Spark - February 2011 Issue by Spark Editor

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t a l e gR

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FEBRUARY 2011

-The Future

Word.world.wisdom

05 February 2011

Spark—February 2011: The Team

Contributors: Anupama Krishnakumar Bhargavi Balachandran Jeevanjyoti Chakraborty Jenani Srikanth Maheswaran Sathiamoorthy P.R.Viswanathan Rajlakshmi Pillai Shreya Ramachandran Vani Viswanathan Vivekananth Gurumoorthy

Dear Reader, The theme we have taken up this time is ‘Exploring Relationships’. And, we believe it is one theme that all our readers would be able to relate to. We have a fine selection of stories, poetry and photography that explores the different relationships that exist in this world. As always, our intent is not just to entertain you but also turn you reflective and have you reminiscing about relationships that matter to you. Don’t miss our interview with Mridula Koshy, our writer of the month. So, get going and catch all the action in the issue. Do send us your valuable comments at feedback@sparkthemagazine.com We will see you again next month! Cheers,

Writer of the Month:

Spark Editorial Team

Mridula Koshy

Coverpage Photograph:

Concept, Editing, Design:

Picture by id-iom

Anupama Krishnakumar Vani Viswanathan

TABLE OF CONTENTS S PA R K â&#x20AC;&#x201D; F E B R U A R Y 2 0 1 1 : E X P L O R I N G R E L AT I O N S H I P S

My Father : Fiction by Shreya Ramachandran

Writer of the Month: Interview with Mridula Koshy

VIBGYOR, Just for Me : Poetry by Bhargavi Balachandran

Coffee, Books and Love: Photography by Maheswaran Sathiamoorthy 14 Hamid Sarathy : Fiction by P.R.Viswanathan

Stepchild to Mother Tongue: Non-fiction by Jeevanjyoti Chakraborty 18 Living Together: Fiction by Vani Viswanathan

A Journey called Life: Photography by Vivekananth Gurumoorthy

What to Name it : Fiction by Anupama Krishnakumar

My Days : Poetry by Rajlakshmi Pillai

The Night : Fiction by Jenani Srikanth

My Father Fiction by Shreya Ramachandran This is the story of Sivan, a young boy. Shreya Ramachandran spins a tale – one that when you start reading will make you think that the boy is sitting right next to you at times and taking you along, holding your hand, at others, as he tells you his story.

My mother is the only person in the house who talks to me. Every morning when I wake up, she feeds me breakfast – the previous night’s leftover rice or milk. Sometimes I have to bring the milk to my mother myself. I like to do this. I walk down the road, down the next road and then onto a smaller road. On this road there is a man who has three cows. We get milk from the biggest cow. I wait in the garden as the man presses his hands against the pink part of the cow and milk comes out. I bring this in a bottle to my mother. My father drinks this milk directly from the bottle – he just puts it into a glass and drinks it in one sip. I saw him do this and so that’s how I drink milk. But he never talks to me. I don’t know why he doesn’t talk to me. He doesn’t do anything bad to me like hit me or tell me to sleep on the ground or use the bathroom in the small scary shed behind the house. Many other children, who I play with in the evening, say that their fathers hit them. They have marks on their bodies too, so I know they are not lying. They have red lines and purple lines and blood comes sometimes. My father doesn’t do this to me. He lets me sleep on the bed and use the bathroom upstairs – which is not scary. But he doesn’t talk to me. I don’t know why. But now I think he has to talk to me, because my mother is going out for two weeks. She is going to watch her sister getting married. She asked my father if I should go with her, but my father said “Nonsense, Meenatchi. The child has school.” I didn’t know whether I should speak to my father because I do not think I have ever spoken that much to him. I first came into the house when I was six years old, when the man I used to live with died. He died because he had a stomach infection. His mother was my friend, and she told me that he never went to the hospital because he did not have money. He never went to the doctor who helped sick people without taking money, because he did not like the doctor. He said he would rather die. And the man died. His mother said that he should forget his manhood and just go to the free doctor, but he never did.

Then his mother sent me here, to live with my mother and my father. Since that time, I have barely said anything to my father, so I did not know whether I should open my mouth then, but I opened my mouth quickly. I said, “I do not have school until next month because we have holidays for Pongal.”

My father did not look at me, but he stayed silent for some time. Then he said, “Still, the child should stay. There is no need for him to come. You go ahead.” My mother has left, and so it is just me and my father. Now he has to speak to me. When I come back from playing in the evening, my father is in the kitchen. I cough, to let him know I am there. My father turns around and looks at me. “Do you want some rice?” I do not say anything, because for some time I do not know who he is talking to. He never talks to me. “Are you hungry, Sivan?” he asks. This is my name. That means he is talking to me.

“Because when a man and woman are married, they are supposed to have children with each other. Not with other people.”

“Yes, Pa,” I say. He does not say anything until we are sitting down on the chairs and eating the rice with the ‘kozhumbu’. He says, “You should not call me Pa, Sivan.” “Why?” “I am not your father. I am your mother’s husband, but not your father. Your father is the man you lived with till you were six years old. When he passed away, his mother – your grandmother – sent you to live with Meenatchi, your mother.” “Is that why you do not talk to me? Because you are not my father?” My father continues to eat, but now he is eating slowly and he looks a little sad. “I never knew about you until your grandmother brought you here”, he says. “Your mother never told me.” “Why not?”

“So my mother had children with someone else, not you?” “Yes, Sivan. She and your father – the one who died of a stomach infection – gave birth to you.” “Are you angry with my mother because of that?” “Not angry,” my father says. We eat for some time, and I go to the tap and drink water. Very little water comes, but if you hit the wall above the tap hard, then a little more comes. We do not talk anymore that day, and I go to sleep. When I wake up, my father is not at home. It is a Wednesday, so he has gone to the temple which is next to the house of the man with the cows.

5 Picture by zedzap

I close the door of the house, lock it with the steel rod, and then run to the temple. When I reach the temple, my father is inside, standing in front of God and praying. I take off my slippers and run inside, and quickly pray to God, and then I pull my father’s shirt. He looks down and says, “Sivan, when did you come here? Is the house locked? Did you eat breakfast?” “I came here just now. I locked the house with the steel rod you always use. I have not eaten.” “I see.” My father shuts his eyes and continues praying silently. When he opens his eyes, I say, “Can I tell you something?” My father says I could tell him. So we start walking out of the temple and I put my slippers on and I say, “I never called the man my father. His mother was very nice, but the man was strange. He sometimes went out for a long time and never came back, so I only spent time with his mother. She was my friend.” My father nods. “So can you be my father?” My father looks down at me and frowns. He has almost stopped walking, but I pull at his shirt and make him continue walking. “I want you to be my father, because I like you.” He still does not say anything and he keeps looking down at his hands. “Even though you did not talk to me until yesterday, I still want you to be my father.” My father does not say anything to me, but then we have reached home and he has started talking to me. 6 Picture by Newyorkprof

“I don’t believe in writing fearfully” An interview with Mridula Koshy. Mridula Koshy, author, is our ‘Writer of the month’. In an interesting interview to Spark, she gets talking about writing, her book, and exploring relationships in writing. Read on. Interview by Anupama Krishnakumar.

Mridula Koshy is the author of â&#x20AC;&#x2DC;If It Is Sweetâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;, a collection of short stories released in May 2009 by Tranquebar Press. The book won the Shakti Bhatt First Book Prize for 2009 and was shortlisted for the 2009 Vodafone Crossword Book Prize.

She lives in New Delhi with her poetschoolteacher partner and three exceptionally wonderful children.

Picture Courtesy : Mridula Koshy

Your bio says that you were many other things before you became a writer, including a backstage dresser, a waitress and a community organizer, among others. Very interesting indeed. :). Tell us how you discovered the writing instinct in you and what is it about writing that makes you enjoy it? The various jobs I have held are hardly unusual in the American context but both in India and in the U.S., ‘the writer’ or ‘the writing life’ is a bit of an overblown identity and idea. I mention the various jobs I have done to situate the present work of writing in the same plane. Writing is only as much inspired drudgery as any other job in which I was curious and alive to the world. I think I am not alone in spending much of my life recording my impressions of the world and then sifting through them for meaning. This work of thinking is what drives most of us. In that sense, we are all blessed with the writing instinct. The work of the writer is to reduce this instinct to the scope of the page. We gain something significant in the process – an audience and conversations we would not otherwise enjoy; we lose a lot in the process – a sense of the infinity that is our own minds.

A writer derives inspiration from varied sources. Who are Mridula Koshy's inspirations? I feel alive when I see the world is inhabited. I am little able to write without the sights and sounds of people going about the business of living.

Tell us a bit about how 'If it is Sweet' came about. What are some of the things that you had in mind when you began writing this collection? I wrote with little sense of the possibility of a collection. But after about the eighth story, even I had to see that I was mining the same ground, i.e., asking myself the same question over and over: how and when can we know ourselves as real. Although in some stories I approach this by looking at what happens when we sometimes demarcate some people as real and others as not, some people as possessed of emotions and complexity and others as not, my question was still about the self. The variations on the question, particularly in the variations in structure I attempted from one story to another were more in the lines of an experiment. I found the outcome was always consistent –loneliness bordering on insanity and even non-existence is the inevitable result when people are cut off from one another. I know this is embarrassingly obvious and I need not have written a book to figure it out. I suppose I sat with the question and took to fiction to answer it because we keep forgetting the obvious, the oft told.

I notice that you have a layered way of storytelling and the characters become clearer as the story unfurls. Is there a particular reason for choosing this style of writing? That’s how I experience seeing - a mist, a web of confusion and slow dawning of intelligence. You stare at the dark long enough 9 and you can make something appear out of it.

Talking of your stories, you have chosen to focus on some interesting relationships in them. For example, the relationship between the two women in 'The Large Girl' (in 21 under 40), or between different people in the story 'Same Day' (Excess, Tehelka), or the one in 'The Good Mother' (in 'If it is sweet'). How do you decide on the people and the framework for any story or in other words, what inspires these characters and relationships you choose to talk about in your stories? My method is to be struck dumb by a scene, an image, a turn of conversation that I am witness to in life. I work backward from it to a story that explains the wonder it aroused in me. The Large Girl is very much about my being struck by the crippling pain of knowing I would never see a person again though I live in the same part of the world that she inhabits. She is a real person I knew in my childhood. I had to have a story then to understand how it is that a person can come to inhabit the idea of such a separation. It is not an autobiographical story; I am both interested in myself, and not. I am interested in the pain of being apart from someone I care for but, I know the story of my life leading to that moment and that decision not to look my friend up and, I don’t need to relive its tedium and its evidence of my own weakness. I need fiction to explore the idea of love and leaving in a more interesting way than I can explore it in my life.

Is there one human relationship that you have really wanted to write about and haven't done still? I think you are asking about being afraid to write and the answer is ‘No, I am not afraid’, although writing is definitely a way to address fear. My fear of losing my children is what I work out for myself in The Good Mother. I don’t want to sound arrogant but I will say that I don’t believe in writing fearfully. I believe in nervousness and lunacy and the possibility that I might lose everything I care for, but fearing writing makes little sense. It is in writing that I am permitted everything.

What according to you is the most important aspect of any relationship? I believe in keeping faith. This is what I strive for in my relationships. Forgiveness is a second and important part of relationship. The rest then is tertiary.

Going back to your writing, I understand that you have been working on a novel. Give us a teaser! A woman relinquishes her four year old son to tourists passing through town; along with him, she loses the future she had hoped to inhabit. He is a grown man, living half way across the world on the day she draws her last breath. His concern is to make sense of a life lived without a past. I am interested in looking at how narrative is constructed from both what happens and doesn’t happen in one’s life. Of course I am also interested in the locations and cultures the woman and her son inhabit – Kerala and the Midwestern U.S.. How do we do ‘it’ in different parts of the world: loving, leaving and living?

Now on to your relationship with words. Which form of writing do you enjoy the most? Poetry, non-fiction, short stories or essays? I used to only read fiction and fairly blindly. Often enough I would have no recollection of the title of the book, the name of the author or even the story. I don’t think this was because the book wasn’t worth remembering. Often enough I found myself in the library groping to find another book by the author with the forgotten name, who wrote so brilliantly the book with the forgotten title which was all about…. I think I tend to store my memories in an emotion bank and not a word bank. The conversion of experiences to emotions is easier than their re-conversion to the original currency. I hope I am making sense. I am forcing myself to read poetry and am even starting to enjoy non-fiction. As memory encoded in words is necessary for a writer to decipher the technical and craft aspects of her work, these days, I am trying to study what I read and bypass the whole emotional circuitry. It does make reading altogether more tedious.

Picture courtesy : Mridula Koshy

Finally, what is it that you wish to explore through your writing in the coming years? And in what forms? I would like to explore the business of writing fiction as if it were non-fiction and vice versa. I don’t subscribe to realism as a trope though I am more schooled in it than in anything else and my writing reflects this. Artifice is a compelling idea, especially in that it is an admission of the truth that we are constructed beings. I am very conscious of how behind the times I am in terms of coming to these insights. But I can’t deny myself the excitement of my life and my realizations since all I have is what I am. Mridula’s fan page on Facebook

POETRY

B H A R G AV I B A L A C H A N D R A N

VIBGYOR, Just for me My voice is black with despair sooty, oily, charcoal black. The thoughts just won’t stop crawling, ventricle to ventricle, slow and agonizing as it wreaks damage. Spare my heart and take my brain instead, I cry. The blood red tendril of my cry takes his breath away; away from hope, and my arms.

What will you do without me? , he jeers. A yellowish green jeer, I think with a pang. I’ll bang my pots and pans in the kitchen, as usual ,I retort; a kitchen that will get along fine without you. And soon, there will be rasgollas on my table, Champagne in my flute, cheer in my bosom and spring in my step. So long, my friend, I gasp. He walks away. To her. And doesn’t turn back. Gone. Lost . Forever.

My breathing is shallow, an ashen grey. The pain courts my senses, ebbing out of every ganglion. Sleep takes me on, the foster-mother that I crave for. Waves of exhaustion maroon me on an island, dreams float like happy, whispy clouds. The morning breeze tousles my hair playfully, the bird sings from its caged home, filling me with strength I never knew I possessed.

Wake up dear, donâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t put your life on hold; time to move on my lamb, she says, My momma. Sunny eggs, apples, and a strong brew for my child, she coos. Everything heals with time. Even broken, bleeding, blue hearts. As I gobble up the goodies, I tell myself soon there will be rasgollas, in my kitchen. Soon. For, the phoenix shall rise from its ashes; my heart croons in all the colors of VIBGYOR, thank you, my personal rainbow, I mumble. Thank you for this life and the box, of delightful possibilities in front of me.

Picture by Mike Baird

Coffee, books and love

Photography by maheswaran sathiamoorthy

Coffee, books and love

Hamid Sarathy Fiction by P.R.Viswanathan Many a time, car drivers have played a crucial role in the lives of their masters and vice-versa. Here is one such story â&#x20AC;&#x201C; of a driver and his master, penned by P.R.Viswanathan.

Hamid was reminiscing. He was the eldest son and the third child of his parents, who hailed from the Dharwar district of Karnataka. He was brought up in the slums of Bhandup in Bombay and later Mumbra on the outskirts. Small, wiry and energetic, he had cultivated a surprisingly progressive outlook for a man belonging to his strata of society. He thought it natural to be dancing at the local Janmashtami and Ganesh Chaturti celebrations. He had studied up to the eighth standard and then dropped out to earn a living. The riots of 1992/93 dismayed him and like most people of his community, he blamed squarely the socalled communal forces and of course, thought highly of the Congress as a secular party. But notwithstanding the riots, his liberal outlook remained intact. When it came to education, not for him the local madrasa; his children went to English medium schools. And he had dreams. He had led a tough life, driven trucks, pick-up vans and tourist taxis, staying away from home and the family he loved dearly, for days together. All this, till he had met Vishnu Mohan, a bank executive, who was on the last leg of his career! Hamid was just 33 then.

Hamid loved to recount to his family (and almost as often to Vishnu himself) of how it was by sheer chance that he came into Vishnu Sir’s employment. Vishnu’s previous driver had left all of a sudden and a relative had lent him the services of Nilesh, Hamid’s friend, for a few days. When Nilesh fell sick during this brief period, he had asked Hamid to stand in for him. Hamid did so and within a month, was appointed permanently. No more the uncertain timings and the separation from family! He could eat home food every day, a luxury that only someone with his nomadic past could appreciate. And then, there was the big bonus – Saturdays and Sundays off. Hamid thought of the daily long drives between Bombay and Panvel, where Vishnu lived. Vishnu would read newspapers, eat, drink beer and sleep in the car. But above all, Hamid remembered their long chats on so many subjects – movies, religion and of course the state of the roads and the incorrigible political class. Both thought highly of Aamir Khan. Hamid would tell Vishnu about his rough life as a truck and tourist driver at great length, the interesting and undesirable characters he had met and so forth. In fact, Vishnu would introduce Hamid to all as his “Sarathy” and in the three years that they were together, had compiled a stock of Hamidisims. If the ride back from Bandra to Panvel was smooth, they would invariably find the railway level crossing that was just hundred yards short of Vishnu’s home, closed, and Hamid would immediately say “Aasman se tapke; Kajoor pe latke” (a free fall from the skies and then left dangling from a date palm). During his time with Vishnu, the latter toured a good deal. Hamid recalled how he used to love those drives to and from the airport as they were mostly early in the morning or late in the night and he could step on the gas without worry. Hamid had an insatiable curiosity about places and people and most of the time, Vishnu would oblige him with details.

Thus, Vishnu had told Hamid of the statue of Christ the Redeemer in Rio de Janeiro, the size of Mustafa’s Supermarket in Singapore and the huge congregations of the faithful after Roza in Jakarta. Hamid remembered how he once asked Vishnu what the inside of the plane was like and what the cost of the journey was. Vishnu had then told him of the pretty stewardesses, the TV screens, the food, the drinks and the feeling one experienced at take-off, the fear at landings and when one hit an air-pocket. Then he had said, “Hamid, one day, you too will go abroad to visit your daughter. Singapore, Hong Kong, London, which one do you prefer?” Hamid had laughed. ***************************************** It was a warm humid morning 20 years from the time Hamid had met Vishnu. Hamid walked briskly towards the Toyota Corolla parked a few feet away, as always, jingling the keys lovingly in his hands. At 53, he was as wiry and energetic as ever and was looking forward to driving. He reached the car and was just turning the door handle, when his daughter cried “No, no! Not there”, snatched the keys and pushed him roughly towards the rear seat. Tears welled up in his eyes as he saw his daughter hand over the keys to a uniformed figure. In a few seconds, the car was cruising along noiselessly and Hamid took in the whole scene. His wife Farzana was seated on one side, face wreathed in smiles, while on the other, was his daughter Fatima. Son Arif was in the front staring straight ahead. Hamid’s eyes then rested on the figure at the wheel. He went down memory lane and saw his life as a whole. “Those were the days,” he thought. He heard his wife asking as if from a distance “Where were you lost this last half-hour?” and he heard himself tell the driver “stop the car”. In a few moments, with not a word said, Arif and he had changed places. “You see, Vishnu Sir always sat beside me in the front seat,” was all he offered by way of explanation. 17

Jeevanjyoti Chakraborty Non-fiction

STEPCHILD OF MOTHER TONGUE

Are you a master of the English language but someone who struggles with the native tongue? Then here’s something you should read. Jeevanjyoti Chakraborty explores a relationship of a different order – his relationship with his mother tongue. 18

There comes a time in the lifespan of every generation when they are expected to take centrestage. Get a grip on the helm of the proceedings. In these times performers emerge. Brilliant, peerless, set on the highway to immortality. Nonperformers languish. Pseudo performers fade quietly, not discontentedly perhaps, into everyday oblivion. And somewhere in between, normal, regular men and women engaged in routine jobs, fitting cog-like in the machinery of the society, keep shining softly. It is they who define the zeitgeist. Their ethics renew morality. Their language becomes the grammar. And, it is their opinion that gets translated into the voices of mandate; even more trenchantly into the vetoes of sanction. So, when these men and women point out, with an uncomfortable regularity, your handicaps due to a detachment from your mother tongue, the message gets driven home. Hard.

The ride – the mad ride – to master the lingua franca; starting way back with those days when the first alphabet learned was the Queen’s and not the mother’s (or the father’s), followed by a slow, patient and fundamentally strong build-up to a stage where the first big lessons started being taught.

Along the way, the native alphabet was introduced. At that point, it seemed funny somehow. Care was invested in measured precise proportions of the bare minimum dictated by necessity. Expectations seemed low enough. Exertions were kept even lower. Not only didn’t it seem important enough, it became the Nemesis of Percentage. So, forget labour, forget love, the native tongue became the villain in the immediate scheme of things. Forget even the funny bit. It had become a thing to go up against – loathed and detested. The ground work for a stunted growth had been laid. Nice and rock solid.

The realization sets in that the ride which had seemed to be all hunky-dory has no return ticket. The ride – the mad ride – to master the lingua franca; starting way back with those days when the first alphabet learned was the Queen’s and not the mother’s (or the father’s), followed by a slow, patient and fundamentally strong build-up to a stage where the first big lessons started being taught. Efforts exerted in reverent response to expectations ensured that each step along the way had been landed upon with a firm footing, and that heights reached would be kept and built upon further. And build they did - for soon enough, the works of the Grand Masters started appearing. The ground work was ready, the seeds were sown. And like sweet rain came Shakespeare, Dickens, Keats and Company descending from the heavens to nurture the well-laid seeds. Add to that, the timing of the first peeks into adulthood and the exhilarations of a blooming mental fecundity, and you had a heady concoction that churned love’s labour into a frenzied whirlpool of pious worship.

Yet, it was not so much the mandatory bindings of the school curriculum that fed this unhealthy growth as it was a misguided mentality - a mentality emanating from a strange perception fuelled in no small measure by the mighty diktats of petty views, slavishness and hypocrisy; a mentality that perversely converted the need for proficiency in the lingua franca as an automatic green signal to immerse oneself in the discipline of reaching one’s higher self through the path of the adopted word. The native language was reduced to a baggage that had to be tagged along. 19

You had to become great inspite of your mother tongue. In such self-defined situations, there seemed to be some credit in creating an aura of insularity from one’s own language.

Nowadays, when I see men and women of my age boldly taking the stage and speaking loud and clear, enunciating the dulcet notes of my language, I feel jealous. I wish I could do that too. Playful ridicule during informal conversations leads to nagging feelings of shame. The handicap itself has started to feel stifling and painful. I have made a conscious attempt to overcome that handicap and each time the lack of proper training has stymied my efforts. I decipher a sentence, then another and finally earn a paragraph to my credit, and it feels great! But, my own limitations rise up in vengeance. The whole process is excruciatingly laborious. I want, with all my heart, to read and enjoy the great works of my native language. But I stand helpless under the weight of my inability. This is a thirst that will not be quenched. I have even tried to pull off the stunt of trying my hand at native literature armed with little better than a chip on my shoulder. The result has been that the chip only broke in deeper. The detachment has grown too deep. The insularity has percolated into my marrows. And the bitter truth is that I will always remain the stepchild of my own mother tongue.

And so, the mad rush to master some ill-defined art of self-improvement had come at the precious price of complete detachment from the mother tongue. That price was not of an education designed with practical needs in mind. Rather, it was the price of arrant foolishness. Ridicule from sagely men and women elicits but only the impish smile.However, ridicule from the shining men and women defining the zeitgeist somehow prick. Epiphanies need not strike out of the blue; they may start like a steady roll from behind the veiled darkness and then conjured as if by some magician percussionist, start rising in a crescendo until that vague soft metronome becomes a pounding pulsating beat which enthralls you, and then starts swaying you with a hold that you just cannot shake off. It is then that perceptions change. While arrant foolishness might not get replaced overnight by solemn wisdom, a realization of one’s own foolishness and naïveté must certainly be deemed borne worthy of a second-hand imposed epiphany. Perhaps not entirely imposed (by ridicule, that is) either, because for some time there had been a nagging feeling that something didn’t feel alright because it felt so warm and curiously blissful to read (albeit, with some difficulty) good pieces of literature of one’s language. There had hardly been any training to appreciate this. It was too easy to pass this off as a more mature understanding. It felt as if the history of my descent, captured in my genes, was revolting against a lifetime of alienation, through the strange response of a homely groovy sweetness. But, those initial moments of sweetness started getting marred through more unpleasant honest realizations.

I cannot help it. But, amidst all the complexes of incompleteness, I feel the old slavishness and the hypocrisy melting away. I thank God that now I have at least started feeling the shame! And, I also thank God that I have started feeling the pain! After a lifetime of rootlessness, I can feel the earth beneath my feet again. The shame and the pain will always accompany the stepchild. But there is pride in this new-found shame and comfort in the pain.

Living Together - Fiction by Vani Viswanathan Bonding over food, living together and the entry of orthodox parents. Here’s a story that is sure to make you smile. Story by Vani Viswanathan. I gloomily twirled my spaghetti around. ‘It’s no big deal,’ I heard Karthik say from somewhere distant. ‘Easy for you to say,’ I muttered. The fact of the matter was that Karthik’s parents were coming to Hong Kong, and that meant I had to move out of his apartment – that was the issue Karthik saw. I read more out of the issue from his reluctance to discuss us with his parents when they would get here. We had been together for over three years, and the step forward was obvious, but he didn’t seem to think his parents would be open to the idea – and didn’t even want to bring it up, ‘this time’, he said.

Karthik and I had met some four years back in Lun Kwai Fong at someone’s party – I can’t even remember which one it was. He was an investment banker like so many other Indians in Hong Kong, on the right path and earning loads of money. I was an account manager at an ad agency. We had attended one of those innumerable parties that happened every weekend at LKF, which brought together expat Indians from every corner of HK. The reason Karthik and I bonded was food. When we met for the first time, I was going through an especial bout of homesickness and longing for home-cooked food, given my inadequacy in preparing any of these dishes myself. In the drunken hours of the party, Karthik somehow ended up inviting me home the following Sunday for lunch, and in my stupor, usually-cautious I agreed, and there was I the next day, relishing some of the best Indian curry I’d tasted in recent months. I was jerked awake from my thoughts by the presence of Karthik close to me. ‘You have spaghetti on your dress,’ he said, helping me scoop it out with a paper napkin. I gave him a warm smile. He was a sensible guy, but why men were so scared of their mothers, I would never understand.

I wasn’t being unreasonable. I came from a family very similar to K’s – a typical tamil Brahmin one, with strict parents, a weird balance between sticking to tradition and letting go. But I still couldn’t understand why he was so worried about breaking the news to his parents – we were from similar backgrounds after all. I was sure my parents wouldn’t have an issue, traditional though they were – possibly due to my excessive mental preparation over the years by discussing with them the huge numbers of good-looking Caucasian men in Hong Kong, so much so that they even dropped pressuring me to get married. K didn’t want to talk about what the issue was, so I couldn’t think of a way to solve the problem. Doubts about whether he was even serious about his relationship with me loomed large, but I dismissed them after momentary deliberation. You have to be supportive, my mind said. K’s parents were coming on Saturday, and would be there for two weeks. I wouldn’t meet him during that period except for that one time he would be taking his friends out for dinner. Insulted though I felt, at being clubbed together with the rest of his friends, I had little choice. And so I packed my clothes and moved back to my tiny, lousy apartment that I shared with two other girls I barely knew – still being rented out for situations such as these. He dropped me off home and turned at the door to look at my downcast face that was miserable at the thought of not seeing him regularly for two weeks and the impending moment of truth our relationship might have to face. ‘Hello,’ he said accusingly, ‘can’t you send me off with a cheery face?’ I shrugged, and gave him a cursory hug. Disappointed, he left.

When I met his parents for the first time three days after they reached HK, I understood why K had been dreading telling his parents about us. I had to do all I could to stop myself from giggling at the sheer oddity they presented against the Hong Kong Central landscape. His mother was a beautiful woman, draped in a rich silk Kancheevaram, a diamond nose stud glistening on each side of her nose. His father was in crisp formals, but had the quintessential three lines of sacred ash on his forehead. My parents were traditional too, but I knew my mother would have chosen to dress in a salwar kameez and my father would not be flaunting his religious identity overseas. I thanked my lucky stars that I had chosen a kurti with jeans over a dress – which is what each of K’s other female friends – Komal, Gunjan and Preethi – had chosen to wear. Why Karthik chose to take us all to an Italian place was beyond me, when the clear choice would have been any Indian place, if not South Indian specifically. I had the honour of sitting next to K’s mother at the restaurant to help her choose a dish, being the only other vegetarian in K’s group of friends that had also come, K himself being seated next to his father at the opposite side of the table. ‘Risotto, aunty?’ I suggested. ‘What is it, ma?’ she asked. ‘Somewhat like venn pongal, aunty,’ I said, throwing out the name of the first rice-based South Indian dish that vaguely resembled risotto I could think of. Aunty looked skeptical but agreed to order it; she was hungry. Over the course of that dinner, I’d realized his mother was a very nice, innocent lady, the epitome of sweetness, as she politely swallowed her risotto despite the obvious presence of Komal’s tagliatelle that came with a huge lobster on it. His father was a typical The Hindu-loving-filter-coffee-demanding engineer who had retired from BHEL, and was easy enough to get on with if you knew which hot button issues to interest him with. Some two days before they had to leave, K called me when I was at work, asking me to come home the next day. ‘She’s cooking sambar for you,’ he said. ‘Can you make sure you look traditional?’ he asked. I gritted my teeth. I hated getting told to do anything to please anybody. Look at the bigger picture, my 22

I was overcome with terror as soon as I hung up. Had they gotten wind of what was going on? Much as I wanted them to know about Karthik and me, I wanted it to come from him, not for them to find out. I spent the whole night writhing in agony, wondering about the impending doom of our relationship. I was at K’s house at 7 the next evening, going there straight after work. My colleagues were surprised at the bright green, embroidered tunic that I was wearing with red leggings. ‘Big day?’ Jasmine had asked as I was putting on some blusher to make my face look less pale. I’d nodded anxiously. Bless her, she didn’t press for details. ‘Good luck,’ she’d said. At K’s place, after handing over to aunty the can of gulab jamuns I’d picked up from an Indian store (only to learn both of K’s parents were diabetic), social protocol dictated that I accompany her to the kitchen to help her with the cooking. ‘Do you like cooking?’ she asked. Truth be told, K could cook so much better than me. When we started living together, we agreed after one of my disastrous cooking attempts that he’d do the cooking and I’d simply do the washing. ‘Hardly get time, aunty,’ I told her. ‘Our Karthik loves to cook,’ she replied proudly. I nodded politely, only too aware. Five minutes later, she deftly came to the topic. ‘Do you know if Karthik has a girlfriend?’ ‘Err…’ ‘Don’t take this the wrong way, but he’s been away for so long that I thought something like this is bound to happen… And then, of course, there are all those weird toiletries in the bathroom, I’m sure my son won’t be using Peachfruit shampoo…’ I mentally cursed myself for not thinking through my move back thoroughly. ‘Anyway,’ she continued, ‘we’re a traditional family, ma. We didn’t restrict our son when he wanted to live abroad, but marriage is a totally different matter, we have to help our children make the right decision.’

Living Together

I spotted a chance and grabbed it. ‘Yes, aunty. I understand where you’re coming from. My parents would totally agree with what you’re saying!’ Aunty gave a reassured smile and added asafoetida to the sambar. About a week after K’s parents left, my parents got a call from his mother, asking if they would be interested in getting us married. K told me in the weeks that followed, of his convincing act about being unsure about marrying someone who was his good friend, so much so that at one point his parents had almost decided to drop the idea (I rolled my eyes). We celebrated my move back into K’s apartment (this time done after our engagement in India) with special vendekkai sambar, this time cooked by me to a recipe provided by his mother.

Picture by Teliko82

A Journey called Life Photography by Vivekananth Gurumoorthy

Walking ahead with hope and happiness in the heart..

Holding handsâ&#x20AC;&#x201D;the moment of a lifetime. The start of a beautiful relationship. 25

WHAT TO NAME IT S H O R T S T O R I E S B Y A N U PA M A K R I S H N A K U M A R In four little stories, Anupama Krishnakumar explores some interesting relationships that exist in this world.

Manjari She hated love stories. They may be illogical, her argument and belief, but her love story had left behind scars that she thought would never heal for as long as she lived. She hated love stories. They may be illogical, her argument and belief, but her love story had burnt her soul. The man she deserted her family for finally left her in a place that smelt of men and stank of dumped feelings. That was 25 years back; when she had been all of 20, although she didn’t know if she looked any different now. Her skin was as soft, as lustrous or even better, she was as slim, her eyes and hair more seductive than ever. If there was one thing that had ever changed, it was her heart; it was hard as stone now, not as mellow and as filled with love as it was 25 years back. The years when she never saw him again, when she had not seen her parents once, when she had served scores of men, had hardened her and love had oozed its way out of her pores never to return again. Grit. That was the only substance she was made up of now. Even today if she would walk down a street in a town that didn’t know her, she would be mistaken for a film heroine. That producer man who had seen her during her fifth year in the mansion – didn’t he mention she had eyes like that leading heroine from the 70s? He had even suggested that he could get her a role if she wished. She had laughed out loud.

Since when did people begin to think that she could decide her fate? Once she had decided and it had landed her in a place where she had least imagined to spend her life in. And in the mansion back then too, it was Kunjamma who had decided Manjari’s every move in whatever little of a life she lived – the men she would spend her hours with during the day and the night, what she would wear, the tactics she would use to seduce clients according to their tastes and many more. Manjari couldn’t think of one relationship that was concrete in her life. They had all been volatile and still were, floating around like ghosts, haunting her in her dreams if at all she was blessed enough to catch a good night’s sleep during her busier years. They all came, the men – some nervous, some nonchalant, some aggressive and some outrageous; and every touch hurt, not one communicated love; some whined, called their wives names, dug their nails deep into her skin not with love but with hate. And she, she had endured, learnt the hard way how not to expect anything out of these people- these relationships that meant nothing, nothing at all. She learnt to accept the fact that she was a punch bag and nothing else. After Kunjamma’s demise the previous year and also considering her age, Manjari only managed things now. Experienced hand, she was afterall. And afternoon that it was, she sat near the window in her room, smoking a fine cigarette that a foreign client had gifted her, reminiscing her lifeless past. It was then that Mani entered with a young girl, a girl whose eyes, Manjari observed, were crying out of fear and for the first ever time, Manjari’s being shivered at the sight of a girl brought new into the trade. For the first time, she saw herself in another girl. And so, when Mani’s assistants whisked away the wailing girl, Manjari told Mani, ‘Please, please let her go..’ and Mani did nothing but laugh out loud, ‘Pity, eh? I have paid 5 lakhs for her. Will you pay it to me?’ Manjari sighed and turned away wishing she had the money and praying that the girl should soon find the courage to live in a world of volatile relationships.

Chandru The first time he had met her he was spellbound and he had been that way ever since. Ever since he had seen her, he thanked Brahma every day for creating someone as gorgeous as her and thanked his stars for having given him a chance to see her. As days passed, his love swelled and swelled, he felt, and the accompanying giddiness was becoming unmanageable for him, no doubt. He tossed and turned in his bed in the night, much to annoyance of his mother and sat for minutes together in the common toilet lost in thought, much to the chagrin of neighbours. To make matters worse, he borrowed a tape recorder from his friend and a cassette of latest love songs from another friend, all of whom were christened worthless morons by one and all, and listened to the same cassette at least fifty times a day, soaking in love and shuttling back and forth between the real world and the dream world with her. He thought saree suited her best. But, now he felt she looked better in jeans. Why not? After all, didn’t she look stunning in the blue ones she was wearing in the film poster of her latest movie, next to which he was proudly standing and admiring? And soon, he even began talking to her in the poster. How do you like my shirt, he spoke, pointing to the one he was wearing, half tucked in and half left out. And, these shoes? And that’s when a flying ‘Hawaii Slipper’ that landed on his back jolted him back to his senses. There she was, his mother, cursing him and then God for giving such a son to her, a son who took fifty rupees from her to go to the ration shop to buy rice and still hadn’t returned. As she left wailing about her fate, Chandru put his hand into his shirt pocket and pulled out a pink chit and smiled widely. He had all reasons to smile and ignore his mother’s daily rants, for here was the ticket to the movie whose poster he was standing next to.

Abhaya I think I saw you today, my boy, in that busy market area. I think I saw you – tall, vibrant and handsome, among the sea of faces, as I sat inside the bus, holding my bag of vegetables. You seemed to be in a hurry, and kept looking this way and that and in a second you were not there. Perhaps you got into a bus or something. I desperately searched for your face again but I couldn’t find it. My heart ached and it still does. How much a second’s sighting can do? Shraddha, your sister, asks me if I am fine. She has felt my forehead five times since I came back. She is worried. I tell her I am fine. But, I haven’t told her I saw you. She will begin to worry all the more. I know what she hides behind the tough exterior she demonstrates. So, I don’t want to tell her because her heart will ache too just like mine. What do we say of fate, my son? Its patterns are unintelligible to the human eye. Yet, they say that it’s all a part of the larger scheme of things. It doesn’t interest me, son, this larger scheme of things. I like things that are small, measurable and liveable. Like the family I dreamed of – of you, me, Appa and Shraddha. I have always waited – waited for the day when you would grow taller than me, when I would have to look up to talk to you, of course with swelling pride and unseen tears of happiness in my eyes. I have waited for the day when you would hold my hand and assure me that I am going to be fine, while I complain of a nagging knee pain. I have waited for the day when you will come home to see me with your wife and a child as lovely as you. Do you know any of it, son? Or the ones I thought we would do when you would be much younger? Of singing rhymes, playing games that I would let you win, of sharing stories and flying kites? I am sure you knew, for I thought all these when you were within me, as part of me. Then, why did you go away, my boy? Didn’t you find these dreams worthy of living? Or you found a better world outside of the one I gave you initially and dreamt of giving later?

dreamt of giving later? And again, what do I have to say of fate, that I thought I saw your face today, among the sea of faces in the market area? Ever since, I am fervently wishing I see you again. It’s a mindless thought I know, but this helpless mother wishes that the face I saw belonged to you, you, who I had lost during delivery in my first pregnancy, amidst so much of hope and amidst so many unrealized dreams I was dreaming up for you and me. Yes, my boy, I wish.

Swamy Mama, Janaki Mami, Venkitu Mama, Sharadha Mami The typical, religious, gossipy, tam-brahm neighbours. And yes, the men had both retired from public sector banks. And yes, the women had both been housewives. And yes, both couples had a son and daughter each, all abroad and well settled. And yes, both had lived in their respective ‘own’ houses for over twenty years now. What more did they need for a bonding of a lifetime to form? Mornings saw the men in easy chairs with filter coffee on their sides and newspapers in hand, listening to some AIR artist crooning in their transistors hoisted on a wooden stool that belonged to the men’s father’s father – one the men were waiting to hand over to their sons with indescribable pride. Afternoons saw the women take a small nap and meet at the common compound wall, all of five feet, with both of their heavily bangled-jingling hands resting comfortably on the wall, to share gossip and the day’s proceedings. Evenings saw the men again taking a walk to the temple nearby. And then it happened. Venkitu Mama and Sharadha Mami, after months of debate, decided to relocate to Madras; to be with their son who had moved back from the U.S. Swamy Mama was distraught; Janaki Mami was broken. In a few days, loneliness engulfed them like never before.

Suddenly, people who had unconsciously defined the borders of their daily existence were not there. The easy chair didn’t have its company, nor did the filter coffee or the transistor. Janaki Mami’s jingling hands felt lonely. Janaki Mami and Swamy Mama grew quieter. They hadn’t even felt their children’s absence this much! And then it happened. One day, Venkitu Mama and Sharadha Mami called. They weren’t sure how frequently they would call but they said they missed the two. Swamy Mama and Janaki Mami’s day felt better. And once, when Venkitu Mama and Sharadha Mami managed a visit to Tiruchi after a year for a week, the other couple couldn’t hold themselves. The men hugged each other and the women held hands with tears streaming down their faces and they spoke, fell silent and spoke again. As days went by, there were no more of the visits and the phone calls grew sparer. And one day, Venkitu Mama received a call that Swamy Mama had passed away. Venkitu Mama was inconsolable. Sharadha Mami broke down when she heard not Janaki Mami’s voice but only her long drawn breath over the phone. And as days passed and destiny took its own course and time reduced conversations between the families to zero, in every frail moment of old-age weakness or fear or loneliness, Janaki Mami, Venkitu Mama and Sharadha Mami thought dearly of their good times. In the dimming light of their visions and memories, Janaki Mami remembered her husband and his dear neighbour friend and thought of Sharadha Mami and her warm, friendly face with a glittering nosering. And, Venkitu Mama and Sharadha Mami spoke to each other, trying to be as loud as they could get with their weakening voices to be heard by their equally weak ears, wondering about Janaki Mami and fondly recalling Swamy Mama’s witty jokes. And, when all the three too dissolved into nature’s folds, the air around the two houses that stood next to each other in Tiruchi, continued to carry their treasured memories.

RAJLAKSHMI PILLAI

Poetry

My Days What does a person go through during his or her days of grandeur and gloom? Rajlakshmi Pillai writes a poem.

On a slight note, let me recall my days of grandeur, when I was cuddled and put up on a pedestal, my words were lapped up, meanings found resonance. The sun and flowers were the same, brighter though, And so were smiles and cheers. I did float for the period, for my feet found no worthy ground. Why then, why did the downhill have to be so quick and cruel?

On a slight note, let me recall my days of gloom, when I was ignored and pushed aside, my cries were unheard, my laments ignored. The sun and flowers were the same but lacked shine, and there were the frowns and curses. I did float for the period, for no ground found my feet worthy. Why then, why did the downhill have to be so quick and cruel?

The Night

JENANI SRIKANTH

Fiction A bad day and a painful night – unanswered calls, longing for a friend. Here’s a story on friendship by Jenani Srikanth.

She had had a really bad day. She came back home, worn-out, depressed and angry with the world. After a half-hearted dinner, her bones begged her to hit that comfortable feather bed. But her mind refused to sleep. She dwelt uncomfortably on the day's events, recalling that angry voice, her mother's tears and her total helplessness. She twisted and turned for what seemed like hours, but sleep evaded her. She finally decided that he was her only resort. His consoling words, his soothing voice, his encouragement - they were all that she craved for at that moment. She had spoken to him only once that week. It seemed like so long ago just when the troubles were beginning to surface.

She clearly remembered that Monday evening, when she was just back from a client meeting that had gone bad and he had called. That was the last time they had spoken to each other and much had happened after that. That Monday she had said a fateful ‘NO’ on her mobile in answer to his invitation to attend his graduation ceremony and almost cried into the phone that he never understood her and took her for granted. Ultimately, she had cut the call even as he was hanging on. Although he had informed her about the ceremony much earlier and she realized that it was her mistake to act the way she had just done, she could only blame her circumstances for the way things went during that conversation. All her attempts to get in touch with him post a self-introspective session went unanswered, except for one message that said, ‘DON’T COME.’.

She had known him for 17 years now. She couldn’t help smiling even in those tough times as she thought about the first time they met as neighbours, joined the same school, played together and loved each other’s family as their own. It was a huge blow to their happy times when his parents died in a car accident. Depressed with the haunting memories of his loving parents, he went on to live with his grandparents in another city. But they had stayed in touch constantly through letters and phone calls and rare visits and it was the sort of relationship that blossomed on the strength of words written and spoken. Ink and voices, that’s what it had been all about. And now, what had she done? A burst of anger and he had gone out of touch. It was true that she was the only person left to see him graduating. She knew very well that he was thoroughly disappointed. But why didn’t he understand? Did all these years of friendship amount to only this much of understanding or lack of it, so to speak? Thoughts raced inside her head like sharp currents in water. She suddenly jerked out of her thoughts and hurried out of bed and almost ran to the telephone. She dialed his number and waited to hear his voice again after that Monday. A ring, two rings, three rings; she let it ring on; but the sleepy "hello" she expected never came. He must've slept, thought she. But that didn't put her off from trying again and again and again. As she waited endlessly for him to answer her call, the day's happenings came back to her more strongly than ever. She had gotten herself into a nasty mess of sexual harassment with her superior; one that, at its worst, could spoil her reputation completely. If only she hadn’t attended that office party the other night and got drunk uncontrollably! She had gotten so high and lost control that she had moved closely with her not-so-good boss who now wanted more from her. She cursed herself for her senselessness when he showed the clearly recorded version of her antics that night on his goddamned mobile phone. Emotional blackmail at its peak. But what angered her more was that people whom she thought were friends didn’t help her when she asked them to and didn’t even bother to console her for fear of attracting unnecessary trouble from a superior. She felt betrayed. Their true colors had been exposed at the time of adversity and betrayal is something the human mind does not accept easily. As these thoughts ran through her, she grew angry and helpless all the same.

Picture by th.omas

How could he sleep peacefully while his best friend lay sleepless? She kept trying. She was desperate to hear his voice - that was her only medicine now. Medicine... ah! How that word haunted her. Even as she had entered the house back in the evening, her father had complained that mom wasn't well. She had taken her mom to the hospital and had waded through many streets and many more shops, before she found the right medicine. Her mom had had two attacks already. She was worried and sick. Still, he didnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t pick up. Now she was really angry with him. She was his best friend!! How could he do this to her? How could he sleep, when she was so miserable? After all this trouble, now her best friend had turned his back on her. It was true that they had had some petty, unreasonable arguments but she thought he wouldnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t let it injure their years of friendship and would forgive her. This was too much for her poor self to take. It was almost midnight. She decided to call him one last time. She dialed and let it ring twelve times before hanging up. She suddenly hated him like never before. How could he? He had let her down when she needed him the most. As she cried herself into an uneasy dream, every tear that fell on her pillow, told them how she missed him that night.