Spark Word.World.Wisdom December 2013
Flashback
| Fiction | Non-fiction | Poetry | | Photography | The Lounge | 1
Spark—December 2013 | Flashback
05 December 2013 Dear Reader, Hi there! The year is drawing to a close and what better way to celebrate than getting nostalgic? Presenting, the December issue of Spark, themed 'Flashback'. There's heartwarming poetry and fiction that are sure to make you smile and even move you to a tear or two. There's also our usual sprinkling of non-fiction and photography. We hope you enjoy this edition and as always, we look forward to hearing from you on what you thought about Spark this month. Do send us your comments to feedback@sparkthemagazine.com. Next month, we will see you with our fourth anniversary issue. - Editorial team
Contributors AM Aravind Anupama Krishnakumar Bakul Banerjee Divya Ananth Maheswaran Sathiamoorthy M. Mohankumar Parth Pandya Rajitha Gopal
All rights of print edition reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior permission of the Spark editorial team.
Rrashima Swwarup Verma
Spark December 2013 © Spark 2013
Vinita Agrawal
S Viswanathan Vani Viswanathan Vinay Krishnan
Individual contributions © Author
Concept, Editing and Design
CC licensed pictures attribution available at www.sparkthemagazine.com Published by Viswanathan
Anupama
Anupama Krishnakumar Vani Viswanathan
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Inside this Issue
POETRY Revisit by M. Mohankumar Waiting by Vinita Agrawal The Bay Leaf by Bakul Banerjee Summer of Love by Vinita Agrawal FICTION A Veil of Colours by Parth Pandya Nicole’s Journal by Rrashima Swaarup Verma Agni Pariksha by AM Aravind The Dream by M. Mohankumar Dark Corners by Anupama Krishnakumar NON-FICTION Shadow, Echo and Dejavu by Vinay Krishnan Collecting the Past by Vani Viswanathan Walking Through Yesterday’s Tinsel Town by S Viswanathan Thinking of Paati by Divya Ananth THE LOUNGE SLICE OF LIFE| Shopping for Firewood by Rajitha Gopal PHOTOGRAPHY Nostalgia by Maheswaran Sathiamoorthy
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Poetry
Revisit
By M.Mohankumar When a person revisits the land of one’s childhood after many years, what happens? Indeed, memories come rushing. M. Mohankumar’s poem captures the questions, emotions and the experience. This land, overgrown with brushwood. Here once stood an old house where I spent my happy childhood days. The brick-lined well is still intact. Where is the flowering pala tree, the rumoured abode of a yakshi?
The old lady next door has a dreamy, uncertain look. She stares at me vacantly. My words are lost on her; yet I go on, connecting names with names, till the reels of her memory unroll.
Now words pour out of her mouth, words of affection, smothering me. We reminisce.’ I remember,’ she says, ‘you’re that noisy child... ' 4
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I’m the noisy child, romping about, with other noisy children, all over here, darling of the two pale-faced ladiesyour sisters- who never stirred out of their upstairs rooms, shut in by walls hung with photos and Belgian glasses. . ‘You may go up and have a look.’
No, granny, I’m not the uninhibited child that I was thirty years ago. And what am I to see, up there, except two darkened rooms, long since vacant? Let the old memories remain untainted.
‘Another time,’ I say, averting my eyes.
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 will be brought out by Authorspress, Delhi shortly. Mohankumar retired as Chief secretary to Government of Kerala.
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Fiction
A Veil of Colours by Parth Pandya
An incident from a person’s past continues to haunt him years after it happened so much so that It affects his relationship with the woman he loves. Parth Pandya writes a short story.
She sat on the ground, leaning forward and staring at her creation with great intensity. Smudges of blue streaked her beige pant, one that wore marks of earlier battles too. A bowl of water, muddled with colours her brushes had emptied into it, lay on her left. A flourish of the brush and then she would move onto the next colour, committing to the pool yet another of her choices. On her right lay her instruments of trade. A box full of tubes filled with colours, that had been squeezed out fully or partially. A case full of brushes of various thicknesses. Canvases stacked up behind the box, of different sizes. The top of each canvas peeked out from behind the box. A pair of intense, inquisitive eyes stared out. Above that was a branch of a tree, from which a bird’s nest dangled. A mop of hair was right in front of that nest. It would remain a mystery as to who that hair belonged to and which bird was trapped inside. This room to me was always full of mysteries.
didn’t disturb her. I looked at the work in progress and then looked back at her. She was wearing a green sleeveless top. Her slender left hand rested in her lap, the brush poised to strike. The music system was playing strained notes of a sitar. Raag Kalavati, it must be, I guessed. I stepped on an empty bag of chips. She heard the sound and turned towards me. The features of that face I had come to love came into full view. That aquiline nose, those lips flush with life, the rounded jaw, even the hair tied into a disheveled bun. “When did you come?” she asked “I didn’t notice you.” “Just now.” “So, how was it? The session…”
“Good, I suppose. We talked about my time at the school. The first three years I spent in MusI walked into the room quietly, making sure I sourie.” 6
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She gave a terse nod and went back to her painting. It was a habit of hers. Switch on, switch off. It was back to forgetting that I was in the room at all. The evening sun was beating down on her painting. I realised I could see some streaks of colour, but nothing more. I wondered if I should close the blinds.
painting was beautiful and haunting.
“We spoke about my first few years in Don Brasco. My parents always thought getting me into that boarding school was the high point of their parenting efforts. All those details I had forgotten came back to me. Those initial days when I was put in Ludlow House. It was a completely new world for me. I took me a while to get to like that place. Thankfully, I wasn’t alone. A lot of the new boys who came felt that way.”
Silence filled the room. I could sense her eyes bearing down on me.
I wanted to kiss her, tell her that she was magnificent, that she had breathed pain and life into the canvas, that she was gifted, and that her talent was going to take her places. I did nothing like that. Instead, I went walked right past the painting and grabbed the ashtray behind the “Is that it? Are we done talking?” I asked. My canvas dropping heaps of ash while holding voice must have sounded a bit testy because she onto my words. immediately snapped out of her focus and “Tell me more.” looked at me. “Great friendships were forged in the first year. “No. Please. Go on. Tell me.” As they say, adversity bonds people together. So I couldn’t shrug off my irritation that easily. I it did with us. Harmeet, Vijay, Anand, and …” strolled to the window and lit a cigarette. My voice trailed off.
“Tell me, how do you know what to paint? Where do you get the inspiration for all these?”
It was my favourite question that I never got a straight answer to. There was pain and melancholy in her work, but the source never revealed itself. I was left to wonder if she had some past hurt that manifested itself. Every time I saw her She uncrossed her legs and got up, gingerly work, she became more mysterious to me. walking over to the kitchen. I took a drag of the cigarette and took a good look at her painting, “And, Saurin?” she asked, answering my quesnow that she wasn’t blocking the way. A smor- tion with a question. gasbord of colours presented itself to me. It was “You know who, Sakshi. Do you really need me as if someone had painted an ocean of yellows to tell you?” and reds and most of all, blue. Waves upon waves of color overlapped over each other and She paused, knowing fully well that I was talking fought to dominate. Blue, however, seemed des- as much to myself as I was to her. tined to win. In the midst of this ocean floated I extinguished the cigarette and said, two seeming innocuous, but rather large eyes. “Shantanu.” They were writhed in sad despair, shedding si“Yes, Shantanu, my best friend in school. That lent tears that filled the ocean around them. The 7
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Shantanu, Sakshi.”
my reserved seat. I threw the bags in and went back to the door.“
I realised I had walked all across the room as I continued with my soliloquy. “The train started to move. Just then, I saw him stumble onto the platform. I smiled and waved “For months, we sat on the same bench. I copat him. He saw me and doubled his speed. This ied his homework, grabbed from his plate at was not looking too good. The train had picked lunch, teased him, but he never complained. up quite some pace. A little longer and he was When our Christmas vacations arrived, I began going to be at the edge of the station. I held my packing to head home. Everyone seemed to hand out so I could pull him in. He ran as fast be.” as he could. His hair bobbed up and down and I stole a glance at her. One look and I realized the spectacles on his nose threatened to fall off. that I must have been building up a frenzy. But he was catching up. He was going to make it. I stretched my “But Shantanu washand out some more. n’t. He had no reaI closed my eyes to son to go back, no blink. When they place to go back. He opened again, his had been orphaned hand was lodged in when young and was mine. We had done now being supported it. I smiled at him by his uncle and aunt and pulled harder. who had little affecBut …” tion for him. I felt miserable when I I took a deep breath, heard that. I made a decision then to take him steeled myself and continued. along. No way was he going to spend his time “His hand slipped from mine. I saw him drift alone here.” away from me and tumble onto the station. The “Shantanu protested as much as he could, but I momentum had been too much. The fall made was too dominant for him. I made him pack his him tumble several times. I was told later that bags and head to the station with me. Being on he had cracked his head open with the fall and time was never our strong suit. I went over to the internal injuries had been too much to surthe platform with his bags while I waited for vive. All I remember is that look of shock on him to buy his ticket. The train was already on his face when he tumbled.” the platform, ready to depart. The train horn “I let him down,” I said, realising my bad choice went off - It was time to go. I looked nervously of words, fighting against the silence in the towards the gate. There was no sign of him. I room. No answer came from her. ran hurriedly in search of the S3 coach that I luckily found. Our plan was to take turns using “Didn’t I? Have you nothing to say?” I went on, 8
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“Didn’t I? Have you nothing to say?” I went on, indifference. the object of my affection suddenly becoming “Who said it doesn’t, Saurin? Not everything is the object of my antagonism. expressed in words.” “For years, I have felt…” I grasped at thin air She took one long look at her paintings and left searching for the right word. the room. I fixed my gaze and looked at the “…. Trapped. And after all this, you have noth- paintings anew. The veil began lifting as I sifted ing to say?” through the canvasses. The bird in the cage, the eyes with the flowing tears, the look of pain and Silence as usual. anguish appearing from painting to picture. A “You know, you don’t have to solve my prob- rueful smile crossed my lips. I realised I wasn’t lem. But a little empathy wouldn’t hurt. Perhaps the only one struggling to escape. you could tell me that my pain means a little something to you.” The causticness in my tone was meant to hurt. I knew I had little right to be mad at her. I couldn’t expect her to drive my demons away. My helplessness manifested itself in anger over her
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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Non-fiction
Shadow, Echo and Déjàvu by Vinay Krishnan Dreams from the past that have become realities are often forgotten by the human mind. These forgotten dreams are shadows of the dreamer, says Vinay Krishnan and insists that certain dreams in life have to be dreamt again and again even if they have become realities. When I turn around, I see my own shadow,
other.
Cast by the light I walk toward. From the time we've opened our eyes and our What happens then to that dream? mind to the vastness of the world and its unimWhat happens to the person with that dream aginable beauty, we have had desires - dreams. that was once the only dream that made his life Dreams of making it big, of finding love, of meaningful? driving our very own first car, of making our It becomes a ghost of the person who once parents say how proud they are of us, of seeing dreamed that dream. our children achieve something. The dream that is now, not only a reality, but We have all had such dreams in life. Something also something disappearing in the rear view that keeps us going every second. mirror in the journey of life. It's like our heartbeat, a part of our own self. I have many dreams. We toil, pray, cry, till we get to that goal. I want to make cars, be a world famous autoAnd when we do, we have that moment. mobile stylist and designer, and travel the world. The moment when we are under the illusion of Find love and marry her. being happy and content. Build a beautiful house by the sea. But then, we move on. But I have shadows of myself, behind all these We move ahead of the goal, eyes fixed on an10
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an echo of me who loved to write, and read, and sing. Shadows which are nothing but unfinished stories and broken notes today.
Did I achieve these dreams? Well yes, I sure did. But moving past them made them dreams again. Dreams that I may not achieve again. Dreams that may be forgotten, or become things that remind me of who I once used to be. And while I type these words onto the screen, I feel myself hear the sound of that echo. The sound of myself, the sound of what I once used to be. Dejavu.
Maybe I can dream that dream again.
Vinay Krishnan is currently pursuing his post-graduation in Transportation and Automobile Design. Besides being a design student, he’s also a blogger, daydreamer, thinker, and artist by heart. His dream is to change the way people see the automobile and also to own a firm that caters to understanding and designing what people would like to see in their automobile. He blogs at http://myscribblesonpaper.blogspot.in/ and has a chapterised novel at http://mylifeoutofthebox.blogspot.in/
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Poetry
Waiting
by Vinita Agrawal As time moves on and the waiting seems endless, it is nostalgia that offers respite. Vinita Agrawal writes a poem.
A montage of photos lines the walls of my heart Spelling the point of no return in traces of skin There is no place to be, except in love The places in your eyes read like Tolkien's fantasies
Knuckles of life graze my deadened state as spaces widen Inevitably, the oases shrink in the desert sands As does time in between our fingers Where do the days go from here What do we do about our hearts? Why is there never any answer to that? Why does the waiting never stop?
It rides the silver metal wings of every airplane taking off It cries the way the pale blue sky does when pierced by noise It forms icicles of nothingness over thoughts It yelps between us like a wounded animal
Vinita Agrawal is a Delhi-based writer and poet and has been published in international print and online journals.
Our freedom lies in being attached to love. 12
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Fiction
Nicole’s Journal
by Rrashima Swaarup Verma On a December morning, Nicole Varghese pulls out her personal journal from the closet and begins reading. The result is a journey down memory lane. Here’s a work of fiction by Rrashima Swaarup Verma. The living room was bathed in warm sunlight as Nicole Varghese settled down into her favourite armchair with a mug of steaming coffee and the journal. It was a beautiful December morning and she could hear the birds chirping merrily in the balcony of her three-bedroom Bandra apartment. Nicole took a sip of the hot, aromatic brew and picked up the journal. As she felt her fingers close upon it, she almost wanted to let out a whoop of joy. It had been a long time and it was like finding a long-lost friend again. She smiled to herself as she fingered the gold lettering of the title on the leather cover. It was an old journal but in good condition since she’d had it leather bound a few years ago. The cover was a glossy mahogany colour and the pages were rather loosely bound together so that she could open it to a full 180 degrees. Thick thread had been used to secure the binding.
would have liked to, she knew she didn’t have the time to read all the entries, so she went straight to the date of her wedding. 5th December, 2003. Ten years! Clichéd as it might sound, time had certainly flown. But it had been a fulfilling ten years in every way. As she closed her eyes now, she could almost envision it as though it had happened just yesterday. It had been a glorious December afternoon in Kottayam and they’d both looked wonderful in their wedding finery. Jason had been clean shaven then, she remembered. They’d been quite the besotted couple. Love’s young dream! They’d stood so reverently in front of the priest and exchanged their vows. She of course, had been totally overwhelmed with emotion and had ceremoniously burst into tears almost as soon as the priest had declared them man and wife. Barely aware of the smile that was already playing on her lips, Nicole turned her attention back She opened the journal and instantly, a wave of to the journal. As she read the entry now, she memories washed over her. Her wedding, birthalmost felt transported back to the day when days, Dennis’s first Christmas, his first day at she’d been quite the blushing bride ten years preschool, family vacations... Much as she 13
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ago. ‘Today was the best day of my life. I thought getting married would be a frightening experience but it wasn’t. I suppose that’s what happens when you’re truly in love with someone. I can’t wait to start a happily ever after life with Jason.’
but I couldn’t wait to get to bed. I didn’t even eat any dinner tonight because of the nausea. Even the fried fish that I usually love, tasted like cardboard. The fact that I couldn’t drink any of the champagne that was flowing freely, didn’t help either. Jason was incredibly sweet though. He even got me lots of maternity clothes as an After that, she repeatedly turned the pages to anniversary present.’ the same date, only the year was different every The sixth one had been quitime. Their first annivereter, she remembered. Short sary had been an event to weekend in Lonavala. Dennis remember. Nicole stared had been only seven months longingly at the words old and even though her written in her neat, lucid mother had assured her that handwriting on the page she would take complete in front of her. ‘Tonight’s care, Nicole hadn’t been keen party was like a dream come on leaving him for more than true. I thought it was a bit one night. ‘The drive was lovely, silly but Jason insisted I wear all misty hills and blue skies. I did my wedding dress. We danced feel pretty torn though and was to Red Red Wine afterwards. I have never been happier wracked with paroxysms of guilt for leaving Dennis than this. It was like being queen for a day.’ behind but it was nice to spend some quality time with Jason. Between night after night of no sleep, a demanding She turned the page and smiled. The second work schedule and post-partum depression, this was one had been even better. ‘We woke up to the certainly a welcome respite.’ Nicole smiled wistfully sound of the waves this morning. The ship had docked at as she turned the pages and shook her head rueMalta for the day. Jason served me tea in bed and it was fully when she came to the next date. ‘It feels the most delicious over brewed English Breakfast tea I strange to be sitting home in my PJ’s on our anniversary. have ever tasted. Later, we roamed the streets hand in It’s eight o’clock in the evening and Jason still hasn’t hand, just like they do in the movies and then had dinreturned from work. Dennis has a bad bout of colic, I ner on the deck under a starlit sky.’ Poetic! Nicole haven’t slept in two nights and celebration is actually the shook her head at how idealistic young people furthest thing from my mind. I guess we’ll be eating Dal in love are. Chawal tonight.’ Childish, thought Nicole as she She read and re-read the entries several times read the entry. She laughed as she remembered and giggled almost like a little girl as long for- how depressed she’d been that evening. Even gotten memories re surfaced after so long. She the enormous bouquet of flowers that Jason was pregnant with Dennis on her fifth one and had brought her when he’d finally returned at even though she’d been listless and cranky, Ja- ten o’clock hadn’t cheered her up. She turned son had insisted on the party. ‘The party was fun the pages of the journal then and sighed. There 14
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were no further entries. The last two ones had been pretty uneventful. They’d both become too busy with work, home and Dennis and there had been no more time for crazy, youthful shenanigans. Jason had promised her however that they’d make up. “Our tenth’s coming up this year,” he’d said to her one evening “We have to do something special. How about a week in Venice? It’s the most romantic city, the Palazzos are sublime and you, my darling, would look lovely on a gondola. Dennis can stay with his grandparents for a few days.” Nicole had laughed at him and called him over ambitious but he’d insisted that he meant it. This had been said almost six months ago but just as she’d expected, it just hadn’t happened.
that it was their anniversary when Jason finally rang the doorbell at 9:30 that night. Dennis was already in bed by then and Nicole could almost feel the tears welling up in her eyes as she went to open the door. Trying to pull herself together, she shook her head impatiently. All that reminiscing that morning had made her teary and weepy. She swallowed the lump in her throat as she swung the door open. “Happy Anniversary, Sweetheart.” She could hardly see him behind the enormous bouquet of red roses that he was holding. Blinking her tears back, Nicole stepped forward to envelop him into a hug. There hadn’t been any time for sweet nothings that morning. As they stood there, savoring the warmth of each other in the balmy Mumbai night air, both of them were thinking exactly the same thing. It just didn’t seem like ten years. It had all passed She closed the journal and glanced at the clock. by so quickly. She almost instantly gasped when she saw the time. She’d been sitting there for over two ‘I never imagined that a man as predictable as Jason hours and she had to be at work soon. Quickly could surprise me but he certainly did. So we’re not going rising from the armchair, she hurried to the bed- to Venice after all but I’ve always loved Goa! And the room. She opened her closet and then trying her weather will be glorious this time of year. It’s all settled, best to quell her disappointment, she stuffed the Dennis will be staying with his grandparents for five journal back into it, behind all those piles of days and Jason’s even got my leave approved from my clothes where it would lie, forgotten for some boss on my behalf. He certainly didn’t do things halfway time. this time. My eyes were as round as dinner plates when he showed me the air tickets and hotel confirmation. He The rest of the day passed uneventfully. As a said he couldn’t let this occasion just pass us by. After matter of fact, it hardly felt like a special day and all, it’s our tenth! I’m so excited! I just love beach holiNicole was admittedly, disappointed. In fact, as days! I wonder if I’m too old for a bikini. I guess not unbelievable as it was, she’d almost forgotten since Jason did say that I still look exactly like the 15
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same girl he married ten years ago. It’s been a wonderful most prized possessions and ought to be pretenth anniversary after all!’ served for posterity. She turned off the light and got into bed beside Jason. He was already fast Nicole smiled to herself and closed the leather asleep and snoring rhythmically. Closing her bound journal with a satisfied sigh. She opened eyes, she slipped into the crook of her husthe drawer of her side table and placed the jourband’s arm and almost instantly, fell asleep. nal carefully into it. It was after all, one of her
Rrashima Swaarup Verma has an MBA in Marketing. She is Senior Director - Business Development with a leading, multinational business intelligence and strategic consulting company. She has worked on numerous projects with leading Indian and international corporations and has wide experience in business writing across a diverse spectrum of functional and industry segments. Rrashima is also a fiction writer and poet and several of her compositions have been published in leading newspapers, magazines and literary journals.
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Non-fiction
Walking Through Yesterday’s Tinsel Town
by S Viswanathan S Viswanathan reminisces a time when cinema held sway as the king of entertainment, a stark contrast to what it is today – a massive but fleeting presence in people’s lives. Let me get down the memory lane of tinsel ple. town. Given such gullibility and hunger for entertainThere are acute signs of domination of cinema ment, cinema, I can say, certainly 100% brainin the lives of people in what I view as my past washed viewers. years. Cinema was inextricably through the warp Myths of heroes became ideals and achievable, and weft of what I may call social, cultural, morhonourable, worshippable qualities. The hero al and psychological aspects of my being. Back was portrayed in stark contrast to the villain to by say, five decades, cinema was confined to boost the former’s popularity, so much so that bigger screen (16 mm too very rare) – with most one of my colleagues used to remark: “The vilcommanding width being 35 mm and exceplain is responsible for the hero’s monstrous suctional films in wider versions of cinemascope or cess.” 70 mm stereophonic versions. While morals were hyped by magnificent Cinema was necessarily a blown-up version of screens and taken seriously by the population, it life which dug deep into the psyche of viewers. is not so currently. Cinema is not as dominant a Such screens coming to life was more than an force today as it was in my times. Films have escape for the audience; it was all too real and become more accessible, are forgotten quickly had absolute oneness with the medium. and characters do not hold sway over the minds Crowds were all too emotional and vulnerable of the viewers as the MGRs and Sivaji Ganesans enough to believe anything flashed onto screen of yesteryear did. – even hyperbolic situations. Yes, cinema defined life and determined the mentality of peo- Technology has made irreversible and deep in17
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roads into how cinema gets to the masses; cinema has permeated the diminutive order through discs and then USB drives and Micro SD cards. Computers, now Tablets and mobiles in large numbers are media carrying films. The screen continues to be a magnificent presence, vivid, accurate and three dimensional in light and sound. But there are no long and expectant queues. Net booking is through.
accruing, long back. Present tunes are so shortlived. Most of them are lost in the crowd. Songs are sensational and with no discriminating audience nor intrinsic value and beauty! What a contrast this poses given that classics from yesteryears rule even today for their tuning, instrumental brilliance and blending with the song. Despite lacking in technical advancement in reproduction in those years, the soul in them is all too real and undying. Such rich tunes Commerce is also transformed. Films are more tend to have their innocence and nativity exin number, get made quicker and on micro ploited in re-mixes! budgets. Movies get turned over and out of theatres sooner. Recently, I made a The sole goal choice selection of of the movielullabies for my grandmaking frachild, and naturally, ternity seems most of them were to be the exmarshalled old timers traction of with no song from the maximum recent times making to footfalls and the list. viewership Another aspect to the into multifilms of those years film complexthat is etched in my es with innumemory is the rich background score. Equivamerable shows of the same movie. lents of such themes are too rare now-a-days. Do you at all see any “25th day” poster, leave The title music of 'Sholay', the common underalone “50th day”? Are you day-dreaming? current theme of Raj Kapoor’s films are a few Most films are driven out of theatre within 15 of these. days for sure. Celebrating 100 days, Silver JubiThere is nostalgia about us. But such fine aslee and Golden Jubilee are historic relics today. pects of video and audio refuse to lie buried and 'Enter the Dragon' ran for a year at a theatre at silent in the cacophony trend presently running Chennai in seventies. So did 'Sholay', 'Bobby' around. In fact, the classics stand out and are and 'Yaadon ki Baaraat'. cherished by present generation too. I mean The important aspect of melodies as integral to those who are keen and discriminating and have the story and the film is lost today. Where are a delicate taste in music and fine cinema. I rethe haunting melodies? This genre has ceased member legendary music director MS Viswana18
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than saying: “There are no old and new songs. There are only good and bad songs.” The one advantage that technology has thankfully provided is easy access to these old movies in a way that can be preserved and heard and watched over and over again, not only by people of my generation but the newer ones too. Watching 'Sholay' or 'Enga Veetu Pillai' on TV or DVD these days still reminds me of the whistles, cheers and tears that were shared with my fellow movie watchers in the cinema hall.
Viswanathan Subramanian is a retired banker who is enjoying retirement life pursuing his interests. He loves poring over business newspapers and journals and making notes. Spirituality also interests him, and so a good number of Sri Ramana Maharishi’s and Jiddu Krishnamurthy’s books find space in his bookshelf. He is extremely passionate about movies and music too. You are sure to find some good old English movie DVDs and an enormous collection of old mp3 Hindi and Tamil songs at his place!
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Poetry
The Bay Leaf by Bakul Banerjee
A girl recalls the events of a night at her home when relatives came visiting and when there was little food. What did her mother do? The memory of a moonlit night is captured in a poem by Bakul Banerjee. A loud knock on the flimsy wooden door jolted three of us. Mother rushed to open it while trying to hide the rip in her sari. A giant of a young muscleman was standing there, taller than the door. Two taxi cabs blocked the alley, a strange sight indeed. Seven men and women, young and old tumbled out. Neighbours watched the spectacle.
My shy little brother ran off and stood still facing the darkest corner of our only bedroom. That was often his solution, but I remained curious. Muscleman hauled in many valises and suitcases. Others followed. “The cab driver needs his fare.” Somebody instructed Mother. She dived into the dark bedroom. I slipped
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inside before she could close the door.
Shaking out rupees from the hidden rusting tin, she hissed at me, “Get an education and earn money. Then, you won’t have to bear with this nonsense. That’s it! No more money to buy any food for the rest of the month. We are out of the rationed quota of rice for two weeks.” In the darkness, her eyes dazzled and lips twitched. Brother whimpered.
An actress she could have been. She was all smiles out in the courtyard, welcoming relatives from nowhere, then returning to her tiny kitchen to add water to dishes she cooked in the afternoon. That evening, at dinner in the courtyard, Father complained about the thin Dal and smaller portion of curry, but my portions were even smaller and no fish.
Mother kept piling rice on the plate of the muscleman. “You should make the Dal thicker.” The fat lady offered advice taking three helpings. The granduncle ate in silence. I took away empty pots to the kitchen. Conversations continued as bells rang in the temple of Lakshmi, the goddess 21
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of wealth, filling the sky lit by moonlight.
Alone, she sat in the dim kitchen staring at her sparkling but empty brass plate. “What are you going to eat?” I whispered. “Come back later to help me clean the kitchen.” She replied. Disobeying, I stood by the door staring over her shoulder. A teaspoonful of rice from the cooking pot and a tablespoon of curry sauce – that’s all she could put on the plate.
Award-winning author and poet Bakul Banerjee, Ph.D. published her first volume of poems, titled “Synchronicity: Poems” in June 2010. Other poems and stories have been published in several literary magazines and anthologies throughout the U.S. She received the international Gayatri Memorial Literary Award for her contribution to English literature. Bakul has been featured in multiple Chicago area poetry events and presented workshops including one titled “Inspirations from World Poetry” at the prestigious Chicago Poetry Fest 2012. Currently, she serves as the chair of Naperville Writers Group. She received her Ph.D. degree in computational geophysics from The Johns Hopkins University, Maryland.
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Fiction
Agni Pariksha by AM Aravind
As stargazers across the world wonder whether Comet ISON will survive its test of fire as it moves close to the sun, Vikram puts his impending wedding with Kalpana through the test too. A M Aravind tells us their story, interwoven with the cosmic spectacle that wasn’t. Thursday. 28 Nov, 2013
front of him. Vikram was tracing the progress of Comet ISON, which was to reach perihelion in a few hours. Solar and Heliospheric Observatory or SOHO in short, is a spacecraft which scientists use to observe the Sun closely. Since the comet was grazing the Sun, it was in SOHO’s field of view.
Vikram was refreshing his browser every few seconds anxiously, though the page was feeding him with live images, auto-refreshing every two minutes. He was deeply engrossed. The blaring loudspeakers, the pizza delivery man, his phone, barking dogs – nothing could distract him. Except his mom. Comet enthusiasts around the world were glued to their computer screens, monitoring the com“Dei, you are getting married in three days, reet, for the next few hours were critical. Everymember? Kalpana is back in town only tomorone was dying to know if the comet would surrow. Did you check with her if she needs anyvive its trip around the Sun, as it was getting too thing to be done before the wedding? You were close. If it survived, it would put up a spectacusupposed to confirm the menu with the caterer. lar show in the next couple of months. But Are the stage decorations being taken care of? Vikram was distracted now. His mind wandered And accommodation for your friends – did the to his first meeting with Kalpana. hotel people confirm? The list of pending things is making my head spin, and you are here sitting July, 2008 in front of the computer. God save the wedVikram met Kalpana on the very first day of his MBA ding,” she said and stormed out of the room. at IIT Bombay. Kalpana, who was doing her Astro“Ah, yes. The wedding,” he said, turning his physics Engineering course there, gave him directions to attention to the monitor again. Another fresh reach his department. That was the only time he spoke to set of photos from SOHO spacecraft were in her during his stay on campus, though he saw her during 23
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his stay on campus, though he saw her during several here?” Tamil get-togethers in the campus. “Hi! You are Kalpana, right? I just moved here this *** morning. C-204” “Hmmm. There was no spark between us at IIT. Nothing at all,” he said to himself, getting back to the latest SOHO image. The comet was rushing forward at 350 km/s, but he was still thinking about Kalpana. That little flashback disrupted his concentration, and he went on a trip down the memory lane once again.
“You are my neighbour, dude! I am in C-205”
***
“You know me on Twitter? You are…?”
Sep 2012
“I am AstroPonnu, you dumbo!”
Vikram was blown away reading about Comet ISON, the newly discovered comet, which could outshine the moon. Vikram was excited. He tweeted about it, with his own calculations and predictions. Kalpana was impressed by his posts and followed him on Twitter. He followed her back.
Both of them started laughing like crazy.
A few minutes of stargazing together led to talks about the comet, his calculations and Twitter posts. And with that, their online masks were unveiled. She shrieked, “OH! @_TaareZaminPar?”
YOU
ARE
***
A smile spread across his face. Just then, the next refresh photo from SOHO was in front of him. ISON was not to be seen in the picture. It wouldn’t be visible to SOHO again, till it moves *** farther from the Sun. The comet had behaved He said to himself:“Haha. We didn’t even know as predicted till now. It would be a long wait to who we were. Hiding behind our Twitter han- know its status. He went to bed, hoping for the best tomorrow. dles, weren’t we?” That was indeed true. They hadn’t known their “Good fun when she’s around,” he thought to himself, as he hit the bed. His thoughts wanidentities, till a couple of months later. dered to the night before Kalpana left to the US The SOHO page refreshed again. ISON was for a six-month course. now very close to the Sun. The comet had *** brightened significantly. ***
April 2013
Vikram and Kalpana were in the terrace, with their binoculars and sky maps. Both their moms walked up to Vikram and his mom moved to a new apartment. It them, and casually started small talk. But both Vikram was a clear night, and Vikram was scanning the skies and Kalpana sensed something else was coming. And, it with his binoculars. did. “Hey, you are Vikram, right? What are you doing Nov 2012
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“So, when are you two getting married?”
ed in the wedding as I am. She left for the US immediately after this decision. She could have “WHAT? We have no such intensions!” shouted both taken the course next year too. Why didn’t she? of them in unison, with shocked expressions on their faces. With an hour of sermons about how they enjoyed “If both of us are indifferent, then what is the each other’s company, shared interests and how destiny point of this marriage?” had brought them together, the moms succeeded in conHe got up from the bed. It was 5.30 am. He had vincing their kids. spent the whole night thinking about all this. He “We’ll have the wedding once she’s back in November.” moved the mouse and brought the monitor to life. The browser tab with “Twitter / Search Sensing that they were about to protest, his mother conCOMET ISON” greeted him. He clicked on the tinued: “Say nothing. Why delay when you have already band captioned “1000+ New Results”. Tweets decided?” flooded the screen, and his heart sank – most of It was over in a flash. the tweets read “RIP Comet ISON :(” *** He was lying in bed, wide awake. Something was troubling him. What didn’t seem odd for the past six months suddenly seemed to hit him hard now. With the marriage barely two days away, he started panicking. It was true that they were not strangers. They had spent lots of time together in the past one year, star gazing and discussing science. His mother and her parents thought they should get married. And both of them had agreed. His mind was filled with questions. “What am I doing? Why did we rush into this? Are we in love? We share similar interests. We think alike. But romance? Was it ever there? How did I even agree to this? What does she think about this? Is she okay with the marriage or was she too convinced by her mom?” Then he thought, “I’m sure she’s as disinterest-
He shut down the monitor and went to the terrace. He faced towards the east, and waved. “You travelled for 4.5 billion years to put up a great show for us. But that was not to be. Rest in peace, ISON.” A plane which flew overhead brought him back to the big issue troubling him now. Kalpana would be here soon. He would get married in two days. It was then that he made the decision to call off the wedding. What started with ISON would end with it. As soon as she arrived, he would tell her about it. And then convince his mom and her parents. Just then, he heard a gentle thud. He was too engrossed in his thoughts to turn around. A few seconds later, he was caught tightly in an embrace. Kalpana was hugging him from behind. He felt her tears flowing on to his shoulders. Then as she let him free, he turned around to face her. She hugged him tight once again and kept repeating “I am sorry, Vicky,” in the midst of her sobs. He had no idea what was happening.
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She started talking – “I am sorry. In the 20-hour -long flight, my mind wandered. I wondered if there was any love between us. I even considered calling off the wedding. But I thought about all the good times we shared. Then I figured love is not something tangible. We don’t have to say ‘I love you’ a hundred times or gift each other cheesy presents, for it to exist. The comfort which we share with each other, the way we read each other’s minds, the feeling that unites us – that is love.”
thing it started to do. Let’s go get married.” He looked at her quietly for a few seconds. Then he said, “Our kids will have both our names as initials, okay? And we’ll name our first kid Ramasamy.”
Seeing the puzzled look on her face, he said “Naan appove sonnen”, imitating veteran actor late VK Ramaswamy. Both of them burst out laughing. “I have something to tell you too,” Vikram said, leading Kalpana downstairs. “Let’s go home, have coffee Vikram was in tears now, but he wiped her tears and talk about it.” first, and she laughed through her sobs. She continued, “Let ISON accomplish at least one
AM Aravind, who was a marketeer and a product manager in a Telecom company, quit the job and became an entrepreneur. He loves music and photography. An ardent AR Rahman fan, he has also composed music for short films. Bird photography really excites him as does baking. AM Aravind blogs at http://arrahmaniac.blogspot.com
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Non-fiction
Collecting the Past by Vani Viswanathan
Vani Viswanathan remembers some of the ways she ‘collects’ the past, and wonders why she clings on so dearly to times gone by. I’m a nostalgia junkie. I love revisiting good times, and trips down the memory lane leave with me a warm, cosy happiness. And practically speaking, most of these walks of nostalgia happen when I’m cleaning, packing or unpacking. For the last 10 years, I’ve packed, vacated and unpacked at least once a year, so these trips come by fairly often. The tradition of revisiting memories accompanies change, which has, luckily so far, always been something to look forward to, so you could say that I quite like the little ritual. I ‘collect’ memories in the form of the most mind-boggling range of items – and I’m sure every one of you have your idiosyncrasies. To give you a glimpse into my treasure trove, it has the obvious photographs from various stages in life, both print and digital. It has the emcee ‘script’ I made for a radio show in Class 9, the letter I wrote to my father who was working in Bombay while mother, sister and I lived in Chennai. It has the seed that my friend picked off the street in Bombay, claiming it signifies
friendship. There are movie stubs, bus and train tickets from journeys I want to remember for a reason. It has newspaper cuttings, ‘Zo’ cards – free pick-up postcards in Singapore, flower petals pressed between papers, coasters from pubs I’ve visited. There’s a whole range of very interesting photos I used for a marketing assignment as a 20-year-old in college. It’s got boarding passes, ferry tickets, luggage tags, tourist information brochures, maps and metro ticket stubs from my overseas travels. It’s got my prefect badges, my name tags from being a journalist and editor for the college campus paper, and for being a presenter at some scholarship program. There are beer bottle caps, and a serviette on which I scribbled the name of every pub I visited with various friends before I left Singapore for good. It’s got the various notebooks in which I have written short stories, essays and other forms of writing I’ve yet to fit into a genre. There’s the fold-out-able cover of the Alaipayuthey music cassette cover, which I used to have pinned up on my soft-pin board in college. It has restaurant bills from trips, corny ‘poems’
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written by friends, random post-its pasted by college mates during post grad. There are lengthy diary entries, scribbles that remind me of how blessed I am, and since I can’t doodle, little passages that are philosophical rants, expressions of anguish, amusement, plain anger. It’s got gift wrapping paper, and a box of paper clips, my first ever purchase in my college in Singapore, bought just because I was amused that I could get anything for under one unit of any currency – in this case, 25 cents. And then there are books which I purchased once I started earning, on each of which I have scribbled my name, the date, store in which I purchased, and a line that best described what I felt when I purchased the book. Recently, I’ve been getting addicted to making playlists that remind me of the specific points of time I listened to that set of songs over and over again – the period of intense dissertation writing during my M.A., my first semester exams in post grad college, the time I fell extremely sick, and the very hectic month at work. And believe you me, these have travelled with me through these ten years, pretty much in entirety. And unfailingly, every time I pack, I lovingly browse through the array of items. Some are rusted, many are torn, held together by cel-
lophane tape. A decade since I technically started lugging these things around, I wonder how much longer they will move with me, since I think I’m entering a period which will be defined more by stability than the fluidity that was the case so far. I’m also amused by my attachment to these tiny, potent, meaning-filled little things. Why does looking through them make me so happy? I would willingly sit and explain the reason I’ve kept each and every one of those items to anyone willing to listen (and I’ve been lucky enough to have found at least two or three such people in my life, people who have similar hordes of their own!). At times, I wonder if I’m clinging on, in too silly a manner, to a life that is gone and will never come back, literally and metaphorically speaking. Life moves on to the next stage so quickly, and looking back on these things make me miss the stage gone past so much, in a way that I have to shake myself up and remind myself I’m being ridiculous. When I look at the list of pubs I visited before leaving Singapore, I’m reminded of the anxiety I felt as I thought about how life back in India, and being a student again, would be. And then, looking at the movie stubs and Bombay local tickets I collected, I’m reminded of how ridiculously lucky I am for all the good times and people life still blessed me with.And as I stand on the cusp of another
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change in life, looking back at all these memo- next stage of life will give me a whole lot of ries fills me with a sense of discomfort because goodies to add to the treasure trove that I will of all the uncertainty in store, but only for a mo- look back on later with much fondness. ment – the little scraps of paper tell me that the
Vani Viswanathan is often lost in her world of books and A R Rahman, churning out lines in her head or humming a song. Her world is one of frivolity, optimism, quietude and general chilled-ness, where there is always place for outbursts of laughter, bouts of silence, chocolate, ice cream and lots of books and endless iTunes playlists from all over the world. Vani was a Public Relations consultant in Singapore and decided to come back to homeland after seven years away. Vani blogs at http:// chennaigalwrites.blogspot.in
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Poetry
Summer of Love by Vinita Agrawal
Unfulfilled promises jangle like an empty syringe of morphine Sprinkling the pain of blockages further into the soul
The chapel at the turn of the street is cob-webbed with morbid confessions
What’s left behind for someone who has been in a fleeting relationship? Memories and some songs. Vinita Agrawal’s poem tells you more.
They tar its facade; reduce it to a box of walls when faith disappears
I cannot pray anymore...I am sunk in the creek in the jungle of letting-go When rescued, I'll make triangular boats and float them in my name, like water flags
Seasons will come and go and I will continue to sing the songs you wrote for me From between the jowls of my December mufflers...
...Will continue to torch the corners that failed to receive light In the spell binding, fleeting, summer of our love.
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Vinita Agrawal is a Delhi-based writer and poet and has been published in international print and online journals.
Spark—December 2013 | Flashback
Fiction
The Dream
by M Mohankumar A student runs into his professor after 25 years and begins visiting the old man every time he gets the chance to visit the town. M. Mohankumar pens a story around what happens during one such visit when the professor and his student talk about a dream. I have just returned from a visit to the old man. It was thirty odd years ago that I met him for the first time. I was then in the Second Year B.A. The college had just reopened after summer vacation. We were in our seats in the lecture hall for the class on World History. And then he walked in with a spring in his step and a smile on his face. Tall and well-groomed, his thick, black curly hair neatly combed back, he appeared to be in his mid-thirties. He was an instant hit with us. We listened to his lectures with rapt attention. They were not mere lectures on history but ranged over other subjects like literature, philosophy and architecture. I remember when he talked to us about Alexander and his conquests, he spoke of Aristotle, Homer’s epics, Greek drama and the splendours of Greek architecture.
some man was still a bachelor; and, naturally, there was quite some speculation about it; and soon several stories began doing the rounds in the college. I always scored high marks in History, and became one of his favourite students. Once in a while, he would invite some of us to his lodge. His room was barely furnished – all it had was a string-cot, a table, a chair. And a shelf, specially procured by him. There were books on the shelf and the table, on many subjects, neatly arranged. There were books stacked on the floor. It was there, in that small room, that I became acquainted with the names of some of the great historians and literary giants - Macaulay, Trevelyan, H.A.L. Fisher, Goethe, Somerset Maugham, T.S. Eliot.
Months went by. The college closed for summer The lectures were so fascinating that even stu- holidays and by the time it reopened, many of dents belonging to other groups would sneak the Lecturers had been transferred. He was one into our class to attend them. of them. It was not long before we knew that this hand- My next meeting with him was some 25 years 31
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later. It was just accidental. I had come home on my annual sabbatical. I was out, walking along the main road, when I heard a hoarse voice from behind calling out my name. I looked back and saw him smiling. I couldn’t recognise my old teacher; he had grown old, too old for his age, and was bald and walked with a stoop.
about it.” He paused, and I saw the faint flicker of a smile on his face. Then he said, ”We all have dreams, good or bad, almost every day. We forget most of them, but a few stick in the mind for some time, one or two for ever. In my case....”
He paused again, as if in doubt whether he “Twelve years ago, I retired from service,” he should divulge the details, and then went on: said. “After staying in several cities, teaching in parallel colleges, I bought a small house in this ”When I was about twenty seven, I had an extraordinary dream. In that dream I saw a young relatively quiet town.” girl who looked very fair and charming. She was ”Who is there with you?’ I asked. so radiant and self-possessed. She moved with “Only a boy-servant who looks after my needs,” an indescribable grace. She spoke in a voice at he said. once sweet and confident. All my worries fell away in her presence and I felt absolutely light Since then, I have been meeting him whenever I and care-free.” come to spend some time in this town. And every time I have found him reclining in the “This dream had a tremendous effect on me. same old easy chair in his drawing room, sur- For days, my only thoughts were about this rounded by books on various subjects. dream. Did the dream portend anything? I read Freud and Jung on the subject and was none the This time he was in an expansive mood. He wiser for it.” talked about his orphaned childhood, his loneliness as a school boy and the encouragement he ”I came to the conclusion that if the dream received from his teachers. He talked about the meant anything, it was that I should marry a girl benevolence of the Father Principal of his col- like the one I saw in the dream. She would lege, who took care of the fees and the boarding bring joy and happiness into my life and give it a charges, and how he ‘pegged away’ and ‘pulled purpose and a new direction. I advertised and himself by his own bootstraps.’ received a hundred proposals. Friends too brought in quite a few. I saw a number of girls It was virtually a monologue, as it always was in and talked to them but was not satisfied. None those early days when we met him in his lodge. of them measured up to my expectations.” “I find you are reading lot of books on dreams,” At this stage the servant boy came with two I interrupted him, seeing so many books on the cups of tea on a steel tray, and placing it on the subject- Freud, Jung and others lying about him. teapoy in front of the old man, went back to the ”Yes,” he said, ”I’m still trying to find out kitchen. whether there is any meaning to the dreams that Sipping the tea, the old man said, ”Now I know, we have. You know there are various theories 32
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with the hindsight I have, that I was wrong. If I had not been haunted by that dream, I would have perhaps married a decent, fairly goodlooking girl and raised a family, instead of going after an unattainable ideal.”
wished I had brought my books and gifted them to him. ”Wait a minute,” he said, and went inside, dragging his left leg. I knew how ill he was and frail. And alone. He came back with a book in his hand.
Yet another pause. Then he said, ”What did the dream por“This one is for you,” he said. tend? You know there have “The Collected Poems of Matbeen good interpreters of thew Arnold, the prize I won dreams in the past. There was in my Final B.A. for the best Joseph, son of Jacob in the Old essay on English poetry. One Testament; Joseph who was of my favourite poets; ‘Dover sold into slavery by his brothBeach’ his best poem.” ers, who read aright the dreams He came out with me to the of the Pharaoh and predicted veranda. Then he said, ”I too the famine that was to strike have been writing poetry, of Egypt, and became the Vizier late. I’ll show you the poems of Egypt. There was the Budwhen you come next.” dha, according to Jataka Tales, who interpreted the sixteen dreams of the King I smiled, shook his hand and left. of Kosala whom his advisers had misguided for As I walked back I realised it would be at least a their selfish ends.” year before I met him again. It was getting dark. As I rose to take leave of I am flying back to Chicago tomorrow and cerhim, he said, “I’ve read your latest book of potainly, with a new baggage of memories. ems. It’s better than the previous two.” So, he had known that I was writing poetry! I
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 will be brought out by Authorspress, Delhi shortly. Mohankumar retired as Chief secretary to Government of Kerala.
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Photography
Nostalgia
by Maheswaran Sathiamoorthy
Memories are fresh little rain drops that drench our souls.
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Thoughts about a person who influenced our lives in more ways than one...
A home where our childhood was spent— a treasure trove of memories without a doubt...
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A vacation spent just the way you wanted making you nostalgic every time you think about it...
Maheswaran Sathiamoorthy graduated with a B.Tech degree from IIT Kharagpur and is currently working on his Ph.D. at 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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Fiction
Dark Corners
by Anupama Krishnakumar A mother gets a chance to visit her Alma Mater after 22 long years when her daughter secures an admission in the same college. When she lands there, she realises there is something in store for her. A short story by Anupama Krishnakumar. Twenty two years. That was how long it had been since Shailaja graduated. And she couldn’t believe it was time again to go back to the place that groomed her into what she was today. 22 years. Wasn’t it so true that history repeated itself? The young and vibrant Stuti, her first daughter, was ready to set foot into the world of medical sciences just like her father and mother. What made it even more special was the fact that Stuti was to study in the same college that her mother was a student of years ago.
her heart – something that hadn’t been there all these days when they had excitedly planned Stuti’s entry into the college. What was this strange uneasiness thawing her mind? “Amma, what’s wrong?” she suddenly heard Stuti’s voice. Stuti was holding a stack of clothes with both her hands, waiting to arrange them into one of the shelves of her allotted cupboard.
“Oh, no, nothing….I’m just tired,” Shailaja responded, unsure why she was feeling this weariness. She looked confusedly at the multiSo one fine June morning, the thrilled mother, coloured checked blanket that she was in the along with her daughter, landed in the campus process of folding. from which many well-groomed, proud young doctors took wings. Shailaja had been looking It took them an hour to put Stuti’s things in forward to this visit with a silent thrill. After all, place after which they decided to head to the here was one fine reason to go back to the place canteen for evening tea. that saw her transform from a fickle-minded “Stuti, shouldn’t we go around the campus once teenager to a mature professional. we are done with tea? I do want to see what’s On campus, as she and her daughter set things changed and what’s not in these 22 years!” up in the allotted hostel room, Shailaja realised Shailaja said trying to shrug off the unpleasantthat there was this lingering bitterness within ness that loomed over her like dark rain clouds 37
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threatening to burst into a downpour anytime.
did theirs too. But so much had changed too. Digital libraries had come in. New classrooms Stuti instantly agreed. She thought this was defihad been added and the auditorium had been nitely much fun. But what made it really interrevamped. esting was the fact that this was such a rare occurrence – both mother and daughter belonging Soaking in the experience in their own different to the same college, destined to live experiences ways, the mother and daughter continued walkthat though were 22 years apart, were still com- ing, talking, sharing and laughing until they mon in spirit. This going around was one of reached a small road that took off from the left those pulled out from the shared set of experi- side of the campus temple. This road, lined with ences. a row of huge trees on either side also had a series of cement benches under those trees. The sky had turned a pale orange by the time The road was dimly lit by two street lamps – both of them stepped out. The first thing one each at the two ends of the road. Shailaja told Stuti as they began walking out of the hostel was “You know, Stuti, I find this Shailaja’s eyes fell on the road and the benches equally exciting and strange. During my first day and she froze. Words refused to emerge from here as a student, it was my mother who had her mouth that had gone dry. “Amma,” Stuti accompanied me as well and I remember we called out softly, “What’s it, Amma? Are you had stepped out to explore the place just like alright?” Shailaja stood there, her eyes transfixed you and I have done now. It’s just that the hos- on those benches. The reason for that inexplicatel had just one building and not twenty blocks ble, haunting bitterness now became clear to like it does now.” her. Stuti’s eyes sparkled and a mere look at them made Shailaja understand that her daughter could totally relate to what she was exactly feeling now.
Here was a piece from her past that had not changed and had now returned to haunt her. But didn’t she think that time was the best healer? So had time failed her now that the past had come rushing back to her making her feel as And thus the mother-daughter duo continued young and vulnerable as she had been years ago walking in measured steps with the fascinated as a teenager? mother noting what had totally transformed inside the campus and what had remained the Still not completely out of her reverie, Shailaja way it used to be. She giggled like a child filled turned to her worried daughter, and holding her with excitement when she saw how some of the hand said, ‘Darling, it’s growing dark. I want lecture theatres remained just the way they were you to get back to the hostel. I will return in a when she had been a student. She even pointed bit. There’s this part of the campus that I want in different directions, effortlessly dishing out to experience alone. I hope you don’t mind.” names of those roads. She was delighted to Stuti, puzzled though she was, understood her learn that hostels retained their names and roads mother’s request. She pressed her mother’s 38
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hand gently. “Amma, but don’t be out for too kameez with pale lavender flowers sprinkled all long. We will go for dinner together,” she said over and a lavender dupatta that was swaying and left. gently in the breeze. And then, there was Shivam sitting right next to her. Shivam who Pulling the dupatta that she had worn over her had meant everything to her. Her heart skipped shoulders closer, Shailaja took measured steps a beat. Their hands were lying restlessly, achingtowards the road. The moment she entered it, ly and longingly next to them in that tiny space she wasn’t sure if this was like a mirage in a debetween them. And they…both of them, were sert – this road, these benches, these trees, these sitting quiet, dreaming a thousand dreams about dimly lit lights – was she really seeing them? Or their futures together. There was so was this an illusion? She much to be said yet it felt so good to wanted to stretch her hands leave those unsaid and let silence do out and figure out if these all the talking. Here were Shailaja and were real. To assure herself Shivam, feeling sure that they had that this whole episode was been born just for each other and real. nothing in this world could stop She brought her trembling them, ever. hands forward trying to feel But, what was it? A cruel intervention the slightly cold air. The by fate? Or was it life trying to show chillness hit her. She went its superiority? That it always had the towards one of the benches and bending down, upper hand? Always? No? Yes? Yes. It was life gently began to sweep away the dry leaves that at its cruel best. For, this relationship didn’t end had fallen on the seat with her hands. The in marriage. They didn’t walk together, holding leaves rustled and cracked and fell away. each other’s hands into the glorious sunset of Didn’t she think that memories could also be life, like they had imagined. Rather, destiny had swept away thus? To some abandoned corners intervened, and this was not meant to be. of the mind in the beginning and then totally And then Raghu entered her life. She grappled out of her life? Memories, both good and bad, with reality and struggled to dust away the cobfrom that phase of her life where nothing web of memories that had settled on her soul. seemed impossible, everything felt achievable, Raghu’s love healed the bruises of a dream love conquerable and within reach? story that never ultimately materialised. Time She settled down slowly on the bench and taught Shailaja that all love needn’t find its end stared plainly into the palely lit space ahead of in marriage and that love could be found elseher. It somehow reminded her of a cinema where too. screen and soon she began seeing her past flowBut why was this happening now? This utter ing like a film in front of her. There she was helplessness and bitterness that she was feeling seated on the same bench, wearing a white – something she thought she had gotten past 39
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successfully through these years of her marriage, a soaring career and three children? As Shailaja stared ahead into the darkness, she realised that perhaps time did heal, but not completely, that memories are indeed swept away but not completely, that they always lodged themselves in some dark corners of the mind and that the past just needed a small trigger to rear its head and gush forward like an angry river.
that Shailaja thought she no longer was in the present. Ironically, it was the present that felt unreal, for her heart, even as she tried her best to convince it that what she was seeing was something that had flown past her never to return and that the memories will burn down to ashes once she moved away from here, still yearned to soak in this past. Reasoning was clearly failing and despair was taking over. Shailaja let go of rationality for an Like it was happening now. instant and let the memories overShivam, her younger self, power her. And they did, for there their strolls around the she sat, on the cement bench, under campus, their quiet mothe trees, on the small road, lit by two ments of love, their hopes, lights, and let herself be transported longing, their first meeting, to another time where she sat on the the classes, the lecturers, same cement bench, under the same friends, their heart-warming trees, on the same small road, lit by love stories, their breakups, two lights. Her heart cracked open bonding, petty fights, big and she let her warm tears run down quarrels, successes, failures, her face that had turned cold on a late June life – like it used to be, all forgotten yet alive in evening inside a medical college campus. some way lying buried within consciousness – awakened now and dancing like puppets in front of her eyes. It all felt so real, this past in front of her eyes
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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Non-fiction
Thinking of Paati by Divya Ananth
Grandmothers hold a very special place in the lives of many people. Divya Ananth lets us take a sneak peek into the spirited personality that her grandmother is and in the process, takes us on a heart-warming journey filled with memories of her times with her Paati. Read on. I never had a Paati for a granny. I had a viva- When I was in college, she used to come up cious, spirited young lady who didn’t care much with ‘oh so elegant' designs for my salwars. I for the numbers that her years announced. shared my Sidney Sheldons with her. Her favourite was "If tomorrow comes". She was proShe was a mobile library, drunk on Tamil Literagressive without compromising the traditional. ture, passionate about travel, always hungry for Always part of my Carnatic Music practice sesknowledge and reading of any kind. She had sions, Paati and I discussed concerts, compostravelled the length and breadth of the country. ers, Raagams and more. Even rode on horseback to Badri and Kedar, in her mid 60s. She recorded her travelogues in her Her eyes would take that distant look when she private diary - a treasure trove of insights, lovingly spoke of Mylapore, a suburb in Chenroutes, observations and itineraries. nai, where she spent her school years. "Those days, the Kuvam River was very much navigable. There was nothing she could not talk to you I myself have been on ferries and seen goods about. She would quote Kalki and Bharathiyar, being transported", she would muse frequently. reel off verses from the Kamba Ramayanam and narrate stories of Sherlock Holmes. Her She would fondly remember Thatha, the conaccount of the World War always held us in rapt certs at Krishna Gana Sabha and the English attention - the ration supplies, the food, the un- films at Sapphire Theatre on Mount Road. derground bunkers, the daily sirens, and dePaati is very beautiful. In her wedding photos, scriptions about how Hitler's army could not she is nothing short of ravishing. It is a pity, she survive the Siberian cold - we were transported couldn't walk the ramp. to another world. 41
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She had a way with plants. She would talk to Memory – the word has become an irony in her them, nurture them with a care that only they world now. understand. When a plant shrivelled up, she would feel the pain, when the first buds came bursting, her elation was palpable. She saw me through both my deliveries, held both her great grandsons proudly; gave all the wisdom she could to the new nursing mother; watched over as the baby slept near her. Age has crept in these days. The fiery light in her eyes is a shade dimmer. The white in her hair, a shade whiter. The wrinkles only conspire to make her look graceful. It has been four years since her brain cells have started deteriorating. When I see this lovely lady flounder with everyday activities, facing the curse of Dementia, I feel a wrench deep down. I gaze into her eyes for a moment, and the memories come rushing.
Divya Ananth is an advertising copywriter – a creative consultant. She simply loves to travel, and Carnatic music is her anchor in an otherwise crazy life. She’s also a busy mom of two adorable boys, and juggles cricket and tennis classes, organizes play dates and reads Geronimo Stilton with them. Writing, to her, is an intimately joyful experience.
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The Lounge
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Slice of Life by Rajitha Gopal
Shopping for Firewood Rajitha Gopal, in a reflective piece, goes back to her childhood and reminisces as to how shopping for firewood used for heating water helped her learn some small yet important lessons in life. This was way back in 1976 when I was ten, the days, when all middle- class families had no geysers for a hot water bath, but a big copper vessel called ‘Anda” in Tamil. People would use firewood placed beneath the vessel to heat the water. Houses usually also had a big loft inside the bathrooms to stock the firewood. I remember my mother would neatly pile up the firewood in the loft. I would often wonder from where she got it, for I had seen a vegetable market and a provision store, but had not yet seen a firewood shop! One day when my mother declared that I was ten years old and therefore, and it was right time to start taking some responsibilities. Those days, parents thought that children should take on responsibilities as early as possible and be independent for, life was full of hard work, (pampering and fussing over children ‘s com-
forts were taboo). Soon, she took me to a big open space where huge logs of wood were systematically stocked. Thin aluminium sheets acted as roofs to protect the logs of wood from unpredictable rain. The area was neatly fenced and it had a small gate. I discovered that this was the ‘firewood shop’! I was excited to realise where I was, but little did I know what was in store for me! My mother inspected the wood very meticulously, asking for rates per Kg and intermediately looking at me, signalled at me to follow her and learn. She finally selected the wood and bargained the price too! She asked the shopkeeper to weigh the wood. She instructed me to wait in the shop and have an eye on the logs of wood, for, the wood seller would further chop the huge wood into thin strips which resembled the ones on the bathroom loft. Being a busy
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lady with household chores to attend to and a music school to run, she left me to accompany the shopkeeper to our house later after the assigned work was over. She told me that it would take another half an hour. (I didn’t have any idea how long that would be.) The wood seller, I still remember, had curly black hair, with the forehead and temples decorated with beads of sweat. He was wearing a white vest and kakhi shorts. His arms seemed very strong with swollen muscles which would have put any of the Bollywood Khans, or Johns to shame. I was fascinated by the way he chopped the wood. First the big log of wood was cut into half making it into two pieces, and then four, eight, twelve so on and so forth. I was not aware then that I was learning mathematics! .I remember looking at him and then at the surroundings, watching the sparrows hop, hearing them chirp and dig the soil for fresh earthworms to feed their chicks. That was fascinating too and I was not aware then that I was learning about the lives of birds! I remember shooing away a cat that had an eye on the sparrows for his meal and feeling the pride to have saved the lives of the sparrows and the chicks too! I was not aware then that I was learning to protect! Lost in my own world and waiting for the shopkeeper to finish his work, I was not aware then
that I was learning the art of patience. ”Come on now, young lady!” the wood cutter called out loudly, breaking my reverie. ”show me your house!” I went near him and saw the neatly arranged long strips of fire wood tied tightly with a jute rope. He lifted the bundle of woods with ease and put them on top of his head, cushioning it with a sack. He carried one more bundle on his shoulder and walked after me in perfect balance and rhythm. I led him to my house which was only a few yards away. He dropped the bundle of wood in the front yard of my house. My mother paid him the money and waited for him to disappear. Then she asked me if I saw him weigh the wood after he cut them too. It was then I learnt that I need to be doubly sure of what I buy. I simply nodded and kept in mind that next time I would make sure of that. Then on I would shop for firewood once in two or three months. Looking back now at the age of 47, I realise that it was in the firewood shop that I learnt so many nuances of life, leaving me wondering what the kids of today learn from shopping in malls or online!
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Rajitha Gopal has been a Pre-Primary teacher for 13 years in various parts of India and a Pre-Primary co-ordinator for a year in an International School. She is now a qualified Counsellor and a Psychotherapist. She likes to observe people's body language and expression and enjoys Carnatic music , Bharatnatyam ,movies, and books.
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