Spark - December 2011 Issue by Spark Editor

SPARK Time Machine Word.World.Wisdom December 2011

From the Editors’ Desk Dear Reader, This time we explore Time. We dream of what the past would have been, have a glimpse of the past that we have known. We dream up a future that we would love to live. Well, we also make flights of fantasy. We do all this through a selection of fiction, non-fiction, poetry and photography. This issue themed ‘Time Machine’ also features bestselling author, Ashwin Sanghi, as the Writer of the Month. Don’t miss the interview and the rest of the lovely stuff we have up for you this month at Spark! We sign off wishing you a very Happy 2012! We hope the New Year brings plenty of joy to your lives and sees all your dreams, big and small, come true! We will see you next month and when we do, we will meet you with our 2nd anniversary issue! - Spark Editorial Team/05-December-2011

December 2011 Team Contributors

Vani Viswanathan

Anuj Agarwal

Varsha Sreenivasan

Anupama Krishnakumar

Yayaati Joshi

Gauri Trivedi

Writer of the Month

Latha Sakhya

Ashwin Sanghi

Maheswaran Sathiamoorthy

Concept, Editing and Design

Parth Pandya

Anupama Krishnakumar

Priya Gopal

Vani Viswanathan Cover : CityGypsy11

Spark—December 2011 : Time Machine The Raconteur — Poetry by Parth Pandya

Revisiting Pygmalion — Non-fiction by Yayaati Joshi

Filling the Blanks with History and Mystery! - An Interview with Ashwin Sanghi, Author

On the Wings of Time — Poetry by Latha Sakhya

A New Beginning— Non-fiction by Gauri Trivedi

I Want to Fly on the Time Machine - Fiction by Anupama Krishnakumar

Reflecting into the Past - Photography by Maheswaran Sathiamoorthy

Journeying to a Much-Neglected Time - Non-fiction by Anuj Agarwal

Andy Andrews’ ‘The Traveler’s Gift’ - Book Review by Priya Gopal

Action Replay — Poetry by Varsha Sreenivasan

Weirdness — Fiction by Vani Viswanathan

INSIDE THIS ISSUE OF SPARK

Parth Pandya The observer And the protagonist, at once.

We watched, As I scraped and hurt, Rose and ran, fell and stumbled.

T H E

I became instantly

Time benevolently,

Reserving his worst, for his cruelest cut.

Reveling in his reluctance mydreamshotz

To tell me but one thing; How does the story end?

I went seeking friends And visited,

Do I soar or sink?

Time instead.

Is there grace or cowardice, In the final chapters of this tale?

Yes, Time, that very Constant, transient entity.

So we travel together;

I was told that He travelled.

The charioteer and the passenger, The narrator and the audience.

Watching stories unfurl; Some tales laced with happiness,

One story among the infinite.

Others subject to sorrowâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s tyranny.

Before Time, Through Time, Beyond Time.

So, I got to journey along, With Time as my companion, To watch a new story unfold.

POETRY

R A C O N T E U R

Indulged my whims,

NON-FICTION|YAYAATI JOSHI

Revisiting Pygmalion Yayaati Joshi

Bringing in the retro touch to the theme, ‘Time Machine,’ Yayaati Joshi takes us back in time, offering an interesting perspective on ‘Pygmalion’ – a movie adapted from George Bernard Shaw’s play. 5

NON-FICTION|YAYAATI JOSHI Some of the best films have been those that have adapted screenplays from films or books. Not to say that original scriptwriting in the filmmaking business is awful, but a tried and tested script is usually the producer’s delight –he knows that the plot has been successful, and doesn’t mind spending money on something that seems to be a ‘safe investment’. Pygmalion, released in 1938, is one such film. Adapted from George Bernard Shaw’s play, it tells the story of a phonetics professor who bets that he can refine the Cockney accent of a plebeian girl, to such an extent that she can pass off as a Duchess. In today’s time, when, as movie-watchers, we’ve been subject to the most unlikely romances – of teachers and students, incest driven cousins, and even captives suffering from the Stockholm syndrome, it isn’t unlikely to rule out the possibility of a developing romance between the professor and the cheerful, but downtrodden girl. But back then, I wonder, how many people (who were unfamiliar with the script) would have thought that two diametrically opposite characters could fall in love!

In a scene which seems as rugged, messy and unkempt as Eliza Doolittle (played by Wendy Hiller), we’re introduced to her – loud voice, clumsy body language and crude laughter – her demeanour is far too churlish to be modified. But

when she’s introduced to us as the flower selling girl, we’re unaware of what’s about to happen next. In the same scene, with a small notepad and pencil, carefully observing, with measured steps, and comporting behaviour – a man has been overhearing the chatter around him. Occasionally, he makes notes too. Till he is introduced to us, he looks more like an

investigative journalist than like a professor. And the dramatic moment, in which the professor (played by Leslie Howard) and Eliza meet, is delightful – even though Eliza seems to be on the receiving end. “That ain’t proper writing”, Eliza remarks, scared that something about her is being written down. Professor Higgins, as he is known, looks at her with the cold, uninterested expression of a butcher – looking at her as if she was a hen about to be slaughtered. Slaughter he must, and slaughter he will. This opening scene is important in many ways. It indicates, in a short time, the dispositions and temperaments of the main characters. Eliza is a bit of a drama queen – although she uses that streak to save herself of accusations of disrespecting a gentleman. Higgins himself is a bit of an attention seeking man – claiming to recognise accents and cadences, and their origin, he quickly ‘steals the show’ from the howling girl by telling people where they’re from by their accents. When the eventual course of the plot is made known, we already know that both Eliza and Higgins are going to have a hard time tolerating each other. 6

NON-FICTION|YAYAATI JOSHI As the process of ‘changing’ Eliza’s accent and behaviourism begins, the idea of her being unable to pull it off seems likely. As expected, Higgins is a hard task master, and his exercises with her seem to be too much of a strain for her to take. Up to this point, who would have imagined the two most unlikely ‘love birds’ would flock together? But as time passes by, we see Higgins reaching his goal – and in a brilliantly shot scene. Higgins does pass her off as a Duchess. As she walks in, in her white gown – slow steps, low voice, and a veneer of gentility, behind which is hidden the harsh reality of her humble origin, she arrests everyone’s attention. Playing the puppet, Eliza exceeds Higgins’s expectations and “performs” brilliantly. Everyone who meets her is charmed. But is that charm enough to melt her tutor’s cold heart? After the show of snobbery is over, Higgins and his aide, along with Eliza, come back home – the men satisfied with their success, the woman puzzled about her future. She’s seen how the rich be-

have – she’s passed off as a lady herself – but what is she to do now? Go back to selling flowers? Like an innocent schoolgirl who waits for her result to be declared, she listens to the conversation of the men. Higgins remarks, “No more artificial duchesses for me,” and with that, Eliza wilts like a flower. But within her, a frustrated woman pushes her to confront her master, and she does. “What’s to become of me?” she demands Higgins, who rebukes her saying that he doesn’t care what becomes of her. This sense of existential crisis that Eliza suffers from is understandable – she’s not good to do anything but sell flowers, and having had a taste of the rich life, it would be hard for her to revert to her old ways. Who is she to be, really? A fake duchess? A flower seller? Or the subject of a haughty professor’s research? After many more confrontations and endless bickering, Eliza and Higgins unite. But do they really? The last thing that Higgins says to her is “Where the devil are my slippers, Eliza?” indicating that he still

wishes to treat her as a maid. At the end of the film, due to a lovehate relationship between the professor and her pupil, it remains unknown to us whether they lived happily ever after or whether the poor girl was trampled over by Higgins for the rest of her life. But that forms for a perfect ending – the two kissing and making up would have been way too sappy, or more Bollywood like, should I say?

Pictures Courtesy : Google Images

Filling the Blanks 8

by Anupama Krishnakumar Ashwin Sanghi is the bestselling author of ‘The Rozabal Line’ and ‘Chanakya’s Chant’. He writes extensively on history, religion and politics. ‘The Rozabal Line’, his first novel, was completed in 2007. The book was self-published in the U.S. in 2007 under his pen name, "Shawn Haigins". “Shawn Haigins” is a pseudonym and in fact, is an anagram of the author’s real name. A revised edition of this book was later published by TataWestland Ltd. & Tranquebar Press in 2008. Ashwin's second novel, "Chanakya's Chant", a historical political thriller was released by Westland in January 2011. To know more about the author, visit www.ashwinsanghi.com.

with history and mystery! -

An Interview with

Ashwin Sanghi 9

In a conversation with Anupama Krishnakumar, bestselling author of two works of historical fiction, Ashwin Sanghi, talks about his journey as a writer, his books and his views on writing. Ashwin is the writer of the month of this edition themed ‘Time Machine’.

Today, we know Ashwin Sanghi as a widely-read author of two bestsellers. But, how did it all begin? What prompted you to undertake the writer's journey?

the past. When I read about modern-day conflicts between Islam and the western world, I can’t help thinking of the religious Crusades that were fought for most of the 300 years following the 11th century. When I read about the Nithari serial killings, I begin When I was studying at the Cathedral & John Conto mull over the terror that Jack the Ripper caused in non School in Mumbai, I contributed a few articles to the school newspaper but they were not very en- England in 1888. When I watch the IPL allegations on TV and the consequent damage that it may have thusiastically received. When I went to Yale for my Masters' I wrote a column for the school's monthly done to the reputation of cricket, I think about the magazine and several people told me that they en- Black Sox scandal that almost ruined baseball in joyed my casual yet brisk style of writing. I returned 1919. When I hear about scams like those of the CWG or Telecom, I correlate them to the Railroad to India and immersed myself in my family's business affairs and my urge to write manifested itself in Bubble. History inevitably repeats itself, one simply needs to observe the patterns. This pattern is what terms of a few uneventful business-related articles interests me, not the history in itself and this is what in scattered journals. To a certain extent, my business persona seemed to be dictating what I could or is central to my fiction. couldn't write. I did not realise then that I was killing my passion by writing business-related articles - es- When many novels published today are set in the pecially when Writing was my route to creative exworld as we see it today, your novels travel back to pression and I needed to write about the things that a time that we did not live in. How challenging is it interested me. In 2004, I was going through a diffito weave history and fiction? cult patch in my life and my wife suggested that I try There indeed exists a segment of readers who wish writing a few pages during a short holiday. At the end of the five-day break, I had written over 10,000 to read fiction that resembles reality. What I do is to simply fill in the blanks. For example the assassinawords and since then, there has been no looking tion of JFK is a historical fact but who was actually back. behind JFK’s death is something that is open to speculation. It is in those “grey areas” that we fiction What made you choose historical fiction? writers have the greatest flexibility to weave a story. It is this flexibility that gives me the creative wiggle It was Edmund Burke who said, “Those who don't room to spin my yarns! History, mythology, conspirknow history are destined to repeat it.” I find that when I observe current events around me, I instinc- acy, mystery and suspense are the nucleotides of my tively correlate these with events that happened in writer’s DNA. I cannot imagine myself writing out10

Interview | Writer of the Month

Interview | Writer of the Month side this comfort zone.

How did your first book The Rozabal Line happen? What inspired the storyline of the book? In 1999, I read Holy Blood Holy Grail by Michael Baigent, Richard Leigh, and Henry Lincoln. A couple of years later, I read Holger Kersten's Jesus Lived in India and was fascinated by the idea that Jesus could have been inspired by Buddhism and that he may have drawn much of his spiritual learning from India. I began to wonder whether I could marry the two theories i.e. he survived the crucifixion and travelled to India and that he left behind a bloodline. I spent the next two years reading each and every book that I could acquire on topics that I wanted to explore viz. the possibility of Jesus having spent his missing years as a youth studying in India, the theory that Jesus did not die on the cross and that he was whisked away to safety, and the notion that Jesus travelled to India to reunite with the lost tribes of Israel who had settled in Kashmir. In all, I read around 40 books during this time besides scouring the Internet for any information that I could possibly ingly, both Christians and Muslims dismiss the idea find. I started writing The Rozabal Line in 2005 and as blasphemy. Both religions say Jesus Christ was taken by God into heaven, while some Islamic and finished it 18 months later. Christian sects say there will be a "second coming" of Jesus Christ. But the story of the tomb in itself Religion is a sensitive topic to write on. How did was not where my interest lay. I wanted to explore you handle the criticism that might have come your Buddhist influence on early Christianity; I wanted to way when you published The Rozabal Line? tie in the lost or missing years of Jesus into this story; I wanted to examine the ancient connections beThe Rozabal shrine contains two graves. The most tween India and the Lost Tribes of Israel; I wanted to recent is of Syed Naseerudin, a Medieval saint whose life is fairly well documented. However, the explore the worship of the sacred feminine across cultures. This was a book that I simply had to write. I earlier inhabitant—Yuz Asaf—was buried there in 112 AD and this was 500 years before the advent of genuinely believe that those who have read this Islam. Yuz Asaf was a charismatic preacher who ar- novel understand that the aim was noble—to unite via the exploration of common origins. As regards rived in Kashmir from Israel and his name means controversy, there are those who can find some“the healer” or “the shepherd”. So is Rozabal a Christian place of worship or a Muslim one? Surpris- thing controversial in Mary Had a Little Lamb! I’ve decided to ignore that fringe. 11

And the second novel, Chanakya's Chant. Was the idea a sudden realisation of sorts or were you planning it for a while?

plot demands.

How much of a role has research played in writing your books? What are some of the materials you looked into for The Rozabal Line and Chanakya's Chant?

It was the Indian General Elections of 2009 that inspired me. The UPA had won the elections but cabinet formation was held up due to jockeying for posts by alliance members. I thought to myself: was politics always this messy? Chanakya’s Chant was simply the answer to that fundamental question.

The research involved in writing The Rozabal Line was much more exhaustive than that of Chanakya’s Chant. This was simply due to the fact that one had to tread very carefully when writing fiction that touched upon someone’s faith. I had less concerns when it came to writing about the political confabulations of Chanakya.

In Chanakya's Chant, the narrative travels back and forth in time. Writers tend to dwell in the world they create, when they are in the process of writing. How did you approach this whole idea of dwelling in two different times and weaving them together and implement it? I am often asked this question. The honest truth is that I didn’t give it too much thought. The three most important elements of my novels are plot, plot and plot. I spend hours developing and fleshing out the plot. Plot drives my characters. Plot drives pretty much the entire book. Once I have a detailed plot outline for the entire story, I know what backdrops, elements, character traits, twists and historical or mythological facts will be needed to propel the story forward. I don’t need to relive the world that my characters inhabit. I simply create the world that my

With The Rozabal Line, I found that there was a wealth of information that I could dip into. Some of this information was available in excellent books that had covered various issues such as the Jesus in India hypothesis, the historical Jesus, and the interplay of mythologies and religious beliefs in the evolution of the character of Jesus. Books such as Jesus Lived in India by Holger Kersten, Jesus in Kashmir: The Lost Tomb by Suzanne Olsson, The Fifth Gospel by Fida Hassnain, The Unknown Life of Jesus by Nicolas Notovich and The Lost Years of Jesus by Elizabeth Clare Prophet were very important in building the framework of the story. Other books such as The Christ Conspiracy: The Greatest Story Ever Sold by S. Acharya and The World’s Sixteen Crucified Saviours by Kersey Graves were important from the angle of building the “alternative hypothesis” around the canonical Jesus.

Interview | Writer of the Month

Interview | Writer of the Month I spent most of 2003 and 2004 reading every book that I could lay my hands on (around 40+). These books are listed at the back of my novel. I only started writing in 2005 after I had completed reading these books. With Chanakya’s Chant, the research was at two levels because, as you know, there are two parallel stories in this book. The first one traces the rise of Chanakya 2300 years ago and ends with him having succeeded in installing Chandragupta Maurya to the throne. The second traces the life of Gangasagar Mishra, a Brahmin teacher from Uttar Pradesh who makes it his life's purpose to turn a girl from a slum into the country's Prime Minister. The ancient story required historical reading, including the Arthashastra as well as several other books penned on Chanakya. I also read an English translation of the Mudrarakshasa—a historical play in Sanskrit by Vishakhadatta who lived in the 4th century. The modern-day story simply involved lots of newspaper reading. The drama of politics is enacted before us each day in the front pages... one doesn't need to stray any further!

although I knew that Chanakya’s Chant had touched a chord with readers, I had no idea that it would lead to the Crossword Popular Choice Award. I have been overwhelmed with the sort of response that I have received for Chanakya’s Chant.

Speaking of your writing endeavours, will you attempt non-fiction some time? What would such a work focus on? Seven years ago, I had started writing a work of nonfiction that traces the roots of Indian business, but it has remained an incomplete manuscript. I am currently in the process of reviewing it and developing it as the backdrop for my third work of fiction. At present, fiction is what allows me to escape from the humdrum of my otherwise boring and uneventful life. I do not see myself straying away from fiction for a while.

Lastly, what is the next one coming from Ashwin Sanghi? We would like a teaser!

As mentioned earlier, I am currently working on a third novel, as yet untitled. It straddles the past and Chanakya’s Chant recently won the Crossword Best the present. With my first novel, I explored a theoBook Award in the popular category. Did you exlogical riddle. My second novel focused on politics. pect it? What do awards mean to you? My next novel shall be about business. It’s business as usual! To quote a famous Hollywood actor: “I'll take any trophy. I don't care what it says on it.” Jokes apart,

“To

quote a famous Hollywood actor: “I'll take any trophy. I don't

care what it says on Chanakya’s Chant had it would lead to the overwhelmed with the Chanakya’s Chant.”

it.” Jokes apart, although I knew that touched a chord with readers, I had no idea that Crossword Popular Choice Award. I have been sort of response that I have received for 13

On the Wings of Time Nestling down in an arm chair At moth hour reading a book

Poetry

I slipped into a trance. I saw my self out In search of a vague slippery thought Journeying through the maze of caverns Fancy drew me to spy a quaint machine Intricately designed with a seat; Curious like Alice I entered the automaton Fancy prodding me, I sat down Unconsciously my hand hit a switch The strange vehicle took off.

Flying on the wings of Time I swished past verdurous Earth Entering space the Time Traveller headed in a specific direction Suddenly swerving it entered a wormhole, its sinister darkness Sending ripples of fear down my spine. But within seconds I was out; it seems I had travelled eons together And had arrived in a strange land â&#x20AC;&#x201C; of rivers and mountains Hillocks and crystal clear streams - a land Of strange animals and alien people.

Mastering control of the machine I landed in a grove. My roving eyes alighted on a mysterious creature; strange yet close To the horse of our age; I was smitten by its beauty and grace.

Latha Sakhya

The silvery horn on the middle of its forehead gleamed in the sun

Hanging thick and long, glittered pure gold in the sun The lion tail reaching its hooves swished silvery stream.

Hiding behind trees adorned with multi hued flowers, I followed the animal as it ambled along nibbling softly the grass, Occasionally lifting its magnificent head to gaze around to assess Its sylvan surroundings until it came upon a glade open The shining pond in its midst reflecting the azure sky The flowery trees resembling a garden enticing.

The reeds in gentle motion created music strange Listening mesmerized, my gaze fell upon a being ethereal Gliding over the grass, almost human except for her golden wings Delicate and transparent; dressed in a gossamer gown embellished With roses red. Going straight to the glistening creature A unicorn my heart whispered as she touched its silvery horn The animal knelt adoringly at her feet; holding on to its golden mane She swung onto its back and galloped away.

On the Wings of Time

It trotted nimbly but had cloven hooves of goat; the golden mane

The galloping sound receded And the tick-tock of the clock Pervaded my being With consciousness And disappointment I had lost grip Of a strange world, Revealed in a vision Rudely transported back To a world of routine. 15

NON-FICTION|GAURI TRIVEDI

A New Beginning

Kamil Porembenski

What does it feel like to live a dream of many years in the future? Gauri Trivedi does just that. She jumps to the future to live a dream â&#x20AC;&#x201C; and you will soon realise just how magical it is. Read on.

Gauri Trivedi 16

NON-FICTION|GAURI TRIVEDI It has been an unhurried ascent, at my own pace, at the right time. And because for so many years now, I have never stepped out of the house to be someplace I am required to be for my own self, other than a doctor’s appointment, I am kind of unsure if this is actually happening.

The spot I sit can hardly be called quiet as it carries a special announcement of “Author’s book signing” and so every once in a while someone comes carrying a copy of my book, eager to get me pen a few words and my signature on it. They come with a smiling face and curious eyes, trying to Technically speaking, I have been relate a part of the book to its auup and running, going places every thor, an attempt to match the author’s personality to the contents single day. School projects, art of the book. I have been here all class, gymnastics, vacations, flu shots, special meals, birthday par- morning, partly to bask in the ties, all these and more, none of it moderate success my first book insignificant. All that while never has gathered, partly to get inspired. The thrill of finally seeing losing sight of this day which would come to me, sooner or lat- your name in print is no greater than observing a reader actually er. pick up your book and lose herself In a crowded bookstore, I sit in a in it. corner admiring all those who find time to come look for books, read I have always wondered what authem, enjoy them. There are some thors felt like when people stood in a queue for autographs holding who flip through pages of one book after the other as if they are out their piece of work. Important? Pleased? Successful? Or not sure what they want to read all of it? I think they feel apprecior buy. There are a few others who know what they are looking ated, more than anything. for and are quick to locate it, pur- It has been a long wait, but finally chase it and leave. And there are here I am, at the end of this road some who pick up a book random- where new horizons await. From ly and get so immersed in it, they here, there are endless possibilijust stand there reading page after ties. Today holds the promise of a page, losing track of time. It is this, new tomorrow. Now and then, for the last kind of a reader I feel a couple of seconds, my mind deeply connected to, the one who wanders and worries about the picks up a book with an unbiased kids. It is a habit impossible to mind and gives it a chance. shake off. Even when you leave them, you take them with you

wherever you go. But this worry doesn’t last for long. I shrug it off. My kids are grown up now; they can take care of themselves, just like I have taught them to. They are sensible, fun loving and responsible. Barring an occasional hiccup, they never gave me a chance to complain. And so today I will not let those worries keep me from the pleasure that comes with the realisation of an aspiration I held close to my heart – an aspiration that I put behind everything that came my way, but never let go. Today is not about the children or about the past two decades spent growing up as a family. Today is not about all the roles I played in making my home a wonderful place for all of us. Today is about me, the fulfillment of a lifelong dream and new beginnings. The last time I made plans for the next decade, they kind of backfired so I am understandably skeptical this time around. Ok, so ‘backfired’ maybe the wrong word here, maybe I should say my actions didn’t live up to my projections. Nah, that sounds too harsh. I know, the perfect thing to say would be, my dreams are still alive!

I Want to Fly on the Time Machine Time Travel is quite fantasy like. Anupama Krishnakumar brings in her perspective to the theme through a story - of two people and their perception of human life.

She is putting me to sleep.

Fiction

Ma looks tired today. At least I think so - because she doesn’t seem too interested in answering me. She even told me she is tired. But I don’t understand so many things. I want to know how it all works. I like to keep asking why and what and how. I like those words. I learn so much when I talk those words to Ma.

***** Many times she is very happy, smiling and all. My five-year-old puppy dear, she says, and ruffles my hair. I like that so much. I feel so nice. She also says she is very proud of me. She says that many times. I love her because she does everything for me – brushes my teeth, gives me a bath, dresses me up, helps me with my homework, plays a lot with me, does craftwork for me, feeds me, makes my favourite pies and buys me fresh cupcakes when I want. But you know what I enjoy most – she answers my questions.

azadam

Anupama Krishnakumar

Today afternoon, Ma and I tried to read letters of

the alphabet in the newspaper. I also saw some pictures in the paper. We do it every day in the afternoon, after I am back from school. She says it will help me a lot when I become big. During some yesterday, I didn’t understand what ‘becoming big’ meant. So I asked her. She told me becoming big meant becoming like Pa and then like Grandpa - because I am a boy. After that I asked her lot of questions. 18

Fiction | Anupama Krishnakumar ‘Is Pa big boy?’ ‘No, Pa is a man. When you grow up people will call you also “man”. ‘ ‘What are big girls called?’ ‘Woman.’ ‘Are you a woman?’

She didn’t say anything. She said I have to become a little big to understand Time. I think Ma says Time always. If I want her to come and play, she says ‘Wait for Two Minutes’. Some yesterday, I asked her when it will be two minutes. She asked me to count till 120. I cried because I didn’t want to count.

‘No, I was a girl and then I became a woman.’

She sometimes scolds me. When I ask her when it will be tomorrow morning, when I say I want tomorrow to come now only, when I ask why 11 ‘o clock is afternoon and why 2 ‘o clock is also afternoon.

And some more.

She says I have to become big.

And then she said it was enough.

For everything she says I have to become big – to go out and play without Ma, to ride cycle without Ma, to write with pen, to carry big bag, to cook, to go to college, to be in hostel (I learnt that from Ma), to become a pilot. I also told her I want to go to office like Pa – but I also want to become a pilot – I like planes a lot. And for everything she says I have to become big.

‘Yes.’ ‘Are you a woman from small?’

But I still have lot of questions about becoming big. Some yesterday, I asked her, ‘How will I grow tall? How tall will I grow?’ Ma said if I eat food, I will grow tall. I will be so tall that Ma will lift her head to look at me. I feel so excited when I think of that. She told me I will go to bigger class (I asked her if the room will be big and she said no), she said I will learn lot of things – very ‘complicated’ – I learnt that word from Ma. She was so proud when I used it the first time. But when will I grow so tall? When will I become big? Tomorrow? I ask her this every day. Because I am not able to understand. Some yesterday, Ma made me stand near the wall. She took my new scale that Pa bought and said – see, you are this tall now. Then when you are eight years old, you will be this tall – the scale was up. Then ten years, still up and 15, 20…when she said 20, she said I will be really so tall. So, when I asked her when I will be 20 – she said there’s still lot of time for that. I didn’t understand. When time becomes 5 o’ clock? I asked her.

I don’t want to be small now. I can’t do anything. I want to become biiiiig now! Today afternoon also Ma and I tried to read letters of the alphabet in the newspaper. I also saw some pictures in the paper. Today, I saw a very nice picture. I asked her what it is. Ma said it was a cartoon – of a Time Machine. ‘Ma’, I asked her, ‘What is a Time Machine?’ She didn’t say anything. Then she said, ‘If you sit on it, and press a switch, it will make you big or it will make you small – whichever you want.’ ‘Ma, will you buy me the Time Machine? I want to become big now!’ ‘We can’t, honey! It’s just a cartoon.’ I cried, loud and loud. ‘Why? Why can’t you buy it for me?’ I threw my Thomas train and it broke.

I Want to Fly on the Time Machine

19 Andy Magee

Fiction | Anupama Krishnakumar Ma was very angry. She said she won’t talk to me.

steady.

‘You should sleep now,’ she said and put me to bed.

I don’t know how I can explain to you why it’s so wonMa looks tired today. At least I think so - because she derful to be a child – I can’t even tell you about the doesn’t seem too interested in answering me. She even hardships of being an adult. It will well be beyond your comprehension. How do I make you understand the told me she is tired. But, I don’t understand so many peace and calm of a child’s life? things. I want to know how it all works. I like to keep asking why and what and how. I like those words. I Perhaps, my view is tinted. Perhaps, you have one learn so much when I talk those words to Ma. little set of worries too – I know how you go berserk and chaotic when my answers do not satisfy you or She is putting me to sleep. when you don’t get what you want. But you still fall **** asleep when you want to and you forget misunderstandings so easily – isn’t that wonderful? I watch as my little one yawns, looks at me through half-closed eyes and turns around, lies on his left side, My dear one, someone said that the human mind alpulling my arm closer over himself. I gently pat him ways looks for greener pastures – we always long for and in the warmth of the rug he falls asleep. His after- what we don’t have. How true is that! I wish I could sit noon nap. on the Time Machine too and fly away to a distant He has taken a while to fall asleep. I know thoughts rage inside his head even as he tries to sleep. I wonder though, how his thinking pattern would be – I suspect they may run in loops as he holds a part of his soft blanket between his right thumb and forefinger and keeps rubbing it.

time – only that I want to go back to my younger days – of being carefree, wonderstruck, innocent and unprejudiced in learning life and its ways.

How ironical is it that you want to be transported to your adulthood – where there’s so much selfcenteredness, hypocrisy, foolishness and despair! The world of adults is much like a kaleidoscope - of broken The Time Machine is perhaps what he is thinking glass – together they form a tempting pattern – but as about. individuals – they are just that – broken, shapeless My doll, you don’t understand what Time is and what pieces! Perhaps, I was like you too, when I was as human life is. Ageing puzzles you as much as it fills you small as you – hating my caterpillar self and waiting to with awe! I know it puzzles you, this enormity of burst forth into the world like a flamboyantly designed things that surrounds the lives we live in this world – butterfly! The history of human nature, after all, rethe complexities that the human mind has raised – a peats, and it is here to see. mammoth wall of conflicts, all originating from within us. Only that you still do not know a wee bit of it. For You are blissfully asleep now and perhaps are dreaming of the Time Machine. Sleep is stinging my eyes too you, growing up is all about being on your own. and soon, for all you know, I will see the same Time And you think the Time Machine will give you the anMachine too in a hazy dream. Ah, the workings of the swer. You jumped to that conclusion even when I gave human mind! And if I do, I suspect our dreams will you a not-so-complete explanation. Again, how do I merge and in that dream we would be flying – only explain time travel to you? :) that we will be spiralling away in opposite directions. But, little one, why do you want to grow up so fast? Joyfully and confidently, to our own greener pastures! Trust me, life is its sweetest when we meet it slow and

I Want to Fly on the Time Machine

PHOTOGRAPHY|MAHESWARAN SATHIAMOORTHY

Reflecting into the Past

Maheswaran Sathiamoorthy 21

Non-fiction | Anuj Agarwal

Non-Fiction

Journeying to a MuchNeglected Time

Reporters are not just a media phenomenon, mind you – the universe of Law has its own. Meet these thick and carefully bound volumes that preserve a vast sea of knowledge for lawyers. For Anuj Agarwal, browsing through these ‘Reporters’ is a journey back in time. Through the musty pages, he travels to times that are much neglected, looking into more than the just the Law – the people and their lives.

Anuj Agarwal 22

Non-fiction | Anuj Agarwal I turn the pages of the book and the musty smell fills my nose. I am taken to a time which seems so far away, a time that now lies neglected and nearly forgotten, another musty page of the book which no one bothers to read.

ty pages that one could study the exact manner in which a particular position or conclusion in law was reached. It was through the words of wise men long dead that the true learning process would take place; in the thick and carefully

glimpse into the past that they offered. These books allowed me to do just that, indulge in the slightly guilty pleasure of trooping my nose where it certainly did not belong.

Amongst the old Indian reporters Till I became a (which stretched student of law, back to the early the word 1900s) the ones “Reporter” would that always always conjure up caught my attenimages of people tion were the derunning around cisions of courts with microphones which no longer in their hands, of exist in India. So I strangely excitawould browse ble chaps on the through the judgtelly brining the ments of the High very latest breakCourt at Rangoon ing news and of and Peshawar and bearded men toilOudh and think of bound volumes hid a veritable sea ing away at their typewriters. what the courts must have been of knowledge and learning. Sometimes the images, and here like in those days. The court at my mind would pause for more I am not sure how far I bumbled in Rangoon would probably have than a few minutes, would veer that sea of knowledge though. I been filled with the humid, tropical towards salwar kurta clad women was largely distracted by the fact air and short Burmese men and with a pen tucked in behind the that the air-conditioned library was women milling about. Perhaps, just ear and a jhola swinging from the perfect for a break from the sultry perhaps, heavy teak chairs and shoulder. heat of Calcutta. Another reason magnificent tables adorned the for the failure in knowledgecourt rooms. Would the pale faced As I slowly waded through the world of jurisprudence though, the imbibition was the fact that I was British judges have sweated in the word “Reporter” began to take an inevitably drawn to minor, incon- tropic humidity, dabbing a handkerchief to their sweaty faces now entirely different meaning. In legal sequential verdicts, to case laws and then? In moments of boredom parlance, a “Reporter” refers to a which were not really landmark collection of case law; a “book” of judgments, to decisions which did (and I suppose such moments not alter the smooth river of Law came by fairly often), would the judgments if you will. I was told judge have looked out of the courtthat a Reporter can be gold for the in any manner. To be honest, it room window and seen thick, verlaw student; it is within those mus- was not the law that drew me to those judgments; rather it was the dant greenery and people riding

Journeying to a Much-Neglected Time

Non-fiction | Anuj Agarwal their bullock carts? I like to think that even then, the snooty senior barristers would have dispersed for tea to discuss the various goings on within the Empire. In the evening, perhaps the lawyers would have made their way to the Club for a quick evening drink and ruminate over the dayâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s victories or losses.

Would they have broken down in tears after a negative judgment or erupted with joy after a positive one? How would the press have reported the judgment? Would photographers have waited for the lawyers outside the court room, journalists impatient for a witty quote?

What about the High Court of Judi- Once in a while, my mind would cature at Peshawar? I suppose the focus on the fact-situation itself dry desert breeze would have blown through the courtrooms every now and then. I can well imagine how the curious Pasthtoons would have stood outside the court; big tough men anxiously waiting for the verdict.

the Privy Council had to decide whether the East India Company could usurp the land of the royal family of Travancore. And in my head, the image created was that of a haughty prince robbed of his pomp and grandeur after the sudden demise of his step-father. Or perhaps a grieving queen who sought legal counsel even as the courtiers and the noblemen plotted her downfall.

I spent many an hour that way and, looking back, I am glad I did for it is a luxury that I can no longer afford. Now, the Reporters are quickly scanned through, the judgments skimmed over just to see what the latest judgment says, and check whether a Since the judgments particular position in do not reflect the law has changed for manner in which a particular case was argued, I would often find my- and even here the surprises did not the benefit of my client. The sumself wondering how those ancient end. For instance, in Ma Mya and maries of the judgments are all one lawyers would have addressed the Anr decided in 1927, the Rangoon can bother to read, a hurried court. Would their arguments too High Court had decided the fate of glance through the pages to see if a Chinese couple who had eloped there is anything of relevance for have been laced with a tinge of the current matters. But every now flattery? Would they too have wo- from China and settled in Burma (the question was which personal and then, Fate gives me a chance ven their magic with words? I am quite sure that unscrupulous law- law would apply). And in my head, to visit the treasures hidden in the the image created was that of a musty pages of those Reporters, yers existed even then, rubbing their hands with glee upon spotting confused couple in a strange coun- back to a time much neglected. And needless to say, I treasure an unsuspecting layman with a le- try, driven by love to a new and foreign land. those opportunities. gal problem. What about the clients themselves? Would they also In another matter, one dealing with Pictures Courtesy : Google Images have haggled for a lesser fee? the former princes of Travancore,

Journeying to a Much-Neglected Time

Andy Andrews’ ‘The Traveler’s Gift’ Book Review by Priya Gopal

The Traveler’s Gift by Andy Andrews is a book that unravels how man agonises over everything, looking for a solution outside him, when ironically the solution lies within. It's a book that has to be read, stresses Priya Gopal. 25

BOOK REVIEW|PRIYA GOPAL With his remaining conscious thought, David removed his hands from the steering wheel and raised them as fists to the sky.” Please, God!” he cried. “Why me?”......... “Why....not....you?” Looking directly into David’s eyes, Truman enunciated the words carefully, separating them as if he were speaking to a child. “I believe that is the answer to the last question you asked before you arrived.” The question we need to ask ourselves is, why not me? Modern life is definitely not a bed of roses. The thorns of failure, time and again, shake us out of our complacency and make us realise that all is not well in the world we have created for ourselves. Man today is arrogant, ungrateful and lacks faith. The hollowness of his life echoes in his personal and professional life. Civilisation is hurtling itself towards its peril.

simple. Ponder finds himself thrown out of a job that he thought he would never lose, forcing him to work on very low wages in the new one. Unable to fund his daughter’s treatment, Ponder is suicidal. When his car skids down the icy cliff during his suicide attempt, Andy Andrews takes David Ponder and the reader on a magical journey through time, one that is a powerful combination of fact, fiction, history and motivation.

the daily grind that we do not take the time out to pause and think. The Traveler’s Gift makes you introspect: Where am I going? What is my role in this huge time machine that I am travelling? Do I have faith in the decisions that I take? The novel succeeds in telling you that every small decision taken with faith and conviction can change the course of not just one’s life but of a generation.

Quit quitting. The message comes out loud and clear without being The accident projects him into a condescending. The plot is captitrajectory of time travel wherein vating and the language is simple he encounters people as diverse and engaging. One is as curious as as Harry Truman and King SoloPonder to find who he will enmon. His final encounter is with counter next and what lesson he Gabriel, an archangel who shows will learn. The solutions are practihim all that he didn’t achieve in cal and attainable . The seven decilife since he gave up on those ide- sions that Ponder makes may as and lacked the zeal to see seem simple but are no doubt so through them. His encounters with powerful that one is motivated to each one of the characters teach put them into practice. him a new lesson and help him The book is indeed a gift for the take seven decisions that will alter traveller undertaking the journey the course of his life. Following called life. this, Ponder reaches his own future and sees himself a successful A free reading guide is available at man inspiring the world with what www.thomasnelson.com/ happened to him and how the sev- travelersgift. en decisions that he made deter- Andy Andrews is a comedian, aumined his personal and profesthor, speaker, corporate entertainsional success. er, television celebrity and a seriHistory teaches lessons that man ous fisherman. Find Andy Andrews at http:// chooses to ignore. Lessons from www.andyandrews.com/ the past should motivate us to

Here’s a book that tries to answer the pertinent question ‘why not me’ and motivates readers to find their bearings in this fast-paced life that seems to be taking us nowhere. The Traveler’s Gift by Andy Andrews is a book that unravels how man agonises over everything, looking for a solution outside him, when ironically the solution lies within – it’s the story of David Ponder, the protagonist, chart out way ahead. But so whose life has been anything but caught up are we in trying to run

ACTION REPLAY Varsha Sreenivasan “Dear child..

for a purpose rare;

Dear child..”

I’ve come to you

i hear Her call

with a question

“Dear child..

in mind..

Wake up..

I hope for an answer

It’s morning now!”

if you will be so kind!”

“Oh yes.. Oh yes..”

“Oh Mother Mother..

i rub my eyes

why speak in

happy to hear

such manner!

Mother Nature’s voice.

Am i not a simple child

“Oh Mother..

You can command?

it’s been so long

Why address me as though

since i heard You speak..

i were a stranger?”

So glad..so glad that You came

“Alright then child..

to meet..”

I understand what you mean Answer me then

She laughs

this question right now..

Her gentle

this beautiful world,

Motherly laugh

this immaculate creation,

“Oh my child

this perfectly co-ordinated

I’ve been here and there

play of

but today I’ve come

space, time and matter..

POETRY

what is the meaning? what is the point of it all o’ daughter?” like a bolt from the blue Her question hits bringing back with it last year’s memories; a poem for Spark on Creation and Creativity a question for Mother Nature on the meaning of it all a promise from Her to meet me here same time next year to recover from ignorant me the answer. A year from then and i have no answers yet.. Alas..i have been a bad student.. missing out on my homework as expected.

She asks “Of course!” i jump for glee “This oh Mother is for my morning tea!” “Right then my dear” She ruffles my hair “So what is now.. your answer then?” “Oh ever loving Mother dear! for the question we brought over from last year this is the answer we found today.. That there really are no answers here, that we came to make and not to search, that we came to create what we look for, that we came to shed all questions here, that we came to be our answers.”

She gives me a lump of clay asks me, “Is this of any use to you? “No,” i say She turns it into a cup “And now?” Onkel_wart

Fiction| Vani Viswanathan

Weirdness They say things change with time. Somehow, this person’s distinguishing feature – his hairstyle hasn’t. A byte-sized story by Vani Viswanathan. ed to find a replacement. Someone who knew how to use his scissors was needed; the hair needed to stay the same, the right length, circumference, and all that. The whole mass of it.

Vani Viswanathan

FICTION

It was weird – he had looked the same for the last 30 years. It had started in a fit, the zeitgeist of 30 years ago in the West. The look that fit the bell bottoms, checked shirts with the top few buttons undone, revealing chest hair, and the oversized shades. He was one of the few in the country who had dared to do this – in a country where actors then insisted on a It was weird – for all the hair on wig of shiny, curly black hair even his head, his face was cleanwhen they had gone bald, in a shaven, and it always was. Even a country where people wouldn’t bit of stubble was to be removed look at an actor who didn’t have immediately, and his procedure at least a pencil-drawn mouswas a daily shave and a monthly tache. Perhaps that was what actrim. Just a trim, never much of a tually set him apart and made haircut. The same hairstylist, who people come to watch him perwas growing old and wasn’t as form. Unique. Zeitgeist. Of a good as he used to be; he dread- different country. ed the effort that would be need- It was weird – people still identiHe ran his hand through his hair. The whole mass of it: the nowgrey, frizzled, coir-like, standingup mass of it. The parts closer to his scalp were wet with sweat; he switched the fan on, and the top ends began to move about in confusion, some to the left, some to the right, some just squiggling where they were.

fied him because of the hair. When he’d tried 20 years ago to change the haircut, in line with the long punk that most popular men in the West had come to have by then, it backfired terribly, and sales of his records and cassettes fell. It was a painful period, when he had to spend a few months overseas to let his hair grow out. When he returned with the black coir-dry frizz bomb, and there was a photograph of him in the national newspaper, life returned to normalcy. The next album went by without a hitch. Was played on radio a record number of times, in fact. With the decades that came later on, he knew better than to experiment with his mane. Life changed, he didn’t sing anymore, he was making music for movies, and he was still popular and well sought after. And the first thing anyone he met looked at was the hair. The whole mass of it. Like a scan from his forehead to the strand that was straight above the tip of his nose,

Fiction| Vani Viswanathan the longest strand of hair on his head that was gelled well enough to stand up straight in attention. It was almost as if the world believed his magic was in his hair. As if the musical notes would slide down his brains as the strands of hair slid down the white sheet at the stylist’s. It was weird – he couldn’t fathom the best way to wear it. Even though at the store the attendants fawning over him agreed it was a good purchase. He reached out to pick up the Nike hair band he’d bought. White, and elastic, the kind he’d seen old people like him wore to match their white tee-shirts, shorts, shoes and socks when they jogged. It didn’t look good worn across the forehead, he looked daft. He couldn’t wear it like how girls wore a hair band – because girls wore it that way, and it ruined the hair anyway. He threw the band down in disgust. It was another victim of impulse. Like the decision that was now the hair on his head. The whole mass of it.

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