Spark Word.World.Wisdom August 2014
Freedom Fiction | Non-fiction | Poetry | Art Photography | The Lounge 1
Spark—August 2014 |Freedom
05 August 2014 Dear Reader, We are thoroughly excited to share the August 2014 issue of Spark with you.This month's theme, 'Freedom', is one of the loveliest that we have worked on. We have a brilliant set of fiction, non-fiction, poetry, art and photography exploring 'Freedom' and also a must-read interview with National Awardwinning film critic, Baradwaj Rangan featured in The Lounge. We earnestly hope you enjoy this issue and welcome your feedback. Mail us your thoughts to feedback@sparkthemagazine.com. We wish you a fabulous month ahead!
Contributors Anupama Krishnakumar Bakul Banerjee Debleena Roy Parth Pandya Prashila Naik Maheswaran Sathiamoorthy M. Mohankumar Neha Kirpal
-Editors
Shravya Gunipudi Sudha Nair
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Swati Sengupta Vani Viswanathan Vinita Agrawal Yayaati Joshi
Spark August 2014 © Spark 2014
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Inside this Issue POETRY True Freedom by Vinita Agrawal Eyes, Ears, Tongues by M. Mohankumar Remembering Salt March by Bakul Banerjee What it Means to be Free by M. Mohankumar A Day in the Jungle by Debleena Roy The Choice by M. Mohankumar FICTION War and Peace by Prashila Naik Entrapment by Parth Pandya Marital Jail by Shravya Gunipudi Breaking Rules by Sudha Nair NON-FICTION The Asset Called Freedom by Anupama Krishnakumar THE LOUNGE STORYBOARD | Shaping the Cinematic Lens of the Reader—an interview with Baradwaj Rangan by Yayaati Joshi SLICE OF LIFE| Of Untold Stories by Neha Kirpal PHOTOGRAPHY Being Free by Maheswaran Sathiamoorthy ART Tree by Swati Sengupta
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Poetry
True Freedom
by Vinita Agrawal
Freedom is release from many strange and unwanted negative attitudes, actions and perceptions that prevents humanity from enjoying the true independence it is entitled to. Vinita Agrawal captures some of these in her thoughtful poem. To resist evil rapists keep women's dignity intact to realize that real shame rests on the doer of the act
To dissolve the boundaries splitting land from land to clasp into your own an enemy's friendly hand
To voice disgust at politics bombarding civilian life and condemn petty power that bleeds profits from strife
To choose your partner 4
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whether same sex or not to step down from the fence and freely voice your thought
To see many monsoons in the glimmer of one pair of eyes to unlearn everything you knew and admit that love is a surprise
To open up to remembering
Vinita is a Mumbai based writer and poet. Her poems have been published in Asiancha, Raedleaf Poetry , Wordweavers, OpenRoad Review, Constellations, The Fox Chase Review, Spark, The Taj Mahal Review, CLRI, SAARC Anthologies, Kritya.org, TouchThe Journal of healing, Museindia, Everydaypoets.com, Mahmag World Literature, The Criterion, The Brown Critique, Twenty20journal.com, Sketchbook, Poetry 24, Mandala and others which include several international anthologies. Her poem was nominated for the Best of the Net Awards 2011 by CLRI. She received a prize from MuseIndia in 2010. Her debut collection of poems titled Words Not Spoken published by Sampark/Brown Critique was released in November 2013. Her poem was awarded a prize in the Wordweavers contest 2013.
when memories beckon you to cherish your pain and shed a tear or two
To rebel against force and risk turning friend to foe to say what you feel with the power of a No
This is true freedom as it should be... not just hoisting a flag for all to gaze and see
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Fiction
War and Peace
by Prashila Naik
A young woman new to working life finds herself looking at her boss with mixed feelings – she’s in awe of her, but also judgmental of her and feels belittled by her. Sharon must have spent a good deal of money on her haircuts, she had one almost every single month. I liked her hair though, it was the just the kind I had spent many a night dreaming after – silky, straight and with a sheen that seemed to match her stride. She was always dressed in salwaar suits, all colorful and classy. One afternoon, on my friend's insistence, I had asked her where she picked them up from, not disclosing that I had been interested in that particular piece of information too. She told me they were purchased from one of those new designer stores that had been mushrooming throughout the city, the kind that my friend and I could barely afford on our monthly salary of 10,000 rupees. We had bitched about her then, like we always did, like everyone did.
effortless transition from Civil engineering to Information Technology. Her husband worked as the sales head of a huge multinational company and drew a yearly salary of a staggering 20 lakhs. I knew the exact amount because I had once overheard her casually mention this to someone while on a phone call. She had a 3-year -old son, and was bold enough to go to movie theaters all on her own. Had I known her from a distance, I'd probably have been in awe of how she did that, went to movies on her own I mean. But of course, I worked with her, she was my first proper boss, and I knew her more than enough to understand how she could do that. I'd be surprised if she didn't. We shared a common birth month, June, and our birthdays were a few days and a decade apart. There were times when this commonality bound us into a kinship that I was forced to acknowledge. She told me about getting married at 21, and her motivations for doing the same. I remember her explanations on how she waited for seven years to have a child, because it was
Sharon had everything that a woman her age would aspire to have, or so we thought. At 31, she was considered to be one of the coveted 'rising' performers in our Business Unit, one who could easily get back-to-back, out-of-turn promotions, one who had a more-than6
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only then that she had come into contact with her 'maternal instincts,' as she liked to call them. I doubt if she had shared such intimate details of her life with another person, and I often wondered as to why she would do that with me. It weighed me down, this very idea that I was made a recipient to someone's past, someone I did not quite understand. What was I supposed to do with that information?
sitting in my neighboring cubicles, wondering whether they still remembered that dialogue and my helpless attempts at trying to make myself seem a little less pathetic.
The consciousness dissipated though, like it always does when you are all of 21. But the doubt continued to persist, especially when many of my peers moved on in spectacular directions, their lives at least at that point of time And yet, I had played the turning into miniature tales game along with her. I of starry success, en-route to smiled and provided her coy becoming young achievers answers every time she asked who would have no time to me when I was planning to look back. I was still stuck get married or how I needed with my dull computer monito wear long earrings and set tor and a mouse that demy hair free to look pretty in manded periodical cleaning, photographs. I even asked as well as that barrage of her to pay a visit to my parsenseless responsibilities that ents' house when she had no one really cared for. And gone to Goa on a short vacayet I never quite gave up on tion. Had we actually beit all, even if that meant walcome friends? lowing in layers of self-doubt and self-pity, or worrying We hadn't and it became that if I couldn't convince very evident to me from the way she conducted even a moderately smart woman like Sharon, I my appraisal session, out in the open, refusing clearly did not deserve that high opinion I asto let me complete my sentences, even as everycribed to myself. one around us listened to her demolishing my arguments on how I was clearly not the big deal Sharon moved on too, into a newer role, with a I thought I was. newer set of aspirations. Her salwaar suits gave way to various fruit colored shirts and black If I had ever come close to feeling humiliated, it trousers. Her hair grew shorter. Her interactions must have been then, and the humiliation wasn't were to-the-point. We no longer discussed my on her account, but on how my own percepmarriage or her maternal instincts. I should have tions of my own self weren't quite how I been relieved that the forced connection was thought they were. For the longest time, I realmost snapped. In fact, I was almost certain member being overtly conscious of the people 7
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there never had been a connection. I was just a prop to her, an attentive listener to what I knew were her long suppressed stories of selfassertion. Or else who in their right minds would go to a movie theater on their own? Who in their right minds would talk about her child being more attached to a father he sees only on the weekends than a mother he sees every night?
place and would possibly never be. The wonders one sudden stroke of superiority can do to your flailing ego. When I next saw Sharon, almost five years had passed. My sharp cheekbones had given way to slightly pudgy cheeks and I had developed an unhealthy obsession for long willowy skirts. Sharon probably had altogether abandoned those classy salwaar suits, and her skin was patchy in most parts. Her hair was still shiny, but it left me with no sense of longing. She had stared at me for a long time, before I had smiled at her. It took me a while to realize that she was avoiding me, avoiding that once very much existent time we had shared. We could have been strangers, for all I knew.
I wasn't done yet, I decided then; a Sharon or two could not judge what I could do out of my life. I began to laugh more and cry less, I became hopeful about all the good things that would eventually come my way and God knew they would, they had to. No one's life ends at 22. That is when it all begins. And how stupid had I been to think otherwise. I did not see Sharon for a long time after she moved into a different campus. A few months after the move, she was being considered for an engagement that would need her to be in Germany for a period of two years. We all collectively gasped when we heard that she had no qualms in leaving her son with her parents for that long duration. What kind of a mother would do that and how heartless would she be to do it?
I called my friend that evening and bitched about Sharon, the relief of that once regular activity almost therapeutic, but barely five minutes into the conversation our wonder was waning. Neither of us was interested in the three-inch heels I had seen Sharon wear, rather uncomfortably. My friend had a date set for the evening and her mind was still set on what she would be wearing. I hung up after wishing her a good evening, and pulled out my monster copy of War and Peace, rewinding back to the first page It made me feel strangely superior to think of for the sixth consecutive time, determined to how I would never do something like that if I make it to the book's end this time. were in her place, even though I was not in her
Prashila Naik dreams of retiring into the idyllic landscapes of Ladakh and longs for a day when every child in India will have two full meals to eat and a permanent school to attend to. When not dreaming or longing, she continues to extend her repertoire as a veteran IT professional who loves to dabble with words and discover new genres of music. 8
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Poetry
Eyes, Ears, Tongues
by M. Mohankumar
If you thought freedom from gossip mongers was all about shutting oneself up from the world, think again. M. Mohankumar’s terse poem tells you why. Eyes. Prying eyes.
And tongues are active,
And tongues, wagging.
more than ever before.
You build solid walls around you and shut yourself in.
You think you are free in that confined space.
But no. They are more nosey now.
Mohankumar has published seven volumes of poetry in English. His poems have appeared in almost all reputed literary magazines in print in India. His first collection of short stories in English, ‘The Turning Point and Other Stories’ has been published by Authorspress, Delhi. Mohankumar retired as Chief secretary to Government of Kerala.
Now eyes peep through the keyhole.
And the walls have ears glued to them. 9
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Photography
Being Free
by Maheswaran Sathiamoorthy
Freedom has never been about one thing. It's so many perceptions captured in a word. Maheswaran Sathiamoorthy's lens interprets Freedom in magnificently pictorial ways.
To be free is to choose your life's path
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To be free is to live life in your own terms, no matter your gender
To be free is to love without being judged
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To be free is to have your me-time each day
To be free is to co-exist peacefully
Maheswaran Sathiamoorthy graduated with a B.Tech degree from IIT Kharagpur and is a Ph.D. from the University of Southern California. His interests include counting bokehs and taking out of focus shots. He also likes being unpredictable, random and enjoys coffee and 0000FF sky.
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Poetry
Remembering Salt March by Bakul Banerjee The march to Dandi led by Mahatma Gandhi to protest the British Salt Tax in 1930 remains a key event in India’s struggle for independence. Bakul Banerjee writes a poem on the historic Dandi March that was marked by non-violence. Long ago, a man in his peasant’s garb took to the street of Sabarmati to march to the Dandi beach, never looking back.
His countrymen watched him emerge like the heavy rain cooling a hot tin roof, and rejoiced seeing his peasant’s garb.
The new British “Salt Tax” was the proof of oppression. It was time for India to surge to the Dandi beach, never looking back.
Doubts of peers Gandhi had to disprove. Like Monsoon, men came forming a deluge, making salt with the man in a peasant’s garb.
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Neither destiny nor the destination, they knew. Freedom, the only goal, they wished to achieve. They marched to the sea, never looking back.
Furrowed fields lay fallow. Men were gone to face muskets. With children, women sang lining roadsides in their peasants’ garb, “Quit India! British regime, go back.”
Award winning author and poet Bakul Banerjee, Ph.D. published her first volume of poems, titled “Synchronicity: Poems” in 2010. For the past fifteen years, her poems and stories appeared in several literary magazines and anthologies throughout U.S. and India. She lives near Chicago and received her Ph.D. degree in computational geophysics from The Johns Hopkins University, Maryland.
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Fiction
Entrapment
by Parth Pandya
Akshay is distraught, bogged down by what’s happened at work. To add to his woes, his young son breaks a vase into pieces, adding to his irritation. Parth Pandya writes a story about a father and son that gently touches upon the theme, ‘Freedom’. “Go to your room right now,” Akshay hollered. The voice reverberated through the living room. It wasn’t enough that his voice would have sent shivers down the spine of young Pinak. A table lamp conspired to elevate his profile to that of a towering giant across the wall. The boy cowered under the weight of his father’s anger. His eyes had a touch of defiance at the start of the argument, but he realised very soon that his insolence wasn’t going to get him too far. He shrunk in his place. Hands on the side, head bowed, he willed his legs to take him upto his room, but he was simply unable to move. It took Akshay’s loud reminder to shake him from his stupor. The little legs rushed to the end of the hall and led him to his bed where he crashed like a meteor on earth.
living room, jumping off the sofas imagining himself to a superhero. But Akshay’s anger was fueled by his own frustration. The stock of his company had plummeted that day, much like the vase his son had toppled over. The stock price had slipped to the edge over the past few days, fueled by rumours of a bad quarter of sales. Then the numbers came out, and it toppled over the precipice. Office looked like a war zone that morning. There were signs of panic all around. People leaning over their desks, phones cupping one ear. Handkerchiefs were out wiping beads of sweat that lined eyebrows even in airconditioned rooms. Computer screens that usually ran the gamut from Facebook to Email to their actual work programs were busy tracking the downfall of the stock. The Titanic was sinking and no one had sounded the warning about Akshay stood in his place shaking with fury. His the icebergs. The guardians on the watch should anger was half-directed at himself. The intransihave said something, but they had decided to be gence of the boy was not worth the rage disilent. Akshay was one of them. rected at him. Yes, he had broken a vase in the 15
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He knew the books, he knew the story, he knew where the holes in the ship were. He remembered that Thursday night meeting with his CEO. Sitting in that dimly lit cabin of his when everyone but the janitors had gone home, he had stood quietly like a school boy being reprimanded. “It’s ok. We can salvage it. Nothing is lost. Impressions are everything.” It was pep talk and admonishment rolled into one. It was a call to arms and a sleight of hand at the same time. He was goaded, cajoled, convinced, threatened and silenced at the same time. Akshay had waited all along for another voice to appear to contradict his boss. Something from within that little voice in the head, which would have told him that what he was doing was flat out incorrect. His job description had said nothing about having to cook up the books, but here he was, being asked to do exactly that.
on his way to a success story he had always imagined himself to be.
He had bought into the mythology his bosses fed him. The invincibility of the market. The durability of appearances. The untouchability of the elites. He had always wondered what it would be like to be one of them. Being granted entry into the boys’ club. Here he was finally. A boy amongst men. Asked to give his share of the flesh. His entry fee.
“There was once a deer who loved him home in the forest so much. He played with his friends and basked in the sun. One day, a lion entered the forest. He terrorized all the animals. There was no one he spared. He would roam around the forest and pick his prey. No one was safe from him. The deer became worried. Would his turn come next? Would his home survive? He went to the lion’s cave one day. From a distance, he called him out and said, ‘Lion, I have an idea. I’ll make sure you have an animal to eat each day if you promise to leave me and my family alone.’”
He had brought his entire toolkit to this hatchet job he had been asked to do. The balance sheet was altered, the cash flow statement twisted and the income statement spruced up. Night after night he sat and figured out ways around the problem – keeping the company in the green and the investors in the dark. Papers were littered across the floor of his offices like discarded promises. It didn’t matter. This was it. He would do this one thing, this one time, and be
He stood in the living room, stooped under the weight of his thoughts. Bit by bit, he cleared up the floor, picking up the broken pieces of the vase, trying to steady his mind which was swirling in the maelstrom of thoughts. When he felt satisfied at having cleaned up the mess that his son had made, he went to his room where the little boy was huddled under the blankets in complete darkness. Akshay stood at the door. The sounds of muffled sobs reached him over the constant hum of the fan. He turned on the light, went and sat next to the bed, and put his hand on Pinak’s head, gently stroking it. Pinak turned around and buried his head into Akshay’s lap. Akshay decided to relieve the tension by telling his son a story.
“The lion didn’t care. His job would only become easier. He said yes. Then the deer started on his promise. Each day, he would lure an animal to the pond to drink some water. Rabbits, hyenas, mongooses. It didn’t matter. They came
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there and the lion, waiting in the shadows would “Did you understand the story Pinak?” pounce on them.” “Yes Daddy.” “The deer felt relieved. He had saved his family. “What did you learn from it?” Saved all that was dear to him. He felt a little bad for his friends, but he thought to himself “I learnt that you should not betray your friends.” that it was a cost he was willing to pay.” “Then one day, he called in a wolf to the pond. The wolf was smart. He had noticed that many animals were being eaten at the pond by the lion. He sensed a trap. That night, he went and hid outside the lion’s cave. The deer came there after a while and shouted into the distance, ‘O lion, tomorrow you shall have the wolf’, and then went away.” “The wolf waited a while and had his own discussion with the lion. The next day, the deer went to the pond and waited. The wolf never showed. The lion came from behind the trees and jumped on the deer, eating him up. The wolf smiled in the distance at his own cleverness.”
“Good. Good,” said Akshay, patting his son’s head and looking into the distance. It wasn’t the moral he had in mind when he came up with the tale. He thought of another deer who might be slaughtered some day for the compromises he made. That deer was trapped under the weight of his own dreams, trapped under the notion that he needed to do what was required to provide the best for his family, trapped under the belief that a small sacrifice had to be made to keep big ambitions alive. He wondered if, the deer in the story, in his last moments, would have finally felt free. An escape from the trap of his own making.
Parth Pandya is a passionate Tendulkar fan, diligent minion of the ‘evil empire’, persistent writer at http://parthp.blogspot.com, self-confessed Hindi movie geek, avid quizzer, awesome husband (for lack of a humbler adjective) and a thrilled father of two. He grew up in Mumbai and spent the last eleven years really growing up in the U.S. and is always looking to brighten up his day through good coffee and great puns.
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Poetry
What it Means to be Free by M. Mohankumar What does it mean to be free? M.Mohankumar weaves a poem that presents his thoughts on true freedom. It’s not enough to have shaken off the yoke, to have emerged from midnight darkness to a morning full of promises.
Poverty is bondage. You cannot simply draw a line and declare all above that line free from want. Certain things have to be assured: a square meal a day, clothes to cover nakedness and a roof over the head . But these are not enough. Prisoners have them; and they are not free.
To be free is to move without let or hindrance without being stalked or snooped. . When shades of the prison-house fall across the land, and dark forces are at large, 18
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dancing their macabre dance, the mind will be full of fear, and freedom a lost paradise.
To be free is to be rid of the insolence of office, the red tape, the iron heel.
Freedom is a clear blue sky with its endless pathways, that you may soar as high as you can.
It is the overarching rainbow, radiant but fragile nevertheless.
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Non-fiction
The Asset Called Freedom by Anupama Krishnakumar In today’s world, we need freedom more than ever before. And unfortunately, we are being robbed, in more ways than one, of what is perhaps mankind’s most prized asset. But there are means to claw your way back and claim your freedom. Anupama Krishnakumar shares her views. We all, or at least most of us, have grown up watching a bird set free from its cage as the most relevant metaphorical reference to freedom – something which we have, not surprisingly, internalised as well.
notions or both. The image of a free bird being released from the cage struck me again. I am constantly amazed by the many intricate layers that the word ‘Freedom’ has to it. Freedom is about ‘being yourself’ without being judged, forced, hurt or controlled. It’s about you taking decisions for yourself and having the right to choose what you want to do in life and about life. It’s about living your life without fear, without guilt. It’s about being financially independent. It’s about being able to move around on your own will. It’s about having some time for yourself every day where the world around you just fades away and so do the anxieties of a life that is rampant with man-created complexities that threaten to derail you in your journey every minute. Freedom, then, is about finding that ‘peace’ you need to find within yourself.
Recently, I came across a post on one of those inspire-people-through-real-life-stories pages that I follow on Facebook. It spoke of a man who had just been released from jail and was now travelling to every single part of his country in a bid to enjoy ‘true freedom’. There were 10k likes on the post and a few thousand comments too. I realised how much people related to this idea of ‘being free’ – to be able to move about and experience the world in all its beauty and boredom without any hindrance, filling your lungs with air, eyes with sights, ears with all kinds of sounds, nose with odours distinct and pleasant largely, living life with mobility and among peoContemplating about life in today’s world is a ple, and most importantly living life the way you daunting exercise. But you can’t escape it bewant to without being restrained by space or cause you live in it every single day and you 20
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are part of this race that shocks you with its strange madness. To witness and experience this madness is perhaps part of the punishment that comes with being born human. For, above all the startling achievements and mind-boggling discoveries that mankind has sought to achieve and has achieved, there’s this demonic desire and thirst for power, the need to exert superiority, the need to snatch somebody’s birth right – freedom. The growing number of war deaths, sexual assaults and disgusting acts of discrimination in terms of gender, caste and race that don’t spare even little children shock me into silence.
ironically, probably what we all know at the bottom of our hearts but only refuse to acknowledge openly.
Our personal lives aren’t very pretty pictures too, are they? Yes, Facebook pictures are all about smiles and laughter and fun. But we do know that in many cases that this is not the full story. Fear, stress and insecurities of a dozen types have percolated down to our personal lives too. We chase dreams that we think make us happy but they stress us out and make fearful monsters out of us. Since when did life get so fast-paced that we have lost the freedom to be with ourselves? Sometimes, in my It’s an altogether different conversations with people, I thing if someone’s freedom is have seen them wonder about lost for their own fault but the ‘purpose’ of what they do. when the freedom of innoWhat was all the hue and cry cent lives is at stake, for no about when you can’t find time mistake of theirs, it is unacceptable. The mo- for yourself? ment I start thinking about how and when these As a child, I would often wonder seriously as to issues will get resolved, my mind spins. The why my mother rejoiced and looked forward to magnitude of transformation that is required to a cup of filter coffee with my father at 5:30 in heal this world of all its wickedness that is costthe morning and why my grandparents looked ing its people their priceless freedom is definiteforward to their prayer sessions so much. What ly hard to grasp but one does understand that was the big deal? After all these years, today, as the need to bring that change is always an ongoan adult working hard to make my own mark in ing process. I may be sounding simplistic, but I this world, and as a mother of two, I now undo believe that the beginning should happen at derstand what that cup of early morning coffee homes where children have to be sensitised and those prayers meant to those people. In about how only love, equality, peace and underfact, I think that we need our de-stressing mechstanding can bring about freedom in its truest anisms more now than ever before. I see my sense. And of course, there is a greater need neighbour flop into her sofa with the phone now than ever before to initiate and carry out glued to her ear, a cup of piping hot tea in hand, conversations to turn the world’s attention to, 21
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the moment her husband and children leave for work. I see men and women in smart whites jogging down the well-maintained roads of our gated community unmindful of the morning chillness in the air. I hear my friends talk about meditation or swimming or working out at the gym as means of de-stressing. I see my maid unwind and chat up breezily about her hectic day and family woes as she washes vessels. I understand that it is by doing things that ease up your mind that one tries to find the freedom that’s lost in the everyday chaos and struggles of life. In relief lies the feeling of freedom.
life is hard to imagine – books, music and the gift of imagination. I strongly believe that sometimes loneliness could turn out to be your best friend. I think this experience of freedom, when you are all by yourself, is such an enjoyable form of independence. I treasure that one hour of uninterrupted music on my iPod during the nights when I shut the world out with earphones after the family has fallen asleep. The peace it brings to me is unbelievable. Quiet nights are such lovely times to read books too. Reading a good book and soaking in the world that words create transports you to a world unknown. That surreal experience is my version of I would be lying if I said I never needed such freedom. daily therapeutic doses to loosen myself up. A late night programme or movie on the television Which is why I say I treasure the gift of imaginawith the husband after the kids fall asleep or tion. Nothing can give you a more fulfilling exchatting up with him over family-pack ice-cream perience of freedom than what you can do with scooped copiously into stainless steel bowls do your sense of imagination. Every little thing that make life seem so much better. Those telephone you have ever wanted to do, every word that conversations every day with Mother during you have wanted to utter, every event that you noon after a hectic morning as I whine and have wanted to happen, is possible there. When laugh would make me experience the freedom thoughts run free, peace dawns and most often, of a child again. without even you realising it, you fall into the most coveted form of freedom – sound sleep, But beyond all these, I am eternally thankful to the state in which the root-of-all-worldlythe universe for three things without which my troubles, the gigantic ego, ceases to be.
Anupama Krishnakumar loves Physics and English and sort of managed to get degrees in both – studying Engineering and then Journalism. Yet, as she discovered a few years ago, it is the written word that delights her soul and so here she is, doing what she loves to do – spinning tales for her small audience and for her little son, singing lullabies to her little daughter, bringing together a lovely team of creative people and spearheading Spark. She loves books, music, notebooks and colour pens and truly admires simplicity in anything! Tomatoes send her into a delightful tizzy, be it in soup or rasam or ketchup or atop a pizza!
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Poetry
A Day in the Jungle by Debleena Roy Many a time, a day at one’s workplace can be very similar to a day in the jungle. Debleena Roy writes an interesting poem. Read on. You saw the wolf, Red slits in his eyes, He leaped, throwing Pieces of your role at you, Your soul in tatters, Tail down, you walked, To your hole, 4 ft cubicle, With no forest view.
You sighted the snake, Slithering in the corridor, Of broken promises, And remarks snide. You turned, you needed, A moment to recover. But he hissed at you, No place for you to hide. 23
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The eagles scooped down, Pounced on the carcass, At the coffee counter. Their share of the loot, Collaboration be damned. Your role the new fuzzy drink, Your hurt, the new fodder, For the grapevine bloodhound.
Tiny paws opened, The door of your home. Tiny face, big smile. And you finally knew. The answer. He didn’t Care for what you lost, and You finally felt free, for the Lion, it was always you.
You looked for the lion To guide, to help, But the corner room Of this new fable, Had no lion, just a Fat crocodile, sleeping with its tail resting On the CEO''s table.
Day over, the animals Started swiping their way Out of the jungle. You joined the queue. Your eyes dark, soul lost.
Debleeena blogs at debleena roy.blogspot.in and has had articles published in Chillibreeze and eZinearticles.
They looked at you, A misfit, a mere rat, They laughed at you.
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Fiction
Marital Jail
by Shravya Gunipudi
Two people find themselves trapped in the love they have for each other, unwilling to break free, but unable to handle the bind. Shravya Gunipudi tells their story. “I feel caged when I am with you!” he said, “No, I am sorry,” he replied. “I just had a very shaking his head in disapproval. difficult week at work...” They stood in the living room, a few minutes before the clock struck ten. It was time for them to go their separate ways till that evening, when they would unite to discuss their day. Like with any married couple that worked on different jobs, their relationship seemed to take effort to keep it working.
Promising to discuss it that evening, they parted ways.
At seven in the evening, his phone buzzed when he was in the meeting room.
He sighed and shook his head, angry with her But never in a million years did she imagine that for not understanding him. This was her fifth continuous call. She couldn’t even understand he would say the words that broke her heart. that perhaps he was busy. All that mattered to “I... I never knew...” she stammered, the tears in her was that he picked up the phone when she her eyes clouding any form of rational judgeneeded him to. ment. But what if something had gone wrong? Was His shoulders drooped as he took one unsteady that why she was calling him so repeatedly? step towards her before holding his arms out to her invitingly. Gingerly, she allowed the em- Excusing himself from the discussion, he slipped out and called her back. brace. “I am sorry...” she said, hugging him back as she “What took you so long?” she complained and felt his protective arms wrap around her. “I... I he could almost visualise her furrowed brow. will try to change...” “Is something wrong?” 25
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“I... I miss you...”
the time? Look, I am going out tonight and then I am yours for the next however long it takes till “I am in a damn meeting!” he said, exasperated. we plan another outing. You need to find your“Can’t we discuss this when I get home?” self some friends too!” “You’re always shouting at me,” she whined and “No, thank you!” she shouted, turning away he felt his heart melt instantly. from him. “I am loyal to my relationship and I As he entered the meeting room after coaxing don’t like sleeping around...” her, he wondered why he let her have this hold The last two words hit him directly in the heart. on him. The love he felt towards her was unexThis woman was insufferaplainable. It made him ble. gravitate towards her and want her no matter Without saying another what. But the constant word, he left the house. phone calls, the incesThe sound of the door sant nagging, her need banging was the only thing to be with him all the that replayed in her mind time; these things long after he left. choked him emotionalAround two in the mornly. ing, he crept back into the T h is r e l a t i o ns h ip house, tip-toeing up into seemed like alcoholic the bedroom. He knew she overdose. would get mad at him and Slow poison, but heavmight not even let him enly. sleep in the same room as her. Prepared for the consequences, he took his “You are always with your friends...” she said shoes off and entered their room. one night, combing her hair angrily. “You don’t It took him a few moments to adjust to the even care about me that much.” darkness till eventually, he could see again. The “I haven’t gone out in weeks, love. Please, why first sight that caught his attention was her don’t you try to understand?” svelte figure lying draped across the sheets. “How can you expect me to understand all the He loved her unconditionally and he knew that time? This is all we get to spend with each other, even if they fought constantly, he couldn’t get these few hours after work and you can’t even away from her. spend them with me!” “I’m sorry...” he whispered into the darkness “How can you expect me to hang around you all and sat down on the bed with a sigh. 26
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He vowed never to leave her again.
her. “I am sorry about this morning.”
“I shall only be free when you are out of my She smiled, taking them. life!” he shouted the next morning when she “They’re lovely, thank you.” she replied, taking told him that he was misusing the freedom she them into the kitchen to put them in some wawas giving him. ter. He watched the expression on her face change But he noticed that her smile did not reach her and instantly cursed himself. Those weren’t the eyes. words he expected to say. “I... It’s Josh’s birthday,” he said, the next even“Are you asking for a divorce?” she asked, her ing, unhooking his watch and setting it on the voice shaky. table. “I was thinking I will go down to his place The thought tempted him for a moment as he and wish him. Maybe for an hour or two...” considered all the freedom he would get. But “Sure,” she replied, looking up from her book then, even though he wavered, he shook his momentarily. “Just so I am clear, I won’t be head. He wouldn’t be able to live without her. cooking for you tonight, right?” “No,” he said unconvincingly, holding his head He nodded, shocked by her transformation. in his hands. “I... don’t want that.” While this was what he wanted the whole time, But she noticed the momentary pause behind now that he finally had the peace, it was tearing his answer. Without saying a word, she walked him up on the inside. That night, he reached out of the house to go to work, leaving him home quite late, drunk with misery. He was sure drenched in his sorrow. she would object to this and that she would blow up on his face the next morning. A small That evening, he didn’t get any calls from her. part of him was relieved. He glanced at his phone from time to time, expecting to be nagged. Unable to bear it any As he woke up and made his way downstairs, he longer, he called her himself. saw a cup of coffee sitting on the dining table waiting for him. “Hello?” “Good Morning,” she said curtly, handing him a “Um, it’s me,” he started, feeling uneasy. “I... I plate of bread. “I need to get to work early. See just wanted to say I’ll be home in an hour.” you in the evening?” “Oh, okay. I’ll have dinner ready.” “Today is Sunday...” he pondered and watched Just like that, she cut the call. as she stopped walking away. He didn’t like the sound of her voice. Leaving Her shoulders sagged. the office, he bought her a bunch of roses and “Oh no,” she replied, sitting on the couch, holdwent home. ing her head in her hands. “What’s wrong with “I got these for you,” he said handing them to me?” 27
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“I was going to ask you the same thing,” he “I... I realize how much of a nag I have been. I murmured, walking up to her. “Why have you will tone it down,” she compromised. become like this?” “And I know how much I have hurt you by not “What do you mean?” she asked, horrified. “I making you a complete part of my life. I love haven’t been interfering in anything you do! you so much and I will... prove it to you.” Why aren’t you ever happy with me? I gave you “You already have,” she replied and they emyour freedom, didn’t I?” braced. It was at that moment that he understood how Since they got married, this was the first time stupid he had been. She only called him at work they were both able to experience what true because he didn’t inform her about his whereafreedom felt like, because they were now able to bouts. She only shouted at him when he went express what one meant to the other. Their love out because he never gave her prior notice so was the evidence. she could plan her own day. She hated when he got home late because she was worried. He realised, in short, that he never gave her any importance. Or so, she felt. “If this is what freedom feels like, I don’t want it.” he said. “I miss how we used to be...” She looked at him, tears in her eyes and smiled slowly.
Shravya Gunipudi, a 21-year-old CA and CS Final Student, wishes to combine her skills of accounting with her passion for fictional writing. It is her dream to merge her creative side with her analytical one because writing, for her, is the best form of expression that she hopes to pursue for many more years to come. She has a blog titled ‘Fictionally Inkspired’ (http:// shravyagunipudi.wordpress.com) and a Facebook Page called ‘Shravya Gunipudi’s Inkspression’ where she pours her heart out in the form of words.
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Art
Tree by Swati Sengupta For Swati Sengupta, Freedom is a tree with outstretched branches, growing unrestrained. Her artwork depicts her interpretation.
Swati is a Communications, Branding and Marketing professional based out of Bangalore. Thanks to the nature of her job, she dabbles with colours, words, ideas, figures and forms. When she is not working, she loves travelling, lazing around on weekends, painting, solving sums or playing Mastermind, and will travel to the end of the world to watch an amazing sunset.
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Poetry
The Choice by M. Mohankumar When it comes to making choices, true freedom is about having the right to choose or not to choose. M. Mohankumar brings out this important truth subtly through his poem. ‘You have absolute freedom,’ he said,
I would not buckle under pressure.
‘to choose between the two.’
I faced him frontally. To my surprise,
A wry smile played on his face.
he dropped the mask, and waved me away.
‘That’s no freedom,’ I replied. ‘I have the right not to choose or choose something else. Nobody can curtail it.’
‘You have to choose between the two,’ he said, his voice gruff and menacing. ‘You have to choose here and now.’
Choose between ‘tweedledum’ and ‘tweedledee’? Hobson’s choice was no doubt better.
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Fiction
Breaking Rules
by Sudha Nair
Why is it that sometimes that little chance at freedom is all you have, all you want at the time? Sudha Nair captures one such memory in the life of a young girl. "We're going for chicken Frankie as my birthday treat during lunch break. Will you come, Meera?" Sonia's pleading eyes were what started it all. I had never been outside the school gates on my own, wasn't supposed to. Ever. Suddenly I found myself tempted and dying to go. I was twelve, studying in seventh grade. Old enough, I'd say, but my parents had laid down the laws pretty strongly. No venturing outside the school gates. No getting out on the streets alone. In fact we were never to go anywhere alone. Period. We went to school by the bus. After school, we got back into the school bus, my sister and I, with the rest of the kids, and were dropped off right at the gates of my apartment. We were not to waste any time idling out there but to get back home quickly before my mother called to check if we had reached. Anywhere else we went, we always went with our parents. I was petrified of going out alone.
about the "nothing-like-it" Frankie. For every birthday party that year, the kids were handing out Frankie treats, and everybody in class was going gaga over it. I had still not even tasted it which really made me want to go all the more. There was also a problem. The popular Frankie shop lay on the other side of the school playground for which we'd have to cross two busy streets. What if I got hit by a cycle or run over by a car? All sorts of scary thoughts crossed my head. I was extremely nervous even as I gave Sonia the card I had made the night before. "Ten of us are going. My mother gave me five hundred. I hope you're coming," she jumped up and down with joy.
It was so unfair. Sonia's mother was so generous and permissive. Sonia and the other girls who were going were so lucky. But I had dared not even ask at home fearing that I would be in bigger trouble for asking when I knew what my I woke up that morning, still not sure about go- mother was going to say. She'd probably even ing for the Frankie. I had declined two treats in grill me further wondering if I'd already committhe past. The girls at school had begun raving ted the offence. I dared not to even nod to 31
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Sonia. As the time to go neared, Sonia couldn't contain her excitement any longer. "Next period is lunch," she said, her eyes shiny and wide like saucers.
At lunch break, Sonia grasped my hand. "Come, let's go," she said, as if I'd already agreed. I prayed that my mother wouldn’t think of surprising me again. At the gate, the figure of the watchman loomed, and I hesitated to make it past him. I stood at the threshold for a moment, feeling elated at the thrilling prospect of the adventure, considering it for one last time before Sonia grabbed and pulled me along. "Oh, come on. We only have half an hour to get back."
I had thought of nothing else since morning. A niggle was working its way into my head. Once my mother had paid me a surprise visit at school. She hadn’t told me she was coming to pay the fees. Before I knew it, I was stationed Sonia was holding outside my my hand, guiding me classroom when through the narrow she arrived at school street, and soon we were at the muddy my class. playground with sparse patches of green. It She panicked when she saw me outside. "What stretched wide all the way to the other end happened? Why are you out here?" where I couldn’t even see the road beyond. We I shrunk and drooped wishing I could become broke into a run to save time, my black shoes invisible. My feet were beginning to feel like quickly turning muddy brown. At the end of the jelly; I thought I might collapse. She spoke to ground was the second street with heavier trafmy teacher and learnt that I had forgotten to get fic. Cars, scooters, and rickshaws zoomed by, my notebook to class. That small incident didn't too impatient to slow down for the eleven school girls trying to cross the street. Whether it cause any trouble at home. was from the running or the anxiety of this darBut what I was thinking of doing at lunch break ing act, my heart was thumping violently. Sonia was nothing as small. I would be severely pun- and I raised our hands up together to slow ished, the details of which I didn’t even dare to down the oncoming traffic, and finally managed imagine. The thought of the melt-in-the-mouth to cross the road. The Frankie shop was down a Frankie came to my mind again, and there was few steps below the road level. Sonia entered, nothing I could do to stop it from clouding my headed straight up to the counter and placed the brain. order, asking him to hurry up. We followed her 32
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inside and took our seats. The whole shop had a warm, steamy fug, aromas of chicken trapped inside the cramped space mixed with the pollution from the street outside. We still have twenty minutes to go, announced one of the girls who had remembered to bring a watch. My hunger pangs now overpowered even my crazy heartbeat. I couldn’t wait to try the Frankie for which I had ventured this far. In five minutes I was holding the hot Frankie in my hand, half of the large whitish roti wrap, speckled with brown spots from the cooking, showing up above the butter paper wrapping on the lower half. The aroma of the tikka gravy inside floated up my nose. The onions within crunched as I bit off a large piece of the soft, fluffy roti wrap. The chunks of chicken melted in my mouth. I closed my eyes to savour all of the flavours and textures stirring up all the sensations in my taste buds. The girls had been right. It wasn't like anything I'd ever eaten before. I took another bite, pulled down the wrapper, then another. Another big bite. And another. In minutes I had finished it all. Only the thick, spicy juice remained, trickling down my wrist from the open wrapper. I took a tissue and wiped my hand and mouth, still feeling the hot and tingly feeling of spice on the roof of my tongue, my belly gratefully content.
We had only about ten minutes left to hurry back the way we came. We ran, snaking through the snarling traffic, running across the muddy playground, onto the school street, rushing past the school gates, and into the classroom. Sonia held my hand all the way. It was only when I sat in my class that I let out a big breath of relief. My lunch box contents had to be finished on the bus ride home. I had to remember to wipe off my muddy shoes, but other than the maid there was nobody at home to see my guilt-ridden face. Still something inside me remained inconsolable, because I had been a disobedient girl. A bad girl. I ran over to the prayer area, knelt down with my head bowed, hands clasped, still wearing my uniform. "Please save me, God. I will never do it again. I promise," I pleaded, whispering to Krishna, the statue of the Blue God, holding the flute playfully to his lips, a forgiving smile on his face. I remained knelt like that for a long time; I didn't know if I'd be forgiven. Today my daughter, Neela had got into trouble. The principal's office had called me; they wanted to meet me. I couldn't help but remember how, almost thirty years ago, I'd prayed for weeks and weeks that I wouldn't be found out for sneaking out of school. We had brought up Neela very differently from our own upbringing.
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We were more lenient and understanding with Neela. Rules were not simply rules to be followed blindly in our household; they were discussed and honoured. A mistake, though reprimanded firmly, was always considered as a lesson for better behaviour; rules were sometimes bent if a situation demanded it. "Neela and her friends bunked P.T. period yesterday," the principal said. "She will be suspended if she repeats the offence."
made to me. Neela reminded me so much of myself back when I was at school. I knew she'd keep her promise, just as I had, so many years ago. I had never gone outside my school ever again. While I still cherished that secret taste of freedom even after so many years, I couldn't bring myself to be terribly angry at Neela, now could I?
"She won't do it again, sir. I promise," I told him, concerned yet calm, confident that Neela had meant every word of the promise she'd just
Sudha, a mother of two, is constantly trying to pursue new avenues to push her creative boundaries. A chronic daydreamer, she is in awe of people who have followed their heart. Sudha is passionate about music, fitness, her family, and most recently, writing.
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The Lounge
August 2014 35
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by Yayaati Joshi To anyone in India who reads movie reviews, Baradwaj Rangan is not an unknown name. Over the last ten years, through his insightful reviews, he has gained much cachet and respect among readers and moviegoers. What we find most alluring about his body of work is that he, like any reviewer worth his salt, can write equally zealously about parallel cinema, indie releases, blockbusters, murder mysteries and science fiction. Once in a while, when he does dabble in other types of reportage, the pieces sparkle with similar brilliance. In an interview to Yayaati Joshi, Baradwaj Rangan talks about what runs in his mind as he watches a movie, what criteria he applies to assess a film’s merit, while also answering other questions about cinema and criticism in general.
Baradwaj Rangan is a National Award-winning film critic, and is currently with The Hindu, as Film Critic & Senior Deputy Editor. He is also the author of the book, ‘Conversations with Mani Ratnam’ published by Penguin in 2012. Baradwaj Rangan. Pic : Praveen Padmanabhan 36
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1) To begin with, for the benefit of those who may not be well-acquainted with film criticism, could you tell us what, if any, is the “purpose” of a critic? Is the film critic a guide? A rating-giver? Or is criticism to be kept in the category of “art for art’s sake?”
The answer is right there in the question. Blogs offer unlimited space. If you really want to talk about a film at length, there’s nothing stopping you. Of course, the longer the review is, the lesser the readership – but that’s a call the critic has to take.
I go back to the story of the blind men and the elephant, with each man touching a different part of the elephant (tusk, trunk, tail, leg, body) and being able to talk authoritatively only about that part. We are all similarly blind when it comes to art. We are equipped – due to various social factors and personal biases – to see a film in one way, and I think the critic’s job is to explain that one way: what he thinks of the film, and why he feels that way. So, obviously, a critic can never be a guide to a large number of people. And his ratings will be largely useless. But if the critic is perceptive, then you can come away learning a lot about the tusk and the tail even if you touched only the trunk. The critic, essentially, helps you see a film a certain way. Whether that way has any value, personally, is something the reader or audience has to decide.
3) There is a tendency to compartmentalise films based on their genres. So a movie that deals with social issues is deemed to be better than one that deals with vampires. What are your thoughts on this, especially since not all of that compartmentalisation is unwarranted: many out-and-out commercial movies do dish out liberal doses of formulaic and predictable plots, forcing the “thinking man/woman” to turn to other directors. (We mean dropping Michael Bay in favour of Richard Linklater!)
2) Unfortunately, reviewers get little space in mainstream Indian media to write lengthy, engaging pieces about movies. By this, we refer not just to the weekly reviews that rates movies by giving them stars, but also, in general to the paucity of space in Indian newspapers or magazines for cultural and cinematic criticism. In fact, good reviewers have had to resort to blogs or personal websites to publish their detailed reviews. Under such circumstances, how do you think the craft of long form reviewing will survive?
A film is good if it does well what it sets out to do. I routinely get flak for praising B-movies and being hard on films with “noble themes” – but if the B-movie wants to be a B-movie and it does a good job of being a B-movie, then it’s a success. 4) In a country like India, where women are still oppressed, minorities are continually harassed, human rights are violated more often than not, do you think it’s important for critics to trash movies that are sexist, misogynist or stereotype-propagating? By extension, can, and should, a critic try to shape public thinking? No. It is important to take note of these things and hold the filmmaker accountable, but the aspect of cinema comes before everything else – before even the aspect of society. The critic’s
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job, in my opinion, is to talk about the film as a piece of cinema rather than as a piece of society. Of course, it’s impossible to do this completely – but what I am against is the “shaping public thinking” thing. If a critic should shape anything at all, it’s the cinematic lens of the reader, helping him or her see films in a more engaged manner and rejecting the notion of directorial authorship in favour of personal readings. 5) What is your opinion of reviewing in India? Is there a scope for it to be better? Of course it can be better. But three things constantly work against this. (1) The space, in the case of the print medium (or the screen time, in the case of television). (2) This need to be the first person out with a review, which means that you barely have any time to process the film, turn it over in your head, before you start writing about it. (3) The need to be seen as witty etc. so that your snark gets widely retweeted… Sometimes this makes analysis impossible. 6) Which reviewers, in India and abroad, do you read? Did you have any favourites (like Pauline Kael) when you started reviewing?
ever before - among many other changes, there are newer mediums (short films), newer actors, more 'local' storylines, and perhaps lesser heroism than earlier. What do you, as a reviewer, feel is heartening about Tamil cinema today? What about it do you find disheartening? The heartening thing is that young filmmakers with a vision are able to bring off their films without compromise. The other side is that this still isn’t a very professional industry, which means, for instance, that the producer of a film can take a call on changing its release date without informing the director (this happened recently in the case of Jigarthanda). But yes, things are looking good in Tamil cinema. 8) While we are discussing Tamil cinema, this interview cannot be complete without a question on the book you authored. ‘Conversations with Mani Ratnam’, evidently, is a dream come true for you. Writing this book on the works of one of the iconic directors that India has produced would have been an intensely gratifying and an unforgettable personal experience for you. Now that it’s been about two years since the book came out, what is it that pleasantly haunts you about the experience of conversing with Mani Ratnam as well as writing the book?
I read all the critics who are considered “top critics” (in Rotten Tomatoes’ parlance). I stay away from reading anything till I’ve written my piece (though this is becoming increasingly difficult, as a line or two from someone’s review may end up on your Facebook wall or whatever) There’s a part in the book where he says he can– but after I’m done, I go to the review aggreganot watch any film of his for more than five tors and see what people have said about the minutes, because after that he sees only the misfilm. takes. I think any piece of writing is like that for 7) Let's talk specifically about Tamil cine- a writer. There’s so much more that could have ma. The landscape of this industry has been been done. I am reasonably happy about the changing and evolving more rapidly than book, and the experience with the conversations 38
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was great. But what makes me really happy is clude Duck Soup, The Story of Adele H, Monty the response of some readers Python and the Holy Grail, The who say “I didn’t know there Conversation, AI: Artificial Intelwas so much involved in the ligence, Barry Lyndon, The Termaking of a movie.” To have minator, and when it comes to been a small part of someone Indian films, Mother India, Navbeginning to see movies in a rang, Stree, Sholay, Kannathil whole new way has been the Muthamittal, Mughal-Azam, Dil best part of the exercise. Se, Avargal, Thappu Thalangal, Uthiri Pookkal, Mann Vaasanai, 9) Finally, we do underNayak, Ghare Baire… stand that lists tend to leave out more than they subsume, but we couldn't (With additional inputs from Anuparesist asking – could you ma Krishnakumar & Vani Viswalist ten of your favourite nathan) films (across languages)? This is just impossible. But some favourites in-
Yayaati Joshi is a man with simple tastes and intense beliefs. Contrary to the bling associated with the capital city, he prefers the company of close friends, an engaging book or an Alfred Hitchcock movie. His placid demeanour is often mistaken for reticence; Yayaati is a selfproclaimed loner, whose recent pursuits include his foray as a budding writer. Yayaati blogs at http:// rantingsofadelusionalmind.wordpress.com
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Slice of Life by Neha Kirpal
Of Untold Stories Neha Kirpal recounts conversations with a close friend during the tumultuous period of adolescence, and how suddenly, someday, they seem distant.
Rita had always been a close friend of mine. Growing up, we would unashamedly confide in each other about all our trials and tribulations, hopes and despairs – all the muddled thoughts that filled our minds. It was during that confusing transition from school to college when boys, parties, and the ‘hookup culture’ enveloped our lives – all the things that seem so trivial now. There were always moments of introspection in these conversations – which helped clear the cobwebs in each of our heads simply by talking about them. After all, “there is no greater agony than bearing an untold story inside you.” Some pearls of wisdom stay with me to this day. “Attraction is one thing. But emotions are quite another,” she once observed. “The latter don’t work like taps that you can simply switch on and off anytime you want.” My friend had managed to entangle herself in a conditional relationship
– a ‘one-way street’ we called it – in which she was clearly the ‘wronged’ party. Another time, Rita was just done with her breakup and was bitter as ever. “You know what, dumb men irritate me – dumb women, more so!” she observed. “Women need to understand that they already are the superior sex – so they should just start behaving like they are. We need to stop competing with men all the time – There is nothing to prove to anyone. I wish we would stop making men the center of our lives, stop seeking their approval for our own validation.” Eventually, Rita moved to another city where she found herself a better job – and better people, I hoped. We lost touch for almost a year. I gathered she had found her happiness somewhere else.
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And then one fine day a few months later, I got you’ll just know it. And you won’t have to do a a phone call from her. thing about it – everything will just magically fall into place exactly where it belongs. All you need “Guess what? I’m getting married!” She soundto do is to keep the ed ex cited. faith and just wait “Wow, Rita! I’m for it to happen.” so happy for you.” I smiled at the other end of the line. I She described guess the moment to me every when it happens is small detail of indeed surreal. With how it hapmixed emotions fillpened – just like ing my heart, I put the old times. the phone down. A She had rememrush of memories bered a friend flooded my mind – all the heart-to-heart converwho she could air such thoughts with at such a sations that had meant so much back in the day time – perhaps to bring some perspective in her – everything seemed to disappear into thin air. It own head. was like closing a chapter in one’s personal jourShe mentioned that she had barely imagined that ney of life – one that marked the end of a phase, this would be the quintessential moment that and the beginning of a new era. would change her life forever – because when it And that’s when I understood another one of did come, slowly, unnoticed – it had crept upon those timeless clichés about love: “Once in eveher when she had least expected it, when she ry lifetime there comes a moment when you can didn’t even realize it was happening to her – and truly catch the starlight in your palms.” so fast. At the end of it all, she said to me dreamily, “You know what, every cliché about love you’ve ever heard is true. When it’s right,
Neha Kirpal is the author of 'Wanderlust for the Soul,' a collection of short stories based on travel in different parts of the world. Neha has worked in the print, electronic, and online media, and is currently a copy editor at a multinational company in Gurgaon, India. Her hobbies include reading, writing, travel, music, and films. She can be reached at nehakirpal@gmail.com
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