are not even aware of.

All am saying is that in clutching to what we know, we are missing out on so much else, of which we know nothing.

Between The Doors and Led Zep, we lost out on the Phish.. Between Maiden and Priest, we lost out on Motorhead.

Carpe Diem, seize the day, break your shell and seek freedom from your inhabitation. Go out and allow yourself an experience, tread a lesser...and find yourself.

A wise man once asked of us...

What would you do if you weren't afrai Are we afraid??

Everything can be pushed to a further extent, we just need to be open to possibilities.

Swami Chinmayananda said “It is sure to be dark if I close my eyes.” Think about it...

Afraid of stepping over the edge…of crossing into the unknown?

Caution is advisable. But fear we can do without. If a few good men had not realized this, we would still be living in a flat world, with no electricity.

My search will never stop...even if I find what I'm looking for.

Because there are things I know.

Then there are things I don’t know.

And then come the things I don’t even know that I know nothing about.

I get a few people at Toons, where I DJ, who come up to me in the middle of a Maroon 5 song and tell me “Ay man, play some rock man.” The last time I checked, Maroon 5 was a rock band.

But then I realized that it's not about the music...it's about what we know and are comfortable with. So anything that we are unaware of is either not rock or bad rock.

We have come across people, you and I, who have dismissed a particular genre of music without even having heard it.

Maybe we are guilty of it too. But take a minute. Realize that music, in all its living, breathing glory, in all shapes and forms, inspires and excites. A piece of music will, by its very nature, stir some emotion in you; be it anger inspired by

There is a world out there that we don’t even know exists. Why are we afraid of moving towards it, before we decide that we don’t want embrace it. And we have fear and loathing for all that we don't know. Some of us come from this school of thought “If I don’t know it, then it’s probably not worth knowing in the first place.”

My philosophy is simple (even though that can't be said of the preceding lines). There is no limit, no visible boundary marking that says “This is it.....no further.”

Allow me to take an observation from the other end of the DJ'ing spectrum. At the “commercial” dance parties, with the bollywood and bhangra music, two songs held sway at one point of time.

One was “Kajra re” and the other was “Kangna.” Both are great songs, for all the technical aspects and the groovy feel of the songs themselves. But there was just no escaping the songs. Every speaker from 5 to 5000 watts was blasting the song at some point of time or the other. It took two years for Kangna to die a somewhat natural death....considering it was played to death in the first place. Back in our world, I would say “You're Beautiful” suffered the same fate. It got played so

What would you do if you weren't afraid???

Short Stories Amma And Ajji

methods will drive her away from this place. Do spare a thought for the poor families in our neighborhood who depend on her for their daily nourishment.'

She tried to relieve me of my apprehension, 'Oh! Come, come, Babu. I would never haggle with Ajji. You know I never haggle with poor people.'

That was not true.

By Boffin

nonchalant riposte. This would elicit a melange of reactions from the vendors. Some vendors would faint, some would go mad and utter something which would be gobbledygook in any language, whereas some would sell because for them life was anyway complicated and cruel and Amma's cruelty was part of their arduous journey. But they all knew Amma had a kind heart for she often gave them rice, curries and water.

There was one incident when a crestfallen vendor besought, 'Have mercy on me Madam.

Think of my wife and four children.' Amma would acquiesce but would sermonize, 'Are you not ashamed to have four children when you can not afford to bring them up.’ Ajji served the poor and the middle-class The vendors in the vegetable market, close to families in The Fifth Heaven whereas the rich folks flocked to the super markets. Amma, until where we lived currently, were used to Amma's bargaining ways. They would employ different now, raided the local vegetable market every strategies, which changed often. It was like week for her groceries. She was a notorious haggler. When we lived in the South, she was a games played by predator and its prey. When terror and a constant threat to the vendors that they saw Amma at a distance, they would often close their shops or hide their green leafy served our street. Usually the vendors would scream at the top of their voices to attract their vegetables, which were her main targets.

Sometimes it would present a hilarious scene, customers but as soon as they approached my for they would all be scurrying for cover as if a house, they would fall as silent as a grave and flood was approaching the market. would try to pass my house as gingerly as possible in order not to attract her attention. For Amma pointing Ajji out to me, 'Do you see Ajji? a neutral observer, the act looked like Such a hardship for her. She has to carry all the suspended animation. But for an unfortunate bags with the vegetables every day in her old vendor, it would be a day of insurmountable age to make a living. She reminds me of the loss. The transaction would be typical.

'How much are the brinjals?' Amma would query. Sherpas, who help the climbers in the '15 Rupees per kilo,' the vendor would reply with Himalayas. Such an excruciating life. She looks so thin. It must be a struggle for her,' she an air of misplaced confidence.

Next moment would be earth shattering for the continued, 'I think I will buy my greens from her from now on.’ vendor. Oh! Come on. Don't be ridiculous.Give I complained, 'Please mother, your haggling me a kilo for 3 Rupees,' would be Amma's Amma, my mother, was looking intently at the activities of the vegetable vendor for our group of apartments, which is called The Fifth Heaven. Nothing particular about the name except that it was fifth in the series; the first four were called The First Heaven, The Second Heaven, The Third Heaven and the Fourth Heaven respectively. Amma called the vendor Ajji, which is the name she used adoringly for any respectable old lady. She admired them, for she thought their lives, especially in The Fifth Heaven, were wonderful but heartrending tales of hardship, success and sometimes tragedy.

She thought Ajji's life would tell a similar story.

She approached Ajji with a spring in her step.

Ajji smiled a wrinkly smile which suggested a life of hard labor.

Ajji: You are new.

Amma: I usually go to the vegetable market close by. But I see you are selling the greens that I prefer. They look fresh too. So why not buy from you. It will save me the walk on the dirty roads and the noisy traffic.

Ajji: It would be nice to have one more customer.

Amma: I see only the oldies buying veggies from you.

Ajji: You know aaj ke betis and bahus. The McDonald, Pizza, Burger King types. They cook once a month may be. They either eat out or depend on the oldies to cook for them. Why, I know some types who have an allergy for kitchen! Have you ever heard such a thing before? What a shame! What has the world come to! Do you have betis or bahus?

Amma: I have a beti. She is married and is a very good cook. I have a son (she pointed me to Ajji). He is a good cook as well. He spends most of his time abroad. He is almost a Firangi now.

He does not believe in god.

Ajji: Hey Ram! Aaj ke nav jawan! Why don't you take him to a religious priest who will exorcise him and instill in him the fear and love of god?

Amma: No, I would not do that. It could happen that he may convert the priest to atheism. But he is a very nice boy. He is obedient. He takes me to temples. So what about your betis and bahus?

Ajji: I have three betas and two betis. All married. My youngest bahu just had a boy. I went to oversee the delivery. She was screaming and crying. What an agony for her?

Aaj ke bahus. You know how my babies came out from my womb. I will tell you about my second son. I was working in the cotton fields pregnant with him. It was to be that day or the next day. I did not realize how and when he popped out. But there he was, crying, in the basket of cottons. I cut the cord, cleaned him up and went on with my work. You know my

up and went on with my work. You know my eldest bahu had her stomach cut open to take the baby out. They have a name for such an operation. What is the world coming to!

Amma: It is called Caesarian operation. It must be a hard life for you. So do you all live in a small dwelling with a field next to it where you grow these greens? Don't your betas take care of you?

Ajji: My betas and betis are independent now.

Happily settled. I don't live in a hut but you see that group of apartments called Wonderland. I live in a 3-bedroom apartment in there. My first beta has an apartment in the First Heaven, second beta in the Second Heaven, third beta in the Third Heaven, my first beti in the Fourth Heaven and the last one in the Fifth Heaven. I bought and gave an apartment each to my betis and bahus when they got married. I have fields in my village where I employ laborers to grow these greens. They bring them to me every morning. I have nothing to do during the day. So I carry them here and sell them.

Amma was stunned beyond expression. I don't know how long they looked at each other in silence. Ages must have passed. Finally she broke the silence, 'Good for you, Ajji. How much is the Palak?'

'20 Rupees a kilo.'

'Oh! Come on. Don't be ridiculous. That is incredibly expensive. You get it at half that price in super markets. Come on. Give me a kilo for 5 rupees.'

Meera

By Vaibhav

Seated on top of a four foot tall showcase in my living room, the majestic white statue of Meera smiled in blissful sanctity. Meera's eyes were intoxicated by love and devotion. She held her head at an angle. The delicately arched lips, carved beautiful, a smile full of contentment and pleasure. She held one end of a wooden ektara in hand, the other end seated on her lap.

Draped in white sari, Meera adorned our living room with her simplicity for years. Until one day: Three of us, my friend Amod, his four years younger brother 'Chotu' and I were playing cricket in my living room. Amod and I studied in sixth grade then. Young Chotu always played the role of the 12th man in our 3 strong team.

He was responsible for getting the ball hit/missed beyond my fence when we played in the gallery. We had convinced him of his potential as an ace keeper. And keepers always run and get the ball when it goes past the batsman, don't they? That day, mom wasn't supposed to be back before evening. With no elders in the house, we played inside.

Underhand bowling was safe, and come on, we were all grown-ups. Who would play a nasty shot in the house? Well, actually, I did. A loose ball from Amod tempted me to strike a smashing stroke on half-volley. The rubber ball rolled on the top of the showcase at a high speed. It rebounded from the wall, only to be stopped by Meera's statue. The ball pushed the plaster of paris statue to the edge of the showcase in the first blow and jumped rigorously on one place.

Every jump aided in moving the statue further to meet its destiny. Amod, in the meanwhile stood right below the edge of the showcase with both his hands stretched out to hold the statue. He caught the falling statue brilliantly and let out a “Got it!” in ecstasy. But at the very moment, the

ball slowly rolled down to the edge of the showcase and fell right on the top of the statue.

We heard a doomed “crash”. Amod turned to face me with the statue in his hands. Meera's head had been replaced by the red ball. The ball was stuck in the groove made by the broken head. We searched for the head. The hand had broken as well. We found the hand on the top of the showcase. But where was the head?

I removed the ball & peeked into the torso; the statue was hollow from the inside. The head of the statue had crashed into the sculpture.

“The head is still intact in there!” I said enthusiastically.

“Can we fix this?” Amod questioned, looking over my shoulder.

We looked at each other's face. We had couple of hours before mom returned.

Chotu got the Fevicol from my room as Amod & I tried to fish-out the head. After a lot of hard work, we could pull out the head by holding it between straw sticks. In the process, the head tumbled down numerous times. The three of us gazed (at) the headpiece after taking it out: One of the eyes was slightly scraped off, the lips had vanished. It looked more like an archive recovered from excavation site. We fixed the head on the torso using the adhesive. Fixing the hand proved to be a difficult task. The glued hand couldn't sustain the weight of wooden ektara. It was later that we came up with the brilliant idea of using a cello tape to fix the hand. The wristband looked trendy. The scrapped eye needed to be taken care of. The first solution came in the form of designer bindis. The bindis were black in color. We tried

out different sets of bindis on the face.

Meera's ethnicity changed with each set: The tiny ones made her look Mongolian; whereas the elliptical sharp edged bindis ascribed her to Egyptian civilization. Bigger round ones gave a more Indian look, but nevertheless the protruding big eyes alluded to “Asurs”. We therefore brought her to humans with a set of smaller round bindis. These fitted perfectly. All this time, Chotu had been standing still aside.

He was irked by his lack of involvement in the whole affair. From nowhere, he picked up a set of oversized star shaped bindis, pushed us back and put them up on the statue. We stared the statue with awe. These 'eyes' belonged to clowns for sure.

“I like this one, I like this one!” Chotu said, jumping at a place. For some reason, he liked those crazy eyes on the statue. Looking at his enthusiasm, we knew the signs were not good. I tried to be as soft as possible: “Come on Chotu.

We can't put that one. Look, this small round bindi gels perfectly with the statue” Chotu's face changed colors: “NO! I want this one!” he said, thumping his foot.

“We can't put this one”, I declared.

Chotu started crying: “You never listen to me.

I'll tell everything to aunty when she comes back!”

The situation was getting out of control.

Handling Chotu in such a mood was a nightmare. After accepting half a dozen incentives like chocolates, my new sharpener and eraser, a few stamps (luckily, he couldn't make out the names of countries until then), Chotu agreed. The lips required a touch up as well. Amod impressed us with his painting skills. The faint shy smile of Meera had vanished. Instead, Meera was grinning now showing off all her teeth. We later painted eyes as well, discarding the earlier idea of putting bindis.

We kept the statue where it belonged. The three of us beamed at the work of art. Meera's head had straightened and the neck had shortened.

This self-conscious posture was contrasted by a furious grin. The eyes that were half closed closed earlier now looked staring like a hypnotized person. By and all, we had created another mystery in the art world.

If Mona Lisa's smile was an unsolved puzzle, this statue was a Mega- puzzle: The artist/art lover, who could decipher Meera's statue with a nervous posture, maniacal staring eyes, witch's grin and a wristband, deserved a Nobel Prize.

Mom was supposed to return by the evening. If she'd found this, I was dead. We had dumped all the 'potentially deleterious' items like brooms, sticks and scales on the attic. It wasn't all that easy placing them likewise; because for us, the dark, desolated attic was a natural habitat of cockroaches, lizards and all the ghosts we ever knew. Invading their territory was an audacious act (Ironically, the same place housed my secret “Library” in coming years!).

I can never forget the moment my mom noticed the statue. When mom faced Meera, her expressions changed dramatically. First, they illustrated “caught you”. For a moment, I thought she was going to laugh. But later when she looked at me, it was clear she was in no mood to do so. A severe sanitization session followed for me.

Disfigured Meera was later exiled to the attic: she was now fit for the enigmatic ambience there. As for me, I had one more reason to stay away from the doomed attic (This aversion turned out to be fairly short-lived though!). I don't remember playing cricket in the living room after the incident.

Pot Pourri Images Focusing On Entirely Emotional Level Of Existence All Paintings By Jane Chakravarthy

All Photography By Mahipal Vala

All Photographs By Mahipal Vala

The Voice

his guard up. He got clipped on his ear again.

This time, he didn't allow the flurry to follow.

He met his punch and deflected it; found his opening and let loose.

By Dead Eye

For some it's an act of savagery. For others, nothing is more satisfying than seeing two men go at each other. Two men who have nothing to lose duke it out in a ring.

He sat on his corner, his eyes puffy. He didn't pay attention to what was being said to him. He was not disinterested; his mind was somewhere else. The guard was taken out of his mouth. He felt a towel rubbing his sweaty face. He flexed his jaw and spat in the bucket.

There was more blood than spit. The sponge felt cool against his hot face. The water that trickled down to his lips tasted of his own blood. Two faces; they were saying something; he gathered vaguely - words of encouragement!

The bell sounded, they shoved the guard back inside his mouth.

He got up.

He knew what he had to do.

Survive.

Make the other man go down.

Round 8 Two more rounds……. two rounds that will either make or break every step that lead to it.

His head was pounding; His steps, measured.

He knew he couldn't last longer.

The cut above his right eye had stopped bleeding. Soon his eye would clam shut, it was swelling faster than he would have liked. He tried to flex his fists. They felt numb. His gloves, they felt like deadweights.

He took a mental note……..

His ribs were hurting……..

His legs felt light…….

They would carry him, not for long…….

His left ear was ringing; that was ok……

His assessment- he still had a fight left in him.

He put his fists up, a guarding stance, and then the adrenaline kicked in.

They prowled each other like hungry animals.

They were both out for a kill. They probed each other's defenses. They ducked, shifted, allowed a punch to come through, each looking for the

others chink in the armour. His opponent found his mark first.

Everyone has a plan before they get hit.

A person wonders- who might win amongst two equally matched fighters?

It's not an exact science. In a fight the heart matters, it counts for a lot, and one can't predict how much heart a person possesses. It makes one go on. It makes a person disregard logic, makes him move towards punishment, not away from it. It gives him the strength to come back for more and then some more.

Numbs pain, helps one to forget it. It whispers inside ones head, “hold on, you are doing good”.

The heart's true worth is not given its due. It's actually two hearts fighting in the ring, the bodies are just extensions.

A punch landed on his right jaw shattering his defence.

His hands dropped to his sides.

He tried to recover but a flurry of punches had found their mark; turning his face into a pulp.

His nose was shattered; his lips were cut open.

Blood gushed out; he only saw a red haze in front of him and, he felt the punishment meted out to him.

Still, he ducked.

No more.

He told himself NO MORE. He moved out from the arc of the attack. The bell sounded. They were separated. He went back to his corner, again.

He had come too far to lose today; success was his only option, failure was not. He blocked away the pain. His friend and his coach wanted to throw in the towel. The damage done to him was considerable…… he shook his head…..there was one more round left, three more minutes…… his right eye he couldn't open….. his cuts were dabbed with a towel , his nose was patched up…..he spat out blood with the water he was given to drink….. he was ready….he wanted to destroy the man in front of him…. the bell rang; He got his chance.

Anger and pain contorted his face. He almost ran the distance between them. He didn't put

Left- left- left - right- right – right- left - duck – left - center - jab and duck.

He pressed home his attack. His punches were possessed. He had never shown such speed; never was he so close to his goal.

The man reeled under his savage onslaught. He was out to destroy him. His punches made squelching noises and sprayed blood. The referee broke the fight; but before he did his mark was on the floor, coughing out copious amounts of blood. He let out an animal roar directed at the fallen. Lifted his bloody fists in triumph. And the world went blank.

He saw the referee slapping his cheeks, he saw the coach kneeling beside him. He saw his friend. He heard nothing except the dull static.

They were trying to get him to help himself. He didn't care and then his vision faded.

He felt them around him, he neither saw nor heard. He didn't care. All that mattered to him was his victory. He guessed correctly he was dying. He was happy. All senses slowly started to fade. He won, that's all that mattered.

When he was most at peace with himself, with his life, he heard a voice. The voice was inside his head, “Don't die” it said, “You have not seen me yet”.

He sat staring at his mirror. His nose was still shattered, his right eye drooped a bit, plus he was partially deaf. The walls, in the room he was sitting, contained trinkets of his past glory.

Photographs; lined the walls; capturing his finest moments. He was a fighting god, but all gods must roll over and die. He refused to.

A lifetime of hate had taken its toll on him. He was trained to destroy men. He lived his life from one fight to the next. And then the commission told him he was too washed out to continue fighting. He did what he knew best, he resisted, and he tried to fight back. Didn't do him much good. The ruling remained.

The silence, it affected him the most. He had grown used to the cheering crowds. He was a gladiator, but no one wanted to see him fight. A hollow feeling grew inside him. He did his best to counter it. He tried to enjoy his retired life.

Tried his level best. He went for long walks, drove around aimlessly a lot, and even started to take music lessons. Nothing quelled the growing tied within.

He knew what he was about to do was ignoble.

But he didn't know how to live without fighting.

He penned down his suicide note. He put all the blame on himself, who else would he blame?

His dad's old service revolver rested on his lap.

He took a deep breath and pressed the cold barrel to his forehead. He cocked the revolver and closed his eyes.

He woke up in an ICU; he glanced outwards from his cage and saw his family. He tried to give them thumbs up, and then he slipped back into darkness again.

As he was gently squeezing the trigger to its finality his cell phone started to ring. He opened his eyes and contemplated for a moment. Mildly irritated he got up and picked the phone up from the table. The number was unknown.

The voice on the other end said, “Hi, your brother asked me to call you up. We three are supposed to go out for dinner tonight. I am calling to confirm. He is a bit busy. Don't mind. I am really excited to meet you; I was always a big fan. Honestly as soon as I heard you were his brother, I fell for him.” She giggled and went on talking. He was not paying attention to what was being said. He just kept staring at the photographs.

Years rolled by.

Wondering…..

The voice, he wanted it to say something more.

He felt an instant connection to her. He knew he had to live if he ever wanted to hear that voice again. And live he would. The voice's sweet caress had driven off his pain and with it his death wish. Like a fighter, he slowly started to claw back towards life. He needed to see her. He didn't, wouldn't die. Not until he had heard that voice again.

The Man Who Came To Life

By Aditya

In my daily endeavors today, I just happened to kill a man. Actually, what happened was that when I woke up this morning, I happened to read my check-list of things to do and there it was, written in plain sight: Kill a man. Not a woman because that is so pathetic. Not a child because they really don't matter. But a man.

I killed a man today because he dared to hope.

Hope is a devastating thing in anyone but me, simply because it happens to be so precious. If I have hope and you don't, it would please me no end.

Most of the time I look for hope. In trash cans, rumpled clothes, that unclean corner of my house. Sometimes I pray for it. In good times and bad, in sedentary stasis and while in dynamic motion, sometimes every single moment of the day. There was once when I fell in love for it. Needless to say, it was hoping against hope.

Anyway, the man I happened to kill wasn't just anybody. I killed someone so close to me that he never suspected it till the end. I killed my father, my son, I killed the Holy Ghost for fun. I took a sawed off shotgun and buried it behind my best friend's head. I pulled the trigger, swung the hilt, drew my bow until I lost count.

Their blood lay splattered on my conscience, which I subsequently proceeded to wash in the kitchen sink along with the hunting knife, and it flowed in beautiful dark pools all over the garden of my dreams, which needed to be watered in any case.

The annoying old hag next door found out all about it, probably when I was hanging out my clothes to dry. She gave me a look and flinched at the glint of cold, surgical steel. She's very,

very quiet now, her TV's not blaring like it does forever and I'm walking all stealthily, squeakily along the wall to her bedroom, hoping to notch up another kill by default.

The baker across the street died this morning too. They took him, all nattily dressed and all, to his funeral. Once they had stuck a catheter up his arse and ripped his guts out, he looked almost human, something he was incapable of doing while he was still alive. He smelled like sour bread with treacle on it. I was there, I smelt him. I had never bought anything from him in all my life but I did pin a rose to his lapel, a gesture which everyone present there found really moving. Little do they know about my new found love for the colour red. I'm executing real life impressionism here. A daub of mauve on black to leaven the breadmaker, on his way to the land of yeast and honey; riding his celestial oven to bakeman's nirvana. While everyone watched the funeral van move away, I quietly flicked a jar of cookies from the bakery.

After I was done eating the biscuits, I sauntered down to the pest control shop at the corner of my street. I have always found the proprietor to be a likeable sort of fellow. His name's Virgil, as in the Aeneid, but he's not Greek. He's a wizened, old man who looks as if he's capable of surviving through a nuclear holocaust with five other roaches to keep him company. He looked at me and smiled, then proceeded to preach to me about the noble art of vermin-elimination. There's humanity on one hand, he said, and the plagues that besiege us on the other. It is an epidemic for us if they manage to kill a million of us. It is a minor setback for them even if we manage to kill a hundred times more of them. Virgil's been so phenomenal at his work that he probably

outweighs the body count racked up by Stalin and Mao by a million or so. I tell him about Max and he warns me about him. I listen with utmost reverence to this man of eerie, rustic wisdom.

After my brush with the Grim Reaper, I returned with a box full of rat poison and a couple of nasty looking traps. The moment I switch on the kitchen lights, I find Max staring at me, blinded in a moment of exploding light. He spies the tools of his destruction in my hands and just for that moment I'm compelled to offer him an apology. But then instinct takes over and he scoots like the wind. He scampers to the left so I throw the box of rat poison at him. He scurries to the right so I fling the mousetraps in his way.

He turns to face me head on, rat and man locked in a duel of galactic inconsequence.

He tries to call my bluff and makes a break for the living room, right through the space between my legs. I swipe a knife off the table and come crashing down on him with the vengeance and fury of uncounted sleepless nights

He squeals like crazy as I spear him to the floor but I have impaled him well and there will be no tomorrows for this brash transgressor of my domain. As his blood stains the floor, I feel complete after so many sleepless nights. I am magnificent, I am invincible, I am the mouse that killed a man today.

As I slide into the sheets after a day well spent, I find myself dissolving into sweet dreams of redemption, dreams I haven't dared to dream for so long because of Max. All the sounds in the kitchen, those indistinct voices by my bed, they're all gone now. The lady next door is still finding it hard to go to sleep. I killed a man today, just like everyday, but it was me who died. So she really has no cause to worry

Photo Stories

Innocence, Calm and Responsibility, this child is ready to take it all. This little Krishna is a small child living in a small village on the outskirts of Kolhapur, Maharashtra. Financially poor, he supports his family with whatever meager amount he gets from this getup. Oblivious to this materialistic world and least interested in the greens received this little kid was trying to contemplate why he was there and was turning a deaf ear to all the compliments he received. Just as Lord Krishna preached, he was doing his duty towards his family without expecting any returns.

- by Kiran G.

During my Tour of India, as a wandering soul, I was roaming around the table land in Panchgani. I was trying to protect my camera with the help of my windcheater while enjoying the slight drizzle and cool breeze when I found this old man sitting under his umbrella and singing something to himself. Rain seemed to have been providing him the much needed beats. My presence kind of interrupted his singing and his only listener – the dog, gave me a stare. However, his master – the guard (I really don't know what he was guarding on that empty land) really liked the presence of a fellow human. He was quick to spot my camera, hidden underneath the windcheater.

Sensing that, I told him that I would have surely clicked his photograph if it wasn't raining. And to my surprise, he smilingly handed over his umbrella to me saying “please don't forget to include my friend – the dog”. As if the dog understood, gave me a good look and a nice smile. Needless to say, this is one of my best portraits of two friends I have clicked so far.

- by Mahipal Vala

the last thing on his mind!

GOD ALMIGHTY!

By Sreejita Biswas

Junior was unhappy.Very, very unhappy.He wanted to travel the universe. He wanted to see new sights, hear new sounds and feel excitement coursing through his veins. A proud graduate, he had hopes, dreams and ambitions… but none of them pointed towards the burden that hung heavy on his shoulders.

His father was on a well-deserved vacation, leaving him, the youngest one of the brat pack in charge… and of course, responsibility wasn't fun. From his sky rise duplex he gloomily looked down and cursed the random innocents reveling far down below. As he sulked, everyone in Heaven knew, God Jr. wasn't ready for the huge chunk of responsibility he had been forced to chew upon.

Sitting at his solitary desk in the Office, he was depressed. With all the death and disease, the world definitely wasn't a happy place to reign.

Only five months into his sovereignty, and Africa had already hit by the plague, the Amazon was flooded and landslides were aplenty at the Everest. To make things worse, an unopened file with “ Agent Orange” printed on it sat proud on the desk! Half tempted to flush it down the Golden Grail, he unenthusiastically flipped through the pages.

How appalling the details about Vietnam were and how heartless the Americans, glancing at the old grandfather clock that sat nearby he remembered his appointment with Bestat… cats were dying unnecessarily in Egypt and of course, it was now his duty to set things straight.

Pulling himself up, wearily, he dragged himself towards the Hall of Matters, unenthusiastically.

There were such a lot of things to be done, modernization was necessary and Lucas was the only man who could help him. Tall and charming, there were innumerable times when Luke had saved Junior from irrelevant bullies and the rest was simple, The Son of God and

his nephew (who was only a few months younger to him!), the Son of Lucifer, were thicker than thieves, of course, to everybody's annoyance! And Junior knew, without Luke's new invention, the compurator, getting the world's documents in order would be more painstaking an ordeal than Prometheus'!

A year passed gracefully as Junior inched towards his 1943rd birthday. With Luke's help and his team of neo-angels, he was indeed reigning commendably and God was still undetectable! Of course Gabriel and Michael were far from being happy. Not only were they ousted form the Committee of Decisions, their offices were taken over by the radical neoangels and their blasphemous ideas and obviously, Junior was irresponsible. Why else would Satan's offspring be staying in Heaven?

Why else would Lucas be allowed to introduce to these realms the compurator and why was Sunday a working day? Dying to gain supremacy and control once again, the angels plotted and schemed, they met during the wee hours of the night and plotted some more… and then they realized, Charles H Calthrope, was the man they were looking for, the only one who could dispose Junior without much qualms and dilemma. The Jackal would be perfect for the assassination!

But of course, Junior knew about the Great Assassination, His Great Assassination, like God knows about everything; and before the devious angels knew, he was gone! Heaven was left unattended and chaos ruled supreme.

Rebellions and civil wars broke out and the angels were unhappier than ever! Confused and perplexed, they desperately they tried to win back the favour of their recently expelled leader. But it was of no avail. Junior was having the time of his life. On the run and traveling the world like he always wanted to,duties were

Time passed and Junior traveled the world. He went to the Himalayas and conversed with Shiva, complimented Durga's cooking while Luke flirted shamelessly with Saraswati! He went to Mecca and read and re-read the holy Quran. He went to Egypt and tried consoling Bestat, now mad with grief as her pets perished one by one and Luke caused hell-raising sandstorms, just for fun! He traveled to the South Pole and petted the penguins while Luke brooded over nothing. As he was steered towards America by an adamant Luke, he sulked… “The root of all atrocities,” he mumbled under his breath as Luke sported a healthy tan, long hair and pierced ears! As he sat in an old Volkswagen, he sulked further. He definitely didn't look like anything he wanted to… his long locks were dirty, his jeans torn and his face unshaved! But, he couldn't help but admire the Californian sunshine. While Luke chugged on his cigarettes like an incessant chimney, Junior was infatuated! Max Yasgur's Farm in 1969 had undeniable appeal, irrefutable attraction and an infectious magnetism!

Of course, Jackal was besotted as well… after months of mountains, deserts, snow and penguins, California, was heaven. No one had bothered to inform him that the assignment had been aborted and a mere mortal, he didn't dare question the heavenly silence! Lazing around, soaking up the sun and being Bobby McGee, he was happy… the bandana-wearing girl strumming her guitar, shared the secrets of her soul with him… “"How are you out there? You're stayin' stoned and you got enough water…” she had asked and he was mesmerized. “'Cause all what I want, oh, was to be living and loving you.”…. She hummed and he was awestruck. As a wild gush of wind played with her hair, Jackal knew he was in love.

“Inspired” Luke's bluster, Junior brought to his lips the “Chillum” passed around and experienced ecstasy. As an insane smile lit up his face and the surrogate God stared… surely she must've been an angel… the smoke halo around her dark head, her pretty smile and siren like voice had enamored Junior. Blissful, he lay on an overcrowded haystack, sharing a smoke with Luke. August 15, 1969 had indeed been a memorable day for him… he knew he

was in love the moment he had seen her on stage crooning “And standing there as big as life And smiling was in his eyes…”

When things started going wrong, no one knew.

Perhaps it was when God was enjoying his third Long Island Iced Tea, in a Jacuzzi in a galaxy far, far away. The Jedis had evidently put up a brave fight, but that hadn't been enough. As Michael and Gabriel stood shivering in front of him, confessing, the Great One hoped that under these circumstances, his potbelly wasn't visible!

What was worse, God was yet to decide as he hurriedly put on his clothes, the very thought of Jackal being hired to teach Junior a lesson was appalling, while the thought of both his son and grandson, let loose in a Californian meadow with hippies and rock stars was not in the least comforting! Cursing under his breath God prepared to intervene, the Heavenly order had to be restored and of course, Junior and Lucas had to be brought back!

As Luke and Junior, unsuspectingly sat on a haystack next to Jackal sharing a joint with him and singing, “We shall overcome…” on the top of their lungs, hell started breaking loose. The wind that had been blowing so deliciously throughout the night picked pace. Trees swayed deliriously, cows mooed in the distance and rain pelted down upon them unmercifully.

Yet everyone was mesmerized by the music that played… not a single soul stirred, except of course our very own Three Musketeers, who by now, were desperately trying to get the beat up Volkswagen started… But like Murphy says, “If something goes wrong, it will…” it did. In the tumultuous thunderstorm, illuminated by the headlights of the car, two figures towered over them… father and son, though estranged because of irreparable differences, were together! Trembling in fury and eyes flashing wildly, it was not a welcome sight for the trio, and they knew the battle was lost…

As Jackal found himself falling face down in the mud not very painlessly, the agonized screams of the youngsters he was to kill tore his heart to bits… He knew, they were being dragged by their ears, not very mercifully, back to their heavenly abode…

them back in their hidden place. She was a fast learner. Reminding yourself of past miseries wasn't the best way to pretend being someone else in the present.

She stepped out of the bath and began readying herself for another day at work. The numbers came to her naturally. Work involved a lot of smiling and allowing yourself to be looked at and assessed. She wondered at the vanity of women. Make-up was multipurpose. It could be used to hide the shameful scars as also to highlight some other etchings. She would know- she had mastered it long time back. And she showed her skill now, as she stood before the mirror, gloriously done. She evaluated herself carefully, like an artist scrutinizing, sifting for errors. She caught the faintest of lines beginning to form. She dismissed it as one of the inevitable signs, of a proof of having survived. Make-up may spoil your skin, but it protects you, within, she told herself lamely and gave a rueful smile to the mirror.

Keats’ Lie

By Sikanzabeen

The face that stared back at her was beautiful.

Her hazel eyes were kohl-lined and heavy. They could make you fall into dreams or wake you out of it, if you stared long enough. Her lips were painted red, like those of a geisha, except that they smiled quite often. Her fair skin was unscarred, unblemished. Loose, deliberate strands of hair hung around her face, slightly wind-blown. Rapt men and irked women were testimony to this picture of beauty.

and lies. She took off those hazel lenses and her mind went back to the second job interview. He could not take her eyes off her.

He loved numbers too, he claimed.

As she looked into the mirror, she hated the face that stared back at her. Whoever said: A thing of beauty is joy forever, objectified the holder of that beauty, its only contention being giving others some uncertain joy. She opened the door and entered her tiny mansion of solitary confinement. There were many mirrors, like ugly reminders.

The kohl and liner were wiped off with slight force. The cotton was black. She smiled faintly at the stark difference between her life and the cotton. Next were her lips, the chic red had to be gotten rid of. She recalled the day she got her first promotion. Her boss had said he loved her smile. As the veneer came off, she thought of all those promotions and bonuses and the climb up the ladder. Success has a price- that of buying the entire Bodyshop collection and fitting it into one small vanity case. She blamed herself for her own restriction. But the complacency wasn't as easy to take off, and it was anything but tedious.

She went straight to the largest mirror in that room. It was just one room. One big room, filled with mirrors and clutter- they call it a Studio Apartment. She sat down in front of the mirror and began the daily ritual. The unmasking. She opened her vanity case and took out her weapons of mass detoxification. Removing the layers of chemicals and colors and the dust of appraising glances and now exasperating compliments was a tedious task. At times she thought of abandoning the process from inception and throwing away that vanity case.

She wasn't a model or an actress or any such personality who would be required to put so much make-up. She was a mere accountant, euphemistically called number-cruncher.

She remembered her first job interview. No one cared whether you topped in your local slums or in the country. Your love of numbers wasn't their concern to nurture and appreciate.

She looked at those eyes, heavy with shame

She stood naked before the shower and looked at her reflection in yet another large mirror. The face that stared back looked young and tired.

The flawless complexion was just a by-product derived from the long drawn course of removing scars of past abuses. The bland eyes were heavy, still, with shame and grief now. She knew she wasn't ugly. But she wasn't as beautiful either. With that realization she let the cold needles of water sting her. The pain was welcome. It made her feel alive. Like the last time someone had seen her without those layers and had loved her like that and she had begun to love herself too, then. It had kept her alive and undone for a long while. But naked souls keep you exposed. Love can get violent at times, and having vulnerable souls didn't help.

She untangled those long tresses in the water.

Shunted images of those tresses being pulled and her screaming from pain silently burst from some recess of her mind. But she quickly put

Work beckoned- that 10-hour workday, in which this thing of beauty drudges through the paces.

Drunken Man’s Sermon

Hollowness

Hollowness, nothingness, a foil recoiling on itself, thus should I describe the trumpet of self-exaltation? Evading objective evaluation of oneself as a person is the biggest problem we are facing here. Once one gets over these fears that make us run away from things not worth a speck of one's attentions, concepts like confidence, attitude and self-assurance would become obsolete and all that would remain and would be sufficient to face whatever challenges humanity is confronted with, is nothing but what we should call self-sufficiency. Yes, selfsufficiency, if one is not sure as to what one's heard. Let it echo into your ears, until you become comfortable with the term. This self-obsession, this very thing that if taken properly, comes closest to what arrogance should have ever meant.

If only we understood it, arrogance I mean. Our last hope resides there, an innocent, yet brave admission of what we are capable of, for only then one would be able to handle truth. If some of us are running away from truth, it's not because we can't find it, but simply because we shall not be able to handle it. Oh yes, mark my words, and detest me if I sound obscene, we don't fear nudity, in fact we all share an inherent love for bareness. But nobody told us how to handle it, that is presuming someone was supposed to. Try unlearning and you'd learn a lot, whispered someone to me last night. Wonderment and listlessness followed.

So until we learn to handle arrogance, this air of superiority, which doesn't even bother talking about itself, we can't expect making ourselves realize that feeling of superiority is alive only because we starve it of the importance it craves for.

Once embraced without hesitation, it would no longer be something strange or alien to good thought, in fact it will only be the ability to admit and be responsible for one's actions and consequences thereof. One may accept it or not, but all whom we regard or esteem higher than ourselves, are nothing but mere scapegoats. We, to be frank, though still not frank enough, are not yet able to accept the very thought of being alone and without a support. Dare I see the face of a man just deprived of all his support systems, specially the ones he thought were super humans and hence capable of more than he could possibly conceive himself. Alas, only if we understood the importance of having an impotent, fearful god, or at the least a god, who is treacherous and fears taking responsibilities as much as the man himself. Alas, till then we can't expect to dispel fear.

Music Lord Faustoos

Infernal hails to all our readers! I've always believed in KARMA and I might have done some good deeds in my present or past life, thanks to which I was lucky enough to interview the mighty behemoth himself - LORD FAUSTOOS of BEATEN VICTORIOUSES.

Vruksha : Summoning to Lord Faustoos,! Tell us what conspiracy is being plotted at the Beaten Victoriouses camp!

Faustoos: Hails indeed! I have finally gathered the strength to get my old work in 2005 out on CD in India .The Demo has been titled ABALIS and has been re-mastered to produce elite blackmetal ,hand numbered to a mere 50 copies. It has been produced by the MOGH Company.

Vruksha : For mortals who haven't been lucky enough to hear the name Beaten victoriouses, could you tell us more about this Dark project of yours and its members.

Faustoos: It comprises of myself, 'Lord Faustoos, 'on Black Infernal Screams and Lord ARAS who's done the guitars and all the production associated with this offering. We have also been supported by 2 other Elites namely Naeem on the bass and GOOYA who has performed the soul reaping vocals on Mah e Soogvar and also helped us with the lyrics. Beaten Victoriouses according to me is dark doom metal project with black vocals formed in the grim autumn of 2005 in the abyssal depths of Persia by myself and lord Aras.It was a musical project which took birth after decades of me doing theatre and me meeting Aras, who apart from being a talented musician is also an amazing artist.

Vruksha : Faustoos, how did you end up meeting the mighty Lord Aras and forming BEATEN VICTORIOUSES? Faustoos:To put everything in short, I was always interested in ancient and dark things and I actually obtained an underground CD from some mafia, which included a track by ARAS 'ARUSAK E GHASHANG E MAN' which means 'My pretty doll', which is actually a Persian folklore, and I was mesmerized as it was covered in a dark blackmetal artistic form. I became very interested in contacting ARAS as our Ideological and political goals seemed to be the same .We had a great vibe when we met and he was so focused to form our complex and awe inspiring project that he agreed on relocating from Shiraz to Tehran(500 kms apart). And yes the spawn called Beaten Victoriouses was formed.

Vruksha :Could you tell me the logic behind the name 'Beaten Victoriouses'?

Faustoos:I have always been a war child, right from my birth. I was someone who evolved amidst the echoes of bombs and tanks, from the Iran-Iraq war which lasted for 8 years. I didn't have either the love or the support of my parents and found myself caught up in their personal conflicts, as my mother was a Jew and my father was a Zoroastrian and I was badly doomed watching them fight endlessly over irrelevant topics and started breeding hatred right from childhood. I needed a wagon to express my thoughts and hatred. I was caught up in a world of hypocrisy, being devoid and rejected, I didn't have either a nationality or religion & in spite of my wisdom and education I was always disgraced and an outcast. The attitude of the government wasn't impressive too. I was literally tortured and physically assaulted for a musical performance in Al Zahra University, more for my pagan thoughts, which weren't acceptable to them.

To sum it up, from the perspective of a noble man and my self-belief, I was victorious for standing true to my ideas and thoughts, but I was beaten by the hypocritical society for whom I was only a loser who couldn't fit in, simply because I was genuine and true to myself, hence the name Beaten Victoriouses. Victorious and beaten at the same time!

Vruksha : That's interesting. How did you end up being in India?

Faustoos: I was always a target of the faggot Islamic regime in Persia. Apart from Beaten Victoriouses I also headed group of powerful people in forming 'Fight club', which was a body which motivated elites to study about our culture, occultism, literature, art and things, all of which were taboo in Islamic Iran. The government was an enemy of my life there and attempts had been made to kill me, my car was bombed on an occasion too. They probably guessed my potential to influence people’s minds and was definitely a threat to them. 'Fight club' organized theatre, film ,underground shows, expression, and comprised of 50 members before I had to escape to India, to continue my legacy.

Vurksha: But why did you choose India as an option?

Faustoos: I had visited India back in 2000 and was instantly in love with it. I think you all are lucky to be born in a land which believes in peace. You have the freedom of expression. I wanted to propagate and develop my spirituality which was only possible in this Vedic land.

Vurksha : Why metal music to express your thoughts?

Faustoos: Well, metal music for me is the vehicle to spread my propaganda. Metal for ages has been a form of rebellion ,and creator of underground art. I therefore call myself a black artist. It is an art. There wasn't a doubt. Metal for me has not just been music but a form of art and living.

Something I breathe, something I live on. It is supreme. True metal was never for normal and weak people, so are my thoughts!!

Metal is one of the few forms of music, through which the anarchy and the chaos in one’s body and the universe can be expressed.

Vruksha : That definitely gives a good insight into your personal and painful life. Tell us about your musical Influences.

Faustoos :Apart from folklore, it has to be metal. Anything which is spiritual, mystical music appealed to me and influenced me a lot.

Vruksha :.Any specific genres of metal that you're attached to?

Faustoos : Blackmetal has to be one of my favourites. I listen to all the sub genres of blackmetal, apart from Doom and Gothic.

Vruksha: Care to name some of your favourite bands?

Faustoos: Klezmer, Haggard, Therion, Morgul, Canaan(Italy), Pantheist, Void of Silence, Shape of Despair, Sophia, Mayhem, Aras, Elend, Avinar, Avro Part, Baach, Forest of Souls, Nargaroth, Silencer, Orphaned Lands, Cophnia, Autumn Tears, Mephistopheles, Burzum, Rudra, Melechesh, Darkestrah to name a few.

Vruksha: I've seen your clippings in the studio recording for Abalis. I must confess you're one of the grimmest blackmetal vocalist I have met in real life. I wouldn't hesitate to say you're the best in India right now. Tell us more about your vocal abilities and how hard was it to reach there?

Faustoos: I've had professional training in blackmetal vocals. I've passed the metal vocalist Course in Israel. It took me 4 months. I was also guided by some Norwegian professionals. I've practised hard for the same. I had to make a fair amount of compromise to get there, like avoid spicy food, avoid cold stuff and a lot more. I can manage 3-4 different styles in blackmetal. In one of the 'Desperate Existence's tracks, 'Disobedience' I have performed vocals while inhaling, compared to exhaling vocals which is what everyone does. Pretty tough to do, but I love challenges.

Vruksha: Have you ever joined hands with any Indian bands? What do you think of the Indian metal scene and society in general?

Faustoos: I have done vocals on one of the Salvation Crusade albums on a track, I am not in touch with them anymore. I performed with BLackhole Theory at a KFC concert, which was disappointing. In my bad days, I did approach my so called Indian metalhead brothers, seeking support to form a band and release my stuff, I was stabbed in the back, let alone releasing my material or joining hands with me. I haven't had any support from any Indian musicians. Most are glam kids for whom metal might just be means of gaining fame and p****, and not something true or underground which has evolved from their soul. But I see good talent,but no one seems to be serious enough , to deal with sophisticated topics, most would want to cover Metallica, Megadeth and shit like that. I think many should take influence from mortals like RUDRA, who depict their culture and have identity. Sadly, most Indian bands I have seen ape modern mainstream metal bands without any touch of their identity. Not just musicians, but I see many Indians wanting to just imitate the West, they're satisfied wearing suits and coats and being famous and making money and having beautiful wives. I think if awoken and shown the path they can do justice to their glorious past and civilization. They are ignoring their ancient wisdom.

Vruksha: What are your interests apart from metal? Do you seek inspiration from nature Faustoos: Numerology, nature. I enjoy reading a lot. Magic .Magic is the science of understanding oneself and one’s conditions. It is the Art of applying that understanding in action -Aleister Crowley, I admire Crowley a lot, for his knowledge of Thelma and Magic.

Vruksha: I've learnt from Underground sources about your Pagan blackmetal project MOGH, care to throw some light on it?

Faustoos: I am still working on it. Mogh is an artistic group in Trans-modernism conceptual style, with the concept of cybernetic war, and with black magic that starts to destroy the systems. By facing towards the end of art and creativity, we find a new installation that is the foundation of Mogh. The genre is mystic folk pagan black metal (Trans modernism conceptual). The lyrics are patented, and the language is mostly in both Jebrish and Enochian. The production is all done by me.

Vruksha: Have you recorded any material for MOGH? Any source or links from where we could obtain your work?

Faustoos: I have successfully recorded 2 albums, Vendetta 2006 and Desperate Existence 2007.I will be completing my 3rd album XVAETVADATHAH 2008 very soon. You can get them all as they're free for download on www.mogh.org. I am not selling CDs as of now, my art isn't really commercial, and the Beaten Victoriouses 50 copies will be circulated amongst my close friends in the Blackmetal Underground.

Vruksha: Any favourite vocalist?

Faustoos: That’s a tough one. Nattramn probably! Silencer kills your soul or in female black vocals Tristessa from Astarte is mesmerizing.

Vruksha: Who's an inspiration / role model to you?

Faustoos: Aleister Crowley. He opened the gates to magic, he is the Forefather of Magic.

Vruksha: What according to you is the definition of blackmetal? Is it logical to discuss politics in blackmetal?

Faustoos: Any music which empowers me and makes me independent and shapes my existence and makes me wake up and prepare for war is black metal. Black metal shouldn't involve politics at all. Black metal is pure and much above politics. It is far above humans and pro human topics.

Vruksha: What is the future of Beaten Victoriouses? Would you be concentrating more on Mogh?

Faustoos: Mogh is indeed my new form of expression. I can best express myself using Mogh. It is beyond meanings and concept and beyond expression. Look out for Mogh!!

Vruksha: Thanks for your precious time. Conclude the interview with your immortal words of wisdom Faustoos: It was a good session, I felt good to express my thoughts. Final words…

Darkness, kill my pain!!! Remember to tell to the fire that hell is mine!

To check out more of Lord Faustoos’ works: MySpace URL: http://www.myspace.com/lordfaustoos Interview Covered by Vruksha on the Unholy night of 15th May 2008,in Lord Faustoo's Den!!!

Tushar Patel A Man Adding The Third Dimension

Though I have seen his work before, I am, and for that matter no one is, never satisfied looking at those wonderfully composed master pieces. You feel like, you are actually visiting those places in his photos. Also, it holds a special place in my mind as most of his work is done on the monuments of Gujarat. So I decided to put on the goggles myself and first take a “deep” look at his photos.

Just like any other first time visitor I ended up spending almost an hour going through a total of 30 photos that were on display. And my good friend, Mr.Patel, was always by my side explaining all the details, intricacies and technicalities of each photograph – as he always does during his exhibitions and otherwise. And as soon as we decided to break for Tea, I shot my first question…

How many times do you have to do this walk around your exhibition every day?

Well, I don't count it really. But then my doctor has anyway prescribed me “as many times as you can when you are displaying your work” J

technique that I use is very inexpensive and is very much accessible to a common man. So I want to propagate it to the maximum possible audience - this art or science or whatever you call it.

What do you mean by inexpensive?

Don't you require special cameras, special films and special equipments to shoot it?

Yes, generally 3D photography is done using those expensive special cameras and equipments. However, in the technique that I use, it is done using a single camera (SLR or even non-SLRs) and one of the commonly used image editing software like Photoshop. I first shoot two different images of the same scene from two different angles based on the kind of depth I want in my final output. Then I process and merge these images using Photoshop in a special printable version that can be printed anywhere, by any photo printer. The art of adding 3rd dimension is not in any special equipment but my eye and my mind.

Where all have you displayed your work so far? All the major cities?

Interesting! So can we name this special technique after you, say as “TP Photography” or something?

Not yet, but I wish to. I wish to display my work in all the major cities of India and if possible, in other countries too.

Firstly because it is so close to my heart – the heritage of Gujarat and India is what I am trying to display through my work and what better medium can there be than 3D photos that almost give you the feel of it!

Secondly as the kind of photography

Not really. This technique has been there for ages. However, nobody really exploited it to its full potential so far.

Also, in the era of film cameras, it was difficult to process and merge separate images. But now, with the advent of digital photography and image processing, this technique is surely going to find its due place in the commercial photography market soon.

from shooting the “monuments” to capturing the “moments”. I am experimenting with low cost 3D film making too. So whatever I do in future, you will always see me in “3rd Dimension” (Smile).

With no offence to anyone, you can say I am kind of pioneering these efforts in India. I have thought about many avenues in which this kind of 3D photography can work wonders. I am already working on making it a commercially viable and usable medium.

Wow! So far it has been so interesting that I almost forgot to ask you when exactly you started seeing your photos in 3D? I mean, when did you start with 3D photography?

When I was in fifth standard, I had a chapter on 3 dimensions in geometry as part of our curriculum and again in eighth or ninth standard when we had some particles to be done as my project work.

Ever since then 3D vision has fascinated me. After finishing my studies, I was involved with family business and all that, but photography always remained my first love. So one day I decided to jump straight into the waters and took up photography as my main profession. Since then, apart from doing commercial photography

55

assignments, I started experimenting with adding the 3rd dimension to my photographs without using any special equipment. And here I am, doing this for many years now. My work has already been displayed at various government sponsored tourism fairs in Gujarat and is also slotted to be displayed in all Gujarati NRI meets and cultural fests in USA sometime in August this year.

That's wonderful. Our best wishes to you and before I take your leave, one last question, “Where do we see you in future in terms of your subjects, techniques and the applications used for it”?

Once I return from USA, I have plans to hold seminars in some cities in India for promoting and teaching this technique to those photographers who wants to get in to the fun, art and commerce of the world of 3D photography. I also plan to setup my own series of applications and commercial usage of this technique and am looking forward to sponsorships and/or business associations. In terms of subjects, I would like to expand the use of this technique

Who’s The One...

1

4

2

3

I wonder

Where

she fit’s in !

Poems An Ode to The Last Peach in the Refrigerator

The Fortune Teller

By Riya

By Karmicanomaly There she stood,

Regal amidst

to consume

a touch of the Sun,

more plebian provisions.

and be consumed

in the bitter cold.

Immediately smitten,

by this

Hers was a sad history

I stole a touch.

hard-hearted enigma.

for her ilk of eleven

And my fingers found

Not realizing that

was destroyed

Velvet.

when one stares

in a soufflĂŠ of sin

A silk

into the pith,

and even her survival

that could not be

the pith stares

linked to

captured or be bottled or be sold.

right back at them.

the chance

Venturing closer,

And so

that her time

I gathered her to me,

we devoured each other,

had not been ripe then.

and I could feel

but this merely

So she waited

her juices stirring

placated the hunger

like all of us

beneath that plump surface.

and not the seed

as a higher mind

Her smell was

of longing

pondered the course

the scent of sacrilege,

which still remained

she must take.

reminiscent

rooted.

Simply resigned

of summered gardens

Six months

to life being a peach.

and the tale of a snake.

have run away

This is how she was

Our conjoining was a

from that day

when I stumbled upon her

saga of frantic exploration

and looking back

in that cold outskirt

with the curtain raiser

I look for words

of civilization

being a lusty marking

to contain that epic

where I sought

with teeth and lips.

but I fall short

a momentary respite

A syrupy start,

for the tryst is

and perhaps salvation.

If there ever was.

is now stale

Alluring with her curves

Madness reigned

in its story-telling potential.

and a deep blush.

as I deemed

But while it lasted It was short but oh so sweet!

Each bead round her neck has a companion To accidentally collide into.

A musical instrument of sorts.

Glinting ornaments, clicking, As she sits picking, The fortune that shall be yours today.

Carefully rustled silks Adorning her every regularity; Reflecting the innumerable flames And the glowing red tips of incenses, As she commences, to give you The fortune that shall be yours today.

A solitary curl on her foreheadSmooth skin occasionally interrupted By the wrinkles where her worries reside.

Hollow whispers, with foreboding innate, As she begins to dictate The fortune that shall be yours today.

With her gift, her talents, her skill, She searches and seeks until, Her eyes gleam and she displays, The fortune that shall be yours today.

Photo Essay

The Barak And The Bamboos

By Ronny Sen

From my very early childhood days I used to be fascinated by the rivers and the villages I came across. People, who led hard lives yet were simple, always used to catch my eye. Not because they were poor but they were different, different from us entirely and in every other aspect.

From the recent places I have been to, the Barak Valley and those who are living around it in the northeast of India have touched my heart deeply. Though poor and exploited, these people are so simple, hard working and elegant culturally that I have developed a deep respect for them. For them, major portion of their economy runs on the bamboo trade.

The most interesting aspect is that the entire process of cutting, loading, transportation and every other step is done in the most primitive manner.

A laborer starts his journey from Manipur with hundreds of bamboos tied together to form a boat, and then he sails days and nights with it to take them to the markets. In the winters it sometimes takes a month to reach Silchar, which is the main market, and where the major unloading is done.

During this entire journey, this boat made of bamboos, which at times is usually without any shade is his only shelter and hope. The wages are also relatively very less compared to the other parts of the country, but they still manage to go on the same way as if nothing have changed for them nor do they bother. They sing their same old “Slyheti” and “Dhamayl” folk songs which are still alive in these villages, even after two hundred years.

The Barak and every other thing associated with it is so mesmerizing that it makes a must visit for every traveller heading towards the northeast of India.

Photo Essay

were all over the streets, right till the main market.

By around 4 p.m. the fair had almost started receding. I thought my day is coming to an end but then, as if inspired by the Adivasi instincts, I thought of following the crowd to the bus stop. And there came the climax scene. They were in thousands at the bus stop torturing a single ticket window cabin, which I felt would come down any moment. As soon as the bus arrived, Adivasis from all over jumped towards it. Before it could even stop for boarding, people were climbing all over and jumping in through windows and all the other possible entries into the bus!!! It was one sight I will never forget.

On the whole, it was one event I really loved covering as a photographer. The most colorful memory I have ever witnessed. Though I did feel the government could do more to promote the event and provide few more facilities for people who visit Mount Abu every year. But if I leave my worldly senses aside, I feel, it is better left as it is, so that the pure - raw and colorful form can be preserved forever.

Buddha Purnima Fair of Mount Abu - Colorful, Raw and Unique

By Vinay Panjwani I was surfing through Google for various fairs to be held in western India, it had been a while since I shot any photos for my upcoming exhibition based on festive spirit. With no popular fairs in the calendar for the months of May and June, I thought I would have to take 2 months off shooting. As a last resort, I called up Rajasthan tourism office to enquire. Bingo!!! There was a summer festival to be held at Mount Abu, a “not so interesting” Adivasi (tribal) fair on Buddha Purnima. The words “tribal” and “not so interesting” stuck out. So, I decided to have a look.

As I reached Mount Abu a day before the fair, I started to gather information about the fair. Not to my surprise, I could gather very little info about the fair, which was to happen the next day.

I was told that the Adivasis of the surrounding areas treat the Nakhi lake at Mount Abu as very sacred and they would come there for a holy dip, and to immerse the nails of their ancestors/family members who died recently in their family, for the peace of dead souls. The fair also served as the “most ancient match maker” for the youth tolook for brides and grooms. The prospective grooms and brides would meet at the fair and, it is said they would run away with the person of their choice.

As sunset approached, the Adivasis started pouring in from all over and in 2 hours they had become a crowd in the Polo Ground where the festival was “organized” by Rajasthan Tourism.

Though, no official or “tourist” or a photographer could be spotted, I felt kind of lucky to be there.

The crowd was one of the most colorful I'd seen in recent past. Women had very colorful attires on and quite a few of the men had colorful plastic garlands around their necks. The garlands, I was told, were a sign of the family having come for prayers for their departed family members and a sign of respect for them by the villagers.

The next morning as I set off to Nakhi lake, people seemed to have erupted from nowhere and it seemed like they had taken over the hill town. I wondered where they had come from, all in one night!!! They were walking around the lake in thousands. On my way to the lake, every now and then, I stumbled upon groups playing small “dhols” and metal instruments, men and women singing similar songs and dancing. I couldn't stop clicking constantly, it was so vibrant. As I reached the bathing place, I saw hundreds of the Adivasis bathing and performing “Puja”. Across the Ghats, the gardens were completely seized by youngsters. They were all over - dancing, singing and looking for prospective brides and grooms. Quite a few of the men were drunk, or so it seemed. Around the lake, on the small cliffs, hundreds of people were sitting at every vantage point. The roadside vendors gave you a feel of being present in a vintage rural fair. Traditional tattoo makers, earthen toy vendors, garland vendors and very typical metal/silver jewelry vendors

Graphic Design Interview

Do you think modern designing is making a mark on Indian Territory now? What do you think is a good way to get more Indian designers competing with the best of the world?

Yes, it is making a mark. The designers need world-class bandwidth.

A commonplace belief about Indian advertising/media is that 'you've got to have a contact or a godfather to get the foot in the door'. Do you think that's a fact?

The sun doesn't need a spot light. But I agree, it is to some extent, for a person who is not carrying a superlative portfolio.

Dhawal has been working as a freelancer since 1986. He has worked in pioneering companies in Mumbai and Pune for advertising, computer graphics, animation and e-learning like Charka, Aptech and Creative Concepts (now Maximize Learning). He has won many awards including National level Numero Uno Award for 3DWalkthrough(1996) and now gives field training to numerous professionals in Mumbai and Pune.

Would you give us a brief insight about yourself and your career?

Education is a journey from cocksure ignorance to thoughtful uncertainty.

ONLY die-hard positive thinking leads to miraculous results. These sentences make me open up and this is all I can tell about this question.

Your major influences?

Joyful children and unfortunate children.

What do you think about the Indian advertising industry (in terms of graphics mostly)?

Lot has come AND there is lot more to come.

Is advertising following any ethics? And how is advertising affecting the mass ethics?

It is all there but badly tuned up. TV commercials popping up in between with high decibels can be of more value, if the contents and the mood gel with whatever that is already on. This awareness is seen a little during the cricket matches. Or else you see the irritated market is turning to VOD (video on demand) to avoid very disturbing advertising. Advertisement placement of outdoor advertising can be more relevant to the area and can not disturb the skyline.

Unfortunately, ethics also have come on, shaping iron at a pro level. Good ethics needs to be in your blood, and in good shape, from primary school level.

If it is there, then it reflects in fieldwork and so does advertising. But the primary education system in the India for masses is not up to it. So are their tastes, and so is advertising delivered to them.

The demand a la supply talk. For instance, the Amul macho innerwear campaign with the washing lady. It created turbulence.

What is the latest designing rage and how prevalent is that in India?

I have not seen any prominent ones lately, so no comments.

What was the most absurd statement/comment you heard during your initial/struggling days?

I don't exactly remember but mostly they were against new things. But actually then, they had to accept it in a hard way. For example, computer usage in graphics.

Which institutes would you suggest for amateur designers?

I would not promote, because currently it is all a period of fast ups and downs. So I can not be sure about performance of any institute, at any certain time. The existing designers there are always better to ask for more help.

Team Publisher, Managing Director : Vishwajit Girdhari Editor : Mayank Dhasmana Section Editors : Mahipalsinh Vala [Photography] Manumachu Ravi Reddy [Literature] Alpana Mallick [Literature] Shuvorup Bhattacharjee [Graphic Novel] Consulting Editor : Santosh Kumar Dwivedi Aditya Sanyal Art Director : Mehdi Sharifi Web Site Layout and Design : Shrabani Karmakar Mukesh Agrawal Advisory Board : Pawan Prabhat Saiba Kataruka Santosh Dahale Shivshankar Bajpayee Suhas Desale And all the reviewers whose names we can't reveal Other people who helped us come this far‌ Ajinkya Chikte Ash Narayan Barkha Sharda Chaitanya Joshi Indrajit Dutta Neeraj Menon Prashant Dhadve Robi Ray Saurabh Kumar Siddhartha Dixit Sreejita Biswas Sreemoyee Dasgupta

contributors

Abbas Bagasrawala(karmicanomaly) (1978) Influences: Salman Rushdie, Pablo Neruda, Ted Kooser, etc.

Short Bio : A businessman pretending to be a writer or a writer pretending to be a businessman, not really sure but it is the quintessential diorama that is me. I like women, food, and great literature, mostly in that order.

Aishwariya Sharma(riya27) (1989-) Influences: Roald Dahl, Arundhati Roy, and other people, but I feel like I'm name-dropping.

Short Bio: A nerdy nomad, who finds it difficult to live in the same country past that momentous 'two-year' mark.

Obsessed with reading (the mother has had to confiscate books on more occasions than both the mother and the daughter would like to remember) and talking/inventing-words. A minor Hajmola/cheese/chocolate addict. Despite her super-human capacity to sleep and procrastinate, she is a huge worry-wart (which troubles those around her more than it troubles her...) Always has been, currently is, and always will be studying. :D Angik Sarkar(kyunbit)(1985-Infinity :) Influences: Me Myself and Angik :). Can't disregard Paulo Coelho, Khaled Hosseini, Ayn Rand, Syed Mujtaba Ali (Bengali), Anton Chekhov.

Short Bio: A possible reincarnation of Kumbhakarna (of Ramayana fame;sleeping giant of Indian mythology) who wallops Bergman(both Ingmar and Ingrid), Rasagullas(Bengali sweet) and prime numbers with equal ease...Was born with only a few grey cells but four years at Institute of Infinite Torture (IIT) devastated him. With only classical music to his rescue, he crossed seven seas to the land of dollars for Permanent Head Damage(PhD) Kiran G. Influences : Steve Mccurrey Short Bio : I like clicking "moods of nature", be it landscapes or climate or even elements of natures including expressions of people. I am inspired by works of Steve Mccurrey. However, I am equally inspired by good photographic work of any amateur artist. I would like take up photography as my profession in near future.

Jane Chakravarthy(jane123) (1974- ) Influences: Anne Sexton, Sylvia Plath, Life!

Short Bio: Jane lives her life with clear direction: art, coffee, cigarettes, plenty of verbose conversation, exceptional emotional empathy, and the odd glass/ bottle of Merlot. She sleeps usually after 5am every day and wakes up just in time for afternoon tea.

Rohan Ananda Ramaswamy(Rudra) (1984 - ) Influences: India, Bentham, Austin, Freud, Wilbur Smith, Gregory David Roberts, Shel Silverstein, Korn, Disturbed, Limp Bizkit, Eminem, Timbaland, Paul Oakenfold Short Bio: Status: DJ (2002 - ) Qualified lawyer, with a desire for alternative lifestyle, hopes to become a great music producer to get the best out of the emerging Indian rock bands. Uses writing as a medium for propaganda, primarily to inculcate alternative/lateral thinking.

Ronny Sen Influences : Steve Mccurry, Robert Capa, Abbas, James Nachtwey and Raghu Rai Short Bio : Ronny is a student from Siliguri and has been shooting for a year now. He uses a 5 MP point and shoot camera (Canon powershot A450) for shooting all his pictures. His photos have the documentary nature, inspired by the works of Steve Mccurry, Robert Capa, Abbas, James Nachtwey and Raghu Rai. Ronny's interests lies in working as a documentary photographer and being a contemporary historian in the process. His fascination and curiosity to know and explore what is happening on the fringes makes him travel by bicycle to a lot of different interesting places that are not so known. He likes to spend time with different kinds of people, faces, backgrounds, and thought patterns and manages to document their stories in his work.

Saloni Sinha(morbidillusion) Influences : Picasso, Dali, Dani Filth, and the alluring darkness.

Short Bio : A brilliant a rtist and creator. Words seldom escape the lips of this personification of morbid illusion, who prefers making a statement through her artwork, which is as deep as it is dark, eerie and grotesque. Loves food, because it fuels the creation of more pieces while dark sounds fuel her imagination. An enigma to most who don't know her, only those lucky enough to get close, know of her deepest secrets, desires and idiosyncrasies. A black ace up the media and design industry's flowing sleeve.

Shweta Khosla(Shweta) (1980-) Influences: Roald Dahl, Ogden Nash and the generally crazy population around her.

Short Bio: The length of this bio is testament to the fact that this person is lazy and miserly; and hopes that the lesser she says, the more the illusion of 'interesting' will remain!

Sreejita Biswas(Solo) (1986-) Influences: Dominantly, Sukumar Ray, Tom Holt, R.K. Narayan, C.S. Lewis, Lewis Carroll, Pink Floyd and South Park Short bio: From the realms of Bohemia, a spirit wandered beyond, 22 years on planet Earth, and she still remains tongue-tied and twisted, yet another Earth-bound misfit, in search of Neverland.

Subodh Khanolkar(Hdobus)(1985-) Influences: Guy de Maupassant, Saki, O. Henry, Franz Kafka, Bill Bryson, Virginia Woolf, Mikhail Bulgakov...

Short Bio: A jack of all trades, bachelor of electronics, master of none. An absolute foodie. Travelling endlessly is one passion fortune doesn't yet permit. Was born an atheist sanyasi. Will die a loner.

Vaibhav B. Gogte(vgogte1) (1980-) Influence: Pu. La. Deshpande Short Bio: Born and brought up in Nagpur.Lives with his wife in Chicago.Enjoys trekking,biking,sufi music,thai cuisine and movies.Caters to nuclear industry as a mechanical design engineer.Alma mater-Illinois Institute of Technology,Chicago.

Vinay Panjwani(vinay) Influences : Short Bio : Vinay Panjwani, a businessman from Ahmedabad, is well known for his award winning, realistic and vibrant photojournalism. He humbly calls himself a “hobbyist photographer�. However, the seriousness and professionalism towards photography is very evident from his work that has been exhibited in India, New York and Venice. He's been published in many photography journals and magazines and awarded at some of the highest national and international competitions.

Vruksha Influences: Short Bio: A Moody 24 year old Mortal , true devotee of Lord Shiva , someone who gains strength from glorious history of BharatVarsha and seeks inspiration from the bosom of Mother Earth and Nature and lives with a goal of taking India back to the days of Aryavarta ,with Metal being the vehicle ride.

Submissions open for September End Issue.

Entries will be accepted under...

Open Category (No constraints, Write what you want!), [Music] And All Its Subsections(send in your reviews, articles etc.)

[Literature] And All Its Subsections [Photography][Composition] [Photography][Framelogue] [Photography][Tips And Tricks]

Themes: “Processed” : [Photography][Dare to Click\Panorama] “Shelter" : [Literature] And All Its Subsections Submissions close on 31st of August 2008.

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