Spark - February 2014 Issue (50th Issue) by Spark Editor

Spark窶認ebruary 2014, 50th Issue | Romance

50th issue of Spark Dear Reader, We feel extremely proud, thrilled and over the moon as we present to you, the February 2014 issue of Spark— this is our 50th monthly issue and it feels unbelievable! Yes, what a phenomenal journey it has been to get to this magical number! The February issue is a tribute to the most important emotion known to mankind—love. We have a brilliant line up of fiction, non-fiction, poetry and art, plus an interview for you to read and relish and ponder. Sandhya Ramachandran’s artwork is on the cover and it signifies Adam and Eve and the first act of love. This happens to be one of the thickest editions in Spark’s history too. We promise it’s going to be a delightful read! We dedicate this special 50th edition to all our readers, contributors and every person who has stood by us in this creative pursuit in whatever way they could! Thank you, everyone! We hope to bring the joys of literary writing in many more forms for many more issues to come. Here’s to creativity! Here’s to Spark! :)

Cheers, Anupama Krishnakumar Vani Viswanathan

Spark—February 2014, 50th Issue | Romance

INSIDE THIS ISSUE POETRY Release by Vinita Agrawal In My Reverie by Runes The Mind Like Mount Meru by M. Mohankumar Eternally Yours by Rrashima Swaarup Verma Convolution by Arindam Banerjee Your Love by Aparna Kameshwari Nelson Chased by a Mirage by M. Mohankumar Those Few Stories by Vani Viswanathan FICTION The Blue Kajal by Prashila Naik Sumi’s Love by Anupama Krishnakumar My Blue Saree by Anshu Arora Maheswari A February Morning Surprise by Parth Pandya Runs in the Family by Ram Govardhan Thirty and Shy by Sudha Nair Of Books and Love by Anupama Krishnakumar NON-FICTION Romancing the Almighty by Divya Ananth The Cholan Romance by Sreegururaj Jayachander INTERVIEW ‘I am Poetry’s Victim!” : Interview with Vinita Agrawal THE LOUNGE TURN OF THE PAGE| Culling Mynahs and Crows : A Review by Vibha Sharma 3

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Release Vinita's poem captures the lament of a heart that has been restrained by worldly constraints to realise love in its truest form. Return me to the salted crystals embedded in earth Release me into the winds of forbidden mirth

Take me to places that begin with your breath From godforsaken sin, lead me to simplicity instead

From dark, noir views of heart's debarred choices Bestow me the tender light of joy's exquisite voices

In return, take what you will from the depths of me Else scatter me to the welcoming dust or unfathomable sea

Poetry by Vinita Agrawal 4

Spark窶認ebruary 2014, 50th Issue | Romance

Release From there I arose, there I will return Eternally waiting with my lover to be one

Ethers reverberate with vibrations of wishes Swimming with longing like airy golden fishes

What is to question, what is to decide? On love's augured journey, a true heart will suffice

Vinita is a Mumbai based writer and poet. Her poems have been published in Asiancha, Raedleaf Poetry , Wordweavers, OpenRoad Review, Constellations, The Fox Chase Review, Spark, The Taj Mahal Review, CLRI, SAARC Anthologies, Kritya.org, Touch- The Journal of healing, Museindia, Everydaypoets.com, Mahmag World Literature, The Criterion, The Brown Critique, Twenty20journal.com, Sketchbook, Poetry 24, Mandala and others which include several international anthologies. Her poem was nominated for the Best of the Net Awards 2011 by CLRI. She received a prize from MuseIndia in 2010. Her debut collection of poems titled Words Not Spoken published by Sampark/Brown Critique was

released in November 2013. Her poem was awarded a prize in the Wordweavers contest 2013.

Poetry byVinita Agrawal 5

Spark窶認ebruary 2014, 50th Issue | Romance

The Blue Kajal It’s yet another Sunday evening and they meet at their usual café for conversations over mugs of hot coffee. But there’s something that’s different about this meeting for, this time he sees her in a new light. Prashila Naik tells the story. Every Sunday evening, they meet in the chaotically-setup- yet-strangely-relaxing cafe on 31st Main, 2nd Cross. She prefers the table near the window, and he prefers the less conspicuous one in the corner. But it is a preference that he cannot justify, and so every time, he lets her have her way. Another reason he does not mind the table is that he is intrigued by how she manages to make life outside that window an integral part of their conversations, and the

basis on which she picks up props from among the men, women, children, cars, dogs, and numerous other entities in that vast sea of beings that passes only peripherally around them.On this particular day though, he is finding himself increasingly disinterested in the woman she is talking about, a woman he has heard of before, but already forgotten. What he is really interested in is the blue kajal lining her upper eyelashes.He is unable to take his eyes off

Fiction by Prashila Naik 6

Spark—February 2014, 50th Issue | Romance

it, and as he appraises its utterly comfortable strangeness, he notices other things. She has a scar running almost parallel to her right eyebrow. Her lower lip is much more fuller than the upper one. A lone strand of her hair extends itself onto her cheekbone, before disappearing behind her ear.

“Why do you do that when you laugh?” he asks, registering that gesture as if for the first time, even though he would be able to easily recreate its image inside his head if asked to.

“You won't believe the amount of perfume she sprays on herself,” she is saying now. “The whole washroom smells of her. Almost every alternate day, someone or other complains of migraine because of that strong smell. It's annoying, right?”

“Oh, I don't know. I never gave it a thought.”

“Do what?” “Close your mouth when you laugh.”

“What if you had to give it a thought?” “Well then, maybe it is an impulse, or maybe my mother taught me to do it when I was a child, like so many other things I do without fully realising them, you know, like touching someone's arm and apologising when I happen to kick them. Why are you asking?”

He nods, registering only the 'right' at the end of her sentence, for his attention is now focused on the rest of her face. Not the prettiest of faces he has seen, but definitely the most expressive, honest too. He is amazed at how he has never paid any attention to these finer details that in a way define her, even though their friendship goes a long way back. Only now does he notice how her eyes aimlessly flicker as she ends every sentence, and how one of her front teeth is longer than the others. For no palpable reason, he finds this arrangement of her teeth extremely attractive.

“I don't know, just asked.” She nods and begins to start sipping from her mug. He knows she likes to drink her beverages in a single sitting, and that she also likes them at a temperature that in her own words is a 'midpoint between warm and lukewarm'. He watches how she doesn't hold the mug with its handle, instead wrapping all her fingers around its body such that the handle thrusts itself out. He tries holding his own mug in that manner, but gives up.

“When I was a child, I thought the more you smell of perfume, the better it is. A woman who left a trail of 'nice' smell behind her, every place she went, was all I had aspired to be then,” she says and laughs, half-covering her mouth.

“I like the blue colored kajal you are wearing,” he says and puts the mug down. She puts her mug down too, clearly surprised. “You do? I did not think so, especially with the way in which you have been staring at it all 7

Spark—February 2014, 50th Issue | Romance

day long.”

growing up. It's an easy refuge, an escape. Oh! How I wish I could be a child again. Simply “No, of course not. I think it looks lovely, and say it, and pass the blame onto time and age, what makes you think that I can stare at somefactors that you anyway have no control on.” thing only if I don't like it? In fact, what kind of reasoning would that be? Why would I stare “But who says refuge is a bad thing? To me at something I don't like?” the possibility of escape in itself is a manifestation of hope...” “How would I know? You were the one staring, and that too as if I had horns on my He can see she has misunderstood the point head.” he was trying to make, and on any another day, this realizstion would have catalysed an“And did that bother you?” other one of their passionately drawn out, “Did what bother me?” though inconclusive debates, but today, he has no such intentions. He “The staring?” doesn't want her to stop talk“No. No.” ing, even though he isn't particularly attuned to most of She smiles in a strange what she is saying. His eyes manner. It takes him a are set on her face on which while to realise that she is he can see clear reflections of blushing. the patterns of her entire “Do you know some peospeech, her lips pursing in ple can sense it even when surprising coordination with her eyes, relaxing someone is staring at their backs? It must be and pursing again setting a rhythm of their weird to have such sensitivity, though I could own . Her fingers spring to life too, constricthave done with something like this when I was ing and expanding into more patterns. He a child. It would be so good to sense my thinks he has never seen a sight more fascinatmother's eyes on my back every time she haping than this, her face, her arms, her voice, her pened to catch me eating ice cubes from the whole being aglow with just the force of genudeep freezer. Oh! How I miss those days. I would so ine self-awareness. He feels a tenderness rise go back to that time.” inside him, and he wishes she would go on “No, you wouldn't. You'd get bored after a talking like this, just for him, just for herself. while and long for this freedom, this ability to But, her arms drop down on the table in a choose, and buy, and eat what you want to. I sudden movement, and she stops talking to think every time we say we want to go back to look down at one of them. some relic of our past, we are only trying to refuse to accept our inability to deal with “Oh God, I completely forgot. I have a dentist

Spark—February 2014, 50th Issue | Romance

appointment. I'll need to leave now.” She slips her cell phone inside her tote bag, and stands up. “Sorry I completely forgot to tell you in the morning,” she says, when she stops by his chair. He opens his mouth to respond but stops, when he feels her fingers on his shoulder. It isn't the first time she has done that, but he registers that gesture now in its full intimacy. He turns his head slightly to look at her fingers, noticing how she has painted the nail on her index finger in a shade of red that is darker from the one that the rest are painted in.

Prashila Naik dreams of retiring into the idyllic landscapes of Ladakh and longs for a day when every child in India will have two full meals to eat and a permanent school to attend to. When not dreaming or longing, she continues to extend her repertoire as a veteran IT professional who loves to dabble with words and discover new genres of music.

He sees her wave from the other side of the window, that familiar smile on her face. He waves back, and watches her disappear, one stride at a time. He thinks of the blue kajal on her eyes, he thinks of her sitting down on the dentist's seat, opening her mouth wide, and clenching her fists tight, besieged with a fright that she will never acknowledge to anyone. He thinks of the nail paint, he thinks of why he is still thinking of her, and why he did not want her to leave. He has no clear answer, but he knows he will have it soon. He picks up his coffee mug, and wraps his fingers around it, struggling once, twice, but getting it right the third time.

Spark—February 2014, 50th Issue | Romance

Romancing the Almighty Divya Ananth tells us of her special bond with her Lord – one that went through its ups and downs, but was always present. Ever since I remember, He has always been a natural charmer. As a child, I didn’t fancy Him much. He was way too tall for me, and I could hardly catch a glimpse of his powerful persona, as many would describe Him to me. As years slipped by, the turbulent teens set in. In between crushes and misses, I nurtured a rare love. A love that I always knew existed, found expression. I frequented His home regularly. The songs that echoed throughout His abode were mesmerizing. I stood transfixed every time I set my eyes on Him. With a conch in one hand, discus in the other, His mighty sword pointing down, lips smiling a naughty smile, adorned with a pristine ‘Veshti’ and lotus garlands, he verily was my knight in shining armour, my companion, my first boyfriend. I told Him about my days, the sad moments, the happy ones, my worries, my anxieties; I entrusted my days to His care. I chided him if things didn’t go my way, I called Him names; I fought tooth and nail if promises weren’t kept.

Non-fiction by Divya Ananth 10

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I cherished a bond, one only He and I understood. I sang for Him, I cried for Him, I fell in love over and over again, every time I set my eyes on him.

painter of it all (My boyfriend is extremely talented, you know!) never once occurred to me. Life was tough, with little treats thrown in to retain sanity. It was only during difficulties that I remembered Him. That too briefly, When marriage came along, I introduced my to question, curse and complain. I realize fiancé to Him, spent many minutes asking now, that I simply took Him too much for Him what this life had in store; if He would granted. stand by us always, if He would continue to love me like He always did… He probably decided that enough was enough. So back to India we came. On hindHe did, I didn’t. sight, I wonder, how on earth did we have Life took many turns. In the scuffle of shoul- the courage to move back? How did my kids dering many responsibilities, I had forgotten get admission into one of the premier schools that He had promised to share. I never really in the city? How did I survive many setbacks bothered visiting him, or telling Him my little even after we relocated? How have I gotten stories as I used to. back on my feet? How did I get back all that Living in a faraway country, I would think of I thought was lost? How am I the person I Him once in a while, try to play his image in am today? It is baffling, to say the least. It’s my mind over and over again, but the joy truly something that simply could not have would last a brief second. Nevertheless, the been possible without the intervention of His very next day, He would find His way into hand. my inbox, in the form of a forwarded e-mail. Call me sentimental, call it coincidence. But how does one explain such things? Strange indeed are the ways of the beloved. I went places. I agonized over my children, their sicknesses, a fracture, many health concerns, and financial strains. I revelled in motherhood; I wielded the wok and learnt languages. Slowly, without me realising, I crowded my mind with innumerable to dos and agendas. His image blurred. His charm faded. I marvelled at bewitchingly beautiful scenery in the Alps, but the image of the master 11

Spark—February 2014, 50th Issue | Romance

Last week, I went to see Him. Fatigued by roles, I wanted to spend quality time with the one man who never spoke, only listened; who never expected, only gave. His is an unrequited love. And it was about time He claimed his due. Love has a way of bringing soul mates together. As I set my eyes on him one more time, I realized that He looked as dashing as ever. That smile seemed to say “What took you so long?” I recalled every single moment of hardship and joy, of pain and happiness. I knew instantly that He had always been by my side all along. Otherwise, that know-it-all smile wouldn’t have stirred something deep within. Through the tears, I knew how much He loved. And how much I had forgotten. We talked. We renewed our vows. We moved on.

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.

Spark—February 2014, 50th Issue | Romance

In my reverie You will make love to me Want me, without the Excuses of half truths! In my reverie You would never have left -

In My Reverie What’s romance without the flame of passion? Runes’ poem portrays this passion beautifully.

Dwelling content on kisses Living off my breasts. In my reverie You would have been you I would have been me And in that one night We would have recognized

Runes is a part-human part-fairy who eternally ruminates on the idea of love. She lives in her bubble singing songs, reading, writing and fighting her inner demons!

The slant of one another's smile when we lay cheek to cheek Drunk, in one another.

Poetry by Runes 13

Spark—February 2014, 50th Issue | Romance

Sumi’s Love When art inspires love and the creator is a larger than life personality, the aching heart laments helplessly. Sumi’s love is one such affair. A work of fiction by Anupama Krishnakumar. Sumi doesn’t know if what she is doing is actually right; acceptable. But she still wants to go ahead and do what she has been considering doing for many years. Write a mail. She clicks on new email and begins typing. Dear Sir,

It sounded pleasant. It eased me up as I studied for my examinations. It gave me a beautiful sense of joy that I hadn’t experienced in a while. Soon, you began composing more and more – and I lapped up your music like a new-born waiting eagerly to suckle at her mother’s breast.

I have diligently followed every piece of your music, every instrument in each composition that has gone into building music of inimitable excellence. Tunes that have marched right royally into the very depths of my soul, reaching out to every cell of my I was fifteen when I first heard your music. body, drenching my mind with addictive pleasure. I wouldn’t like to call myself your fan – that sounds very reductive. I am not just a fan. I believe I am something more. Yes, I worship your music. I worship you like I worship no one else.

Fiction by Anupama Krishnakumar 14

Spark—February 2014, 50th Issue | Romance

What’s with this age, Sir? Two years from then, like those around usually warn, my hormones began swinging into action. I began nurturing weird yet spine-tickling notions – dreams that I didn’t even know if they would materialise.

hold on to, Sir. Humans that we are, it’s a bane that we need something tangible to hold on to, to associate with what fills our heart with love. And the tangible thing that I hold on to is you – your face, your hands and the affection that may stem from your heart and reach out through your wide hands to me. A warm embrace, perhaps? This physical connection that I am drawing sometimes makes me feel sick at the pits of my stomach and rattles my heart but it also gives me a burning pleasure – of being associated with As much as I would have loved to brush aside something I can identify. such ideas as products of teenage-ridden infatuation, I saw that as years progressed, I have only Sometimes I wonder if I am doing injustice to ended up realising that what I feel is nothing you by owning you in my dreams. Those times, I short of pragmatic, only that I don’t, like what I feel like hiding my face and running away. But had believed when I was younger, expect it to no matter what I think or decide each time, my head to a certain socially-accepted conclusion. heart sings just one truth. Every single time. Marriage. I love your music and therefore, I love you, Sir. Do I sound like a mad woman? Perhaps, I do. In a way that makes me want to pledge my body, You may receive a thousand mails like this every mind and soul to you. other day – from women who pledge their love Today I wish to say what I have been thinking and life for you and your music. Should I pity for many years: You are my everything. And you them, Sir? Or, in other words, should I pity mywill always be. self? I do not know. Self-pity is such a bad thing for life; I have heard that often enough. It hin- Forever Yours, ders progress. Sumi But what am I to do? I know what I hold within the chambers of my heart isn’t like what I see of relationships around. I find other love stories insipid. Mine is special for when I hear your music, I feel I merge with you in a beautiful way. I feel I can look into your eyes and read what goes on in your mind that produced this music. I imagine I can feel the caress of your fingers on the instruments as you choreograph their actions, their sounds.

Sumi hits the send button and buries her face into her hands and feels her tears moisten her palms. She wonders if he would even open the mail and if he did, whether he would read and respond. Miles away, a musician’s phone beeps to life. There is a new mail, waiting to be read.

Music is, no matter what, an intangible thing to 15

Spark—February 2014, 50th Issue | Romance

The Mind Like Mount Meru The king is shocked by the news. He rages. How could the queen do this to him, she who is so dear to him, like Rohini to the Moon,

M. Mohankumar pens a poem on how true love is beyond all sensations. The poem is based on a story in ‘Yogavasishta’.

carrying on so brazenly with a man about town, exchanging intimacies in public, bringing shame on him and the whole royal family? ‘Let them be drowned,’ he orders. And so they are thrown into a huge tank; but they splash about merrily and swim ashore. Trampled by elephants, they remain unhurt. Whipped, they do not wince even once. ‘Burn them to cinders,’ thunders the king. But the flames do not singe their flesh. As he looks on, amazed, they say to him, ’We are absorbed In each other; so absorbed the mind stands like Mount Meru, blocking all sensations.’ And the king, realising his limitation, leaves them to their own devices.

Poetry by M. Mohankumar 16

Spark—February 2014, 50th Issue | Romance

My Blue Saree Affection and admiration need not be always directed towards a person. An inanimate object can be a reason for romance too. Anshu Arora’s story reveals the fondness of a woman for a particular blue saree. ‘In search, you live your journey. It ceases to matter, whether you find or lose. For in losing and in ruins, you find yourself and the treasure.’

A turquoise-blue saree adorns my wardrobe for the past 14 years. My entire family takes great pride in this six-yard fabric. Indeed there are reasons for it. It is eye-catching, detailed and very impressive. Crafted by my maternal aunt, it is probably a unique piece in our family treasure and truly matchless and priceless. The extensively embroidered rich long fabric is further embellished with beads, stones and stars. Stars also glitter in my eyes when I reminisce the making of it. Yes, I watched it all along… really, I did.

It may surprise you that it took three long years some three decades ago to decorate and create this awesome piece. Well, I date back to a generation where it was customary to spend summer, winter and all holidays in ‘nani-house’; So it was only inevitable that I watched a major part of the saree getting done as my maternal aunt graced the sixyard fine fabric with silken threads, sharp needles and oodles of patience. I can still recollect her beaming face when she first showed the cloth and flaunted the traced design which ran like a serpent from one corner to the other. “This is too elaborate,” exclaimed my mom, a lady who always believed in simplicity and is a big saviour of time and energy. ”Bai ! I love it,” my multi-talented aunt wanted to take up the herculean task and as expected she did.

Fiction by Anshu Arora Maheswari 17

Spark—February 2014, 50th Issue | Romance

She had a neat hand, a burning desire and definitely some spare time around. So, equipped with all this, she set out like a brave warrior to accomplish the mission impossible possible! All afternoons she remained engrossed and lost in it, her back curved and head bent low as she meticulously laboured to finish the intricate pattern. But despite her dexterousness, the pace was sluggish and very slow.

ness victory but ultimately the multi-coloured pattern did emerge to its full bloom. It was akin to darkness taking over the clear sky for the stars to sparkle. It was bliss to be engulfed in its untouched beauty and pattern which was beautiful and perfect. But nights don’t last forever and stars can’t shimmer forever… Labour laments in loneliness and loses lustre. Do dreams begin to drain and darken if the dawn gets delayed? Did the delay turn the six-yard into a denial? Did it become something like the many jobs, assignments and responsibilities that completely drain us that we even lose the charm of celebrating and rejoicing the final achievement?

I wish to quote a verse from the Bhagawad Gita, where Krishna coaxes Arjun to perform his duties, ‘Karmanye Vadhikaraste, Ma phaleshou kada chana.’ which means that one must perform one’s actions, but not await the fruits of our doMy mom didn’t like the blue saree in particular ings. but she quickly grasped the pain and emotion Probably ‘karmanye vadhikaraste,’ kept her going behind it. Needless to say, she genuinely valued but there came ample moments yearning for the effort. ‘phaleshou’. ‘Kada chana,’ I sensed was too bookish But was it destined to turn into a masterpiece and hard to swallow. Over the years, I saw her and then quiz me for as long as I lived? desire fade, her excitement dwindle and her newfound joy lost its charm. The fabric was unfold- ”What happened? You wear it, it will look good ed and folded each day, many months on and on you.” My mother tried convincing my aunt. on. As it was spread out, the saree received a But there was no love and fondness in my aunt’s multitude of adjectives ranging from ‘Pretty!, eyes as if it was all consumed in the making of amazing!, elaborate,’ to ’slow and boring.’ The the saree. It was then I realised that though she elaborate design enthralled one and all, but nov- had tirelessly laboured, she was now completely elty fades fast and people get anxious and impa- exhausted. I understood that while there is no tient to see the outcome. The early compliments hurry, timely gain ought to be the aim. therefore slowly gave way to comments, and ‘No!’ she didn’t budge an inch. She had the cravthen criticism. The six-yard also began to trap ing to accomplish, the preparedness to perform moisture & dirt and lost its newness and sheen. and the strength to prove. Yet in this moment of On one particular visit, I didn’t see the saree and parting with her years of labour, all I witnessed on enquiring, my aunt fetched it from the cup- was detachment, indifference and a strange reboard and handed it to my mom. lief.

“Bai, you keep it. I can’t even look at it.” The My mother never wore this six-yard and years wait-and-watch had worn down the wish to wit- later it was passed on to me. I am awestruck at 18

Spark—February 2014, 50th Issue | Romance

the very glimpse of this splendid saree that I rave about but have never draped and can’t discard either. It will live longer than me with a treasure trove of memories and many moments of our lives, the story of our family, scripted in thread and art, embedded in its yarn. Did my lonely blue saree, fresh and untouched, become a metaphor for unquenched desires? Or is it a vista of life that depicts the epitome of desire where even longing loses its lustre and the ultimate moment of victory is sometimes so drenched in pressure that the long-awaited pleasure is lost… in pain... in vain?

Dr. Anshu Arora Maheswari is presently working with Bal Bharti School as Principal. She is the proud recipient of ‘Jewel of India', ‘Limca record’, ‘Best Principal’, ‘Best Guru’ and ‘Cyber fair’ awards. She has also penned a fiction on school children, ‘School Truths.. REVEALED’ by Tapatbooks. This hotel management topper is a vivacious and multidimensional who dons the hat of an administrator, educator, writer and speaker.

Spark—February 2014, 50th Issue | Romance

“I am Poetry’s Victim!”:Vinita Agrawal In an interview to Spark, Vinita Agrawal, widely-published poet and author, shares her thoughts about her poetic journey, what poetry means to her and her debut anthology of poems ‘Words Not Spoken’. Vinita has been a regular contributor to Spark for almost two years, mesmerising us with her beautiful verse every time. Her responses to Anupama Krishnakumar’s questions are as refreshing as her poetry. Read on!

Vinita Agrawal is a Mumbai-based writer and poet. Her poems have been published in Asiancha, Raedleaf Poetry , Wordweavers, OpenRoad Review, Constellations, The Fox Chase Review, Spark, The Taj Mahal Review, CLRI, SAARC Anthologies, Kritya.org, TouchThe Journal of healing, Museindia, Everydaypoets.com, Mahmag World Literature, The Criterion, The Brown Critique, Twenty20journal.com, Sketchbook, Poetry 24, Mandala and others which include several international anthologies. Her poem was nominated for the Best of the Net Awards 2011 by CLRI. She received a prize from MuseIndia in 2010. Her debut collection of poems titled Words Not Spoken published by Sampark/Brown Critique was released in November 2013. Her poem was awarded a prize in the Wordweavers contest 2013.

Interview by Anupama Krishnakumar 20

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1) When did you write your first poem? unless processed by an intellect. And within What was it about? writing, poetry is a genre apart - poetry is something that is open to interpretation, it is I wrote my first poem when I was five. It was, fluid yet concise, soft yet hard hitting and predictably, on my doll. I still remember it sparse yet rich in content. Poetry can wind clearly : around your heart and ensnare you forever. I I have a doll am its victim! My doll has a ball

4) Tell us a bit about the process of writing a poem from the birth of an idea to the final piece.

The ball is round My doll weighs seven pounds ********* 2) Your website says that you are a poet at heart. What makes you gravitate towards poetry?

You know RUMI wrote about love in a million different ways.. Jayanta Mahapatra has written about the land of Orissa in myriad styles, Jane Hirshfield expresses human emotions in countless designs...so writing poetry is really about making an entity of the state of your mind. You may be writing about the same thing but how you do it is what sets one poem apart from another.

For me poetry is a form of expression of deepest emotions and thoughts. What's not on the surface is inside my poetry. What's not spoken is worded on paper. What's not captured in the fast and fleeting pace of life is eternally canned So, writing poetry is a dynamic process! I write in my poems because they are born out of in- a poem in one go, mostly, and make some edits after re-reading what I have written. As for ternal reflections and sensitive perspectives. choosing a subject to write on, well the inspira3) As a literary form, what do you think tion varies. Nature, emotions, burning issues, a sets poetry apart from other forms of exgood read somewhere all motivate me to write. pression? The weird thing is that I write more when I'm Writing is a very distinct art amongst all other pressed for time or in the rush of things and forms of creative expressions. For example, in less when I have all the time in the world! sculpting, you can physically feel the dimen- That's really funny! sions of the structure, in painting you can visuI can't define exactly how long it takes to write ally enjoy the colours and shapes, in music you a piece; it all depends on how inspired you are, can hear symphonies and rhythms... so basicalhow motivated. Sometimes you can churn out ly you are using tangible senses like skin, eyes three poems in an hour, sometimes it takes and ears to enjoy these art forms but writing is days for the right line to be born. a form that needs to be absorbed directly by the mind. Words are meaningless squiggles 21

Spark窶認ebruary 2014, 50th Issue | Romance

5) Do you believe that your perception of beauty out of nothing. I learnt that poetry need poetry has changed over the years? If yes, not always be triggered off from a devastating how? event in your life like losing a parent or the birth of a child. Given the right perspectives, Well in a way, yes. When I was in school, I almost everything is poetry. began by reading classic poets like Tennyson, Byron, Keats, Wordsworth etc. and I used to Prose poetry too is a very interesting tangent. I love them. Then I chose the poets I wanted to haven't explored it much but I do find it fasciread; new age poets, mostly like Jayanta Maha- nating. patra, Kamala Das, Nissim Ezekiel and inter6) If I were to ask for a defining trait of ponational poets like Pablo Neruda, RUMI, Virems authored by you, what would that be? ginia Woolf etc. I discovered the beauty of free verse through reading the work of these great My poems are about almost unfailingly metaphoric. They rely heavily on imagery. A poet masters. friend once said to me that I take the reader on The minute I heard my first love story, a journey by writing about the simplest of I started looking for you, not knowing things and arriving at unexpected places not thought of before. I'm not sure how true that how blind that was. is! But yes I do write in simple words and my Lovers don't finally meet somewhere, poems are never long winded. In terms of what I write on,well just everything under the they're in each other all along. sun! Just so long as the reader can find his own RUMI, Translator: Coleman Barks space dawning in it. That is important. It dawned on my tender mind that poetry need 7) Is poetry always about spontaneity? Or not always rhyme. That it need not always have do you feel that sometimes deliberate fancy words or be compulsively rhythmic and thought should go into it? When do you determinedly, vociferously inspiring. Rather believe that the outcome is better? some of the best poems are those that are quiet...they just percolate into your heart and sit Spontaneous poems will almost invariably have a few vital elements missing from it. Such pothere for a long time to come. etry belongs to fun and games and light heartAnother change in perception occurred when I ed banter. It's a special talent and has its worth read contemporary poetry. It taught me that in a way. poetry can also be about really simple things like a snowflake or an old engine or a passport But there is no match for deliberate thought photo but if written maturely and artistically it going into poetry. Unless you really ponder can be elevating to read such poems and mar- over and go into the depth of what you want vel at the ability of a creative mind to create to communicate, how will you create something of lasting value? How else will it continue 22

Spark窶認ebruary 2014, 50th Issue | Romance

to leave its mark on people's hearts across gen- readers a connection more real than artificial, more deep erations, across time? than shallow and more at the level of heart than at the mind. I entrust these verses the task of carrying the A quick verse is like water vapour - it disapreaders to the edge of life and beyond because that is pears in seconds whereas a well-deliberated where our truest experiences bear meaning. That is poem is like a river flowing thickly, manoeuwhere it all happens. vring every bend of life, merging peacefully Readers can also read the into the sea of your f u l l t e x t a t heart. www.vinitawords.com/ journal 8) What are the themes close to your 9) How did 'Words Not heart - ones that you Spoken' come about? Is try to address there a recurrent theme through your poetry? running through the poems in the collection? In order to answer this, I urge the readers Words Not Spoken is an to read the preface of anthology of poems that I my book Words Not have written over a very Spoken. There I have long period in time. That's discussed in great honbecause it's my first anesty the purpose bethology. I did not want to hind my poetry. miss out on the old poems which I had written when I would like to quote a I was a 'closet poet'. Some few sentences from poems in the book have the preface exclusively been published in journals for Spark readers before (duly acknowledged in the book) and Over the years I have discovered that pain has a pe- there are a few which are almost 17 years old! numbra of numbness attached to it. And that sooner or Most of them however are new - perhaps a later, we choose this numbness to the acuteness. It is couple of years old. this invisible fine shift towards a state of stillness that Compiling them all into one anthology has inspires me to write. Endurance, in any form, is at the been very meaningful for me. Now I have two core of my writing. more manuscripts ready and publishers who I hope these poems will strike a chord inside every read- are graciously willing to look at them. er in a way that will forge a new bond between us. Through my written words I hope to strike with the 23

Spark窶認ebruary 2014, 50th Issue | Romance

Readers will find a variety of poems in the book with topics ranging from women to love to pain to nature to refugees, to partition etc. 10) Lastly, what do you believe is the purpose of your poetry? If I my poem can touch its reader's heart, then it has fulfilled its purpose. If it can create a clear reflection of similar emotions in their own minds then the intention of writing it is realised and if it can nudge a dormant corner of their spirit to life then the objective of the poem is well and truly accomplished. "Air is incense when you are around You peel away the damp Make embers glow from dying fires Carve pathways, lay them out like lives How long have I really known you?

Vinita’s website : www.vinitawords.com/

http://

Her debut book ‘Words not Spoken’ (published by BrownCritique/Sampark) can be ordered by placing an order with Gayatri Majumdar at browncritique@gmail.com. The price is Rs. 125/- per copy. It will soon be available online.

Let answers walk to me on their feet Let them flutter on the wings of Peepul leaves Let the threads in temples be untied I have so many questions to ask today" ********* Extracted from Ruminations by Vinita Agrawal

Spark—February 2014, 50th Issue | Romance

Eternally Yours It is a dark and endless night, I glance up at the sky A single star is not in sight,

The outpour resulting from the longing to see a loved one takes the shape of a poem. Rrashima Swaarup Verma writes the feelings of a lover on a dark night.

I know not reasons why

I wish to see you, oh, my love, And hear your sweet voice too! So fly to him little turtle dove, And take my heart with you!

A heart whose love is ever true, Each day will sing a song And gentle breezes, waters blue, Will bade the lark to sing along

The longing no more I can fight, The barren sky above It has been many an endless night, Pray! Come to me my love!

Poetry by Rrashima Swaarup Verma 25

Spark窶認ebruary 2014, 50th Issue | Romance

I call upon the muse to lend,

Oh, hold me now, forever on,

A song to bring you here

And vow to never let me go

And yes, Iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;ll sing right till the end,

For as the night breaks into dawn,

Until I have you near

I hear those tunes of long ago

The silence is now broken by, The echo of my beating heart Without you, I would rather die! For now, I cannot be apart

The darkness that besieges me, The night is weeping with me now I will not hear! I will not see!

Now that again my soul is blessed,

Until again, you make the vow

Forgotten is the pain! My heart and love I do bequest,

Then as though, an answered prayer,

To you, yes once again!

Was whispered in my ear The angels singing everywhere, And you, my beloved, appear!

My eyes behold your joyful sight, Oh, sweet love of mine! As we walk by the moonlight bright, The stars above do shine

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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Sparkâ&#x20AC;&#x201D;February 2014, 50th Issue | Romance

A February Morning Surprise A husband decides to write a love letter to surprise his wife one morning. What happens next? Parth Pandya pens a little expression of romance from two distinct people in a relationship. Dear Wife,

romantic with each other, we were harsh to each other, we couldn’t stay without one It feels strange to be writing this letter. In another, we couldn’t stand each other. this day and age where the art of coaxing a What was true on the day of the marriage pen into conversing with a piece of paper remains true more than a decade later. are over, my purchase of a fountain pen feels anachronistic. We talk each day, we Love isn’t the charm that leaps out of pagtext each day, instant message and there is es of a novel. Love isn’t the rose tinted also the occasional e-mail. I thought I promise in commercials. Love is languorwould write to you this time - literally. ous and laborious. A work in progress, an What I can’t express in words, I’ll express investment of emotions. We didn’t know in words. Just not the spoken kind. The that then. We know that now. The tedium handwritten kind. I know you would never of this discovery takes us away from the see this coming. A surprise hidden in plain obvious ways in which we remain special to sight! one another. Between our jobs and kids and pressures of mortgage and family and How long have we been married now? I uncertainty over the future, it is easy to lose know the math and can tell the number of sight of the large picture. We made it this years, but it feels much longer than that. far. We made it together. We were living together a day before we got married and continued to live together It is said that after marriage, love gets the day after. We split our chores and had stronger and the arguments longer. We our fights. We went to work and found certainly have our disagreements and there time and means to unwind. We spent most are certain things which have a dead end. of our time talking about the mundane We have hurt each other many a time trywhile squeezing in just enough to talk ing to find a way through the morass. The about things that were special. We were important thing, we need to remind our-

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selves, that we have the power to hurt each We are dissimilar, but drawn together as if other but we also have the power to for- by a rubber string the moment one tries to give. deviate too much. You will find that I do the bed exactly the way you like it though I Lest you think that this is a sermon on the think it is extraneous. You’ll tolerate my ways of love, rest assured that the intent dulcet (ok, I’ll admit harsh) tones just beisn’t that. All that heavy pondering that cause you don’t want me to interrupt my goes on in my mind remains dormant for singing. If we were alike, we would have the most part. What swims up to the surimploded, so perhaps the difference is a face are the little things that go towards blessing in disguise. making the little puzzle that is us. The million reasons we should be together can No matter what, the one thing that I will easily be countered by the other million pride myself at all times is my ability to where we shouldn’t be. What strange ele- surprise you. Like the time when we were ments we bring to the table! One person’s dating and I drove five hundred miles to fiery attitude is met with another’s calm- show up at your doorstep. Or this rather ness, one person’s determination met by unexpected letter you are now holding. another’s laziness, one person’s good looks Written without rhyme, reason or occasion. met by another person’s better looks. One Here’s to many more years of togetherness person’s penchant for spice met by an- and surprises. other’s inclination towards sweet. The sum Love of our characteristics might likely cover the Your husband entire range of human emotion.

Spark—February 2014, 50th Issue | Romance

Dear husband

with it. There is no one else my parents would have had mild disapproval of that It must be that time of the year when the I’d rather be with. scent of perfumed paper riddles the air. It must have been that since I can’t imagine We look at life in different ways. You are how one wafted in from our bedroom. Per- about the grand vision. I am about the mihaps a little paper plant made its way sur- nute details. You are the person who would reptitiously. Like you did, into my life. How rather write a ten year vision statement many years has it been? I think we both than rearrange the books in the library to know the answer to that. But I know that make more sense (Having ‘The Da Vinci perhaps you’d want to skip the actual num- Code’ next to ‘Metamorphosis’ seems like a ber. It would remind us both of how old tad too generous on Dan Brown). I notice we are. the things you don’t. On the brighter side, I also notice that the things that you do in When is the last time I wrote a letter? Actufact do. That little effort you put into doing ally, it was only last week. I wrote a long the smallest things for me perks up my day letter to my grandfather, replete with severand makes me love you more. al references to our kids and what they are up to. The love of our lives, those two dev- Sweetheart, your intention trumps your ils. Thinking of my grandfather took me execution more often than most. The misback to the time you had come home for takes, if careless, would have infuriated any the first time for the formal introduction to woman, let alone me. The mistakes, my family. Do you remember it? You though, are bungling of one pure of heart, waltzed into the room like you owned it, and would win anyone over. You arrange crossing one leg over the other, putting the bed each morning and I rearrange it your hand across the sofa as if you fre- one more time after you are done. Do you quented that place often. Do you remem- remember the last trip to St. Louis? You ber my telling you that it stunned the family bought me earrings for a black dress I used and how you thought it was a stupendous to wear that still existed only in your mind success that you managed to do that? Now – I had outgrown it five years ago. It is in that I think of it, you probably interpreted these little gaffes that I have discovered a their being stunned as thanking their unbe- great joy. I have learnt to smile and grimace lievable luck. I think that interpretation each time I eat the omelette you make for might have been a little left of centre. Not us. You truly are the lost visionary, and for that it matters anymore. What matters is that, I am thankful. It perhaps would have that you and I are together and haven’t been an issue if you and I both were lost been stunned by our luck, simply pleased staring at the ground and missed the stars

Spark—February 2014, 50th Issue | Romance

altogether.

Love,

More than anything else, your attempts at throwing surprises keeps the amusement alive. Remember the time you landed up at my doorstep after driving five hundred miles? I had known it all along. Your carefully crafted plan should have included briefing your roommates about it. I had waited. I acted surprised. I loved the moment and wanted you to enjoy it. Here’s to more surprises as the years roll along, even those that are discovered.

Wife P.S> Next time, you might want to order a fountain pen and scented pair on a different credit card whose bills I don’t review each month P.P.S.> When you are done reading this, come downstairs. I have made omelettes.

Parth Pandya is a passionate Tendulkar fan, diligent minion of the ‘evil empire’, persistent writer at http://parthp.blogspot.com, selfconfessed 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.

Textures by Photoshop Roadmap 30

Spark—February 2014, 50th Issue | Romance

Convulution Arindam Banerjee’s poem revolves around the abnormal psychology of a lover. The convoluted state of his mind along with the entry of surreal elements presents a different picture of love.

An evening fraught With lucidity Till I heard you knock Upon my access I was quite assured Of convolution Quite assured indeed.

Me a man of blood You a strange belief Though I dear you most

I dread this belief

You lodge for awhile

Your complexion is

Then fade so far gone

Frozen and you don’t

Abandoning me

Surface anymore

To a reckless state

Every night you trip

And convolution

But never alter

You do not heed my

Your gory cord clothes.

Your poise relieves me Of all mortal pangs Your embraces heals The scars dug by time You give chicken skin You give me purpose An alien you’re I’m Alice in dreams.

Poetry by Arindam Banerjee 31

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I’m under a spell.

No I regret not Over their saying But yes I regret Every night’s long wait.

Arindam Banerjee is currently pursuing his M.A in Linguistics from the University Of Calcutta.He is passionate about music and poetry. His poems have appeared in 'The Poetic Bliss', ‘Full of Crow', ‘Taj Mahal Reviews’ and elsewhere. His first micro fiction is also coming out in Blink Ink. He writes, for the bugs keep biting him from within.

Call, no you do not Until next sundown To do away with It’s lucidity.

Thus I spend my days Tossing and turning Depressed of watching The photo entrap, For now they call me Lunatic they say

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Runs In the Family A man’s passionate love affair, another’s ‘love at first sight’ experience and the revulsion that four different women have for menfolk all come together in this story by Ram Govardhan. An interesting melange of characters, reactions and ideologies thrown in together with a sprinkling of romance. Read on. Nâtaline abhorred pungency of capsicum, roachy corners, soap operas, smell of newmown hay and men in equal measure excepting Anton, her father. She hated almost all of menfolk, that is. And occasioned by Anton’s demise, her revulsion for half of humanity turned absolute: she could hate him over a Goa property that he bequeathed to one Zâbel who turned out to be his mistress of nineteen years with two of his children. “He kept it under wraps for so long…that’s typically a man thing, all…all of them are treacherous,” Nâtaline cried and tossed the papers on the lawyer who read through them. But for the inescapable carnal needs, keeping men away was a safe stairway to a peaceful course of life.

around all the time,” Nâtaline avowed and prided that no man managed to stay with her overnight, ever, “Keep it short, sweet and playing straight is the way.” Her mother or foremothers never entertained the surnames of men they lived with. And Nâtaline unhesitatingly fended off such patronymic compulsions with irreverent élan.

Men were miserable scoundrels, mediocre mortals, and edgy spanners in the rounded, grounded, seamless world of feminine works. “You don’t keep annoyance

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Years ago, the day Anton appeared on memories…eighteen years old.” Zâbel’s horizon, swiftly discerning grander odds in his conspicuous highborn personage, Zâbel promptly banished her first man forever over a frivolity. Anton’s aristocracy entitled him to be a weekend partner begetting two able daughters. Zâbel was harmony of features beyond the scope of genetic laws. A glamorous embodiment of her idol Magdu, mistress of the last Governor General Vassalo e Silva, Zâbel’s brown-orange skin, caused by spray tanning, was pièce de résistance. Even as Anton began marvelling at her matchless symmetry, given his fading prime, the day the younger girl turned one, Zâbel’s attention on him waned and, within a summer, to his horror, it was no more undivided. She set her sights on his holdings past the western bank of Mandovi and the lush acres about Dona Paula as moral entitlement, if not legal. One night of long knives, ceaselessly nonplussing him with her beguile, she coerced him to hand down the best of them in recompense for raising his daughters. Soon after laying hands on the certified papers, she was unrelenting in dumping him altogether. “Those few hours were always blissful,” Anton habitually said, “But it should not be construed as some sort of a fling…she was a delight to be with, she dazzled with her elegance and mesmerized with her grace and, above all, she had this uncanny knack of transporting you to cloud nine. But these are old, very old

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Unambiguous, unwritten rules of engagement reigned supreme and as long as a man was compliant and unassertive, they weighed up no one else. Once the bloke turned out to be utterly hopeless, they scouted for a sucker. Prompted by one such guy’s exit, casting about for a gullible chap, Nâtaline zeroed in on Salvador, a lanky twenty-year-old student at Dempo College. Her plump and comely looks, honeyed voice, inimitable dreadlocks, exquisite but old-fashioned clothing and suavity rendered him speechless. And, undeniably, her wide-brimmed embroidered hat played a key role in the siege and capitulation. Even if a hackneyed expression, that’s what ensued; Salvador loved Nâtaline at first sight. He had to come to terms with the sardonic truth of irreciprocity before long. Two brief stopovers in three months were enough to get the drift of the genetic allergy but, atypically, Salvador could stand the punishing spells of disgrace. He was subjecting himself to wildfire that could race through him any time, his friends warned. One still needed an appointment to meet her even if it was at her behest. Morning or evening, unpunctuality was fraught with danger for, every so often, deviations led to injuries needing weeks of tending.

track–Adele’s Rolling in the Deep. Collapsing into the sofa-sleeper, he could see that she was also crooning – a Hindi song. She went about her tasks as if he did not exist there. After couple of visits, spread over months, Salvador realised that one doesn’t have to be a Caltech allergist to grasp that her revulsion to prolonged company of menfolk was not a recently acquired hypersensitivity; it was chromosomal permeation, a genetic notation just to be complied. To entertain ideas of a lasting relationship was nothing but labouring under a delusion. Salvador never rued his indiscretion but constantly kept himself primed for a lot that awaits disposable plates. That mid-afternoon Nâtaline made no bones about niceties; the inklings that Salvador was still a needless bother were too unmistakable. In her eternal ego-trip; she consistently shunned men with landed interests, of upperclass, men of letters, and of power. That makes it plain that Salvador’s status is not

But that Friday afternoon Salvador was on the dot. Nâtaline was engrossed in filing nails even as her headphone belted out chartbusters. So piercing was the volume that, drawing nearer, Salvador could perceive the

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higher than hers and, to be truthful, she en- the wall, all three swayed and tumbled into dures him because he was not a low-profile the junked daybed in doorway. The younger guy but a no-profile guy. girl kicked open the fridge-freezer that was at arm’s length and passed on bottles of Coke. Doffing headphone, fingering her dreadlocks, The overfamiliarity, with which they moved Nâtaline looked nervous, “The wretched about the mansion stunned Salvador. They women are arriving anytime now…I dread knew every crook, cranny, and corner and confronting the demonic threesome…they they picked closets in the galley, its contents are skilled at turning foul in a trice, at the and exact chests containing bites. Even while drop of a hat.” Given her hard-hitting demoving around, munching and having a nibmeanour, in a rare exhibition of emotive ble of the cheese, the three yelled swearpower staging a grand coup, he could spot an words at Nâtaline who gave a haughty return air of disquiet on her face. by hurling torrents of expletives at them. And “Who are they?” Salvador sounded meek. both sides, quite inexplicably, waited to take “The diabetic Xanthippe who usurped my vituperative turns with cutting edge obscenifather’s villa and other properties for bearing ties; a sort of controlled muckraking. Their two devils for him,” said Nâtaline. She was unruffled carriage, amidst such profanity, imreferring to Zâbel, the property in blue- plied that this was their manner of conversablooded neighbourhood of Margao, a city tional discourse. larger than Panaji, and the farmland in Chin- At last, their howling centred on disputed chollem. assets. And then, not just some prime manors in uptown Juba but also, Nâtaline maintained, “What’s with now?” inheriting chattels in upscale district west of “Insatiability is a human trait…as the French say…when all other sins are old, greed still stays young. These pests scout for teenyweeny leeway to appropriate. You play the devil’s advocate…you have to outargue and tire them out,” ordered Nâtaline. Zâbel wobbled in with her teenaged superobese daughters into the porch. Climbing two pairs of stairs that creaked under the tonnage, huffing and puffing, groping their way along

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Margoa railway line was her birth right. This claim maddened Zâbel and her daughters who cried aloud Nâtaline’s illegitimacy. Bursting out in spurts, spitefully scuttling towards them, the trio brazened it out to cow Nâtaline into ceding without much of a showdown. But Nâtaline nimbly drew them into a drift that converged not on sharing but on her outright privileges over all that was left behind by Anton. They countered calling her ‘illegitimate’ by brutally questioning Nâtaline’s paternity. In the midst of the hullabaloo, Salvador made a timid effort to please Zâbel by offering a glass of fruit juice. “Young man…I believe you are Nâtaline’s new boyfriend. This is our family stuff…just keep off…Nâtaline is too clever and I am too worldly,” said Zâbel. Putting the emphasis on the words new and our, Zâbel induced the intended consequence: Salvador instantly felt marginalised, unrelated. “Girls…this is one hell of an unhappy place…let’s not waste our time here,” whined Zâbel. The younger girl cried, “Why mom? If the evil is driven out…this can turn into a paradise…it’s not brickwork, it’s decency of people who live in it.”

Zâbel. “My father always adored my mother, not you…that says it all,” bawled Nâtaline. “It was his cardinal sin…begetting two fat devils in the bargain.” Both girls reached Nâtaline in one spring, punched, and kicked her repeatedly. Nâtaline’s alacrity enabled her to give it back in kind, and as many. All three of them grappled for a while and, all at once, untangling themselves, the girls retreated a bit. Reckoning that they were chickening out, as Nâtaline eased a bit, all three of them began throwing effects at her. Wielding a matching technique, in a flash, Nâtaline heaved a wooden chair injuring Zâbel; not only Zâbel’s head, even Salvador’s theory that speed and obesity were incongruent was shattered forever. Zâbel bled badly and began crying her pain in raucous decibels. The terrified girls rammed Nâtaline onto the floor and began pounding with legs with ton-force. Going by Nâtaline’s fiery

“It is a paradise…it is big devils like you who make it a hell,” howled Nâtaline. “Hey you…look, we don’t want a spat with you…we know all about you…how can you be different from your goddam…,” cried

Spark—February 2014, 50th Issue | Romance

cries, it was obvious that the effects of standard gravity remained unaltered even on third floor of a building perched on a hill. Suddenly it occurred to Salvador that they were indeed more masculine than many men and, in the melee, he escaped in one bolt. …………. Six months later, Salvador bumped into the younger girl sipping energy drink outside a pet-salon in Caculo Mall while her Pomeranian, Gili, was groomed. They chatted until the pooch emerged in shipshape and Bristol fashion. Salvador was successful in keeping the topic of their property issues at bay. They walked to parking. She offered to drop him at his place but, on the way, was effective in coaxing him to her home. He could see it in her eyes, in her speech and in her abnormal graciousness; undoubtedly, she had not toyed with a man in a long while—few months of celibacy shrank their allergy to tolerable limits. Steering through winding alleyways, she pulled-up at the most dreaded place on earth - Nâtaline’s mansion. Salvador imagined being pummelled in their traditional manner. Right from the porch he could hear boisterous laughter and shrieks of repartee. The clatter was so intense that Salvador was terrified to enter. Letting Gili, the girl snapped him inside and, to his amazement, he saw three women rolling over each other. Even as three bodies spun as one bulk, he could spot Nâtaline, Zâbel and her daughter frolicking. Ignoring him, the younger girl leapt into the rolling body of bodies making it larger and 38

merrier. A great mass gyrated around the hall resembling a humpback whale whirling on floor having a whale of a time. Their revelry spanned out for quite a while and they were unconcerned with Salvador’s presence. In the bargain, in the jollity, he could gather that Zâbel and Nâtaline’s deceased mother were step-sisters and, at one point of time, in concubinage with Anton. That was the moment Salvador fully grasped the sweep of their pedigreed aversion. Agony or ecstasy, their realm was perfect without men for, in a perfect manifestation of geneticism, the allergy ran in the family with such vengeance that their unstoppable gaiety, he thought, was a perfect moment for him to slip out, without a scratch, again. He did; for now.

Ram Govardhan’s first novel, Rough with the Smooth, was longlisted for the 2009 Man Asian Literary Prize, The Economist-Crossword 2011 Award and published by Leadstart Publishing, Mumbai. His short stories have appeared in Cha, Quarterly Literary Review of Singapore, Muse India, Cerebration and several other Asian and African literary journals. He works, lives in Chennai, India.

Spark—February 2014, 50th Issue | Romance

Your Love

A treasure chest of feelings lay buried inside me Until you came and set it free Now I am caught in a cauldron of raging emotions

When a person is head over heels in love, fantasies and feelings break free and life feels beautiful. Aparna Kameshwari Nelson’s poem describes the experience.

So hard to control and yet so fleeting to hold Fantasies so multihued have taken flight And want to break free and see the light I reach out to them and try to pin them down Lest I reveal my true self and make you frown But nay, they take their own path Strewn with hurdles flashing fast And yet they try to break through and hurtle Travelling at speed and trying not to topple Oh! I can’t deny these feelings anymore Your love has shaken me to the core Like a rosy glow it has spread all over my being Filling my life with new meaning

Aparna is a writer by profession. She loves to interact with people and is very passionate about writing . A die hard romantic at heart, her craze for Mills and Boon books at quite a young age instilled in her the passion for anything associated with love and romance.

How long it will last? Nay I can’t fathom. But as long as it does I feel so free and alive Like a new-born taking its first deep breath Filled with your essence.

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Spark—February 2014, 50th Issue | Romance

Thirty and Shy Meera was single, thirty and hopelessly shy when it came to the opposite sex. When Vivek walked into her office, she realised that she just had to listen to her heart. Sudha Nair writes a short story. Dear Diary, Have I told you about Vivek?

my inhibitions into a hot water tub and be bold enough to talk to the guy I fancy. Dear diary, do you think I My heart did a cartwheel the first time I saw him. He can listen to my heart for once? Just once? was walking out of the elevator wearing a crisp white shirt, a tan blazer, and tie. His hair was styled short Meera stopped writing and put down her pen almost like a military cut; a neatly trimmed French feeling a rush of red whooshing through her beard framed his chin. He looked straight at me, not brain. She wrote in her diary every day. It was averting his gaze. Suddenly this huge cloud of shyness a practice since she had been a little girl. swept over me. I darted into the pantry next door not Meera worked in Mumbai now, renting a sinknowing what to do. And before I knew it, he walked gle-room suburban apartment on the fifth right in there too. I fumbled with the mini-fridge pre- floor of the building owned by a widowed tending to look for something. Did I just imagine it or landlady, Mrs. Gopal, who was happy to treat did he have an amused look on his face when I turned Meera to a cup of tea every evening and listen around? He was still getting his coffee. I closed the as she talked of her day. She sympathised with fridge and hurried out of there, back to my cubicle her, unlike Meera's mother who had given up feeling all flustered. Moments later, he was passing by. He stopped at my cubicle and said, "Hi, name's Vivek." I was completely taken by surprise. And all I did was mumble unintelligently, something about my name being 'Meera,' or did I say 'Mary?' I hoped he couldn't tell that I was shy. He smiled strangely and a moment later he left with a "See you around," leaving me staring at his broad back. And when I mentioned this to Mrs. Gopal this evening, she said I must throw

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on Meera ever finding a man on her own and "Hi" but the words seemed stuck in her couldn't understand why she didn't even agree throat. There was also a man in front of her to any of the matches suggested by her. who was jabbing his suitcase against her knees. She dodged that and waited for a good Ordinarily, Meera's shyness didn't surface durmoment to turn around, when she felt a light ing impersonal interactions with men over the tap on her shoulder. To her astonishment, it phone - the advantages of working in a cuswas Vivek. tomer support centre â&#x20AC;&#x201C; but it was a disaster when it came to meeting a man, and that pret- He was at such close quarters that she could ty much explained her still single status at 30. almost feel his breath on her cheeks. He seemed surprised to see her. She peered at his Meera didn't think she'd ever have the courage face taking in his lightly creased forehead, his to strike up a conversation with Vivek. And light brown eyes and his delicately curved then one day maybe she'd hear that he had got lashes. She was drawn to his perfectly engaged like the guy she had fancied in her trimmed beard that oh-so perfectly framed his previous job. She seemed to be headed down lips, curled into an "O." She imagined him the same path of hopelessness this time too. leaning in to give her a very public cinematic The next day when she left for the train sta- kiss. She inched her face closer, blood rushing tion to go home, there he was, to her surprise, deliriously through her head. And that's when waiting for the train too. Suddenly a thought she saw that he was pointing to his shoes. To struck her. She recalled Mrs. Gopal's words her horror she realised that her pointy heels about throwing out her inhibitions. She just had been digging into them. wanted to listen to her heart and take a bold "Sorry," she stuttered. step right then. Without thinking, she jumped into the men's compartment after him. It was "Excuse me. I have to get out. It's my stop," crowded but she managed to stand near Vivek he smiled, making his way through the crowd with her back facing him. Soon there were to the exit. more people around her pushing in from all sides. The crowded train made her feel like the air supply around her was being partially cut off but she was happy as long as she could feel his presence right behind her, the light brush of his shirt sleeve on her sleeveless arms, the faint smell of the cologne he was wearing. He didn't seem to have noticed her yet. All she had to do was turn around and say 41

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There he was, leaving her staring at his back would ever overcome her shyness. yet again. She fretted over what he must have The next evening as she was winding up and thought of her, coming on to him like that. getting ready to leave, the most unexpected She felt mortified about facing him again. thing happened. Vivek walked right over to She saw Vivek in the pantry the next day, but her desk. He looked stunning with his blazer the awkward memory was still too fresh. He hanging loosely on his shoulders. "Why are was with a colleague. She didn't think he'd you hiding from me?" he said with a smile. notice that she'd left without her coffee. She "Wh…What?" didn't see him again for a few days. "Don’t deny it! I saw you scoot away from the Dear Diary, I had a strange dream about Vivek last pantry the moment you saw me coming. Am I night. We left the office together and walked to the that terrifying?" train station enjoying the quiet walk along Marine Drive, a cool breeze ruffling his tie and my dupatta. "Yes…I mean, no. I changed my mind about The ocean waves crashed loudly but my heartbeat felt the coffee. Just realised I was…uh…getting louder. Our hands touched occasionally, sometimes only late for a meeting." the fine hair on his hand tickled mine. When we got into the packed train, he had his arms protectively around me and I stood with my back against the corner, facing him. He was saying something about how he'd wanted to talk to me for a long time. "I hope I'm not crushing you," he said, every time he bumped into me, pushed by the people moving in and out. I only smiled in response quite enjoying the cheap thrills of a crammed train ride. After what seemed like a long time, we found adjacent seats. It was impossible to talk, with the co-passengers trying to listen intently to every word. So we mostly kept mum, enjoying the ride in silence. Before we knew it, we had reached the very last stop and hadn't even realised it. We were the last ones to get off the train. And then when we suddenly turned to each other and said, "Where do you live?" almost at the same time, we couldn't stop laughing at our silly ride to nowhere.

"I didn't realise it was you in the train the other day until I almost reached my stop." "Sorry, I didn't mean to step on your toes." "No, it didn't hurt at all. I've been meaning to tell you I've seen you before." "Me?" "Yeah, I just couldn't remember until recently." "Where?"

Meera put down her pen, and closed her diary. Sometimes her dreams made her feel better about life. She sighed. She wondered if she 42

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"Weren't you at Mala's wedding last month? Where I upset your drink?" "That was you? You were the one who ruined my ghagra?" She hadn't recognised him at all. "Yes. I'm truly sorry again. But, don't you think we're even now?" "No, we're not," she said, her shyness momentarily vanishing with the recollection of that ruined evening and her ruined dress. "Well, could I atone for that accident by walking you to the train station tonight?" It felt ridiculous the way her heart skipped a beat when a big, warm smile lit up his eyes. "Maybe," she said, with an air of nonchalance, inwardly smiling at her sudden boldness and feeling grateful for a second chance. She picked up her bag and followed him out the door into the breezy, young night. And she could almost feel within her how the night might just turn out. Sudha, a mother of two, is constantly trying to pursue new avenues to push her creative boundaries. A chronic daydreamer, she is in awe of people who have followed their heart. Sudha is passionate about music, fitness, her family, and most recently, writing.

Spark窶認ebruary 2014, 50th Issue | Romance

The Cholan Romance Sreegururaj Jayachander traces the history of demonstrating love to God through temples during the Chola reign in southern India. Text and pictures by Sreegururaj.

Romance! This eternal feeling of love, lust or bondage has quite often been associated with and due to carnal motivations. This mundane thought process has been challenged by certain ancient societies like the ones that thrived in India, by creating surreal combinations of Love with and for the divine, which in the face of it seem poles apart! The history of India has produced enough hagiologists who have made this surreal marriage of love and God possible, by their communion with Himself. It is only in this land of the holiest of the holies that Love has been proclaimed as God Himself – “Anbe Sivam” - this profound statement of Saint Thirumoolar echoes even today in Tamil Nadu.

society mirrors in the social, economic and spiritual domains. The Cholas of South India created one such an age and sustained it for almost four hundred years!

One of the most vibrant, live and awe inspiring vestiges of the Cholan days are the innumerable temples that they dedicated to the Lord. The sheer numbers of edifices that the Cholas built are a reflection of their extraordinary passion, incessant dedication and unquenchable love for art, which they used as a medium to express their loyalty to the Ultimate, in the most sublime and expressive ways. Amidst rich paddy fields in their myriad shades of green, criss-crossed by pregnant distributaries of the perennial river and soaked in the baking heat of the tropical sun A little more than a thousand and hundred shine of the south, the Cholan heartland is years ago, there rose a man with victory as strewn with beautiful gems born out of the part of his original name, Parakesari Vijaya- eternal Cholan romance. layan, to re-lay the foundation of an empire In hindsight, it seems like the temple buildthat would establish the Golden age in the ers loved to do back breaking and laborious southern half of India. A Golden age in its jobs! They mostly chose the most difficult true sense is not just about subjugations but medium, granite. “Plastic art” as sculpting rather the magnanimous maturity that its

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is also known is most arduous in granite. In comparison with popular and softer media like marble, sand stone or soap stone, granite is almost twice as hard. That would have meant the sculptorâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s chisel would have eroded in almost the half the time as compared to others; a huge section of the temple building arena would have had to be dedicated to blacksmiths hammering and re-sharpening the eroded tools, resounding and echoing the chiseling rhythms of their counterparts.

sake of simplicity, scholars tend to classify Chola temples as early, middle and late. The early Chola temples, though much smaller in size, were graceful. True to the phrase love at first sight, these temples would make the onlooker surrender

The towering gopurams have always been a talking point among different town folk who boast about the size and grandeur of the edifice that their village or town possessed. At some point in time, the cultural richness of a town was decided by either the size of a temple complex it had or by the sheer number of temples it housed. Temples transformed from places of mere worship to burgeoning cultural centers. While we have succumbed to the waft of new age cultural vicissitudes and to the western style of skyscrapers, there used to be a time till the very re- The Brahmapureeswarar temple at cent when religious inclinations held sway Pullamangai and dictated that the size of buildings in a town be diminutive compared to the height of the temple tower or vimana. to its simplicity, charm and grace. A beautiful example is the Brahmapureeswarar at While the Cholas have been popular for Pullamangai, close to the modern day Pasutheir towering vimanas, like the Great tempathil Koil, on the trunk road from Thanjaple at Thanjavur or at Gangaikonda Cholavur to Kumbakonam. In Cholan days it was puram, their journey did start off with temknown as Tiru Alandurai Mahadevar temple, ples modest and elegant. The Chola temple according to its inscriptions. The miniature design had a tower, the vimana, right over panels at Pullamangai of just about the size the sanctum sanctorum. Based on chronoloof a modern day electronic tablet speak volgy, subtle differences in style and also for the 45

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umes about the beauty of Chola art. The thoranas (similar to the festoons hung during Indian festivals) over the niches on the external walls are yet another testimony to the sculptor's divine skills. The Moovar Koil at Kodumbalur in Pudukottai district, is yet another gemstone in the early Chola list. All the fatigue of travel vanish the instant eyes set on the beauty of the shrine. It is worth lauding the efforts of archaeological survey of India (ASI) in resurrecting and maintaining the complex.

The megalomaniac's love! Brihadeeshwara at Thanjavur

Moovar Koil,Kodumbalur

The thorana over a niche at Moovar Koil, Kodumbalur

The next major milestone in the grandeur of temple building was demonstrated by Rajaraja the Great and his son Rajendra the Great. They expanded the empire to its greatest extents, with Rajendra pushing it upto the Malay peninsula and parts of the Indonesian archipelago. The direct and indirect Chola influences in several aspects of the culture of these islands befit yet another article! The Brihadeeshwara temple, the magnum opus of Rajaraja, also known as the Dakshina Meru, is a paradise to the devotee, art lover and the general tourist alike. Just to give a feel for the grandeur, in comparison to the one at Pullamangai, the Great temple at Thanjavur is almost five times taller in size. It is a repository of all the sculptural 46

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and architectural elements evolved by the Cholas. While the great temple has become more popular for the myths surrounding it, including the famous shadow myth, the admirable truths get less mention. The arresting beauty of the Chola paintings on the upper storey of the inner walls of the vimana currently inaccessible to the general public are a visual delight. For the benefit of all, photographic reproductions are housed in a museum inside the temple complex. I personally consider it a gift of the lifetime for having had an opportunity, several years ago, to witness them right there! The assiduous record keeping capabilities of the Cholas are reflected in the lovely inscriptions all around the temple. Right from the meikeerthis (lines of praise dedicated to the Photographic reproductions of the emperor), to the records of the enormous Chola paintings housed in the local endowments given by the royal family, to the museum minute details of the names of the 400 women assigned to the temple, and the address of the houses they lived â&#x20AC;&#x201C; the information on Kulothunga I and his successors, popularly the walls is overwhelming! known as the Later Cholas, equipped with During the 11thCentury A.D, it must have centuries of temple building expertise and been one of the tallest manmade monu- under pressure to excel their predecessors ments! Truly the handiwork of a megaloma- started building huge temple complexes and temple cities. By this time Chola art had atniac! tained its maturity. The Airavateeswarar temRajendra surpassed his father in several fasple at Darasuram and the Kampahareswarar cinating ways. Creating an entire city in itself temple at Tribhuvanam, both near the modalso with a gigantic edifice both at Gangai ern day Kumbakonam, are fine expressions Konda Cholapuram is the least that can be of later Chola art. Srirangam, Tiruvanaikka, said about him. He set an insurmountable Tiruvarur and Chidambaram are some other grandeur challenge for his successors! mammoth testimonials.

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The Darasuram temple complex.

While it is humanly impossible to capture the grandeur and beauty of Chola art in a humble article like this, the eternal romance of Cholas with monumental expressions in stone, shall be remembered as long as the medium they chose to express their devotion survives on earth. The Cholas embarked on a different romantic journey, one that increased their fame as accomplished artists & patrons of art across the globe. That story of yore could become the topic of yet another romantic sojourn!

An engineering researcher by profession, Sreegururaj is also an artist and a heritage enthusiast. He loves studying Dravidian art and architecture and has so far visited more than 60 Chola temples. He considers studying Chola temples, a "life time pursuit"!

Spark窶認ebruary 2014, 50th Issue | Romance

Chased by a Mirage A face that a man spots in the crowd leaves him spellbound and he begins looking for it everywhere. M. Mohankumar writes a poem. A face in the crowd that struck him like a tidal wave , and disappeared as suddenly as it came.

He wondered why he lost his grip, albeit for a moment, he who was of his surefootedness.

That nightin single-blessednessit flashed across his mind, flashed again and again, and lodged in his mind.

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He felt helpless; then grew tender, and a little sad.

And then, wherever he went, he looked for that face, even as he sought to banish it from his mind.

And now it fills the space of his mind, crowding out all other thoughts.

‘What disease is it,’ he asks the doctor, ‘being chased by a mirage?’

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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Of Books and Love A chanced encounter, thanks to a common love for books, grows into a relationship for life. Anupama Krishnakumar captures the romance that blossoms between Ashok and Gauri in a short story. Ashok looked at his wife adoringly. She was Bookmarks religiously stuck out their colourfast asleep although it was well past 8’o clock ful heads from between the pages of each in the morning. She would usually wake up by book. 7 and fix their coffee before waking him up. Love for books. That was their first glue. They He studied her face carefully and was suddenly met because of books, spoke to each other overcome by a warm gush of affection. And because of books and bonded because of no, it wasn’t their anniversary. He was not like books. A common friend had taken Ashok to one of those husbands (and nor was she one Gauri’s place suggesting he look at her enorof those wives) who suddenly found their bet- mous and alluring collection of books – ter halves beautiful on the day of their wed- including some rare hard-bounds that one ding anniversaries as was often being de- could never lay his hands on anywhere outscribed by the current crop of writers in their side. books that sold millions of copies for reasons It was sort of love at first sight. As Gauri he thought were beyond the comprehension stood with him before one of the many bookof his literature-savvy mind. shelves that rose majestically inside a beautifulThe bout of affection felt even more special ly arranged study, he remembered seeing their on an ordinary day. His attention suddenly reflections on the glass door of the bookshelf. shifted to the brown bedside table on which Even as she pointed to different books, he lay a pile of books – five to be precise, two stole glances of her round face and sharp eyes books of fiction, a poetry collection and two that kept darting and remembered Gauri sudcoffee table books. On top of the pile lay her denly growing conscious of his eyes stealing thick rimmed glasses and a small reading lamp glances at her reflection. He knew she had that could be clipped to the pages of a book. even blushed a bit.

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So there it had started. Words – they spun threads of affection between the two as they discussed the archaic beauty of the classics, the humour of Narayan, the simplicity of Bond, the excellence of Ondaatje’s language, the brilliance of Adichie and the hair-raising sensitive portrayals in Ishiguro’s works. Words – they wrote down their dreams casting them into creative moulds – poetry, stories and letters, deep, passionate and full of youthful love. They poured their hearts out into their confidantes – their diaries and kept the testimonials of unprofessed love to themselves. Years later, they would laugh at their juvenile attempt of gifting the diaries to each other on Valentine’s Day but still feel the love and raw passion oozing out of those words as freshly as they had felt it the night they sat cuddled in their beds, turning page after page and soaking in the happiness that only love can bring. How classic it had been! The act of mutual acceptance of each other’s love. Under that street lamp at the end of a less frequented street, below which they usually stood talking for hours. This time it was silence that spoke and eyes that could barely look at each other, hands that fumbled, and lips that quivered even as a thousand words were waiting to gush out, that they were left with.

It was Ashok who had muttered a thank you first at the end of long moments of silence, taking Gauri by surprise. She looked up and directly into his sparkling eyes. The hands no longer fumbled, the lips no longer quivered. His hands reached out to hers, drew her close and it was their noses that touched first and soon he felt her warm lips on his, sealed in absolute passion, locked for a lifetime. She held his hands tighter and he could feel warm blood rise to his head. Love was indeed such a beautiful experience, especially when it was shared with a person who was meant just for you. Sitting on the bed, 20 years later, Ashok thought of how youth could never imagine something beyond being fairy-tale endings when it came to love stories. Their lives together thus far had not just been about romance – there had been disagreements, some utterly serious, that left them behaving coldly towards each other for days. But the truth had been that this coldness fizzled out lamely and withered away each time and their resolve for keeping up a bitter front melted tamely in front of the love that surged deep inside beneath all the superficial layers that marked their relationship. Over years, they had learned to accept each other with their foibles as love ran as the strong undercurrent, making them fuse in a warm embrace after each misunderstanding.

Spark—February 2014, 50th Issue | Romance

Ashok smiled as he reminisced and watched his wife’s face intently, noticing the lines that had begun to form under her beautiful eyes, near her luscious lips and the streaks of grey on her head that had started redefining her looks. He found her utterly beautiful. And just then, he heard Gauri’s voice. Stop admiring my face, Ashok, she told him, even as she continued to keep her eyes closed, I knew you have been doing for the last half hour. And she smiled opening her eyes slightly. Ashok laughed, pulled her over and kissed her on her lips. 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!

Spark—February 2014, 50th Issue | Romance

Those Few Stories Stories are written to celebrate some romance, while some fade away with the people. Vani Viswanathan pens some free verse to talk about some such tales.

In all the odes we write about love Those about the rich and the poor The far and near The ones that survived And the ones that didn’t The heartbreaks and the tears We forget to think of a few A few that are very real That many people think are untrue, Plain weird, funny; Couldn’t have happened, Or shouldn’t have.

These very real few stories The tiny ones Have to be heard too, shouldn’t they?

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So how about I tell you Of the one where the woman Was a whole three feet taller than her man? And strong too, for She would lift him in her arms When they wanted to kiss?

Or the three Who didn’t find not being a two a problem! And spent a good 40 years Being a threesome

You should also know Of the father Who quietly supported The daughter’s sexuality After her mother Slapped her when she Caught her necking with The girl next door

Oh, and let me not forget The one time the 15-year-old stood on tiptoe

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To kiss the 54-year-old Physics teacher And didn’t think he would ever See a better kiss all his life?

These few stories I got to know Over the 50 years I spent Going around the world Whispered over lunches Confided in over tea But never told To celebrate Isn’t it time We hear these more, too?

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. She is now a CSR communications consultant, and has been blogging at http://chennaigalwrites.blogspot.com since 2005.

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The Lounge

February 2014 57

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Turn of the Page

Culling Mynahs and Crows: A Review by Vibha Sharma

A tight plot and a subtle commentary on Calcutta’s transitioning social makeup make ‘Culling Mynahs and Crows’ an interesting read, says Vibha Sharma in her review of the book.

Title : Culling Mynahs and Crows Author : RK Biswas Publisher :Lifi Publications ISBN : 978-93-82536-19-2 The author's note just in the beginning of the book mentions that 'Culling Mynahs and Crows is set at a time when the city of Kolkata was known as Calcutta, which is why I have used the earlier name for the city.

right time making a very strong impact in the story. Stalwarts like Rabindranath Tagore, Sarat Chander Chattopadhyay, Bibhutibhushan Bandyopadhyay or the recent ones like Jhumpa Lahiri, Chitra Banerjee Divakaruni, Suchitra Bhattacharya have all been able to master the art of pragmatically portraying the soul of a woman in their writings. Moreover, the contemporary writings are bringing out the changing urban milieu of our society. In 'Culling Mynahs and Crows', glimpses of the above mentioned significant traits do become visible - powerful women protagonists and subtle commentary on transitioning social makeup.

Of the little that I have read of Bengali literature, I feel it stands out in one significant aspect - the stories’ strong women protagonists. The literary women characters may give an impres- Culling Mynahs and Crows begins with journalsion of being naïve, docile and dainty women ist Agnirekha's travel from Calcutta to Bisraminitially but their fieriness comes to fore at the pur on an assignment. The gossip about the 58

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assignment is that this is her senior's way to settle scores with her by banishing her to a place where not much of any significant story could be found. Agnirekha is an upper class Bengali who is upset and now bitter because of how her career is taking shape. Almost a namesake to Agnirekha, Agnishikha is a breathtakingly beautiful small town girl hailing from Bisrampur. She nurtures simple dreams of settling down in marital bliss with her husband Sajal, who is a government officer in Calcutta. Sajal dreams to rise higher in hierarchy and the greed leads him to a path from where return is not possible. Ignorant of the ways of life in higher echelons, he ends up making his wife an alluring bait. He never gets the chance to set things right again albeit he loves his wife dearly 'in flawed and cowardly way'. What follows is an action-filled sequence of events involving political goons and business honchos. The other side of the story involves crushed dreams, helplessness, frustration and fear. No matter what Agnishikha does or says, the vicious web around her keeps getting tougher to break. A maid and a mad woman turn out to be Agnishikha's only friends, healers and allies.

Agnirekha and Agnishikha's paths cross and the former's reportage on latter's life serves as a last nail in the coffin of Agnishikha's desire to lead a normal life. In desperate need of some solace and peace she turns towards her pre-marital home but more tragedies are in store for her thereShe learns the hard way the price she needs to pay in order to survive. She transforms herself into a fire brand even as her inner self dies in the process. Calcutta no longer remains a promising city for Agnirekha, and taking some small steps and some big strides, she eventually reaches Boston through Bombay. It is in Boston that she finally accepts and comes to terms with her sexuality, even as old heartaches are hard to heal. This explains her churlish behaviour all through as she struggled at two fronts - confronting her real identity and projecting an unreal one for the world. Apparently, the author has tried to juxtapose the two protagonists - Agnirekha and Agnishikha, but as the narrative progresses, it feels Agnirekha's character is getting a step-motherly treatment from the author. A serial killer in Bisrampur happens to be among the ones who were introduced very early on in the story. A self-professed philanthropist, he lives his life on the premise - 'What would

Spark窶認ebruary 2014, 50th Issue | Romance

you rather see mynahs and crows or bird of paradise?' He extinguishes life in which the flame is already dead and this is his way of serving mankind. But it is interesting to notice that the philosophy of Paglakhooni (as he is popularly called) gets manifested in the story at various places. The fast-paced narrative brings nail-biting, edgeof-the-seat thrill and the story becomes so engaging in the middle that it is un-putdownable. Besides offering a tight and interesting plot, Culling Mynahs and Crows subtly highlights the fast degenerating moral fabric of the society, bankruptcy of life values, vices like lust and greed dictating actions, declining ethics and dilemmas in human relations. The characters which are so painstakingly etched by the author come to life as the story progresses and there is a high chance that the readers will get emotionally invested in the story. However something feels amiss with the serial killer's (Paglakhooni) character. In comparison with other characters in the story, the serial killer's fades away. His character sketch deserves some more strokes to lend it a proper shape as does Agnirekha's. Also, readers would wish to know how Agnishikha reached where she finally did. The author has taken a big risk in picking up similar sounding names of two prime characters and she has

pulled it off successfully. Both the women actually live up to their names through their actions. RK Biswas deserves special appreciation for so thoughtfully picking up these two names. Since the backdrop of the story is West Bengal of 1980s, it is interesting to see that period of time so vividly recreated in the narrative. The story has a strong feminist tone to it and that falls in line with the impression that I carry about Bengali literature or stories written by Bengali writers. Culling Mynahs and Crows is RK Biswas's first novel, but she is not a new name in literary circles. She has won many prizes and accolades for her short fiction and poetry earlier. She is one among the ten Indian poets to have been featured in an anthology edited by Jayant Mahapatra, published by Nirala Publications. She is a proud first prize winner in the Anam Cara Writer's Retreat Short Story Competition 2012.

Vibha Sharma regularly reviews books in her blog http://literarysojourn.blogspot.com/

Spark窶認ebruary 2014, 50th Issue | Romance

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Spark窶認ebruary 2014, 50th Issue | Romance

Contributors

Coverpage Art

Aparna Kameshwari Nelson

Sandhya Ramachandran

Anshu Arora Maheswari

Writer of the Month

Anupama Krishnakumar

Vinita Agrawal

Arindam Banerjee

Concept, Editing and Design

Divya Ananth

Anupama Krishnakumar

M. Mohankumar

Vani Viswanathan

Parth Pandya Prashila Naik Ram Govardhan Rrashima Swaarup Verma Runes Sreegururaj Jayachander Sudha Nair Vani Viswanathan Vinita Agrawal

Spark窶認ebruary 2014, 50th Issue | Romance