Flop September 2008 by StartUp Media Pvt. Ltd.

volume 1 / issue 2 / October 2008

This Issue Is Dedicated To The Memory OF Richard Wright, Founder Member And Keyboard Player Of Pink Floyd

Poems Anticipated Revel

Editorial

FeaTured Artist: Sachin Akalekar

Iconography-Sylvia

Lost Lust An Outline

What Is Art-Sylvia

Pencil Box

Drunken Menâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s Sermon

Of Fractured Frames and Rambling Ravings

Photo Essay Small Creatures Around Myself -Biplab Sikdar

Trip to Mandarmani

-Sumit

YellowStone Park

-Angik Sarkar

FeaTUrED Artist: Ronny Sen

FeaTurEd Artist: Cassiniâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;S Division

Dead Men Talking Zarathustra with God

Penny In The Mud A Hairy Tale

34 35

Mirth

Ride to Remember

The Fly on the Wall

38 39

The Line Short Stories Ignorama: A story of a student

Lord of the Tombs

Understanding Donald Dooley

Contributors

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Featured Artist featured artist

Tell us about your uncle. He seems to have been a major influence on your life. Oh, most definitely! He has been the one person who recognized my inherent ability and gave me the right direction to mould my career as well as my life. If it had not been for him, I would still be doing something that my heart would probably not allow today. Who else would you say has moulded your thinking on art and helped you mature as an artist? More than anything else, there would be two of my teachers Mr. Maruti Patil and Mr. Buva Shete. They were the ones who introduced artistic conceptions like how to make the perfect composition or how to frame a work in my mind before I began a painting. I would say I was artistically immature before these teachers of mine introduced me to art as a concept. They told me about various things like visualization, colour selection and then finally development of the final picture. Apart from my teachers I would say I was influenced by Mr. J.P.Singhal, at whose studio in Mumbai I apprenticed for a year. It was here that I indulged wholly in fine arts practice.

So tell us Sachin, where did your journey begin? I started off from a village named Kadgaon which is in Kolhapur District. To be very frank, I wasn't really a very good student but I still took up science as a stream in secondary school. However, my real passion always had been painting. My family members used to be concerned about my interest in this subject as compared to that in my regular studies. After giving my 12th class exam in 1995, my uncle took the initiative and moved me from my village to Aurangabad for better scope and admitted me to Government school of Art. After that, there was no looking back. From there, I subsequently went onto attend the Abhinav Kala Mahavidyalaya in Pashan, Pune, from where I obtained an Art Teacher's Diploma as well as a course in Commercial Art. It was here, in these places that I truly matured as an artist.

What have you been doing apart from working as an artist? After finishing my period of work with Mr. Singhal, I went on to join Market Missionaries India Pvt. Ltd. ( Ad Agency)This was another interesting period since my creative director there, Mr. Vijay Thombre, was a man with the desire to use art for social causes. Since he was well aware of my training and background, he would ask me to contribute to various exhibitions he would organize from time to time. The most memorable ones that I remember very clearly were “Art for Heart's Sake” which was organized in August 2004 to help the cause of sickly children, as well as “Art with Heart” which took place on 5th April 2008 and was organized to highlight and help the cause of impoverished and debt-ridden Vidarbha farmers. Anyway, after that I moved onto working for Calpaq Interactive, where I'm currently working as a Senior Graphic Designer. Tell us about your exposure as an artist. Apart from the two exhibitions I've mentioned, I've held exhibitions in Bal Gandharva Art Gallery in Pune and also participated in the Goa Art Festival. I've had my work exhibited in Creations Art Gallery in Dubai. One really unique exhibition I had the opportunity of participating in was “Jiyo Hazaaron Saal” which was organized on the occasion of Mr. M.F. Hussain's 88th birthday in June 2004 by Mr. Sanjeev Singhal, Mr. J.P.Singhal's son. I have just finished exhibiting my work at an exhibition at WNS, Mumbai from the 27th of August to 26th of September. I regret not being able to devote myself fully to art otherwise I would have strived to participate in a lot more exhibitions.

What are your thoughts on the art scene in the places where you've worked? Well, I would primarily say that among the places I've worked in, Mumbai would probably be the most mature market for art. Pune still has a pre-disposition towards conventional paintings though a trend has started towards semi-realistic work. However, even in Mumbai there are different niche segments. Abstract art has its own dedicated consumers and audience, like interior designers, architects, and it is the same with other kinds of art.

Are there other artists whom you appreciate and would like to learn from? I really, really appreciate the work of Mr.Sunil Padvalkar whose exhibitions I happened to visit while I was working with Mr. Singhal in Mumbai. From the masters, if it was possible for me, I would like to be tutored by Michelangelo, his work being something that has always occupied a special place in my heart.

Ideally I would like to be able to devote more and more time to my artwork and I'm working in this direction slowly and surely. I would love to set up my own studio and devote myself exclusively to this pursuit. If this was an ideal world my dreams would come true. However in the real world, every artist has to struggle between managing his artistic calling and the need for more mundane things like money, food and shelter! I'm working to work out a compromise between both and I'm confident I will succeed.

What are your personal thoughts on art? Do you have a fixed conception of what art is? According to me, art is essentially an expression of your own self. To have fixed pre-conceptions of art is to reduce its scope and to restrict yourself as an artist. I generally don't like to create art with a “message” or any such thing. I think art should not be used to preach to people. They are smart enough to derive their own meanings from a painting and to try and make them approach art in a certain way is to impose your view on them. I don't think people take too kindly to interpretations stuffed down their throats.

Iconography Iconography Iconography

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The story depicted in the work of art, as well as the symbolism and conventions attached to those images by a culture or religion is known as Iconography. It is the story embedded in every work of art. Artists all over the world always place into consideration the audience or the viewers' awareness of iconography, their familiarity with the places, people and events that are depicted, as well as the symbolism anticipated by them. Sometimes people are confused, because when we describe “subject matter” and “content” in art; iconography kind of infringes on those boundaries and starts to seem the same as them. Often the origin of arts has some literary, religious and cultural significance; most Semitic and Western art was derived from the Bible. Jan Van Eyck was one of the most famous and innovative Flemish painters of the 15th century, coming from the village of Maaseyck in Limbourg. Most of his iconography is biblical .In his work “The Virgin of Chancellor Rolin” (1433-34,170 kb; Wood, 66 x 62 cm / 26 x 24 ½ in); at the Musee du Louvre Paris, we can see a man and a woman, a child in the arms of the Holy Virgin, with her body often compared to an altar on which Christ is represented as he is during the mass. The work was commissioned by Nicholas Rolin (Chancellor of the Dutch Burgundy, he is portrayed by a man in the picture on the left) for His Parish Church, Notre dame-duChastel in Autun. The illumination of Rolin's eyes is on an open page with a huge initial “D” perhaps means “Domine, labia mea aperies” (“Lord, open my eyes”). In this painting, Van Eyck showcased the magnificent Romanesque architecture of his time. The setting probably reflects the imaginary structures in Autun and the Heavenly City of Jerusalem; two personages from two-worlds are manifested, and their surroundings combine both the worlds. On a closer look we can see the series of illustrations he incorporated to represent the seven cardinal sins. Just over Rolin's head from the left is the ejection of Adam and Eve in the Garden of Eden (Pride), the murder of Abel and Cain (Envy), the drunkenness of Noah (Gluttony), lion heads on the capitals behind Rolin may represent (Anger), there are tiny rabbits between the column and base in the loggia screen(Lust) – this leaves (Avarice and Sloth) unaccounted for, unless perhaps Rolin himself (with his purse underneath) and the two figures on the left (or even perhaps as stated above –may include Van Eyck himself ) signify the two last vices .

Van Eyck's iconography is brilliant and we have merely started to explore it here. For his fellow artisti it was comprehensible; but for us it is a new horizon. However, sometimes issues surfaced on the confrontation of arts from different era and culture. Iconography sometimes can be unfamiliar. We will now explore furthermore, beyond the experience of most of us. “Ravana Kidnaps Sita”, (Location: India, 1024x683/600x400). This painting is a depiction of an episode from “Ramayana”, the traditional epic poem of India. Possibly composed in the 3rd century B.C., “Ramayana” plays a fundamental part of an Indian's everyday life, even in the present times. All of the characters, the sequence of events in the story are as well recognized to the Indian civilizations as the “Nativity Story of Christ” is to the Christians.

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With the absence of this background information, this painting would appear beautiful, delicate, exotic, but it becomes more interesting and intriguing when we understand its iconography. At present we all are exposed to art from other Cultures, and it is a worthwhile experience and even meaningful for us to explore more about their origin and concepts.

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What Art What Is Art

But what is beauty? What are its boundaries? Every work of art is a figment of imagination which could illustrate reality, but if it does then what kind of reality is it? Is it merely a depiction of what is real? Or is it an intellectual phase or an expressive reaction of an individual becoming a form of reality? Usually we assume that artists who disfigure the physical appearance of things do not have the aptitude to manifest the accuracy of what is real. According to Frederick Nietzsche: “Art confronts the horrible – the wrong art confronts the terrors of the universe and therefore for the strong. Art can transform its horrors in such a way that they may be contemplated with enjoyment.” A piece of art can dispute our standards of taste; some can draw out definitions of what is Art by these factors. The artists who made it, is it beautiful? Does it look realistic? What does it convey? Some only consider a painting to be a work of art if they are done by the greatest artists; Michelangelo Bounarroti, Pablo Ruiz Picasso, Vincent Van Gogh. Now if the painting is just a result of a whim, could it be considered a work of art simply because a great painter painted them? Most of us would think so or may be too overawed to dissect it while others would be incredulous. One may think that all art should be beautiful, and not just a piece of decorative object, but if we visit museums and art galleries, we will find many examples of works which could be termed "ugly". To showcase just an example, witness the accompanying portrait; it exhibits an enigmatic demeanour, the subjects has sympathetic eyes, a close-to-reality flabby neck and among other things smooth hands giving balance to her bearing as a woman. For some viewers this would seem ghastly, ridiculous and ugly compared to their perception of what art is, probably the ugliest painting they have ever seen while some may sense a strong bond to the painting. Beautiful, weird or ugly, to sum it all up, these pieces of work induce a response. That is Art.

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One of photography's age old debates, â&#x20AC;&#x153;whether post processing your photograph is a good thing or notâ&#x20AC;?, has lost its meaning in the contemporary world of digital photography. Rather, post processing has become one of the essential techniques to know.

However, many questions still remain as toâ&#x20AC;Ś What kind of post processing is good? Where and when do we use post processing? How much is enough?

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She can be the best inspiration for a photographer. Everyone likes to capture the amazing and varied beauty of Nature through their lenses. Shooting wildlife is an interesting subject and challenging too; however it requires a lot of exclusive gadgets which may not be affordable or accessible by everyone. But what if we decide to look within our pockets and try and come up with something innovative?

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Being a graphics designer, I believe that Nature is the best there is at design and that we have a lot to learn from her creations. Her colors and her shades, her vignettes and her combinations â&#x20AC;&#x201C; they all are unparalleled. She colored all the living beings of this world, some of them are very small in their sizes. I have selected all those small creatures around me whose actions and colors have always attracted me. It was very tough for me to shoot those creatures as they used to give me very little decision making time. Moreover, as I have used the macro option of my camera, I had to go closer in which has resulted in a wanton massacre many a time.

Trip to Mandarmani

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After my proposal, it took only 5 minutes to take the decision. Our motor bikes shouted in joy….”Vrrooooooooooooomm”” and we were on our way to Mandarmani. Two bikes, four crazy friends and an international standard NH 6: the perfect match to celebrate a weekend. Keeping the indicator around 90-100 km/hr we reached Kolaghat and took the lunch break. Next stop was Chaulkhola (via Kontai) where we had to leave the main road. A horrible drive of 12 km ended when we reached Dadanpatrabar, the entry point of Mandarmani. The roaring sea, golden sky and the dying light of the dusk was waiting for us to give a wonderful welcome. We, the “crazy four”, started to drive along the largest beach of India., At sunset, it seemed like a dream. The day's journey ended when we took shelter at “Hirak Jayanti” resort.

Mandarmani was just a small village of some in East Midnapore, even a few years ago. Few scattered huts of the fishermen, some dykes for prawn culture, long, flat beach, endless tranquility and peace--- this was Mandarmani in short. Slowly, by courtesy of some local businessmen and tourists, it drew the attention of the media and now Mandarmani is a well-known name on Bengal's tourist map. Its main attraction is the mesmerizing beach and the prevailing peace and calmness. Unlike Digha, the most popular beach of West Bengal, here there is no entry for the madding crowd, irritating hawkers and photographers. Even the resorts maintain a considerable distance between them. Electricity is yet to come. One can rediscover himself here without any interruption. It is an ideal place to spend a couple of days to restore energy for new struggle.

Featured Artist featured artist So, How do you feel? Ans : I feel very grateful, and would definitely like to share some gratitude. Firstly I think I am blessed enough to have a professor like Mr Dhrubojyoti Bhattacharjee. It was a very boring evening on 27th August, and I was very disappointed that I was not being able to go to Malda due to lack of funds, and it was the end of the month and I was broke. I just shared this very casually with this man and I could not even believe that within half an hour he singed a cheque and handed it over to me. I was just overwhelmed and today I realize that nothing like 'Pani' would have ever happened if I didn't go to sir's home that day, and believe me from that day onwards his place has become my second home. After 'Pani' the only thing I feel about myself is that my work is worth publishing now and itâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s the time to keep on doing more and more work.

Tell me more about the exhibition Ans : The exhibition had forty photographs about the people of flood-hit areas of Malda in West Bengal. The mayor of Siliguri Municipal Corporation Mr.Bikash Ghosh inagurated the exhibition and was the guest of honour. As for the Siliguri crowd there were more people who turned up than I had expected. It was very successful, as 'Pani' got a good media response. All the newspapers getting published from Siliguri covered the event. How did you come across this whole idea of "Pani"? Ans : When we were returning from Malda, in the train itself I made my mind that Iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;d go to the office of Uttar Banga Sammbad, the largest selling daily newspaper of North Bengal because the pictures I had with me needed to be shown to the people, and I felt a sense of emergency at that time. I went up to their office, had a chat with the editor and I showed him a couple of shots, luckily he loved one of them and the next morning it was the biggest picture of that edition. I got a huge and a very positive feedback from everyone. My principal called me up and said that he was very happy. That was the time he came up with an idea of doing an exhibition. The NSS got involved and they said they would be very happy to show people these photographs and raise some funds for the people over there, and this was the way 'Pani' happened. Going to flood-hit areas with a hope that I would see and learn a lot and maybe add some photographs to my portfolio and ending up doing an exhibition was just a miracle.

What were your thoughts while shooting in those areas? Ans : The first day I couldn't shoot, because I had never witnessed such helplessness before, people over there were suffering in conditions like hell and initially it was very tough for me to settle down. The next morning everything got a little easy because I could shoot and eventually i realized that when you are in pressure it is just impossible to get good pictures. We were traveling in boats because that was the only medium of transport there. All the roads and bridges were submerged. We were not professionals, we were just students and had very limited funds and beleive me it was real tough arranging everything required to hang on. What next? Ans : I have nothing in particular as such in my mind, maybe the same old way, just keep on clicking and sharing but with a little different perspective.

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Earth Awesome! !Stupendous! !Splendid!! Too Good!! Heavenly!! Beautiful!! Gorgeous!! Did you ever feel that there are few exclamatory words in the English vocabulary? What Awesome! more can !Stupendous! you say? Maybe !Splendid!! include Too a few Good!! phrases Heavenly!! like" Heaven Beautiful!! on Earth" Gorgeous!! etc or ifDid you areever a bitfeel overt you mayare exclaim “orgasmic!”.words Nonetheless, when you are in paradise, you that there few exclamatory in the English vocabulary? What more you will canquickly you say? runMaybe out ofinclude adjectives a few to describe phrases Nature' like" Heaven s beauty. on IEarth" feel anetc excruciating or if you pain when up “orgasmic!”. with some apt praise for awhen scenicyou locale. The pain rode are a bit overtI cannot you maycome exclaim Nonetheless, are in a paradise, you over will mequickly again run recently out of when adjectives I visited toYellowstone describe Nature' National s beauty. Park,I USA. feel an excruciating pain when I cannot come up with some apt praise for a scenic locale. The pain rode over me again recently when I visited Yellowstone National Park, USA.

Yellowstone is famous world over for its geothermal features especially geysers and hot springs. But what drew us to the park were its scenic views. If I share my photo album with you, I wouldn't need to write anything more, but still will jot down a few words and cut down on the number of pictures. We entered via the south gate of Yellowstone where we were greeted by a stupendous view of a pristine mountain range, half covered in snow. I was smitten by the color contrast, the dazzling white interspersed by 'Fall colors' created an hypnotizing aura.

tone National Park owstone National Park Yellowstone National Park Yellowstone National Yellowstone National Park Yellowstone National Par llowstone National Park Yellowstone National Park Yellowstone Nation ellowstone National Park Yellowstone National Park Yellowstone Natio wstone National Park Yellowstone National Park Yellowstone National P Yellowstone National Park Yellowstone National Park Yellowstone Nat stone National Park Yellowstone National Park Yellowstone National P e National Park Yellowstone National Park Yellowstone National Park owstone National Park Yellowstone National Park Yellowstone National lowstone National Park Yellowstone National Park Yellowstone Nationa tone National Park Yellowstone National Park Yellowstone National Pa ellowstone National Park Yellowstone National Park Yellowstone Natio owstone National Park Yellowstone National Park Yellowstone National one National Park Yellowstone National Park Yellowstone National Park lowstone National Park Yellowstone National Park Yellowstone Nationa llowstone National Park Yellowstone National Park Yellowstone Nation stone National Park Yellowstone National Park Yellowstone National Pa Yellowstone National Park Yellowstone National Park Yellowstone Nati The Old Faithful geyser left us gaping. It erupted to a staggering height of 150 feet!!!! And it was not the only geyser in range. As we hiked towards the scenic Mystic Falls, we saw that the whole area was full of mudpools, geysers and a stench of burnt sulphur pervaded in the region. There is a river in the region which is scalding hot and is aptly named Firehole River. It was later that I got to know that the whole region is the caldera of a supervolcano!!!!

Next morning, we woke up early and proceeded on our hike to Bunsen peak. The mountain was shaped like a Bunsen Burner. So the last leg of the hike was climbing a steep slope in snow and loose rocks. It was a strenuous 4 km hike to the top. However, the view from the top was priceless. The entire area of Mammoth Hot Springs was visible with electrifying views of the Electric Peak and several other peaks. Acidic water filled with sulphuric acid oozed through the rocks and eroded it to create scenic and stunning views.

On our last day, we drove through the Tower-Roosevelt and Canyon area of the Park. The cliff adjacent to the canyon looked as if some painter had sprayed all his colors arbitrarily on the walls. We were lucky enough to see a rainbow form in the mist of the Upper Falls.

At the exit, driving by the Yellowstone Lake, a sense of emptiness dissolved me in gloom, yet I was richer, a lot richer than I was 3 days ago. For, I had in my cellar, memories of an unforgettable tryst with BEAUTY.

Featured Artist feature artist Featured Artist Feature Artist

Cassini Division It is after this phenomenon that the Calcutta based band Cassini's Division is named. Known for their original songs, they were formed eight years ago and consist of Rahul Guha Roy as the lead singer/rapper and songwriter, Sukanti Roy playing guitar, John Bose playing bass and Ritoban Das on drums and percussions. Their sound cannot be categorized, really, into a particular genre as it has evolved through the years and consists mostly of alternative rock with a lot of punk, hip hop and other influences. They describe themselves as “Essentially a power trio fronted by a rapper/ singer”. They have a very interactive approach towards their audience and are known for their live performances – “Cassini's Division live experience is one in which the wall between the performer and audience is torn down, leading to a free flow of emotion where the listener and band become almost one through the spiritual power of the music.” Recently they were featured in “Calcutta Underground”, an album by HMV where their song “Only for a while” was showcased. “Rolling Stone” magazine featured their original song “Story of my life”. They have come up with the unique idea of featuring a couple of fans on their website quite regularly, as “CD Freaks”. Recently, there has been a distinct evolvement in terms of the sound, as the band is expanding its horizons and exploring new spaces. Known to have a distinct social or personal message in every original song, Cassini's Division seems ready to take on new challenges even after so many years of being together and having tasted success.

What has been new with Cassini's Division? Musically, we've had a certain kind of evolution. As a band, our philosophy as far as music is concerned is not to restrict it to a typical genre based sound. When we started out, we predominantly had a post grunge type of sound. There are now pop elements, there are hip hop elements, and there are the usual alternative and punk elements as well. So, there has been an evolution in the type of music that we perform. It's certainly different from what we were doing say even in 2005… You've been around for eight years now. How do you keep the band together for so long? For a band to stay together for long, it has to achieve a certain level of success. Simply because it is not successful, there are no takers. Since we live in a market oriented economy, anything that you do, even if it is artistic in nature, eventually has to have a consumer base. Cassini's Division, over a period of time, has developed that kind of base. That's one reason in purely materialistic terms that has allowed us to stay together for so long. But what happens with most bands is that they usually break up because musicians tend to have differences of opinion as far as music or aesthetics or other things are concerned. We have a fairly successful mechanism to resolve this and that's another of the reasons we're still around. What is that mechanism? We love the music, and we like playing music with each other, as members of a band. I am the songwriter for the band, and everyone has, over the years fortunately supported the stuff I write and has had something of their own to add to it. We started out as a very different band from the rest in Calcutta because we wanted to play original music – we were never really interested in playing covers – we had to play some covers for a while because the way the rock scene was here (Calcutta) people didn't listen to you unless you played covers. What works for us is that our original material is liked more than the covers we were playing, which is an unusual thing in itself, because most of the time people are only listening to the original song because well, the band is playing it, not because they like it. Staying together also has a lot to do with how your personal equations evolve over time. It's been lucky for us that we have been able to resolve whatever differences we have had. I think it's like a marriage – it requires a little bit of adjustment. Some marriages work, some marriages don't. Cassini's Division is a marriage that works because I think we've all found a space where each one of us is comfortable with each other.

What is the whole songwriting and composition process like for the band as a whole? Earlier on, when the band started, I'd sit with the guitar and write the song and then the others would add their own thing. Now I think we're a better place, where a lot of the musical ideas have come from the others, where they come up with pieces of music, and I'm writing on top of that. So it's more organic in terms of how a band's sound should be. Cause I'm not really writing with the guitar anymore. I'm writing on the music, that the band has come up with. This has helped us to widen the sound more, also the scope of the lyrics, the type of music – so in fact we're at this place where everybody contributes to the process. What you're hearing is the output of the entire band, and not an individual.

You have an alternative act, which is “the Huckleberrys”… Yeah, I've always been deeply interested in folk and country music. A lot of material in the folk and country vein is being written, which we'd like to start performing by next year.

What about the evolution in terms of songwriting – how has that changed? For me as a songwriter, a lot of stuff I've written for a long time tended to be very dark. I thought I should explore other areas – sensuality, sexuality, life in general. I'm writing about a lot more things than I was writing about before. So definitely there's been a movement in terms of the lyrics…

You've also done “Wake Up” Wake Up was a song that was done for the Government of India, department of Consumer Affairs…for consumer awareness. We also did a tour to support that song, along with Soulmate and some of the other well known bands in the north east. In fact we were the only band who were not from that region but since Calcutta is in the east, they wanted a Calcutta band and that's how we became a part of this.

Would you say that Cassini's Division, because it is so interactive and because you are reaching out to the youth, has a social and political message that is put across? It is my opinion that most rock bands are not interactive, first of all. There's hardly a connection with the fan base. Since we've made an effort in that direction, we are able to see what some issues with society are as far as young people are concerned. And sometimes it's not even about young people, it's about issues in general…being a band with any socio-political leanings in India is difficult. Because in India the perception is that music is primarily only for entertainment. So you're either entertaining or you're boring. If you're speaking about issues you're boring…but then there's a space that is in between, where you could be entertaining, as well as address some issues without getting heavy in a way that repels people.

So you're not didactic, but you're talking about issues… Yes, exactly.

What are some of the issues you have talked about through your music? There are a lot of things. For example, for young people, we have talked about the importance of having self respect, believing in yourself. A lot of young people are confused, because we're in a transitional society, where we're moving from a very traditional model to a more globalized viewpoint. So when these two things are working together, there is always a certain amount of tension. The whole point is how do we resolve this tension and discover our identities…in a broad way, that's something we've always looked at. Then there have been specific issues, such as the Jessica Lall case, which was about Justice and Law – about the importance of justice in democracy. We have also talked about personal issues with songs such as “Story of my life” – the idea of overcoming adversity, which is also seen in “Only for a while”. Also, the importance for young people to have confidence, the kind of confidence that comes from wisdom.

Since you are such an interactive band and you have a regular fan base who you do interact with - does this contact with young people give you the inspiration to address these issues? A lot of the band members now are in their thirties. So the music is a way to stay connected with the young fans and through this music we've tried to address issues with the new generation and the problems that it faces. Some of the problems that they are facing were also faced by us when we were their age, but the world has changed and many of the issues that they face now are different from the ones we faced at that point in our lives. There's a deep insight that comes out of the kind of connection that we share with the audience…

What made you come up with the CD Freaks idea? The fact that you pick out individual fans and put up their opinions on the website and acknowledge them in that way. The only reason we're around and playing music is because there are people who are listening to it. And it is important that those people also be given some space and know that there is this band who is not just playing for them, but is acknowledging their interests as individuals. The concept was basically born of the idea that the fans should also have a voice…we don't tell them what to write, so we actually get to learn why different people are liking the music, and there can be completely different reasons…it builds a better relationship with the band and the audience. We want to extend this concept as we play more to people who listen to us in other cities, outside of Calcutta. We've played in Delhi, in the north east, in South India…we want to reach out to other places because when you've been playing at the same place for so long you tend to reach a saturation point in terms of the people who will come to listen to the kind of stuff you're playing…so now we want to see what people in other regions are saying. In fact we'll be performing outstation in November as a part of the effort to reach out to more places and people.

Coming from different musical backgrounds, how do you all make music together? In our case, all four of us come from completely different musical backgrounds…I come from a very Sixties, Seventies, hippie, rock scene type of phase, very focused on lyrics, on songwriting. Sukanti comes from more of a new age metal, nu metal, punk guitar background. A lot of the heavy music elements are coming primarily from him. John has a wide variety of influences such as early progressive rock, folk rock, and Eighties rock. Ludo was especially trained as a Latin percussionist. When we compose, we consciously don't think of the music as being a certain kind, a certain genre…it's just music. And it works for us.

So you wouldn't want to be restricted to a particular genre or sound. Absolutely. If you ask me, we are a “no wave” band! We don't particularly belong anywhere. It's also a question of evolution – there are more rapping elements now. The thing with rap or hip hop is that it's based in African tribal chants, and its just how the Afro American culture interprets it…and the exciting part is that it keeps evolving…the good part about black music is that it's never standing still. With white music it is put into boxes, but black music keeps its innate “African-ness” but still changes. They are always pushing the envelope, and they don't approach music intellectually, which is actually a good thing – they approach music primarily from the emotions. That gives them a cutting edge. I think rock music is evolving majorly right now…and I think it will die the minute people start putting it into boxes, by defining it and setting boundaries on it. I think that's a major problem with the Calcutta audience…that they have a very fixed idea of what rock music is like. In places like Delhi, there are more bands that are risk takers, so people are listening to different stuff there. We have, in Calcutta, probably more bands than all the ones in Delhi, Bangalore and Bombay put together, but quantity doesn't make up for quality…the minute you start defining things so clearly and putting them in boxes and labeling them you can't keep an open mind and create original and organic music. We tend to worship genres more than music in itself…

Other Indian bands that you listen to and admire There are a lot – Medusa, Menwhopause, Parikrama If Parikrama hadn't made the decision to actually pursue rock music as a career then none of us would be here today…then there's Lou Majaw, the Great Society, they're probably my favourite Indian band, because you can't put their music in a box – they are true musicians…they make truly original music without continuously referring Anglo American culture.

What do you think about band competitions? Band competitions have done very little in terms of bringing out fresh talent. It's more of a fad for college kids who want to see their friends perform. Nothing really great has come out of any of these competitions. GIR is a little different because it has thrown up some big names in the national rock scene, but otherwise, competitions are not likely to throw up great bands. Great bands come and go, they don't need competitions to be created.

What is your take on the heavy metal scene in India? Not good…the heavy metal scene is more like the gangster movies in Bollywood – everybody wants to act. Except for Demonic Resurrection, we have not really thrown up really great metal bands.This is not to say that there cannot be a great metal band from India – we've just not arrived there yet…so maybe a couple of seventeen year old kids will surprise us someday soon, but so far it hasn't happened.

What is your take on rock music in regional Indian languages? Over the next five years, I think the regional languages will throw up quality rock music – it's not a question of language, but of understanding that particular art form. I think Hindi will throw up some very good rock bands, because we've reached the indipop stage in the Hindi music scene…and now it's time for some bang on Hindi rock n roll.

You can check out info about the band at their official website http://cassinisdivision.com/ for trivia, news, the CD freak museum, lyrics and downloads.

What do you think is the scene like for bands that playoriginal music in India right now? I think you still have to be a big name to be able to play original music. I was in Bombay recently and I saw “Zero” performing and I don't think played any covers, but then I doubt if a lesser known band would have been able to do that. Actually I don't know what it is – whether the audience really likes the original music or whether its just because a well known band is playing. Since we're been around for eight years and we are known for our original music, most of the people come to the shows expecting to hear original music…so we have no problems playing original stuff. Across the country, there is an awareness among musicians who know that you can't make a career out of covering Metallica or Pink Floyd. The musicians themselves feel the need to express something original.

Zarathustra with God By Hogwash And once Zarathustra had seen enough people denying the death of god, he decided to tread down the hill and into the wide world to find god himself. He did so unassumingly and assuming that god was still alive.

Zarathustra with God

" When you explore, explore unobtrusively and your thoughts should not be bound by assumptions and so through god I seek his death" and he started on his journey as the sun let itself impose on the hill once more. Gentle were his steps and unhurried was his walk. He sought thus to tell people what he already knew. God was dead.

Seven days and nights and suns witnessed his futile search in the wilderness. He knew what he was looking for; he also knew he wouldn' t find what he was looking for. " Will man ever find what he knows doesn' t exist but needs badly to deny its own existence!" thus he wondered every evening before he halted for rest. Days spent were thoughts multiplied.

Zarathustra : So does God say, let it be and let them find what they think exists?

Dead Man Talking Dead Man Talking Dead Man Talking

God Assumptions, Zarathustra, validation everyThat question is bed, And once Zarathustra had dead seen enough people death of god, he decided to all" Zarathustra, for the first time during " Should I assume him as nothing seemsdenying to defy the what I know? Dead he is after the:journey, turnedohimpatient andseek questioned hisand seeking. nightanswered he went to a question unexplored and an assumption pampered. tread down hill and the rock, wide resolving world to find god himself. He mountain did so unassumingly which was the nothing butinto a hard to return back to the he' d forsaken. He slept well and sound and got up early in the morning. And lo! As he headed for his morning ablutions to the river that and assuming that god was still alive. flowed close by, he saw a man sitting at the top of the rock he had used as his bed for the night. Like an apparition he looked, but notZarathustra jaded. Like: So a child smiled asithe Zarathustra. does he God say, let belooked and letatthem find what they think exists? "When you explore, explore unobtrusively and your thoughts should not be bound by God : I say don't say or deny anything. Man found fire and the fear of it. Man found assumptions and so through god I seek his death" and he started on his journey as the sun god and his reluctance to respond. Now let man find god himself. Don't tell a child a let itself impose on the hill once more. Gentle were his steps and unhurried was his walk. moon he so seeks doesn't exist. He'll only mistrust you and wait for a night clear and He sought thus:to tell people he atop already knew. God was dead. Zarathustra Who do I seewhat sitting where I stop? devoid of clouds. Let the child in the man reach out to the moon and its beauty and if its death he finds let him handle it. Don't kill hope; let them realize its uselessness. Seven days and nights and suns witnessed his futile search in the wilderness. He knew God : A rock you see and atop sits God himself, God, who you have pronounced dead. what he was looking for; he also knew he wouldn't find what he was looking for. "Will Zarathustra : May be impatient you'd call me, may be restless I am, but how to ignore man ever find what he knows doesn't exist but needs badly to deny its own existence!" Zarathustra : Have I, oh almighty, made a mistake in pronouncing you dead? what you already know and they refuse to see? thus he wondered every evening before he halted for rest. Days spent were thoughts multiplied. God : Mistakes make the man his regrets. Pity kills god and brings him back too. Pity killed me once and pity brought me back, pity your futile and urge what youishad pronounced. It' to s easy Godover : What else will wandering you test yourself withtoif prove not with what difficult? Was it easy "Should I assume him dead as nothing seems to defy what I know? Dead he is after all" find that I was no more, was it easy to realize that I died of my pity for man? My death to pronounce, it' s difficult to be at ease with what you pronounce, especially when they don' t believe it. Zarathustra, for the first time during the journey, turned impatient and questioned his lay in my helplessness, let their life not be restrained through yours. You have seeking. That night he went to bed, which was nothing but a hard rock, resolving to answers and that's your folly. They have questions and you think that's theirs. But Zarathustra : At ease can be one and so could I be, but questions they ask need to be answered. Questions not responded to and answers not listened to lead to lopsided assumptions. return back to the mountain he'd forsaken. He slept well and sound and got up early in the Zarathustra ought to garner enough respect for what they don't know. morning. And lo! As he headed for his morning ablutions to the river that flowed close by, God ohthe Zarathustra, seek he validation and question is an a question unexplored and an assumption pampered. he saw: Assumptions, a man sitting at top of the rock had used as every his bed for theanswered night. Like Zarathustra : But had I not left the mountain so I could share with people what I apparition he looked, but not jaded. Like a child he smiled as he looked at Zarathustra. knew. God : Share you should, but impose you ought not. Don't proclaim, run, but don't be noticed during that run. Say, but let it only be a whisper. Drop your words onto their God : I say don'dot say denyatop anything. Zarathustra : Who I seeor sitting where IMan stop? found fire and the fear of it. Man found god and his reluctance to respond. Now let man find god himself. Don' t tell a child a moon he so seeks doesn' t exist. He' ll ears, but don't throw them across.

only mistrust you and wait for a night clear and devoid of clouds. Let the child in the man reach out to the moon and its beauty and if its death he finds let him handle it. Don' t kill hope; let them realize its uselessness.

God : A rock you see and atop sits God himself, God, who you have pronounced dead.

Zarathustra : So, does God preach me to continue on my journey without looking for

Zarathustra : May be impatient you' d call me, may be restless I am, but how to ignore what you already know and they refuse toitssee? fruits?

Zarathustra : Have I, oh almighty, made a mistake in pronouncing you dead?

God : No, he only intends to continue ondeath his own. undoes itself. God: Mistakes : What else willthe you testhis yourself with notgod withand what is difficult? Was easykilled to find that I was no more, was it easy to realize that I died of my pity for man? My layPreaching in my helplessness, let their life not be God make man regrets. Pityifkills brings him back too.itPity me once and pity brought me back, overand yourthat' futiles your wandering and urge prove and you think that' s theirs. But Zarathustra ought to garner enough respect for what they don' t know. restrained through yours. You have pity answers folly. They have to questions ...and with those words he descended down the rock gently and disappeared into what you had pronounced. It's easy to pronounce, it's difficult to be at ease with what you the hedges close by. Zarathustra sat there, transfixed yet clearer in his mind. He pronounce, especially when theyleft don't it. so I could share with people what I knew. Zarathustra : But had I not the believe mountain knew what people needed to know. He also knew that they needed to know it on their own. God after all was dead and alive. Zarathustra : At ease can be one and so could I be, but questions they ask need to be God : Share you should, but impose you ought not. Don' t proclaim, run, but don' t be noticed during that run. Say, but let it only be a whisper. Drop your words onto their ears, but don' t throw them across. answered. Questions not responded to and answers not listened to lead to lopsided assumptions.

Zarathustra : So, does God preach me to continue on my journey without looking for its fruits?

God : No, he only intends to continue on his own. Preaching undoes itself. 30

Anticipated

I even fantasize it, How will it be? Will it grip my heart Or will it make me bleed? Will I die in my dream Or in the middle of a road, Will I die a virgin Or leave a bawling child alone? Will I make my folks smile By being a traditional, well-cultured house-wife Or will I run away, deep sea-dive Rebel and suffice till my demise. Though not the moon I could've surely reached the skies Had I obeyed my heart And not their 'well-meant' advice Bored of the pricking needles That put me to rest, As death approaches, I feel it less Leaving no more fantasies, I'm ready for that last breath Its prediction on a hospital bed Being my only regret!

You told me Not to eat Newspaper and paper On the platter And....... To stop drinking The air that You have exhaled from your nose

POEMS POEMS POEMS POEMS POEMSPOEMS POEMS POEMS POEMS POEMS

As Death approaches I fear it less I'm ready for it I have few regrets.

Revel

I've seen you Erasing your footsteps Hiding your traces In the kitchen So..... I naughtily wandered Every hidden corner That you've said I am forbidden Your eyes blaze In the darkness Like a spook To scare me But...... You've not known I am pretending You've not seen Me just smirking You have left As the sun Kisses the ground To bade farewell Still...... I am waiting For the next Cherished reveling moment 31

An Outline

Lost Lust

Of her silken ways and those days. No words ring, no sound, no sight. No touch.

It's burned, charred, dead.

A dazed wave that swept through me, and brought me to her, to her fire and her blood. I burned, I tasted her blood. It tasted of me.

How deep can we push it, How deep? How long?

We are disconnectedly one, Thirsty travelers drinking from each other, loving each others Want, hollowing out each other's void, pushing each other deeper. Kissing, and moaning, We want to feel. Brought by desires and joined by loss. A surgery that joins. Hungry of hunger, Hungry, we pounce on each other, rip apart the skin that joins, and hides, by smothering kisses, and burning caresses, and killing love. And then feed ourselves to that clichĂŠd fire, that all consuming fire of desire. Burning ourselves, The hollows deeper. The soul rests deep they say.

And I? I keep looking for ripples in the wave, for footmarks, for any marks, any sound or sight, a single touch, just that one Feel, on Air, on Water, on Time, and Timelessness, in my mind, in stories and music, in pictures and people, I wander and look and look, and look, and then return, and look again. I wander. Am I just a creature of habit? Yes, I think.

Of her drowsy eyes and nights. And fancied flights Of beats her feet shared with mine. Of that tickle she felt and me too. Of cushioned thoughts that could trouble me. Of a sudden jolt taking that cushion away. Of my trying, this time not in futility. To find a way out. Of misery I eventually sought shelter from. And found. Of boredom that ensued. And pursued. Me into resorting back to the trouble she was. Of life for once prolonging itself. Of that cushion I seek again. But dread too. So finally, and again, Of shelter I need. Well, do I indeed?

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That every time you invoke the past a part of you dies, like an afterthought. That fear and love and loathing are more closely bound than we think.

Of Fractured Frames and Rambling Ravings

I've understood that things we want to do can never be done, the things we've to do take a lifetime to be done and things we don't want to do have to done every day.

Drunken Mans Sermon Drunken Mans Sermon Drunken Mans Sermon

That nobody flies down the cliff, they just fall, ecstasy coming in gusts like a wayward wind that crashes you to your end. That fan-less ceilings are better to stare at. That to assume inherent goodness and morality is just a defense mechanism. That multicolored sunshine streaming through stained glasses, imprinted with the image of a man with his crosses, brings visions of a beautiful world.

I've understoodThat indifference makes you live in another dimension.. That despair, diluted by a lack of recognition, turns to that ceaseless free fall we so often mistake for life. That happiness, dressed in hazy lights, loud music n plastic smiles, masquerades far too often to be of any consequence. That anger mellowed down by indifference leaves you with mere bitterness, cynicism.

I've learnt that the little gap between knowing what you want and knowing what you don't want stretches across eternity and defines our lives. I've understood that when you drift in tide less seas, it doesn't matter which way is home (if there is a 'home').

That alcohol doesn't make you any happier, more honest or sadder; it just offers the cloak of 'high' to feign discontinuity from the burden of consciousness. That meandering ravings for one's amusement can fast veer out of control to turn into incriminating confessions. I've realized that memories of an early childhood can be seamlessly weaved with reveries inspired by much loved books. That silence sometimes sounds like a swarm of bees. That the savage beauty of nature and that word defying gut wrenching sense of dĂŠjĂ vu(that springs from the eternal search for another time, another life?) can make your insides melt and give way. That all their lives, some people are doomed to plant truth in the guise of bullshit. That voices inside my head speak in tongues.

That more often than not it's better to be at two places at a time rather than twice at the same place. That there is no such thing as rock bottom.

I've understood that happiness, tinged with nostalgia, comes unlooked for, like a vision triggered by familiar silhouette of distant hills washed in the after light of the sunken sun.

I've understood that a lucid imagination, frozen frames, enduring love for books and an insane lust for meaning is the perfect cocktail for blurring the lines between reality and mind-scape, manufacturing surreal chunks of memories.

That hypocrisy can be redeemed if one considers it a testimony of a hidden sense of decency.

I've realized that nightmares are often in black and white and yesterdays are glossy and glazed in the sodium glare of prized memories.

That sometimes, the idealized, Diderot-ical image of yourself inside your head, swaps places with your real self with such alarming regularity that it leaves you wondering which is which and who is who.

That the concept of forever was dreamt up by a bunch of lonesome heroes staring down the barrel of a gun. That it is easier to go on pretending when you know you are pretending.

None of this means anything-Anything of significance that is...I am just amusing myself, musing, losing myself in a welter of words..

A Hairy Tale Ugh! Don't they get it, we don't like it! It's really creepy and disgusting. Oh! But let me start at the beginning.

Uncles and their beards come in all shapes and sizes. Some have thick beards which just tickle your palms, and then there are others who just have this really annoying and sharp stubble. Those are the ones who try the hardest - because they try to prove that their beards actually grow!!! Doesn't the lot of them realize that we are not thrilled to be running our small delicate hands over their fuzzy faces? The worst of the lot are uncles who are not actually uncles. I mean, they're friends of your uncle and so on and so forth. Not that you can be rude to them either! And since uncle dear very happily expands on the theory that you like feeling up his beard, the pseudo-uncles feel that they can quickly be friends with you if they let you feel up their beard too. In fact, it becomes a veritable contest among them. "Whose beard did you like the best - Sunny uncle's or Rahul uncle's?" "Do you want to have a stubble like Rohit chacha or a goatee like Ashutosh mama?" Yikes! The questions and comparisons are endless. I wish somebody would tell them to lay off. That feeling up another person's facial hair does not guarantee friendship. Don't they remember their own childhood days, about how they disliked this whole ritual too? But then I guess, that's the sad part about adults. The minute people turn into adults, it's as if all childhood memories are deleted automatically. Then it's time for them to turn to self help books and parenting books to cope with kids. What a sad world we live in! I'd request all of you to spread the word around. Please try and convert as many uncles, especially pseudo-uncles, as possible to the cause. Meanwhile, I guess there's nothing for me to do but throw the occasional tantrum. At least I get treated to ice-cream then. And the day that ruse fails, I'll simply wait to grow up.

Penny In The Mud Penny In The Mud Penny In The Mud

I'm talking about all these uncles who feel that children derive the greatest pleasure from feeling up their beards! Somebody has to burst the bubble and tell them that they detest it. I mean, really detest it.

Mirth

I looked at the trees, the lawn, the grass and the sky. I kept staring out into the distance. Above the sound of the rain, I could hear my mom fry pakoras in the kitchen, the sizzle louder with every batch of pakoras as the oil got hotter and hotter. The first rain of the year. A proper downpour. The kind that wets every millimeter of you within seconds. Suddenly a strong wind splashed a few drops of water on my face. I blinked and drew a deep breath. I turned around and looked inside our house from the verandah. I could see dad nestled in the bean bag, pretending to read the newspaper, but actually fast asleep. I made sure mom was still in the kitchen, listening to the old Marathi songs playing on the radio. I slipped my feet into my slippers and quietly stepped out of the house. I walked slowly and heavily on the mud path that was carved out around our garden. I stopped where it was cut to enter into the garden. I looked at my feet, at the slippers and then at the grass. I removed my slippers and stepped onto the grass. I walked slowly as I felt the grass beneath my feet. By now my clothes were clinging to me. I was drenched in the first rain of the year. I looked up at the sky. It was a uniform gray. Spotless. Plain. But not dull in any way. I stared at the sky, unblinking. I felt the drops of rain, sharp as razor, hit my face, my eyes, my cheeks. I stood there, looking at the sky, my hands beside me. Somewhere I could hear someone calling out to me. I ignored it.

I lifted my hand and ran it over my face. Slowly I could feel this energy build up in me. My breathing grew stronger, heavier. I had this mad surge to shout at the top of my voice. No, I was not mad or angry at anything or anybody. Sometimes you don't have to be mad at or angry at something or somebody to feel like doing something so crazy. Nature drives you mad. I opened my mouth and let out a loud cry. A long loud cry. Suddenly everyone was out of their houses. They were all staring at me, wondering if I had lost my mind. Mom was standing in the verandah of our house with dad, clutching each others hands. I looked at them. I looked at the people who were staring at me. I walked out of our garden onto the street and looked up at the sky again. I knelt down and spread my arms wide apart and screamed again. What joy! What liberation! I stopped screaming. My head was still tilted upwards. I drew my hands close and bent my head. I placed my hands on my laps and hung my head. I looked up at mom and dad again. And at the people who were still staring at me. And I smiled as I saw few of them were running towards me, their arms stretched out, and their mouths wide open as they joined me in my mirth and screamed.

Ride to Remember

The car rolled out of the garage. Squeezing past the narrow door. Head first, trunk last. A deafening shriek. Then scurried along sedately. Swaying and accelerating initially. Nevertheless, settled down before long.

Guided by signals and directions via the congested city roads, maneuvering past potholes, it hit the highway soon. Nothing to stop it now. It sped along smoothly in joyous freedom. Passed a lot of other cars. Crossed the paths of some. Yielded for a few, waited for others. Ran side by side for fractions of seconds with some. Finally came across a car that ran in the same direction as it, with the same speed. A yellow Volkswagen Beetle. They ran together for a long time, passing the STOP barriers, swerving past bankings, overtaking blocking ones. Sometimes they were close enough to even rub side by side. At others, they maintained a distance. But.....they ran together.

Then, suddenly....a cop pulled the Beetle off the road. What was the fault? Not adhering to the RULES? Nobody knew. The other car too tried to pull off. But the cops wouldn't let it to. Reluctantly, it had to move along in its lane. The highway seemed vacuous. But cars have to go on towards their destination. At least until they run out of gas.

The Fly on the Wall

That's what Bono said. I empathize with it completely even though I am female of the species. I'm sure I'm not the first one in this world who has fallen in love with the wrong person. It's comforting, but the rest of it isn't. I was a good old-fashioned girl who got invited to the spider's parlour. First he took my good old-fashioned-ness and then he took my heart. Then he made me think that I actually liked being in the web. I struggled to get out and then he kept me stuck with some kind of sweet poison. It's not pretty from the eyes of all those who can see from the outside; but then did I forget to tell you that the first thing that he ate away were my eyes? I'm still stuck â&#x20AC;&#x201C; the fly on the wall, in love with the spider. It's not all bad; I have my good times and my bad times; that's what being in love is all about, right? But there is a sad part to this story. They say, rotting flesh turns into poison. This rotten flesh now has, my beloved spider.

The Line

She was sitting in the arts room in the afternoon, with a pencil in one hand and a "what-am-Isupposed-to-do" expression on her face. She was eagerly waiting to hear her favourite sound...the school bell. The clock nearby the window was lazily ticking away, as if it had no destination to reach. As she was staring at the clock, the notorious villain, Anaahita's teacher came and scolded her. She returned her hazy gaze to the plain sheet which was resting on her desk. The sheet stared back at Anaahita. The teacher had told the class to draw something based on the theme- "Lines". So, Anaahita drew a line on the untouched sheet. Then she drew another line. And then one more in the middle of those two lines... And then she wrote an 'A'. Then the self-confessed lover wrote her name all over the sheet. How attractive it looked, she thought to herself. The teacher came, saw and took away her sheet and told her to be more creative. Anaahita protested by reiterating that she had drawn some lines, which made sense. With a new plain, white and dull companion she began to think on the "lines" of the theme. She started chanting "lines, lines, lines..." in her mind to get some idea of what this topic meant. She thought of lines that separate people...lines that unite people...lines that lead to happiness...lines that lead to sadness...lines that lead to an innocent smile...lines that lead to an angry frown. Anaahita gasped. She finally knew what this theme meant. Lines... Such an integral part of our life, yet so indiscernible. Lines that come and go like the wind...lines that stay for life...lines that scar...lines that begin everything, and there are lines that bring an end.. The simplest, yet the most hated line, the Line of Control came first to Anaahita's mind. Then she thought about her grandmother's wrinkles...then her mother's scars on her hands... Anaahita stared at the clock. She'd never wandered so much in her thoughts ever before... She saw lines everywhere. So, she was still confused as to what to draw on the dull, white sheet which now was more interested in flying out of the window. Within the last fifteen minutes of the time frame given to the class, Anaahita drew whatever she could gather from her thoughts. She thought since there cannot be a summation of "Lines", she drew the Cross of Jesus Christ. Satisfied, she gave her piece of art to the teacher.

Ignorama: A story of a student

He was nervous on the day of the interview for reasons unwarranted because SIT-F had a 100% campus placement record. However that year was to be an exception due to a student known as Mohammad AllE who would not bother sitting for interviews. His real name was Veerabhadra Venkateswara Kuppuswamy. He was Ignorama's classmate and was widely considered the genius of SIT, although the toppers would disagree owing to fulsome jealousy. He came to be called AllE because he had scored E grade in all his courses, 61 of them so far, and considered Mohammad Ali, the legendary boxer, his role model. Students were awarded an S grade for excellence, A for good, B, C, D, followed by E for being very poor and F for failure. His academic performance was an unprecedented record. He made sure he did not score an F, which would ineluctably mean spending more than the minimum of four years for a Bachelor's degree that meant additional unspeakable suffering for him. He could have easily scored S grade in all his courses but he was disillusioned the moment he set foot on SIT-F campus and did not bother studying. He was a rebel with a cause. He rebelled against ragging (he was ragged mercilessly out of his wits), the unimaginative professing methods, the gargantuan course curriculum which was mostly outmoded, the fellow students with their onedimensional personalities and some of whom were colossally depraved, the insipid SIT slang and the pest-ridden canteen food, which repelled him and filled him with revulsion even before he put a morsel in his mouth..

When asked, 'What are you rebelling against, AllE?' he would always quote Marlon Brando's famous line from 'The Wild One': 'What've you got, peregrinating donkey?' He would never address his classmates by their names or their nicknames, but something synonymous to the likes of 'neanderthal nincompoop', 'sniveling guttersnipe', 'noxious ninny', because he thought they were all one or the other. He called his final year project supervisor Dr. CoSOD which stood for Chairman of the Society for Dunces. Moving on, with the author apologizing profusely to the readers for this digression on AllE, it turned out that AllE was a god--brother of Ignorama. Ignorama looked up to AllE and AllE naturally looked down upon Ignorama. So Ignorama was a bundle of nerves on the day of the interview. It was now or never for him to clinch a campus job. Under such circumstances, he always turned to AllE who was always kind enough and who had a remarkable capacity to soothe the nerves of anybody who had ingratiated to him. He found AllE in a betting row with PhenoMenon, a student from the South whose mother tongue was a palindrome. PhenoMenon was so called, because he had scored S in all his courses (again 61 of them). Another unprecedented achievement. He was seen only in the classrooms and during the time of examinations. The rest of the time he was locked in his room voraciously poring over his subjects. There were rumours that he attended to his nature calls in his room. Every now and then, carrion of rats, cats, birds and other unfortunate creatures was found in the vicinity of his room, and sometimes the pong from his body asphyxiated farmers and cattle in the fields, miles away in the countryside. The reason he scored an S in all his courses was because his mind was a store of infinite capacity. Each course had a prescribed set of textbooks; the examinations had problems which would come only from those textbooks. It turned out that PhenoMenon stored the solution to each and every problem in his brain. One only has to ask, 'What is the solution for problem #4, exercise #5, chapter #2 and textbook â&#x20AC;&#x153;Fundamentals of Soil Mechanics by A. B. Churlâ&#x20AC;?' and he would reel out the answer with incredible celerity.

short stories short stories short stories

Ignorama, the nickname of our hero, was a final year civil engineering graduate at SIT, Foolspur (SIT-F). SIT is abbreviated for Superior Institute of Technology. Some sagacious people think it should be renamed Silly Institute of Technology. It was the time of campus interviews headlined by Oxygen Inc, a Fortune-500 company, whose products pervaded all spheres of daily activity from cosmetics to cutlery to computers and whose payroll boasted a million employees called Oinks. He was to be interviewed for the post of software engineer. He had no opportunities for employment in civil engineering stream since the companies that came to SITs were all from Information Technology (IT). He did not want to travel abroad to pursue Masters since that would mean spending two more years in a field that had failed to interest him.

Well, the bet was PhenoMenon challenged AllE that he would top the Graduate Mass Exodus Entrance Exam (GRAM), which students usually give in their final year to flock to the LOO (the Land of Opportunities), and that AllE would score the lowest. According to the rules of the bet, AllE was only allowed to give the examination impromptu. There was no money involved but just dignity. Ignorama was asked to be the witness to which he gladly accepted, but which he subsequently publicized all over the institute much to the dismay of both the betting parties involved. The author apologizing again abundantly to the readers for this digression and to conclude the betting episode would like to mention that AllE scored a perfect 10 in GRAM, which was also an unprecedented event. PhenoMenon scored less and on the day of the results was seen carrying a rope to his room, which his hostel mates misconstrued to be preparations for suicide. He gave himself a few lashes on the back which is customary in his family on occasions when one has suffered insufferable ignominy. So Ignorama asked AllE, 'Hey brother, do you think I will make it to Oxygen?' AllE gave an insouciant reply which came naturally to him on such occasions, â&#x20AC;&#x153;My dear babbling birdbrain, there are only two things certain in life-death and you getting that job.â&#x20AC;? Ignorama was elated because AllE was never wrong. The Oxygen interview was at 9 AM in the administrative building. Aguish, Ignorama walked in at 7 AM into the main lobby packed with aspirants. At 11:00 AM, an Oxygen personnel addressed them, 'Welcome to the Oxygen interviews. To facilitate smooth running of the interviews, I request you all to divide yourselves into groups. One group for compilers, one for operating systems, one for networking, one for databases, and finally one for languages.' Ignorama wanted to ask, 'What if I know none of these?', but he kept quiet not to give an unfavorable impression. The only IT knowledge he had was cut-n-paste and how to write emails.

So the students grouped themselves accordingly. Ignorama was alone and so wandered from one group to another to espouse a suitable one. The conversation from the group on operating systems went like this. Kernel processes in the UNIX system execute only in kernel mode. Process 0 spawns kernel processes, such as page reclaiming process vhand, and then becomes the swapper process. The tricky part of the fork implementation is to initialize the saved register context of the child process, so that it starts executing inside the fork system call and recognizes that it is the child process. It hit Ignorama hard. He started sweating all over his body. He felt he would collapse. He ventured to hear tidbits from the group on compilers. This was what he picked up. Bottom-up parsers such as the ones created by yacc and occs work with a class of grammars called LALR(1) grammars, which are special cases of the more inclusive LR(1) class. Most LR parsers cannot be parsed with recursive-descent parsers, and LR and LALR grammars tend to be more useful than LL grammars because they are easier to write. Now his legs and hands were shaking violently. His eyes grew dark. He was scared that he was going to have a brain haemorrhage. He thought there is no point attending the interview. He was woefully under-prepared compared to the other participants. He was surely going to fail and what's worse, humiliate himself in the interview room. He decided to leave but then he remembered AllE's words and AllE was never wrong. He moved to a corner and reassured himself. In 12 hours time, he found himself facing four interviewers. They were old, fat and wore spectacles. The formalities were dealt with first, which started with Ignorama's narration of his background followed by perusal of his grade sheets. Then followed a barrage of questions. He could only answer the first question, 'What are the properties of a Cantilever Beam?' It was bread and butter to him. To the rest of the questions his honest reply was, 'Sorry sir, I haven't a clue.â&#x20AC;&#x2122;

A sample from those questions follows: What is Tuple Relational Calculus and Domain Relational Calculus in databases? What is the general architecture of DSM systems and compare Amoeba, V-System, Mach, and Chorus? Elaborate the algorithm to produce fast but more compact representations for the transition table of a DFA in lexical analysis? The questions were gobbledygook to him. The only moment he enjoyed, during the interview, was when he was asked to tell a joke, which he did with gusto and immense relief. A man was admitted into a hospital. He had lost his left leg and his left arm. The doctor looks at him and says, 'You are all right now' It was evident he had failed miserably in the interview, but the most puzzling aspect was one of the interviewers who wore a deadpan face and who was silent as the grave during the whole duration of the interview. He did not know that this interviewer was a psychoanalyst and a charlatan. All he was doing was drawing a graph depicting the modulation of the vocal chords for each candidate. It looked like a seismograph. A kinky wiggly graph meant the candidate had bluffed. In such a case, he would pronounce the candidate unsuitable for employment.

'My dear featherbrained flibbertigibbet,' he rationalized, 'Companies like Oxygen are paragons of greed. They are in a perpetual search for projects and have enormous requirements for manpower. To grab a project, it has to show bench power, which stands for the number of skilled personnel lying idle on a bench and are free to be inducted into a project. So nits like you are trained and benched. Your prior skills or lack of any do not matter. It is most likely that you will be benched for a year or so. Most probably trained on god knows what hogwash. You will be packed like sardines with others like yourself in a room with one or two computers just to remind you that you are employed for a computer job. This period of inactivity will bore you to the bone. However it is also likely in this situation that you may meet a beautiful girl huddled along with you in the same room who will floor you, and who you will, no doubt, jump at the opportunity to court to make amends for those four years of college life barren of romance. You will exchange poems all day, go for movies in the mornings and afternoons. Your typical day on the bench would be reporting around 9 AM, breakfasting straightaway and returning at about 11 AM to check your emails until 1 PM, breaking for lunch, returning at 2 PM to immediately leave for a movie or an outing with your sweetheart, returning at 6 PM to sign the register and immediately leaving for the day.' Ignorama was shocked beyond expression. He embraced the job wholeheartedly by accepting the offer letter the next day, and every day from then on, until his first day on the job, he would dream of the girl he would meet, and how they would spend those months on the bench.

Well, time passed quickly for Ignorama. Final year was always fun. Oxygen was completely out of his mind until one fine day he got a phone call from it, 'Congratulations Ignorama. This is Robin Redbreast from HR, Oxygen. Oink! Oink! We are pleased to offer you the post of a software engineer. Please come down to our office anytime this week to collect your offer letter. Oink! Oink! We would appreciate if you could call or write to us in case you choose to decline our offer.' Was that 'Oink, Oink' some jar in the background? His happiness knew no bounds. The moment was beatific. Only AllE could explain the absurdity of what had happened. He found AllE reclined, rather spaced out, on the verandah of the hostel wing crooning David Bowie's 'Space Oddity' and smoking a Cuban cigar. He delivered to Ignorama, a sardonic critique on the workings of the IT industry.

Lord of the Tombs

The pigeonhole above the arched gateway is aflutter with activity, their slumber disturbed by the old bent man with a crooked stick. He walks into the dark tomb, slowly shifting his weight between his legs and the stick. His sinewy cane supports him as he drags his feet on the dusty floor groping through the familiar path between numerous graves, till he reaches the darkest end. The pigeons coo. It is an angry scolding he has got used to whenever he returns late. His shadow slowly shortens behind the highest grave and he settles down for the night. The bats are absent as they have gone out hunting, but the vacant black patch on the farthest corner of the high domed ceiling is still reeking of their permanent stench, giving a clue to their presence. "Yes, yes, I am home. I know I am late. There was some nice qawwali at the Dargah. Sorry to wake you up." It is a full moon night. The thin blades of light from the small trellis high on the back wall cut through the sombre darkness. His ragged bed and shawl lie undisturbed at his favourite corner. He lights an incense stick that he has carried back from the Dargah and says his prayers facing the source of light. He stares at the diamond shaped pattern of light on the floor next to him. Looking up he thanks his God for the 'light from the heaven'. He is thankful to that little speck of light, which became his saviour when he had almost lost his life and shelter. That fateful day, a year ago, has made him a legend. The day he became a celebrated Pir, a powerful spiritual leader, from an old beggar. That day, his sleepy town gained popularity within weeks and the Dargah became a hub for peace seekers. They had offered a house to him, but he said he would rather live a peaceful life with his Djinns. Hundreds of local villagers of all faiths come to the town everyday to seek blessings of Pir Bhai and the local politicians warned the public never to ward off any pigeon or bat from the tombs in the town. That day he took pride in his name. Aslam Sheikh had lost the use of his name a long time ago. He responded to anything hurled at him. Now he is getting used to 'Pir Bhai'. For a man of his stature and mental state, it was never expected of him to ask for luxury. Yet he had the luxury of being a revered wise man in and around the old tomb. The municipality security guard had given him the new name. That day they put up the blue signboard, cleaned the long grass in the grounds and surrounded the tomb with a high fence, Pir Aslam Sheikh sat out under the keekar bushes, with his stick, begging bowl and shawl. He had wanted to protest when they started fumigating the graves. They scared away the bats and pigeons, his only companions. Nobody told him what was happening, but he knew that he might have to sleep in the Dargah from then on. But after two days on the cold marble floor in the Dargah he realized that the luxury of a marble bed was not for him. Muneer, at the small mosque about a kilometre from the Dargah invited Aslam to sleep next to the roadside grave. The grave was in the middle of the road on an irregular shaped island, jutting out at an odd angle. It was saved from demolition when the road was wrapped around it some years ago. He tried that shelter too, but the noise of the traffic was intolerable. Finally he went back to his tomb and waited there patiently for the work in his home to finish. The pigeons and the bats had been waiting outside like him, for the authorities to leave, and finally moved in to their respective domains. How he wished he had wings, so that he could go back in, undetected.

Ali Wahab was appointed the guard at the gate. He noticed Aslam sitting besides the gate every day. During the day, many young people came into the lawns and played ball, played cards, flew kites or just lazed about on the fresh manicured grass. But the old beggar only came at the gates after nightfall. Forlorn and lost, he would sit outside the fence and stare at the tomb. Perhaps the tomb belonged to his ancestors, Ali thought. One day Ali offered some alms to Aslam and he declined it. Ali realized he was not an ordinary beggar. Soon they started talking and Aslam, with his wit and knowledge gained at the Dargah in his long years of service to God, enamoured Ali into his tutelage. One day Ali confessed to Aslam, about his sinful fondness for opium. Aslam laughed. "So what? Even I used to take afeem. As long as you don't harm anybody it is fine." Once Aslam gained Ali's confidence, he poured his heart out, "Ali, for so many years since my childhood, this abandoned tomb has been my home. Now you guys come and clean it up and put a fence and call it yours. Tell me where will I sleep?" Ali was puzzled, yet he couldn't let him inside. Aslam tried his wit, revoking the god fearing guard's worst nightmare. "If I don't sleep in the tomb and say my prayers every night the Djinns of the graves will come out." Devout Ali was in a dilemma between his job and his faith. Finally in exchange of some poor quality charas, he agreed to let Aslam go back into his tomb in the dead of the night. Aslam knew the wicked ways of the material world. He missed his tall grave and its cool shade, the dancing light on the floor and the bats and the pigeons, his family. So he agreed to a little barter and regained his position as the lord of the tomb. It was all going pretty fine. Ali got his snuff every night and Aslam slept at peace. Until one day, when the guard was in deep sleep after a generous dose of opium, Aslam was woken up by an uncanny feeling. There were people in his home. Intruders. He could hear them whisper. The smell of cheap liquor and beedi nauseated the fragrance of the incense. Aslam lay quietly till dawn when he heard them rustling their feet across the yard and out of the fence. Ali could make out nothing. Aslam kept this secret, as he didn't want to be evicted once more. Even the pigeons didn't object to the new guests. Slowly over the week, the guests became louder. Their whispers would break into raucous laughter and they slapped each other, cracked jokes or snored loudly. They were getting comfortable in their new dwelling. They had their 'No Objection Certificate' from the silence of Ali and Aslam. One of those nights they were particularly bold and cheerful. It was a full moon night. They sauntered in singing in audible whispers. Aslam guessed they must have made a lot of money that day. Their excitement was palpable as it raked up a lot of dust inside the hall. They swept the area and counted their booty and divided it into parts. They were more than two people, maybe three or four. One of them suggested, "Let us celebrate.â&#x20AC;?

"What are you saying?" rasped an angry whisper, "If we go out now, we will be caught. The police are out there everywhere. They will not search this place, as they know it is protected by ASI." "I have a suggestion. Do you have a match? We can light a little bonfire here and have that whiskey with some meat." "Where will we get the meat?" the raspy voice ground his teeth. "Don't worry. There are many sleeping pigeons up there. I used to catch them when I was a boy." "Pigeon meat is very tasty." replied a greedy whisper. "Okay," raspy voice agreed, "but be careful not to make any noise to wake him up.â&#x20AC;?

Aslam froze and huddled closer to the grave, oh lord, they know I am here. Till then he had been certain that they were not aware of his presence since he didn't snore much. "Who? The guard? I don't think he would get up even if death came to wake him up." Raspy voice laughed like a snake hissing in anger, "I have a knife hungry for some human blood. One word and he will be ready for a meeting with his Allah." Assured that they were not talking about him, Aslam sighed that he was safe, yet he shivered at the thought of a knife, which could fix his meeting with Allah. The goons got busy forming a human pyramid trying to catch the pigeons sleeping in the coves around the gateway. Aslam counted their voices with bated breath. Thoughts of his safety and the danger to his cohabitants wheezed between his ears. "Should I get up and scream for help. But before anybody comes, I will be dead. If I stand up they will know I am old, bent and weak and good prey for their hungry knives. I can't even run out, they are at the gate. Allah help me; show me a way to save my family." Taking the frightened flight of the pigeons as a cue, a swift thought crossed his mind. The winged creatures of his home needed him the most now. He rapidly gathered his stick, bowl and shawl. Pushing himself up on one elbow, as much as he could to hide from direct view from the doorway, he upturned his bowl on the stick and covered it with his grey shawl. "RUK! HALT!”, he boomed from the darkness as the pigeons fluttered about in fright. He had no idea his voice was so strong, perhaps the daily singing at the Dargah helped him gain such a resonance. The resounding echo boomed around the dome and hovered over the graves. The startled human cluster at the gate fell to the ground and peered back into the darkness. Who is there? Kaun hai, come out," Raspy voice spoke in a loud whisper, trying to keep it as low as possible. He was in no mood to attract the attention of the guard or the police. "Kaun mere Allah ke bando ko marta hai?" Who is killing my creatures of God, boomed the darkness. Aslam slowly raised the stick from the ground, up against the light beams. With his weak wrists he tried to hold up his stick as steady as possible keeping his head low behind the grave. There in the wavering light from the trellis a structure of a tall man in a shadowy grey cloak rose from the grave. A collective gasp and slick metallic sound of a sharp knife hustled at the gate. The shadow floated with a halo of moonlight all around it. The goons fumbled and gelled into one human form as they jostled back unsteadily at the threshold. "Don't you dare, I have a knife," Raspy Voice warned. "Lets go, lets go", whimpered the others. Assured of their state of mind, Aslam laughed. It was a genuine laugh. A laughter of fear as well as the pleasure of the joke, but he tried to put in as much horror into it as he could from his hollow lungs. "Brandishing a knife at my own home eh! I am Aslam Sheikh, the owner of this tomb, the guard of these graves. I have seen you come here for a week. As long as you came and left and harmed no one I kept my cool." For the first time he proudly flaunted his name. The whispers were befuddled. They had no idea there was anybody in the tomb, while they came for shelter for a week.

"All the graves here are of my family," the gossamer robe continued. "I am the protector of my winged family. Why do you think they are here? They are here because it is their home. They guard their graves, and I guard them." Aslam was now getting angry. "If you try to kill my family or soil these graves with blood, I will put your graves in here." The thieves by then had started gathering their money and belongings. Aslam held up his stick with all his might. His muscles aching and his throat parched with fear, anger and the loud discourse. He looked up at the divine light moving in dusty waves around the head of his ethereal stick. By a strange coincidence the pigeons flew in a circle around his stick. As if by divine intervention or sheer curiosity, suddenly the otherwise busy-in-the-night bats started swarming into the light from the trellis. Maybe they had also instinctively come to save their shelter and family. The mumbling human form gave a series of shrieks at different decibel levels and scampered out of the door. Raspy voice, still curious about the authenticity of the Djinn, was unable to control the exodus and reluctantly stepped back, out into the yard, still facing Aslam Sheikh. "Next time you need shelter, remember that you should not kill those who give you shelter, or you will face my wrath wherever you are", Aslam called out after the group. Raspy voice followed his partners-in-fright, running all over Ali Wahab. On first instinct Ali blew his brass whistle attracting the patrolling police, and the shaken foursome ran into the open arms of law, crying, "Djinn, djinn, there's a ghost." On second instinct, Ali rushed into the tomb in search of Aslam. The rest is a story as they say. Aslam became, Pir Bhai Aslam. The story of how the divine light saved his life and helped him catch a pile of nasty elements was buried forever in his lanky ribs. But the story of a miraculous Pir Baba who evoked the Djinn at Aslam Sheikh's tomb and saved the town from a spate of petty crimes, did several rounds around the Dargah. The local authorities set up an inquiry on Ali Wahab, but were pleased to withdraw it when Pir Bhai intervened and described how bravely Ali had fought the thieves to save his poor skin. Thus Ali Wahab's pay was doubled to facilitate enough food and security to Pir Bhai. The blue board was redesigned with a bold title "ASLAM SHEIKH'S TOMB". Aslam daily sings qawwali and gives discourse on how the pigeons and bats are the guardian angels of the town and the saviour of people. Aslam still lives in Aslam Sheikh's tomb and every full moon night he prays by the trellis pattern on the floor. He knows it is God who peeps on him every night and on the fateful night gave him the strength to stand up in his light and save his family. His winged family is growing by the day and he is ever thankful for their contribution as well. The town sleeps peacefully as no thief dares to provoke any Djinn in the near vicinity. Ali is never questioned when he takes a pinch of snuff and sleeps on duty. Qawwali – Songs sung in praise of God (Islam) Dargah – A place of worship, a mausoleum of a holyman (Islam) Pir – A holy man, a spiritual man (Islam) Bhai – Brother (Hindi) Djinn – a soul or ghost Keekar – a thorny bush of desert regions Afeem – Opium Charas – Hashish Beedi – a local cigarette made of rolled tobacco leaves

Understanding Donald Dooley

Donald Dooley sat at the edge of his bed, his pajamas damp with sweat; his hand reached out for a glass of water that lay precariously close to the edge of the bedside table. He emptied it in a single gulp, rubbing one eye sleepily.

Yvonne swung open the front door of her car; she never felt the need to lock it – one of those things about the city; everyone seemed to have one purpose – be they vandals, clowns or whores, they all wanted to smell her hair; no one seemed to want to steal.

Why did he chase her again?

She had digressed again; where was she?

But this time he'd been himself; he had chased her through a winding Parisian street; she had always been a little ahead, just out of reach. At one moment, she had nearly paused outside the doorway of Butte Montmartre; he could sense her contemplation – was she going to turn? He had believed for an instant that he'd be able to smell her short black hair. But she had turned left at the end of the street, away so that he could barely see her, disappearing amidst the sudden crowd; and he was being pushed, shoved backward.

III Donald Dooley felt around his waist – too narrow; way too narrow. Then his chest; could he feel the slight bulge of what would soon grow into a pair of breasts? He reached into his pocket, cutting his finger at the edge of a tiny mirror. He withdrew the shiny object and peered into it.

Then, the street had melted.

That was when Donald Dooley asked himself, “Why am I a Little Japanese Girl?”

II Yvonne strode on confidently as Rue Saint de la Meurtre thawed into darkness behind her. Silly people, she thought. But then, not really. How could they have known? No one could tell when the street was about to melt – not even the regulars, not even she. As she lit herself a cigarette, heading towards a car parked near a rickety street lamp, she wondered about that man, the one with the absurd brown hair. He wasn't français, which was for sure – American, probably. Why did he stand out? Why did she notice him in particular? He was probably chasing her, she thought; people chased her all the time, all sorts of people that too. She smiled slightly, thinking of the little Japanese girl; she had worn a pink frock, black boots, and a smile at once endearing and horrendous.

IV Yvonne noticed her just as she cut her index at the edge of a sharp object; she rushed to the little girl's side, and stuck the bruised finger into her mouth. “Does that feel better?” Yvonne asked, withdrawing the finger.

Most strange, Yvonne thought. The girl wouldn't stop staring at the object (it was a mirror); she goggled at it, her eyes wide and stricken, as if she hadn't ever seen herself before. “What is your name?” Yvonne ventured, dropping her knees softly upon the hard cobblestone, feeling the rough surface prick her skin. “Oko,” said the girl, finally looking away from the mirror, which she let fall from her fingers rather suddenly; it no longer held her attention, but lay beleaguered on the pavement, throwing minute flashes of sunlight hither and thither. Oko's eyes wandered about, expressions of wonderment and recognition dissolving into tears, and rolling down her cheeks; the eyes finally came to rest on Yvonne's hair. “Where do you live, Oko?” Yvonne whispered uneasily, fiddling with her hair. Had some of it fallen off? (That happened sometimes). Did it look funny? “Here,” Oko whispered back, her bleeding finger reaching for a few loose strands of hair on Yvonne's forehead. Yvonne jerked her head back, revolted. This seemed to startle the girl; she withdrew the finger. Yvonne got to her feet a little more quickly that she had intended to, her hand automatically beginning to feel around for a cigarette. Oko smiled; it was sweet, revealing missing teeth and gums the pink of pig. “Don't worry,” said Oko. “I'll walk you home.” V Yvonne is home now, waving a slow goodbye to Oko, who recedes into the evening darkness like a falling star into the quietude; she pushes the door to a close. What demeanor! Those eyes, they seem to pierce her still; Yvonne distractedly drops her keys into the kitchen sink, and prods the marble floor with her toe – it is soft, too soft. Someone has been here. She eyes her collection of weapons with mellow fondness; the guns, the swords, the exotic khukris – all shiny, gleaming, arranged systematically according to shape and size; she fingers the largest khukri, the one with the black and white hilt; she withdraws it from its case. The last time this beauty had been withdrawn, she thought, a tree had fallen, its top half had slid across into the earth, sliced and lifeless, amidst a twittering of sparrows, magpies and crows that would not dwell together again; a little boy had screamed, yelled for his mother, and then there had been silence, there had been stillness, a flash of harmless sunlight bouncing off the khukri 's edge. She eyes it fondly. “Hello?” she calls out, suddenly remembering the softness of the floor beneath her feet; soft as cushion, nearly, and growing softer by the minute; perhaps, her house is going to melt just as la rue. She hears feet, and a soft pitter-patter of feet in the living-room; she decides to investigate.

galaxy parallel infinity velocity balance VI

Donald Dooley realizes that had he been himself, he wouldn't have made this much noise. He finds himself facing a mirror, a look of incredulity staring back at him. Whose face is this? Whose arms, whose neck? All this fat, threatening to pull him into the floor; he prods his face, nearly losing his finger in all the fat; and his hair is grey, he is old, senile, a hundred and forty five, perhaps.

He gets a glimpse of Yvonne admiring a long, sharp knife, its body glinting in the blue kitchen light. Involuntarily, he shuffles his feet; he has caught her attention. At last.

This is when Donald Dooley asks himself, “Why am I a Fat Old Man?” VII Before they know it, they are running, running down rue Saint de la Meurtre; Yvonne still clutches the khukri, Donald Dooley his stomach (though there is too much of it to hold, folds and folds of it); they run past Butte Montmartre, past the post office, past the boulangerie, past Doctor Schwartz's mansion, past Luke Wilson's crib, past an insignificant bungalow with a silly little door; they do not hold hands, one is behind the other, they do not know why they are running, but they know that they must, run to nothing, away from nothing, just run, down the melting street, into the receding light, one behind the other. Run, run, run.

VIII Donald Dooley sits at the edge of the bed, wondering why Yvonne chased him so, threatening to slice him with a knife – did he imagine it? No, he couldn't have. He was a fat old man, he was sure of it, and Yvonne had a knife. He gets off the bed and walks towards his own mirror, his long, clean, true mirror. He is himself. Finally, he is himself – black-eyed, brown-haired and lean; he is still, and will be so for however long it takes. He is reminded of his mother, who would sit at her dressing table all day long, combing her hair, staring vacantly into her own eyes; she wasn't right in the head, he'd been told. But now, as Donald Dooley stares at his still, mute form, he realizes that it must be done. However long it takes, it must be done. And so he stands, his arms loose but motionless, his legs slightly apart, his eyes focused and unblinking. Then, he smiles and looks away. Still smiling, he settles down on his bed. He is glad that it didn't take that long. Donald Dooley is glad that he is finally himself.

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“It was an accident, Sir” John tried to explain.

“Accidents can be pardoned, but not the consequences”, came an incisive observation from Jack.

“But in this case consequences themselves depend on whether you pardon the accident or not” pitched in Justin again.

“They might, but they can also make an example of this man. We need to do something to ensure that nobody else forgets to remember the importance of discipline” “Can you spell it by the way?” whispered Justin but was made to curtail his statement by an indignant glance from Jack. “Let this man be stripped of his name, from now on he'll be called nothing.” Jack decreed. “So “Nothing” will be his name then?” someone inquired. “No, his name will be nothing” someone else clarified. “That's what I said, 'Nothing' he'll be called” “Ah come on, he'll not be called anything”.

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“Listen, men and their ladies, and by the way even children are not supposed to be doing anything slo less consequential than listening. Listening is an art we ache to master; listening is an art you should already know; listening is an art we are born with but lose with time. So listen. We are onto oF “Don't you for a moment think we are talking about something so insignificant that discussions something that has not taken place before. We are building a bridge of sand. Others use their pertaining to it can be interrupted, specially by someone as insignificant as you are” Jack said loudly, resources to cross the river, but we'll make the river pay for its own flow.” said Jack loudly, clutching trying to be graceful all the while, as his friend tried to figure out where he'd learned to ignore. on to his staff all the while as the court opened to a new day's proceedings. And as he finished his sentence, Justin started, “Yes my friends, that's how big it is, it's going to change the way others oF o “What's your name Mr. Insignificance personified?” he questioned the man. look at us.” And everybody nodded in agreement. sl

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“I give up, you can call him whatever you want to”

“That river dried up last year only” and just as he finished everybody in the court clutched himself in anticipation of what was going to happen to him as he blurted out what everybody except the fools knew. Fools in the meanwhile stood there shocked and befuddled knowing not what to say, which, given that they were hardened fools, indeed was rare.

“Why would I, I'd call him as the lord wishes”, he said. But he couldn't escape being noticed by Jack, and to his surprise, rather than facing the same fate as the person before him did, he prompted Jack into a deliberation with his friend. After a short and excited discussion Jack erected himself again and continued. “After much deliberation we've decided to restate what I'd decreed. This man here, John, oh yes John, since he was doing anything but listen to me, will be called 'Anything', while the person standing beside him, since he did nothing to stop him, will be called 'Nothing'.”

“Call the chief supervisor of the site” one of them finally said and a lean man neatly attired and bearing ample royal trappings arrived after some time. “Is it true that the river has dried up?” “Yes my lord, it dried up last year”

Then he coughed a little to stamp some authority on this verdict and ordered for a glass of water. “Anything” not knowing what to do didn't do anything but move back to his place, while “Nothing” did nothing.

“And do you have any conceivable explanation why we don't know that yet” “May be I didn't tell you”

“Now since this matter is settled, let's get back to the real business. It's nothing but a matter of shame that we have a river but no bridge. Last year also we tried to build a bridge but had to drop the plan as our chief mason died”

“Your impudence will make you pay but only once you explain why you didn't tell us”

“But what's there to be built if we are using sand, we just need to pile it up” Justin tried to interject again, but only to be ignored and that made him wonder again if he could master the art of ignoring like his friend seemed to have.

“I might be mistaken lord, but all you said was to go there, keep a watch on the proceedings and make sure that nobody else erects a bridge there before we do. And today, at this very moment, I can proudly declare that not a single such act of transgression has been witnessed. In fact for maintaining a devotional vigil, our soldiers are still camping in the channel left by the river, which itself seems to have retreated fearing our mighty army”

“Now, that was not an opportune time to die, least of all for our chief mason. We tried to hold his family responsible for his act, but they said they too had disapproved of him dying wholeheartedly, but couldn't prevent the unthinkable. We pardoned them on the basis of the sincere allegiance towards our goal they have now committed themselves to. Still that wound left by one man's irresponsible act has left us with no choice but to make everybody involved sign a pledge not to die at work.” Jack continued.

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But his question met no response and there was a long and hollow silence in the court. Finally a man standing in the far left corner of the court raised his hand slowly, “Ah, finally someone is willing to venture...” Jack started.

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Contributors Chromatose -- (1971) Aditi Batra (1989- ????) Influences: The world I see around myself, my imagination and my passion. In fact I get influenced by whatever I see, read or hear. I admire R. K. Narayan’s writings too. ---A dreamer. A philosopher. A passionate thinker. “I am what I am” is my belief. My interests lie in sports (watching cricket, to be specific), writing, photography and happiness. I intend to end my life after pursuing all these and more...

)Anushil (1983, August 29th) Influences Identify with the art of Van Gogh, Hemingway, Taegore, Rumi, Swami Vivekananda, Chekov, Gorky, Tolstoy, Dickens, Ishiguro, Arundhati Roy, Gulzar, Faulkner, Nabakov, Vikram Seth, Rushdie, Ruskin Bond, R.K Narayan, Annie Proulx…. ---His friends call him the lost one, and correctly so. Operates on extremes, rational but listens to the voices within. An insomniac but on days he can sleep endlessly. Prefers solitude, but Like Swami and Pea, he is very observant and is stricken, tickled by things completely mundane. Obsessed with literature, cinema and music. Sucker for good sweets; bring some to his funeral and he'll rise from the dead. Did he say he laughs on his own silly jokes, on anything!! :)

Influences Roald Dahl, Jeffery Archer, Satyajit Ray, Upendra Kishore Ray, Sukumar Ray, Krishna Sobti, Munshi Premchand, Paulo Coelho, Rudyard Kipling etc. –--Voracious reader and wordchef. Absolutely love to talk and exaggerate and entertain people with nonsense verbal orations. If there is nothing new to talk then I would definitely cook up up some fantasy and weave it so close to real that people would believe it actually happened sometime somewhere. Travel to make sure that the names on the maps are real. Love to listen to classic rock and world music and love to dance at any given music. Destress by doing bead craft, photography and theater. Dream of performing on a world stage some day and go on round the world trip on a bike.

Driftwood (1986-) Influences Albert Camus, Salman Rushdie, John Banvile, Arundhati Roy, Wodehouse, Rowling ---Floyd obsessed, parallel world tripping, obscure ‘traveler of both time and space’ Love staring at the ceiling, Believe in an uncanny kinship with the moon Enjoy movies esp Bergman and Linklater's stuff, classic and indie rock and calvin n hobbes These days i live a surreal life, the details of which are too frightening to give out, even under the shroud of anonymity :) Like a driftwood, awash in high tide, someday i'll give it all up to take a road trip across the globe and inflict my thoughts on the world:)

Ashish Mehta (1986-) Jenny(Jennifer Robertson)1976. Influences Virginia Woolf, Cormac McCarthy, Leo Tolstoy, Arundhati Roy, Fyodor Dostoevsky, Charlotte Perkins Gilman, Franz Kafka, James Joyce, Bret Easton Ellis, Yevgeny Zamyatin, George Orwell ---Currently treading unsteady waters, he sleeps and sleeps more. Unable to enjoy anything but wordplay, he has been published previously in 971 Menu, Pequin and In the Fray. Rhyme almost (but never quite) eludes him as does formulaic texture. An Indian, a francophile, a sufferer of nature's beauty, a consumer, and a devotee of Philip Glass' musical sensitivity, he's an active member of the club of the culturally maddened. Nevertheless, he thinks he's doing just about fine, though he'd like to borrow a few kilograms of your body weight.

Influences My poems are not really influenced by any particular poet.However I like Ezra Pound,Pablo Neruda, Whitman,Sylvia Plath,W.H.Davies and many others. ---A bullheaded Taurean,who likes to taste snowflakes,while dancing to any music that stirs her soul.A sucker for emotions,a gullible fool who believes that life is either black or white, a child at heart,believes in miracles and fairytale.Mother to a six year old angel,devil incarnate - an erstwhile banker who has now taken to writing with a vengeance.A terrible loser because she's spoilt silly with her constant wins,a decent cook and a self professed insomniac.She believes that " In order to fulfil ones dream, one has to Wake Up ".

K.M Layan Calago (May 13,1986) Shreya Sanghani

Influences Dr. Jose P. Rizal, William Shakespeare, Steven Wallace, Robert Frost ---A loner who finds refuge in music and writing. Eats and breathes words and melody.Loves the soaking in the beach aside from and hangs out in the kitchen most of the time. Like sports, and is addicted to listening to the Incubus Band's music. Would love to see the world someday other than be a published writer. A graduate of commerce major in Accounting but currently in search for her purpose in life -Grins- :P

Shreya Sanghani is a nineteen year old freelance writer based in Calcutta. She is a student of English Literature at Jadavpur University and is deeply interested in music, art and culture. She is attempting to learn Carnatic vocal music, be a photographer and pick up the guitar, albeit unsuccessfully (which is what you can say about a lot of things about her life, actually). What else can you expect from someone who draws her life lessons from a mixed philosophy consisting mostly of Calvin and Hobbes and F.R.I.E.N.D.S. She says that small is beautiful, but one doubts if she would say that had she been taller than her five feet one inch.

Lostris (1981-)

Shweta Khosla (1980)

Influences Agatha Christie, Jeffrey Archer, Wilbur Smith, P G Wodehouse, R. K. Narayan... ---A weird combination of a dreamer and practical hard-headedness, there is no one genre in which Lostris writes. Indeed she's not sure which genre she wants to restrict herself to. She sings, plays, acts, writes.....among other things (namely doing marketing and retail work). Passionate about a lot of issues, her biggest challenge is to manage time - after all there are sooooo many things to do!!!Mrunal (1988-)

Influences: Roald Dahl, Ogden Nash and the generally crazy population around her. ---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!

Mrunal (1988-) Influences R K Narayan. The simplicity of his writings has always left me in awe. For me, R K Narayan is someone who 'finds joy in the small things of life'. ---Though i am struggling through getting a Bachelors degree in Microbiology, I sometimes feel out of place, specially when the artist in me is stirred. It is my dream to make a movie at some point of time, that will be written and directed by me! A movie-buff, a complete foodie, and someone who sleeps with her iPod plugged to her ears, there's a part of me that's always living in a different kind of world, where miracles are a reality... I'm not insane, but I am quite mad! Payal Ramsisaria, May 1983 Influences William Shakespeare, Paulo Coelho, Meg Cabot (Honestly, I love The Princess Diaries!) Salman Rushdie, Sidney Sheldon, Erich Segal, Percy Bysshe Shelley, Writings of Sufi Saints like Lalle Ded. ---Some know her as a loner, extremely diffident and withdrawn. Others say sheâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s an unpredictable gregarious daredevil. An antipodal free spirit, no-one knows her for sure. Not even Payal! Yearning to escape from invisible societal clutches, Iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;m still trapped in the web. Love water like fish, the submarine region fascinates me and one day, I hope to explore it. Not doing enough in life (which means not earning fulltime), this coin has more than two sides to it.

Siddharth (1984-16-02) Influences Oscar Wide,Hermen Hesse,G.N.Dandekar,Santosh Sivan... ---People say that I am talented but lazy...I am doing photography & writing almost for last 5 years but still calling myself an amatuer, its all b'coz of lack of continuity..... in future i would like to enter a motion media, b'coz being an artist, i am aware of all fields related to media, so i am hoping i could turn my imagination into the best project.

Sumit Chakraborty (19.09.1976) ----Though by profession I am related to students by passion I am saturated with nature and photography, especially THE GREAT HIMALAYAS and it's people. That compelled me to spend a part of my life in Himalayas for trek and expedition. Though I don't have any formal training in photography yet I want to share magnificent views of nature with you with a hope that it will give you the same pleasure as these always give me.

Sylvia Bio Is Not Available

Sonali Bio Is Not Available

Chaitrali Bio Is Not Available

Suhas Bio Is Not Available

Shailendra Bio Is Not Available

“A good pictu re is equivalent to a good dee d.”

Vincent Van Go gh