Spark - January 2013 Issue by Spark Editor

January 2013|3rd Anniversary Potpourri Issue

05 January 2013

Vol 4 Issue 1

Dear Reader, Happy New Year and we hope you’ve started 2013 on a great note! We at the Spark team are absolutely delighted to bring to you our third anniversary issue – my, my, we can’t believe it’s been three years! It’s been a splendid journey so far and we want to thank you for being with us every step of the way with your readership, contributions, comments and of course, for passing the word around about us! So on this joyous occasion, we wanted to celebrate the very thing about Spark that we feel makes us special – our variety! In this Potpourri issue, you will find art, fiction, poetry, non-fiction and photography that celebrate this variety – together we feel it’s the perfect way for us to kick-start another year of creativity. We hope you enjoy the issue, and do send us your comments to feedback@sparkthemagazine.com. It’s been a pleasure and we hope you continue lending us your support! Thank you, and god bless! - Editors

January 2013 Contributors Amrita Sarkar Anjali Krishna Anupama Krishnakumar Arun Anantharaman Gauri Trivedi Harikrishnan S Jayshree Misra Tripathi Jeevanjyoti Chakraborty Nirupama Sudarsh Parth Pandya Pushpa Achanta

All rights of print edition reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior permission of the Spark editorial team.

Shreya Ramachandran Ullas Marar Vani Viswanathan Vinita Agarwal

Spark January 2013 © Spark 2013 Individual contributions © Author

Yayaati Joshi

CC licensed pictures attribution available at www.sparkthemagazine.com

Cover Page Design

Published by Viswanathan

Anupama

Vasundhara Vedula

Krishnakumar/Vani

Concept, Editing and Design

editors@sparkthemagazine.com

Anupama Krishnakumar

Vani Viswanathan 2

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Inside this Issue POETRY Spark by Vinita Agarwal Association Meeting by Arun Anantharaman Low Tide by Ullas Marar FICTION Departures by Shreya Ramachandran Across the Table by Parth Pandya A Broken Nail by Gauri Trivedi As I Wait by Anjali Krishna Return for Spark by Jeevanjyoti Chakraborty Fireflies by Nirupama Sudarsh NON-FICTION Becoming a Bombay Train Girl by Vani Viswanathan Current Trends in Telugu Literature by Pushpa Achanta A Mother, a Son and Spark by Anupama Krishnakumar PHOTOGRAPHY Variety by Harikrishnan S ART Terror Incarnate by Amrita Sarkar THE LAST WORD Feedback from featured personalities of 2012 THE LOUNGE STORYBOARD| FILM FREAK Memories in March by Yayaati Joshi SLICE OF LIFE| One Morning in East Africa by Jayshree Misra Tripathi 3

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Poetry Spark by Vinita Agrawal Everyone desires for a life filled with spark and vigour. However, this spark is elusive â&#x20AC;&#x201C; it doesnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t stay on forever in oneâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s life. Vinita Agrawal writes a poem that describes this spark through situations that are characterised more by its absence than presence or in other words, the dark moments of life when it goes missing. I am a spark, Don't expect me to be there every time.

I am absent In the debris of a broken home Where the sun never rises, Where conversation falls on deaf ears, Where food grows cold on empty dinner tables.

I disappear when parents divorce, Splitting a child in two like a sheet of bad origami, Making an innocent world go askew like a paper plane; No one really cares where it lands.

Count me out When mothers send sons to the battlefield 4

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And await their return till the end of time, Till their eyes dim and hands wizen, Till tears dry into coarse salty streaks on wrinkled cheeks.

When promises of love, made on rosy garden paths Amidst summery mango scents, Crumble,

Paco Cotera

The girl loses me forever. She marries quietly Someone of her parentsâ&#x20AC;&#x2122; choice, Lives without me But smiles her way to a silver anniversary.

I am older than flint but Younger than a new born moment I am a spark Too dangerous for adults to flirt with And too explosive for adolescents to handle.

I am a spark Always good to have around life and inside you But terrible if extinguished. Vinita Agrawal is a Delhi-based writer and poet and has been published in international print and online journals.

For I leave behind throbbing silvery scars, Like whips of lightning Glinting on the grassy morass of dreams.

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Fiction Departures by Shreya Ramachandran A scene unfolds in the Delhi international airport on an unexpectedly hot winter afternoon, and different people see it differently. Shreya Ramachandran transmits the thoughts for us in her story. The line at the SpiceJet check-in counter was long and moved slowly. The air-conditioning had broken down, and though it was December in Delhi, it was sticky and hot. Women were dressed for the wedding season: red saris, bangles from their wrists to their elbows, bejeweled clips holding their hair up, golden high heels, artfully applied make-up. The men were dressed in their staple: checked shirts and jeans that endure through all seasons and occasions. Crowds of people spread out from the longest queue, until the small enclosure was filled. The scene resembled Egmore Train Station more than Indira Gandhi International Airport: cardboard boxes wrapped with coir, dark blue canvas suitcases, boxes from sari stores and those duffel bags one always seems to acquire from various places: OneTrack Insulin Solutions. Bank of Baroda. FGC Pharmaceuticals.

make sure business class seats are available next time – and tele-check me in. “Pa, look…Look at that woman.” He looked up from his phone, happening to catch the attention of the couple behind him: the husband, who was insistent on keeping his luggage trolley at a lovingly intimate distance from the father’s ankles, and the wife, who was trying to find the house key (she was sure she had packed it into the front zip of her bag). All of them looked up. She was a thin woman in her forties, with a blue sweater on top of her kurta and her hair neatly tied into a plait that was now coming loose. Two of her fingers were heavily bandaged with white gauze, and she was talking on the cell phone while trying to zip up her suitcase.

“Pa, her fingers…” At the end of the queue before it stretched to the right, a college student nudged her father, The husband and wife were murmuring their who was bitterly e-mailing his secretary to Kindly speculations. 6

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Maybe her husband hits her. See, her are fingers band- picked up the suitcase. The official wrapped the aged up. suitcase once, twice, diagonally, repeatedly around the zip track, and once all over again. She She could have burnt her fingers. That happened to me began crying once again, and the official looked once. away and picked the suitcase up to place on the The woman climbed onto the suitcase, still man- conveyor belt. aging to remain talking on her cell phone, and “Pa, they’ve managed to close it. Isn’t that sweet tried to weigh it down to close it. The zip would of him?” not close. “It’s his job, kanShe was shaking na.” now; her arms were unsteady and “I know, but I she was crying. think he helped She threw the suither…” case open and liftIt’s done! It’s closed. ed two plastic See, you can stop crypackets out from ing. Now help me the top compartwith— ment and kept I’m not crying. It’s them in the botjust that she was tom compartment. alone. She pulled out three salwar kameez sets and kept them on the floor. She closed the suitcase again The suitcase had been sent away, and now the and tried to zip it up. She tried and tried again woman collapsed onto the floor. The official but the zip refused to close. came up to her again, giving her two baggage tags and a boarding pass. She took them, shook “Pa, she’s not able to – Pa, look.” her head and sobbed. The official picked up her The poor woman, how will she close it by herself? salwar kameez sets and kept them in her carryHow much she has packed inside that suitcase! bag. He knelt down and told her something the other passengers could not hear. He might have Just by sitting on it, she can’t close it, someone tell her. been assuring her that the ground staff at her What happened to make her so upset? It can’t be just the destination would make sure her suitcase suitcase. reached her, or that SpiceJet had a very strict “Pa, something else must have happened to make her this policy on baggage safety. He could have been telling her that if she did not move, she would upset.” miss the boarding of her flight. She stood up, in A Spice Jet ground staff official came up to her any case, and picked up her two bags. with a large roll of red tape. She nodded and 7

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This is what happens when you don’t pack properly, to SpiceJet Counter 5. The late afternoon sun Shwetha! was pouring in through the windows and the student was sweating in her jacket. I packed properly. Your father asked me to make breakfast, how much was I supposed to do? The father gripped the handle of his suitcase; the husband moved a lock of hair out of his wife’s You’re complaining about giving an old man food? eyes and kissed her forehead; the airport speakYou— ers announced boarding calls for flights to Ko“This is what happens when a middle-class chi, Goa, Jaipur, Kolkata; the crowds began to woman can suddenly afford a plane ticket,” the disperse and the queue moved forward. father said. “This is what happens with low-cost airlines.” The college student looked to the distant right. A crumpled piece of red tape lay on the floor next

Shreya Ramachandran is a 19-year-old writer, student and world traveller from Madras.

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Non-fiction Becoming a Bombay Train Girl by Vani Viswanathan Trains are an integral part of any image of Mumbai, and being able to efficiently navigate this convoluted system is a mark that you now ‘truly belong’ and are a ‘Bombay girl.’ Vani Viswanathan describes her journey to truly belonging to the city of dreams. My friend casually grips the pole with one hand and texts with the other, as she precariously dangles at the edge of the ladies coach with one foot in and the other in the air. I, on the other hand, doing the same (minus the texting), am caught between excitement and hyperventilation – it’s been a good eight years since I did anything close to footboard travel, and that too, never on a moving train. My mind wanders to what would happen if my mother ever got to know. An electric pole nears, and even though there are at least five feet between the pole and me, I try to move as far away from it as I can. The woman next to me is asking me to grip somewhere higher as my arm is blocking her face. Why is it taking this long for the train to reach the station?

moved to Mumbai in 2011, with vague memories of reciting the list of stations from Borivali to Dadar from when I was last here as a seven-yearold, I was incredibly excited and a little nervous. Except for very occasionally using the ‘flying train’ of Chennai, I had hardly had a chance to travel by local train in India, and was worried that Singapore’s rule-based-and-orderly train travellers had spoilt me for good. Friends from Mumbai warned me that the ladies compartment was the worst of the lot, with the pushing and the yelling. The crowds in the ladies compartment were said to be stuff of legend. I managed the first ride in Mumbai with ease – one of my friends knew what to do, the trains weren’t crowded, and hey, we got seats too. Till date, travelling the length to the Chhatrapati Shivaji Terminus (CST) is the train journey that excites me the most, followed by taking the train to Vashi, crossing the long bridge. Besides the obvious draw of a beach in CST and the Vashi journey that includes going over the creek and

That I don’t have an issue with using public transport wherever I go is something I’m proud of. Making my way alone while travelling in public transport in other cities – especially if I’m armed with a map – has somehow always made me feel empowered, and I feel some silly happiness in knowing I’m reducing a teeny-weeny bit of pollution because of that decision. So when I 9

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boasts the view of a ‘skyline’ dotted pretty with so much that if they had the space, the fight lights at night, the fact that these trains are often would definitely become physical. less crowded is an influential factor. Am I romanticising the whole experience? Yes, Ah, but Mumbai was just easing me in with these to a large extent – it’s hard not to, when you’re train rides. In the nearly two years since, I have talking of something legendary, something that is seen the best and worst of it. I have been yelled a big definition of the city you have grown to at in furious Hindi and been stumped because love. Am I making it sound like a rosy peoplemy Hindi fails me when I need it the most (to watching experience though? That it definitely is yell back) and mutely, with a scorn on my face, not. I’ve had to move in ‘because I’m not alighting at With only two or three second class coaches Kurla.’ I have been offered space to sit by three allotted for women, it’s a nightmare if you are in women who willingly squeeze into a seat for the wrong train at the wrong time. The worst three. On at least two occasions, I have snapped train journey for me would be when I boarded at women who adjusted my kurta for exposing the very train to Thane that my relative advised some tiny inch of skin, and have been stared at me to avoid – the one that goes to Ambernath. I by groups of men and women when I made the don’t know how I managed to get in, but thank mistake of taking the local train in a dress beheavens I am an inch or two taller than the avercause of a sudden change in plans. One woman age Indian woman, for that is the only reason I regaled me and my friends with proud stories of didn’t faint in the crowd. Squished next to me her little son who sat there shyly avoiding meetwas a woman with an infant in her arms and a ing our eyes. iPod on, I have spent wonderful little daughter who had disappeared in the mass hours watching people talk to strangers, meet of bodies. We arrived at Thane after an eternity acquaintances they have made from shared train (plus a 15-minute-delay), and the women crowdtravel, hawkers selling everything from accessoing at the exit to leave this wretched train as ries to stationery to fruits to fried eatables to soon as possible suddenly realised the train was plastic items that I wistfully remember having going to a different platform, which meant they spent hours trying to find in Singapore. I have would have to alight from the other exit. Immebeen petty and tried to edge more space out of diately it became the nastiest crowd I have ever the woman who was sitting with her legs spread been in. The woman with the baby was screamout a little more than acceptable in a crowded ing, and she didn’t know where her daughter was train. I have looked half with admiration and half in this frenzied crowd. To this day, I don’t know with amusement at women wearing their how I made it out alive, but leave that train I did, makeup or women propping their legs on the after a few minutes (yes, minutes) of agony and opposite seat and working on their laptops. I pushing as if life depended on it – so much so have seen solidarity among the women as they that my knees were trembling when I stepped offer to hold babies or bags, or mark a particular out. The daughter was pushed out by some kind woman as the one who will get her seat when stranger soon, and she was crying and was swept she leaves. I have seen women yell at each other 10

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up by her father who was also comforting his wife who was shivering and in tears and – wait for it – whose saree blouse was torn. My friend came home once in tears because she was simply unable to alight at her station and was getting yelled at by an extremely rude woman who simply wouldn’t budge to give way. One woman during another journey was crying because her fellow passenger had alighted but she didn’t manage to. You wonder what possesses the female travellers at these hours – is it the crowd? Is it the fear of missing your station? Is it the idea that if you don’t know how to handle this, you shouldn’t be here in the first place? I have wondered if the general compartments are better – are the men equally frantic about getting in and out of the train?

Ambernath, and which stations are skipped in the fast train, and which platform you should rush to when you’re changing trains, are exceptionally tricky. I have longed more than once for the obsessively labelled train stations in Singapore when trying to navigate the Mumbai train platforms. I have boarded a fast train in the opposite direction, ending up wasting 45 minutes in the process. I have wondered how to explain the wrong train ticket in my hands in such circumstances, and decided to make my Hindi more accented to indicate that I’m new to the city and made a mistake.

They say that travelling on the Mumbai local trains marks a rite of passage for someone who wants to belong to the city. I’m still clearly far from it, because I only average about one train ride a month, being a student whose venturing out have somehow It’s not just about knowing how to handle the been mostly in autos or buses. But if life continpeople in the train, though, is it? Knowing which ues in Mumbai post student life, maybe I will get train to board, Slow and Fast, what BR, BO, BS the hang of it, maybe I will belong. etc. mean, or when A is Andheri and when it’s

Vani Viswanathan is often lost in her world of books and A R Rahman, churning out lines in her head or humming a song. Her world is one of frivolity, optimism, quietude and general chilled-ness, where there is always place for outbursts of laughter, bouts of silence, chocolate, ice cream and lots of books and endless iTunes playlists from all over the world. Vani was a Public Relations consultant in Singapore and decided to come back to homeland after seven years away to pursue a Masters in Development Studies. Vani blogs at http://chennaigalwrites.blogspot.com 11

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Poetry Association Meeting by Arun Anantharaman In a poem that explores a very interesting theme, Arun Anantharaman captures his perception of the happenings in an apartment complexâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s association meeting. Read on. Someone called a meeting, and we dawdle in Thirty minutes past the scheduled hour, then We sit facing each other, in plastic chairs In the musty smelling gym room, four of us The usual suspects who unfailingly turn up And two who sometimes do, to discuss Pecuniary affairs and less material ones That we would rather not deal with.

Maintenance dues owed by sundry tenants Or owners, garbage lying around uncleared, The stink from the north side sewer, with Its flotsam of aimless plastic boats cast away By the new fast food joint, prosaic problems Liable to go unresolved for months together Were we not to meet to find one, or so We all vigorously like to think. 12

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Forty five minutes after, we have had Our say, some more than the others, With our own unique methods – one garrulous man Praising our neighbours and why we suck so, another Nodding in agreement, and recommending action, Though what exactly he does not venture to say, a third Gently disagreeing, a fourth guiding the disagreement Into a tangential story about troublesome mice Breaking into his kitchen, that brings forth much Amusement, and like a Tanjore doll, we bounce

Back and forth, back and forth till someone’s phone Rings, it is his wife upstairs wondering what became Of her husband who said he would be back in a bit, A cue for the rest that it is time, we agree It was a productive meeting and we should meet More often to deal with our burning issues, and I, having said little, volunteer to minute our discussions. Stark Ting

Arun Anantharaman works with a management consulting firm in Bangalore. He’s always wanted to write a novel, but it’s taken him a while to figure out that it takes more than just wanting, to actually write one. Start with several short stories, for instance. And put it out there. So, that’s where he is at now – trying hard to dedicate enough time every week to write, rewrite, shred, write, rewrite. So on and so forth. He is inspired by Jamil Ahmad, the Pakistani author who wrote his first novel at 79. While he certainly hopes it won’t take him that long, it is nevertheless, a possibility.

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Fiction Across the Table by Parth Pandya Four different places, four different pairs of people – one common setting. Two chairs across a table and a solitary object between them. Parth Pandya writes four small stories around this theme. was safe again. He pushed the gun back to his opponent harder than he had planned to.

Click

“You think luck will change what skill could“You can’t beat me at this, you know. You’ll be n’t?” the first to go.” He picked up the gun and pointHe latched on to the object in front of him with ed it to his forehead. A fourth empty click reverthe confidence of a man whose faith in himself berated through the room. was unshakeable. Once done with it, he slid it The perennial loser now had his final chance. He back on the table to his friend of 60 years with a said a silent prayer and clicked the trigger hoping neat flourish. for the one chance to settle this. A miss here “Remember the time we had a bet to see who would mean death for his opponent and victory could swim the farthest into the ocean before for him. He had planned it all for months, ever turning back? You ran out of breath before we since he was diagnosed with terminal cancer. It reached the first buoy.” was a game where he’d have nothing to lose and His opponent suppressed a grimace as his all to win. And so, he closed his eyes and pressed memory jogged to one of the many embarrass- the trigger. ments he had suffered in his childhood - always He felt pity when he saw a slight twitch in the the ignominy of defeat, always the tragedy of calm visage of his opponent. The reaction folfinishing last. lowed the sound that would emancipate him from a lifetime of hurt – ‘Click’. Not today. Not now. He picked up the gun and pointed it to his temple. An empty click rang across the room. He 14

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my purse, and nothing particular to interest me on shore, I thought I would sail about a little and see the watery part of the world.”

A Negotiation “Finish it. Right now”

“Ma, can I go to Sanjay’s house in the evening?” Vikas halted to let the words sink in. He took his job rather seriously. Teaching literature to the “We’ll talk about that later. Finish it first.” prison inmates was his chosen line of work for “But Ma, I already had so much food this morn- several years. Every Saturday, he’d take an autoing. Can I have it after I come back from San- rickshaw to the Central Jail of Nashik where he’d jay’s?” find his way to a table in the corner of the meet“Nothing doing. Finish it right now or there is ing area. He’d open his satchel, bring out his collection of books and wait patiently for his no outing to Sanjay’s house for you.” student of the day to come. “But Ma, I have already finished my homework. He had chosen to teach only one person at a Why can’t I go?” time, something that the warden had supported. “Because you need to finish this apple.” He believed that the best impact he could have “But Ma, there is too much skin on this.” was by a personal connection, rather than read“Skin is good for your health. Don’t argue. Fin- ing out to a bunch of folks. ish it.” “Why is it good Ma? It seems all wrinkly. Won’t it hurt my stomach?” “Now look. It has proteins and vitamins. We’ll ask your Dad about it later. He’s a doctor, isn’t he? Haven’t you heard the saying that ‘an apple a day keeps the doctor away’?” “Is that why I don’t get to see him everyday, Ma?”

Sushant hadn’t been the brightest cookie in school, but that didn’t stop him from plowing his way to a MBA degree. That didn’t save him from being caught either when charges of embezzlement were brought out against him. He wondered if the warden really was exerting a sadistic streak against him, making him ‘learn’ English literature at this age. “Good for your sentence,” the warden, Waghmare, had said, laughing at his own clever joke.

Silence. Waves of unsaid words fill the room. A Sushant wished he could simply yank the book daily hurt is renewed. The apple remains glued to from Vikas and tell him to go away – he could read this all by himself much better than that its spot. B.A. student could ever teach him. But he sat “Go on. Make sure you are home before dinthere humbled, knowing well that it was outside ner.” his power to do anything of that sort.

The Written Word

So he sat and heard Melville’s genius being read to him line by line. An hour and a chapter later, “Call me Ishmael. Some years ago - never mind the session ended. Sushant grumpily kicked his how long precisely - having little or no money in 15

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chair back, no more literate than an hour ago. tions, save loyalty. You’d have killed your father Vikas gingerly got up from his chair, tapping his if you were asked to.” cane to find the way, going back satisfied at hav“The company didn’t repay me too well though. ing made a difference to someone’s life. Not much money on the hits, taking the blame for the boss’ son’s mistakes. Those five years in Payback the jail didn’t help.” “Cigarette?”, he offered from the pack lying on “Yes, and they didn’t have to ask you to do the the table in front of him. unthinkable, did they? They knocked off your The person at the other end smiled mildly. father when you were in jail. And here you are, “How’s the weather there?”, he continued nerv- plotting revenge on the company, with neither the money nor the resources.” ously. “You know, the usual. Chilly, dull – like hell had “He knew too much, didn’t he? He could have wrecked the company if he revealed its secrets. frozen over.” And now they know that the link is gone forever A large guffaw filled the room. The reverbera- and I don’t have a chance.” tions of the laughter melted away the tension “Some assumptions don’t quite work out, do between the two men. they?”, he said with a smile. “Was it ‘98 when you started at the company?” “No Dad, they don’t,” he said softly, to the va“Yes. The first hit was the hardest. The rest was cant chair across the table. just a matter of time.” “You were a special one. Never one for emoParth 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. 16

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Non-fiction Current Trends in Telugu Literature by Pushpa Achanta

Eminent Telugu author Nandula Suseela Devi discusses the many interesting trends that currently hold sway in Telugu literature. This has been translated from Telugu by Pushpa Achanta.

ORIGINAL AUTHOR BIO: Nandula Suseela Devi has been penning short stories, novels and magazine columns in Telugu for over 50 years on themes of gender and the elderly. An active social worker and retired principal cum professor of Analytical Chemistry, she is based in Kakinada, a port-town on Andhra Pradesh's eastern coast. Apart from winning awards for her teaching and writing, in October 2011, Suseela Devi was conferred the Vayo Shreshta Samman by the Union Ministry of Social Justice and Empowerment in recognition of her continued service to marginalized youth, women and senior citizens. In December 2012, the Potti Sreeramulu Telugu University (Hyderabad) gave her a special recognition for her writing.

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Vernacular writing in what is now identified as southern India dates back many centuries and perhaps even a millennium. Apart from literary works in various dialects of Tamil, Telugu, Malayalam and Kannada, some people have probably penned prose or poetry in Tulu and Konkani as they have their base or origins in this part of the country. Of course, there are publications from this region in languages such as English, Urdu, Hindi and Sanskrit which are also spoken or used in other places. Like its counterparts, Telugu literature has evolved in genre and style thanks to varied social, cultural and political events and influences down the ages. But at present, questions are being raised about the nature and universality of the theme, content and presentation format of some contemporary written works produced in Telugu. All these are apparently contributing to a unique situation in Telugu literature which does not seem to be true of writing coming out in other languages in the southern part of the nation. The written word â&#x20AC;&#x201C; generic or specific? Over the last century writing in Telugu had moved from a grandhikam ( traditional and formal style) to a simpler one referred to as vyavahaarika bhasha (colloquial language). This had been largely due to the efforts of people like Gidugu Ramamurthy Pantulu, who was one of the pioneers of the principle of utilizing commonly spoken language for his written work from the early 20th century. This became more pronounced after 1947 â&#x20AC;&#x201C; regional literature began to carve a place for itself after India attained political independence. Since then, magazines and books have used language that is easy to

understand. Therefore, contemporary Telugu books (of any genre) and other literary publications such as journals and magazines are rarely penned in a high flown language. It is interesting and important to note that there is a key point being raised about current writing in Telugu. This is about the emergence of literature (over the last ten years) in dialects that are specific to certain districts or locations in the state of Andhra Pradesh. Referred to as maandalikam (regionalism), this type of writing tends to bring various social issues, cultural traditions and other local aspects to the forefront and may gain acceptance and popularity with persons who hail from those places. All the same, such work might not be easily understood by people in other areas in the state owing to the distinctions in socio-cultural practices as well as Telugu idioms, linguistic usages et al. For example, Naamini Subrahmanyam Naidu who had been writing in the widely spoken language of Telugu (with or without specific dialectic and other influences), has used the dialect of the Rayalaseema region in his novel Munikannadi Sejhyam. This is one of the books that has contributed to the ongoing debate on whether maandalikam will prevail in the future, or vyavahaarika bhasha. While some kind of experimentation in the manner and subject of writing is welcome and perhaps necessary, it must transcend regionalism so that everyone understands what is being conveyed. But at present, the argument regarding dialect and area specific writing is being pulled in different directions. One sometimes wonders if this trend is a result of the political situation in the state at present. Or is the rise of such writing

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helping the struggle in any way? Only time shall exponents of this kind of writing. Some Dalit decide what will happen. poets are using their verses to revolt against the dominant social paradigm. These and other such Varied forms of political writing writers are trying to represent the situation of Among socially relevant themes, feminism has Dalits in as realistic a manner as possible. been an integral part of modern Telugu literature One of the heartening aspects about writings in for a few decades. And it is essential to project Telugu of the present day is that traditionally the opinions, successes and challenges of women neglected issues and excluded communities are and celebrate womanhood. The poems and novfinding a voice and representation. People like els of Popuri Lalitha Kumari (better known as Kaluva Malliaih and Allam Rajaiah are projecting Volga) and stories of Kuppili Padma have been the problems of small farmers, landless labourers critically acclaimed in contemporary feminist and tribals in a nuanced way. These writings disliterature in Telugu. cuss the need for such marginalized groups to It is crucial for feminist writing to promote the gain access to their fundamental rights and basic need for equal social, cultural, political and eco- entitlements. The agony of farmers who are losnomic status for men and women and not the ing their land to industrialization is being pordominance of a specific gender. In the same trayed poignantly. Authors like Anjana Devi manner, when some current writers are in favour have written insightfully on the plight of marginof live-in relationships, they should take practical al farmers and agricultural labourers. She highissues into account. Of utmost importance is the lights that these people are migrating to urban responsibility of the rearing of children likely to locales as the land that provides them livelihood be part of such set ups. Authors must not disre- is being lost to industrialization and profit makgard a long surviving institution like marriage as ing ventures. Devadanam Raju presents instancit tends to offer emotional security to kids in es of certain barely known ground realities like addition to meeting other requirements. how fields are being converted to fish tanks for Writers must remember that any expression cultivating prawns. Attempts are being made to based on an individual or group ideology (could bring these problems into the mainstream be political, social, cultural or another type) must not wean people away from reading narratives on other subjects or genres of literature. Otherwise, there is a possibility of people deciding not to read one or more authors especially if they have rigid opinions. Worse still, such writing can stir up controversies and evoke bans. The contemporary literary scene in Telugu is also witnessing the publication of works penned by Dalits. Prof. Yenduluri Sudhakar is one of the 19

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through stories in magazines, literary journals of repute after Bhamidipati Kameswara Rao, and books. Adivishnu and Radhakrishna who wrote nearly forty years back. Most readers seem to prefer Other genres and new styles short stories and novels. Detective fiction is disApart from the multiple new types and identities appearing. in current Telugu literature, the influence of literTo kindle the progress of Telugu writing, the ary traditions and characteristics from other government and educational institutions must countries and global languages is evident. Poets organize literary meets with readers, litterateurs like Ismail have adopted the format of the haiku and youth, periodically (such events are limited (typical of Japanese poetry). Around 40 years to writers, critics and publishers now). Also, ago, four poets called Digambara Kavulu tried a there must be well maintained public libraries different style and content but that lasted only a having vast and varied collections of books, decade. Their creations are also hardly rememmagazines, journals and other publications. This bered. In contrast, the essence of the verses will encourage existing readers and attract new penned by Sri Sri and Devulapalli Krishna Sastri ones. The availability and access to extensive is timeless even though they were created many reading material will create a demand for quality years ago. writing. Let us hope that all this will help the In the case of plays, hardly any new trends are advancement of Telugu literature. visible. Further, there are not many playwrights

Pushpa Achanta is a writer based in Bangalore, India. For the last four years, she has been authoring stories for online (Citizen Matters, Grassroots and World Pulse) and print publications (The Hindu and Deccan Herald) on offbeat personalities and initiatives, local events and activities and successes and challenges of commonly excluded communities. Her writing includes book and literary reviews (for Books and More), culture, heritage, history and social activism through art and theatre.

January 2013|3rd Anniversary Potpourri Issue

Poetry Low Tide by Ullas Marar A man is smitten by the charm that the beautiful sea exudes so much so that he proclaims that he wants to come back. But then, priorities change and the sea is left waiting. Ullas Marar pens a poem that captures the nature of this relationship and the despair of the sea. You think it’s just you and her And you lean over and stroke her hair You’re smiling and you don’t even know it Her sleep-kissed eyes stay fixated on you Too lazy to move away, content With the nothingness in the air.

You think it’s just you and her But what do you know? The sea, she’s holding you in her arms She is hanging on to your every word She’s nibbling your ears Seducing you with a gentle dance.

And then you whisper, almost inaudibly “We should do this more often.” 21

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And the waves rise and fall again Happy to have a bit of your attention.

As you leave, you spread out your arms and say, “I’m so coming back here.” Except, you’re not. The next morning, you pack up and leave For your first love, the city.

The sea, she doesn’t know She shows up looking her best Fanning the breeze, teasing with her dance And she looks to the shore But you’ve gone chasing the city lights.

She’ll soon know that you’re just another man Trading half-meant promises for pleasures She’ll wonder forever if it was something she did And she’ll withdraw into a low tide of yet another heartbreak.

Ullas Marar is a marketing communications specialist by profession. In other words, yet another corporate sellout. While that helps pay the bills, writing in the dead of the night helps him stay sane. He writes fiction, non-fiction and poetry. As a writer, he's like a kid in a candy shop. Everything around him is a potential story. The only challenge is to build the discipline needed to bring those stories to life and he continues to work on getting better at it.

January 2013|3rd Anniversary Potpourri Issue

Fiction A Broken Nail by Gauri Trivedi Nandita and Ayushi are thick friends since childhood and nothing could ever come between them to disturb that bond. But do good things last forever? Gauri Trivedi’s short story reveals the answer. “No! Mommy no….it hurts!” she screamed as I held her little finger and tugged at the nail gently. Her reaction made me stop immediately. I held her close, kissing away the precious droplets, the tears hurting me more than her. Few seconds ago, she had come looking for me, crying in pain. “I bumped into that wall” she complained, showing me her littlest finger.

she bounced off my lap and ran to show the newly acquired finger ornament to her sister. Still holding the first aid box, I wondered if the situation that had cropped up in my life a couple of days ago was any different.

Actually, it would be incorrect to say that the said circumstances sprang on me out of nowhere some time back. What happened was Surveying the damage was proving to be an armerely a culmination of events that were set in duous undertaking considering the age and the motion exactly three years back, when Ayushi, restiveness of the injured party. A closer look my best friend got married. revealed that the tiny nail of her last finger had come loose all the way and was barely hanging Ayushi and I sat side by side on our first day of on to its cuticle. I shuddered within but put on a Kindergarten at school, neither of us crying. Inbrave face just so that I didn’t scare her. Clipping separable since, we were buddies; confidants and the nail away seemed to be the only way out but sisters; bound by a friendship so strong that it for now, her finger was too sensitive to even invoked the envy of many around us. Our growattempt getting a nail cutter anywhere close to it. ing-up years were bliss for our parents as we did So I wrapped that finger in her favorite ‘Hello well academically, made wise choices and conKitty’ band aid, wishfully thinking that maybe stantly motivated each other. People would often the skin and the nail would come together again. question me, “Nandita, what makes Ayushi and ‘Hello Kitty’ seemed to have worked wonders as you this close?” Perhaps the answer lay in the 23

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fact that we were a good influence on each other sure that he wouldn’t be around. Ayushi suspectwhich made our bond stronger. There were no ed something was wrong and asked me several secrets between us and luckily, we never fell for times but I didn’t have the courage to open up the same guy! about her husband. The I got married a main reason year and half being, I saw before Ayushi him as a did. Other than harmless flirt, a limitation on someone who the time spent liked to vertogether, nothbally have ing much some fun. Or changed. We rather I concontinued to vinced myself share the same that he wasn’t rapport and a real threat exchange of and was posidaily banter. The day she introduced me to the tive he wouldn’t do anything to hurt my friend guy who came over with his family with a maror their marriage. His presence and funny adriage proposal, I expected nothing to alter. But it vances were irritating but not enough for me to did and embarrassingly so. Ayushi’s husband-toshare them with Ayushi and create a rift in her be had a roving eye and unfortunately it settled marriage. And because I didn’t say it, a stress on me. unknown to our companionship, all these years, I laughed off his outrageously direct compli- started building up. ments to me on their wedding day as harmless It was in the party on their third anniversary that and all-in- the fun of the big day, though in my the volcano erupted. A sly brush of his hand on heart, it didn’t seem right. The flirting continued, my back jolted me. The fun was no longer harmslow and subtle; a flash of a smile; a word here less. Quietly, I carried my daughter who was and there; meant only for me to notice. Caught seated in Ayushi’s lap, called out for my husband between my discomfort of how to react to the in the middle of the party, who was surprised whole issue and my friend’s happiness, I suffered but trusted me enough to follow me, and made silently, and so did our friendship. Rather than an abrupt exit. As I tried to make sense of the opening up about this to Ayushi, I chose to past events amidst a teary outburst on our way solve the problem by withdrawing myself from home, he held my hand and listened. When I this equation. I made excuses whenever she sugtold him how I had felt I would be betraying my gested we all go out for dinner together or catch closest friend by talking about it even with him up on a movie. I timed my phone calls to make before I let her know about it, he nodded in si24

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lent understanding. It dawned on me then, why things never changed when I got married. He accepted Ayushi as an important part of my life and felt secure enough to let it remain.

the band-aid like every day. I twisted the nail slightly to check if I could clip a part of it away. To my surprise, there were no screams or tears from my daughter. By then, the nail was dead and all it took was a couple of seconds to cut it Ayushi landed at my door early next morning, off completely without causing any hurt. furious with questions. As gently as I could, I told her. She looked at me as if she had seen the I couldn’t help contemplating as to how relationlast of me and she left. No tears, no apologies, ships that are alive bear the potential to hurt you, no explanations asked for. I was prepared for an not the ones that are dead. When the tissue that outburst, an argument and even an accusation of binds the nail and the skin together is no longer hiding things from her all this while, but she left. present, separation is inevitable. You scream in For this, I wasn’t prepared. pain and you dread to think what happens next, but it is the law of nature that when you cease to This was the situation that arose, few days ago, feel is when you are ready to leave. leaving the state of our friendship like that broken nail, hanging in there barely, by a thin thread For Ayushi, an essential glue that sealed our of trust. I do not know if she feels torn between closeness came apart that morning at my door. It her spouse and her best friend of years or if she was, therefore, easier for her to break all ties feels let down by me or if she is contemplating sooner. For me, it was more like ‘bumping into a ending her marriage considering the doubts I wall’ kind of an accident, the wound raw and the raised on her husband’s character. But in the nail still attached to its core. Pulling it out and pause that followed my revelation and her walk- discarding it will take more than a couple of ing away silently, I saw a flicker of doubt, a dis- years, but it will happen, it has to. It isn’t a belief, as she looked at me and that is how there choice I would have ever willingly made, letting is one thing I know for sure, I waited too long. go of a friendship so precious, but sometimes, somebody else takes the decision for us and if Some things heal by themselves. Things that we love them enough, we honour it by complydon’t heal need not be. ing. I encountered my daughter’s broken nail once again a week later when it was time to change

Gauri Trivedi is a former business law professional who makes the law at home these days. A mom to two lovely daughters, her days are filled with constant learning and non-stop fun. All of her “mommy time” goes into writing and finds itself on her blog pages htt p:/ / me ssy hom e love ly kid s.blogsp ot.co m / and http:/ / pastaandparatha.blogspot.com/ and if she is not writing she is definitely reading something!

January 2013|3rd Anniversary Potpourri Issue

Photography Variety by Harikrishnan S How would life have been if everything looked the same? Expression would lose its meaning, and adjectives just wouldnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t matter. Thankfully, reality plays its game differently, and life is made beautiful because variety floods it. Harikrishnan S captures some of the variety we see in the world, through his lens.

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When he isn't travelling or watching movies, Hari is a student of Development Studies at TISS. He enjoys reading memoirs, and spends a LOT of time trying to understand Foucault. Hari likes to believe F.R.I.E.N.D.S and Shantaram are real. He loves photography and travelling, and loves landscapes and sunsets.

January 2013|3rd Anniversary Potpourri Issue

Fiction As I Wait by Anjali Krishna The narrator waits longingly for his friend Jo, and is drawn into a flashback that involves lost friendships and disappointment, until Jo came along to make a difference. Anjali Krishna tells us the story of a warm relationship. The degrading, balding, small plot of yellowish green was situated at the end of the road, behind the last housing society, leading to an undefined muddy patch at its bend. The sole inhabitants of the park included a moss-covered old slide, a rusty swing, and two ugly stone benches. An unkempt banyan tree cordoned the park. The air was thick with the odour of decaying yellow leaves that blanketed the soil.

had ceased to hurt me; developing a thick skin had been my first lesson. I often wondered why I had come here. I have a blurry memory of my mother, her dilated eyes being prominent in it, and an anguished cry, as she left me to fend for my own one night.

Fortunately, an old barber adopted me. “You are my Moti," he used to say. The world didn’t seem cruel until the barber passed away. Soon after, The sweltering afternoon heat with its arid air his shop was destroyed in a local riot and I was raised a mini dust storm in the park, mud and left, once again, scrounging for a new home. leaves swirling fanatically. My tongue was parched, my nose gleamed with moisture, and I don’t think I should delve into further details my eyes smarted with the dust. Impatience driv- about my life because, believe me, it’s quite pathetic. Before I met Jo, my life was bleak and ing me insane, I anticipated Jo’s arrival. dismal, equivalent to that of a deplorable, This was my second home. Solitude being my Kwashiorkor-ridden Saharan, invoking pathosbest friend, the disconnect I felt with the rest of cum-wariness in some of the kindred souls I had the world when I spent hours in this park was encountered so far. Gloom being accepted, Jo somewhat alleviating. Though I wasn’t new to brought a whole new level of pleasure and hapthe city, it was almost as if the city had disowned piness in my life, like a ray of sunshine through me since the time I entered. I was a repellent grey clouds. who warded everyone off. It was long since that 30

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I heard two voices in the background, growing louder. I turned my head to see two old men walking towards the park. They were oblivious to my presence and sat down on one of the stone benches.

“C…cc..come with me and j..just look…” his voice trailed off. We rushed out of the porch of an old cottage, where we usually slept, and found Jeena lying near a smelly old gutter, eyes turned upwards, with no sign of injury on her body. But her face had acquired a bluish tinge, as though "She is never going to come back, is she?" said she had been poisoned. one, his voice wavering. For all my thick skin, I could feel his sorrow. It took me down memory Milan was inconsolable. He sat by her side the lane, to Milan. whole night, wailing in agony. Helplessly, I stayed by his side, his pain latching onto me. The Apart from Romi, the old barber, Milan is a dear next thing I remember is being rudely roused by friend I will cherish all my life. Three years ago, harsh sunlight. There was no trace of Milan or he saved my life from a couple of beastly vagaJeena. I informed our friends, and together we bonds. His bark was worse than his bite. His scanned the whole area, visiting every nook and ferociousness was enough to make them scoot corner, but without luck. It was as though they from the scene. had vanished into thin air. Milan took me under his wing. I didn’t mind his Soon, without Milan’s cohesive presence, our domineering nature because there was a deep group disintegrated. I was left friendless for a sense of care underlying all that bluster. The second time. city’s best smells, sounds and sights were associated with him. He introduced me to his roving The rustling leaves broke my reverie. The griefpack of buddies. Vagrant as they were, they gave stricken old man smiled at me sadly and left with me some of the best days of my life. Oh that his friend. wonderful bakery! The delightful smells that emThere was still no sign of Jo, no whiff of her anated from it, kept us rooted in its vicinity. On tantalising scent, and no sound of her fingers lucky days we would stumble upon remnants of fiddling with the keys of her cell phone. Disaploaves, biscuits and cakes. pointment seemed to be lurking, yet, I tried not Happy days lasted until Jeena, Milan’s girl, died a to lose hope. mysterious death. Jeena was an integral part of A sponge ball, flying out of nowhere, landed Milan’s life. They were head over heels in love with a soft thud on the ground, raising a cloud with each other. Looking at them, I had often of dust in its vicinity. Squeaky footsteps apfelt curious to experience love and lust for the proached me. opposite sex. “Aayush! I’ll fetch the ball. Don’t you run!” One night, I was roughly awoken from deep shrieked a voice in Hindi. slumber by Milan. He was shaking uncontrollably, tears raining down his long, angular face. A tiny tot appeared, toddling towards the sponge “J..Je..Jeena..is..no..no more..” he spluttered. ball. Squeak, squeak, went his floaters. He 31

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slowed down, gazed at me in wonder, stood a shade of the banyan. It was under that very same few steps away, and pointing at the ball, ex- tree that I had first seen Jo. It was evident that claimed “Ball!” she had been upset, her facial expression and body language said so. “AAYUSH!” and I saw a frenzied woman in her mid-twenties, wearing frayed clothes, running A cloudy afternoon it had been, with the familiar towards the child, breathless. smell of moist earth. Just like the gloomy sky, Jo’s face had been downcast and her eyes had Instantly, I dropped the ball, for her face, sudthreatened to burst with tears. Her eyes had been denly frightened, told me to back off. Facing the fixed on the screen of her phone. kid, she exclaimed, “You brat, back off! It’s not safe. I’ll get the smiley ball for you.” Aggravat- Standing on the opposite side of the park, I had ed, she cautiously picked up the ball, keeping a observed her, assuming she hadn’t noticed me. consid“ Y o u erable remind distance me of f r o m him, you me. To know,” her, I she said w a s unexprobapectedly. bly one I was silent. I was taken unaamongst the flea-bitten, and uncouth. wares. I had a weakness for children, for they were those rare creatures who considered me as a “Chocolate brown eyes, the same built. It’s unfriend, and my aloofness was shadowed in their canny.” presence. Usually, I got to spend only a few This was met by another awkward pause. minutes with them until their paranoid guardians “Is that you, Raju?” came to their rescue. I had already anticipated this woman’s behaviour. “It can’t be him, obviously. He decided to leave Waiting for Jo was driving me insane. I fervently me, just like that, out of the blue. I’m probably wished to taste those mouth-watering biscuits, hallucinating.” She was talking to herself. coated internally with a sweet substance. She God alone knew who Raju was, but it was clear called them Oreo. that he had been special, and that he wasn’t I walked towards the slide, and stood under the around anymore. 32

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A melancholic smile crossed her face when I looked at her sympathetically. “I knew you would understand,” she said sadly and walked off. At that moment the rain came down, unabashedly. I fervently hoped to see her again.

I wanted to hurt him but I controlled myself for her sake. He repeated his sadistic action several times, making me wince each time. It’s only after a while that Jo noticed my leg was bleeding. “How the hell did that happen?!” she cried.

Jo’s words had been etched in my mind. Her Sameer stood behind her, smiling derisively. I tone, sincere, and compassionate, had struck a couldn’t hold it longer. I pounced on him, hurtchord in me. It was ages since someone had ading him as much as I could. Jo was horrified; she dressed me humanely. tried pulling us apart, but in vain. It was a dirty I knew Jo secretly desired to see me. My instincts tussle. Hardly had I emerged triumphant, when said that she would be waiting for me, the next Sameer aimed another stone, at the tender, day and boy, was I right. bloodied wound, spot on. I yelped in agony and collapsed. “You slimy bastard!” I growled. “Hi!” she had smiled on seeing me. Sameer put an arm around her stealthily, faking Her smile was lovely, and her eyes twinkled amicold fear. “He isn’t safe, Jo." Jo was no fool and cably. It was the start of a new friendship, which she figured Sameer was the culprit. Pushing him was soon to acquire a deeper meaning for me. off she said, icily “Get the hell out of here, The park was perfect for our daily rendezvous, Sameer.” the alienation suitable. I was usually the silent She didn’t wait to watch him leave. Instead, she listener, as I loved her voice. helped me straighten myself, and hugged me It became a ritual. My day would be incomplete tight. I was in a daze, partly shaken, partly feeling without meeting her. I didn’t know the signs but lightheaded. She bandaged my bruised shin with it took me a while to realise that I was indeed her handkerchief, and took me home. falling in love with her. Soon an incident ocThough my bruise had been nursed, I was in no curred that confirmed it. condition to venture outside. Mrs. D’souza’s Jo brought her friend Sameer along one evening. reaction lived up to my predictions. Following a My face dropped on seeing this strapping teen- dose of coaxes, she dubiously allowed me to ager, reeking of a provocative scent. It was quite spend the night in their musty old attic. It was obvious that he, like me, was floored by her. Jo one of my best nights. Though I let my guard didn’t realise, but his body language clearly im- down, and slept like a log, I made an early exit plied his cheap intentions. the next morning. Jo swore that she would find Yeah, I can see right through you, asshole, I me better accommodation. But she had no idea thought angrily. I stared at him sullenly, as Jo what I really desired. introduced me to him, describing our first meet. My nostrils caught her familiar whiff and I was Sameer made his dislike evident by aiming a thrown off my mind trip. Think of the angel and stone at me when Jo wasn’t looking. the angel appears. I could hear her hollering in 33

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excitement. Her words become audible as she onto Jo, wagging my tail wildly, barking joyously. sprinted towards me— So Jo did know of my secret desires. “BUDDY, YOU ARE COMING HOME!” Hardly able to contain my enthusiasm, I leaped

Anjali Krishna is a blogger who has realised words can help in unleashing all those pent up emotions that can't be otherwise expressed. She loves fiction, especially flash and online comics. An avid reader, music-woman and songwriter, her motto is "Keep it simple!"

January 2013|3rd Anniversary Potpourri Issue

Non-fiction A Mother, A Son and Spark by Anupama Krishnakumar Anupama Krishnakumar shares the elation of Spark’s third anniversary with her fiveyear-old, who in his own way, makes her value the little milestone even more. 04-January-2013

My son grinned.

This morning, while I sat with my five-year-old son as he was drinking his steaming hot coffee (yes, coffee, you read that right), I asked him, ‘Do you know what the date is tomorrow?’ He reflected for a moment and said, ‘Ma, it’s 5th!’ And precisely at that moment, I thought a shadow of recognition passed over his face or at least I imagined I saw it, for I knew that he sort of understood if it is 5th of the month, it’s tough to hang around Amma and that she will be nothing short of a crazy cat.

‘Oh, three! But I am five!’ He sounded victorious. I laughed and said, ‘Yes dear, you are older!’

Something about this conversation that I had with my little one warmed my heart. When I gave it a little more thought, I realised that this warmth emanated from recognising (no doubt with great joy!) that my son, in the process of growing up, has in certain ways started to understand his mother’s world and more importantly, can relate to some of the things I tell him about ‘You know, I have lot of work to do, so you matters that mean the world to me, Spark being have to help me by being a good boy,’ I told one of them. him. He sighed and I could sense the resignation in his voice. And just to brighten things up I I have realised that despite many tiring and testadded, ‘And guess what, it’s Spark’s Happy ing times, I have absolutely loved being a mother. Parenting is a daunting task, yes, but I think Birthday tomorrow!’ nothing else could have brought more joy and His eyes lit up. ‘Oh, how old will Spark be?’ he pride for me than being around with my son and asked. watching him grow up. Amid the tantrums, loud ‘Three,’ I said. I think I shook a little with pride cries, copious tears, demands and adamant when I said that. spells, lie moments that bring in so much meaning and purpose to your life, this meaning and 35

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purpose being something that only a child can cookery shows without batting an eyelid and bring. brings out his own cooking range with a flourish, to cook all sorts of things, mouthing exotic culiIt’s phenomenal, the way children bloom and nary words! And not to mention the gamut of surprise you at every stage of their life. Three to adult-like phrases he dishes out to convey his four years back, when my boy was just a toddler, exasperation at times: ‘I can’t believe you are I was the one who acted as the guiding hand as doing this!’, ‘I don’t appreciate this, really!’ and we walked together. But now, even though he is ‘This is so complicated!’ just five, sometimes, I realise it’s he who is walking ahead. Like when I tell him, ‘K, the fight we Suddenly, school matters too look different. had yesterday, don’t There is a streak of even create such cirindependence, as he cumstances again!’ and attempts to complete he responds with, ‘But his homework on his Amma, that was yesown, gets his book terday. It’s over!’ Or bag ready all by himlike when I tell him in self, combs his hair on an exasperated tone, his own before leaving ‘God, this is so annoyfor school, peering ing!’ and he responds intently at his face on (in an apt instance of the mirror and so on. role reversal) with an ‘Amma, just be calm!’ The There is also more “meaningful” discussion with profundity that characterises such conversations “friends” at school and well the good thing is, I astounds me. Here is one of life’s most relevant am still part of this world as I listen with wonder truths spoken by a child – I seriously couldn’t to stories that have changed courses clearly and have asked for a better tutor for letting go. in some cases, quite dramatically. I can’t admonish one of his classmates’ behaviour as bad only Now, it’s also that time in his life when he tries because that girl called him a “clever boy” once to understand the adult world with wide-eyed –so he gives me something close to a warning – wonder. He mimics his father’s official conferdon’t say that ever about her again. He talks of ence calls, arranges his bookshelf to mirror his how he searched for an “anaconda” hidden in mother’s, pretends to be ‘Spiderman’, ‘Batman’, his school park along with his best buddies dur‘Bodyguard’ and ‘G.One’ after watching those ing their playtime. He talks of how he got films, schedules his routine around the clock “annoyed” with the attitude one of the boys (Including setting mock alarms!), claims that he showed to him during his turn to be the class has ‘infinity thousand billion’ rupees money, monitor. And well, just a few minutes back, he drives his little car out for servicing and later, told me of how he explained to the girl sitting armed with a very sophisticated tool kit, benext to him that it happens to be Spark’s birthcomes the service engineer himself, watches day tomorrow! 36

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But with all his pretension of trying to be a grown-up, some of his ways swell with childish innocence that make you believe that there is still some goodness left in this horrendous world. Rather, I would call it the care that only a child can show to a person. This care is innocent, unpretentious, expects no rewards and is filled with childish love. This is manifested in little actions: like when he brings the radio and tunes it to the FM station I like to listen to when my chips are down, like when he offers to help me in the kitchen during busy mornings by bringing out vessels and vegetables I ask for, or like when he agrees to stay ‘good’ on the 5th of every month when we publish that month’s issue of Spark. More often than not, when an issue of Spark is due for publication, I can be seen typing away furiously on my laptop as I race ahead with last minute work during the night. At these times, there is also a little figure that peers over my shoulder at my laptop through sleepy eyes and asks me politely ‘Amma, are you done?’ At those times, I pause for a few minutes, go, hug him, put him to sleep and then resume work.

bookstore, pointed to a magazine in the magazine section and exclaimed, ‘Amma, look! That book looks like your Spark!’ I beamed that instant for I least imagined my son to have paid close attention to all the Print-On-Demand copies of Spark issues lying next to my writing desk. And for all the right reasons, I also hoped that one day this dream endeavour will find its rightful place in bookstores everywhere. It’s true that humility ought to be the mark of any growing effort, but it doesn’t hurt to feel proud about little milestones. The third anniversary of Spark is one such defining moment in Spark’s journey and looking back, I feel overjoyed and in this rush of pristine happiness, I want to dedicate this moment of joy to my fiveyear-old-brat who quite unknowingly has been the reason why Spark even came into being. After all, it was my decision to quit work and be a full-time mother that also prompted me to contemplate on how else I could make best use of my time. And thus was born the question and idea of Spark, one lazy winter afternoon back in November 2009.

The next morning, the first words that would greet me are ‘Amma, it’s 6th today – yay, Spark is over!’ I often giggle at his delight but it’s the same boy who, once, when we were visiting a

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, 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!

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Fiction Return for Spark by Jeevanjyoti Chakraborty A multitude of ideas and characters from Jeevanjyoti’s earlier stories make an appearance in his special story for the anniversary issue. Read on to rediscover Bincuus (from "The Dream Bandit", June 2010), the idea of characters telling authors their stories from a different world (from "Requesting an Extension", July 2010), and Nuovo SPARK (from "'Autumnal', Heard of it?", May 2010 and "Nuovo SPARK", January 2012). “So you have finally returned! Where were you though, for the passage of time and the chronicle all these days? It’s been really long, you know.” of happenings had a different pace altogether in the worlds of Ivan and Bincuus. More than Ivan had come to their decade-old rendezvous once, Ivan had suspected that Bincuus was in point more out of sheer habit than through the touch with quite a few reporters centuries earlier impulsion of any hope of meeting the source of than he had even been born. But maybe Bincuus most of his stories, Bincuus. After all, he had not was just throwing him fantastic decoys to chase. turned up in any of Ivan’s visits during the past Ivan didn’t mind. For, if those decoys were fanthree years. But Ivan had kept on visiting. Pertastic, the real tales of the events of Bincuus’ haps this habit had been his only concrete way world were truly mind-boggling. Bincuus would of expressing his gratitude. Of course, he would narrate them with his usual blasé voice – tales of not admit that, never! A “thank you” was one a world where people’s activities were planned piece of fuel Ivan would never give to stoke around dreams, of babies clutching at full Bincuus’ already irritating high-handedness. But moons, and of a civilization waning from its pinboy, was he happy to see his source! After the nacle of achievement with that moon. What Covenant had chosen him as a fiction-reporter spectacular fiction Ivan had spun out of them, more than ten years back, Bincuus was his first and how the people of his world had grown to source. He didn’t know where exactly Bincuus love them – love him! came from. It was a different world, situated elsewhere – in another dimension (if you want to “Yesh, I am back! You shtill haven’t losht your believe that sort of thing), not really parallel knack of shtating the obvioush, Mr. Big-Shhot38

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Author!” Ivan had grown accustomed to (he was even fond of) that unmistakable lisp with which Bincuus spoke. He had also grown accustomed to the disdain Bincuus had for his status as an author of stories among his people, one that Bincuus clearly marked by tracing two quotes in the air with his fingers when he said “author”. The words in which the adoring people read those stories, however, had always been Ivan’s. That was Ivan’s role: to create flesh-and-blood, living-breathing stories out of the Bincuus tales. Even the most stoic person would never have read those stories in Bincuus’ deadpan narrative.

doesn’t matter anymore. You see ... I have kind of lost the spark of writing. I just cannot seem to write any more.”

“Oh come on! Aren’t you even a little happy that your name is the name of a hero among the lovers of fiction in my world? I made you that hero.”

“You shhall shoon figure it out! The day ish coming Shir!”

“Exshactly. I told you you had grown too big even for yourshelf.” “Maybe you are right ...” “You, Shir, have forgotten your bashic roots. You have forgotten how you began – how all theesh began! I will tell you one more shtory but only if you promish to shpark again!”

“What’s the point of keeping conditions on me when I don’t even want to write? I told you – I “Big-shot? Yes, I guess you could call me that.” have lost the spark to write!” And all thanks to you dear Bincuus! “But why “No, Shir! Shpark is the one thing that you have hadn’t you turned up in these three years? Anynot losht.” thing wrong?” “Hmph. Yesh. Wrong... very wrong! You have Ivan vaguely recognized a certain cryptic feel in grown too big for your own good. You have not those words of Bincuus. “What does that mean?” even written the lasht ‘shtory’ I gave you.”

“I am what I am in my world. I don’t need you to make anything of me. And I shertainly don’t need you pandering to thoshe big greedy publishhing houshesh.”

Whether he would write or not, Ivan knew that he had always loved hearing those amazing narratives of Bincuus, and he felt he really was interested in hearing one more of those crazy stories of Bincuus’ world. So with an unveiled lack of enthusiasm about his intentions of writing, he said: “All right, whatever, I promise! Now tell me.”

“Don’t forget that all of this fame – your fame – would not have been so if I had not stopped my dabbling with the open-source kind and attached ============================ myself to those big publishing houses...” Elsewhere, in the conference room of Spark, an “Believe what you want to. I jusht came here to air of dark despondence hung thick. The Big Crisis had not been kind to many of the employtell you that you have to shtop doing thish.” ees. Some had lost more than one family mem“I don’t know what to tell you. Probably it ber. But, all throughout those days, they had 39

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stuck together – their own version of a family, joined by their love of the written word. That crisis had created far greater havoc in other parts of the world. Entire nations had fallen. The governments of the barely surviving ones had chartered out a possible solution to that dystopian situation through what was being touted as the Great Transition. It would be of biblical proportions with an involvement of technology and manpower never before seen in human history. Expectedly, a massive pruning exercise of what would be allowed to make its way across that transition had also begun. The easiest targets on the cross-hairs of the Secretary of Transition (the man ultimately responsible for the pruning) were the cultural and artistic organizations. The argument was that these were not absolutely essential for the existence of human beings. Who would argue against that?

among those who still clung on to the ancient traditions of reading – and there were not many of them around anymore. And thus that despondence. The editor voiced their collective thought once more after they had gone round and round in their long-drawn discussions: “So what do we do guys? We cannot force our physical copy sales up. I am not against advertising or anything. But in the 26th century who really buys physical copies? Even the proprietary publishing houses have their biggest business online.” The lull among the staff continued. The associate editor could only add: “Those physical copies are darn pricey too. What was that Secretary man thinking? Physical copies are now more of a collectors’ item.”

That was the clue! “Collectors’ item!” – exSpark’s editor had. His impassioned appeal to claimed the editor. “That’s it.” the Secretary to allow their magazine house to “What do you mean, Sir?” exist across the transition would later become a cornerstone document in the annals of world “Don’t you see it... well, I can’t guarantee this ... culture but for now it had just bought them a but I think the only way we can make the sales measly amount of time to prove that they indeed go up is if we make Spark worth something to a were necessary for human beings. Indeed, the collector...” nuts and bolts Secretary man had set a quantita- “... whether they are actually interested in reading tive target for them. In a reply to that appeal, the it or not!” the associate editor completed with a Secretary had told them: Sell “this many” num- wry smile, and then added: “But, how?” ber of copies of the magazine in the next three “The only option I believe we have before us is months, and I will agree that you are necessary to make an appeal to all those writers and poets for human beings. End of argument. who had started at the beginning of their careers with us but have now moved on to the greener The problem that the big kahuna man failed to pastures of proprietary publishing.” see in that demand was that Spark was primarily “Are you kidding, Sir! Why would they return?” an open source digital magazine. The physical Why indeed! But the way this new and strange copy version was just to encourage readership idea had flickered on a spark of hope among the 40

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despondent faces sitting around the conference table was too much of an optimistic temptation for the editor not to succumb to. Everyone present there understood the implications of that suggestion. If somehow even one of those big names were to return to Spark, it would create a sensation in the collectors’ world. For these collectors were people who would give anything to get hold of something rare and unprecedented. To be sure, no proprietary author had ever gone open-source before – certainly not the big names. The sensation it would create in general and among the collectors, in particular, was a foregone conclusion. The tiny caveat being: Who would return? And why? But the editor clung on to the happy thought. He would play this gamble! It wasn’t much of a gamble... for even otherwise, he – they – had everything to lose. Putting on that old, wise smile which those faces had not seen for quite a while, he said: “Let’s just do this. All right?” “So how big are we targeting, Sir?” “All the way, kid... all the way up to ... well ... Ivan.”

Six centuries later. Vidya’s father looked on with amusement as his son-in-law fumbled his way among the retrievals from the Old Platform Stylers. The young man had been ransacking his brain on what to present his dear wife for their first wedding anniversary for about three weeks now - until the solution had presented itself to him. She had shown him a retrieval which her father had used to present a speech at her school years ago. That dossier with its majestic inscription of how it was the primary reason why her father’s centuries-old enterprise was allowed to make its way across the Great Transition, had a special place in Vidya’s heart. He knew just then that the best gift would be something – anything – that would be directly linked to this special dossier. So he had gone (not telling Vidya of course) to his father-in-law to allow him to retrieve some special dossier also. Vidya’s father, lovingly remembering the innumerable similar requests his daughter – ever so infatuated with ancient things – had made growing up, couldn’t turn down this sweet request of his sonin-law. Of course, this “kid” had none of Vidya’s expertise in handling the Stylers. He had already spent a couple of hours going in circles through the retrieval systems.

“Oh, Sir! So we are going full throttle on this, then?” After struggling for another half an hour, he chanced upon a simple idea. Why not look at the “Yes.” very edition of Nuovo SPARK? That must sure============================ ly contain some reference to that special dossier 41

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Vidya had shown him. And, surely, that would that question, we welcome our cherished readers not be difficult to retrieve. And he was not dis- to read in this first edition a special story about a appointed. very special author. Yes, friends, this is the story of a writer. A story of how his tales came to be. Right there, smack in the first ever editorial of And above all, a story of how, breaking all tradiNuovo SPARK, the new avatar of Spark after tion, he became the first proprietary author to the Great Transition, he saw these words: return to his roots. We give you the story of “... so while that appeal to the Secretary for Ivan.” Transition had given us time to stay afloat, we As he pressed the dimly flashing ACCESS tab, owe the success of our actual transition to the he could almost see Vidya smiling when he interest of those innumerable collectors who would present her this – the beautiful smile valued the physical printed copies of our magawhich had first ignited that warm spark in his zine, and ensured that the cut specified by the heart two years ago. Secretary would be safely met. But, what was it that made the last few editions of Spark, our mother enterprise, worthy of the collectors’ interest in the first place? To know the answer to

Jeevanjyoti Chakraborty is doing his PhD at IIT Kharagpur in Microfluidics and Nanofluidics, specifically theoretical Electrokinetics, after obtaining an Integrated Degree of B.Tech and M.Tech in Mechanical Engineering from the same place in 2009. Jeevan believes that in science and technology, it takes a lifetime of effort and discipline to be really creative within the rules, and genius to bend those or form new ones. As a welcome break from that discipline, he finds that in literature, creativity comes with ease and with the immediate gratification of momentary inspiration. Even in this paradise of carefree thoughts, he loves the wacky and the improbable. He adores delightful twists, clever word-plays and ideas which turn conventional wisdom on its head.

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Art Terror Incarnate by Amrita Sarkar

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Fiction Fireflies by Nirupama Sudarsh Nine-year-old Monu wants to collect fireflies in a jar, his father eggs him on, while his mother wonders when the child will learn to be serious and score better in his school exams. Nirupama Sudarsh tells us what eventually happens on that rainy evening. A glint of green darted across his eyes, piercing the thick pile of darkness, as Monu watched intently, sitting restlessly on the cold stone slab persevering to touch the tip of his nose with his tongue, his bare lanky legs dangling against the freshly white washed walls.

says his amma is his best friend because she lets him do whatever he wants. When he asked for the largest pack of normal Dairy Milk, his amma got him Dairy Milk Silk!!” he pouted.

“See what?” was the flavourless response from his mother who was sitting propped up against the grey pillar. Her nimble fingers deftly moved between the garlic she was chopping and the sharp knife clenched in the other hand.

Monu hung his head low speechlessly in momentary grief and shame; his cheeks ballooned up in childish rebellion. But his eyes lit up on seeing the tiny green insect again. He fixed his gaze at the fascinating creature blinking. One blink and it was gone. He hurriedly looked around, turning his head in all directions,afraid he might lose sight of it. To his utter amazement, there were a hundred of them out in the open sky, like sparkling green beads across the black horizon.

“If I were Ramu's mother I would have done the same. Do you need me to remind you he scored “Mom, did you see that?!!” he yelped in a wave A+ in all subjects? What about you?” shot back of unschooled excitement. his half-nettled mother.

“It was as big as a marble and dazzling like a neon lamp. It flitted across my eyes and for a moment I thought I was blinded,” said the mischievous nine-year-old animatedly, his eyes popped wide in wonder.

“You saw a firefly, Monu, and don't exaggerate,” “Dad, did you see that?? There are fireflies eveshe said flatly. rywhere tonight! I am going to catch at least “Daaad! Mom is sooooo strict with me. Ramu one!” he cried out in sheer delight. 44

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“Why don’t you get an empty bottle from the kitchen and put them inside?” suggested his father, unwinding on the easy chair. He shared his son’s joy. Before his mother could object, Monu made a dash for the kitchen and was out in no time clutching a glass jam bottle with a white strip of label still visible on the outside, and an orange sieve with a deep net bottom. He jumped down the two stairs leading from the veranda to the courtyard and almost danced his way across the dusty ground, swinging and flapping the sieve. “You are to blame for your son’s dull performance at school. Did you see his report card?” started Monu’s mother, making no attempt to hide her displeasure at her husband for being indulgent with their son.

Ramu is the topper again in class. Ramu scored seven A+s! Just like the last time. How proud he must have made his parents! He has been winning the proficiency prize since 1st standard. You have no idea about how I worked my fingers to the bone coaching our boy. I stuck charts with pictures and names of historical monuments and plant parts all over his room thinking that at least that way it would get registered in his mind. He wrote the names of just 11 out of 18 parts on the paper. I made him recite The Worm by Ralph Bergengren five times every day. Yet he forgot the name of the poet during the exam. Maths was the only saving grace where he managed to somehow get an A+,” she went on in a whiny tone, when Monu’s father cut her short. “How come he did well in Maths?”

“I did. It was on the dining table,” was his cool reply. He was now leaning comfortably against the back rest, eyes shut and arms across his chest locked in each other. He wasn’t affected by his wife’s insecurity or apprehensions.

“I don’t know. I didn’t coach him for Maths after I became impatient with his absolute lack of interest. It’s a wonder how the boy did it.”

“It is probably because there was no external interference,” he said quietly, eyes still closed, “So what do you have to say about that?” she and trying to suppress a grin. She flared up inasked. stantly: “Oh, so you’re saying that my intervention is doing him more harm than good, is that “Nothing,” he replied. so?” “What do you mean, ‘nothing’? That child has Chinks of electric white appeared on the tarpauscored nothing but B- s and B+s! His friend lin of black above. An eruption of thunder fol45

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lowed. Pellets of rain wet Monu’s half naked scalp, visible due to a recent military crop haircut. He paused in his adventure to concentrate on the gleaming pearl hanging on the tip of his nose when his mother called out hoarsely signalling him to get inside. Realising that his hapless winged creatures were getting wet, he quickly slipped the lid around the mouth of the bottle and pressed it hard before running into the veranda, dabbling at the newly formed puddles as he sprinted back. He was beaming when he placed the bottle on the slab in front of his parents.

ture. He couldn’t ever remember his father going back on his words, especially with him. So he threw a last glance at his newfound friends, moved closer as though to assure them that it was just a matter of time before they were reunited. His mother cleared her throat, signalling it was about time he left. He left immediately.

“Why do you have to counter everything I say and do to that child? I say study and you say play, I raise him in discipline and you encourage him to pilfer ice cream from the refrigerator at night, I caution him not to eat street food and you challenge him in to a paani puri eating “Nice catch, son. I see you’ve got five under match! What kind of a father are you? Ever your belt. Good job,” said his father. thought where this pampering could lead him?” she fumed. Triumphantly he said, “No big deal catching the first four. But the last guy gave me a tough time. “Raji, he is only nine. He’ll have plenty of time It was hiding behind the bushes. I carefully crept to wear a suit, carry a portmanteau and assume a on my toes, pressing my palm hard against my grave expression when he’s grown up. Let him mouth so it wouldn’t hear me breathe. I think it live the life of a child till then. What he needs in was caught off guard when I swung the sieve these growing years is a mother, not a civility over it and freed it into my bottle and....” trainer barking orders at him,” he said unrestrained yet placidly. “Go inside and have your bath. Start on the lessons immediately after the bath. I have had She turned a seething red, abruptly breaking her enough of your heroic tale for now. Your mid- chore midway. Setting aside the basket of garlic, term tests are just a month away,” barked his she rose and stormed past her husband in a fit of perturbed mother. rage. It was then that she tripped against the leg of the chair. She landed flat on the wet tiled “Your mother is right. Have a shower and come floor and let out a groan. Her husband immediback in a jiffy. Then you can tell me more of ately got to his feet and helped her up. Eyes shut what happened. I’ll take care of them till then,” in pain she searched high up on the slab for anassured his father, smiling at him in an attempt other grip to balance herself when her hand ran to downplay the harshness of his wife. over the glowing glass bottle and knocked it Monu nodded only half willingly, not sure if he down. would be allowed to do anything but study that Husband and wife gasped in disbelief as they night. But then his father had assured him he watched the bottle come down crashing to the could come back and regale him with his advencement floor on the other side of the low wall 46

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and then at the freed captives buzzing over the his pale cheeks. “How could you...” he began, shards of the broken bottle on the ground. but didn’t complete as violent sobs shook his body and a heavy fog of sorrow descended on Before father and mother could come up with a him. plausible explanation, Monu was already out in the veranda, standing just a few feet away from them. He wore a dazed expression, mouth half open, his eyes riveted on the glinting shards. He then looked up at his father accusingly, his lips quivering and rivulets of tears streaming down

Theartlifebecause.tumblr.com

Nirupama Sudarsh is an Economics student at Symbiosis School of Economics, Pune. A native of Thrissur, Kerala, she has been penning short stories and poetry since school days, and likes to base her short stories in an Indian setting. Apart from reading and writing, she enjoys singing.

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The Final Word Some of the featured personalities of 2012 share their thoughts on Spark and convey their good wishes on the third anniversary.

Spark is a new age, fresh idea. It touches upon various areas of creativity and culture which makes reading it a whole lot of fun! A splendid initiative! Congratulations on turning three... We wish you all the very best! – Kamakshi and Vishala Khurana, founders, The Sound Space "What I love about Spark is the soul behind this little magazine that is not so little in its reach and ability to provide an afternoon's worth of wholesome reading pleasure. The thoughtfully put together stories, poetry, features, interviews, etc. are unpretentious and come from the heart. And frankly speaking that is what sets Spark apart." – RK (Rumjhum) Biswas, award-winning writer and poet

“Congratulations to Spark on its 3rd anniversary. Anupama and her team have been doing a fantastic job in a wired world where it is easy to go with the flow. She and her team make Spark shine like a beacon. Well done!” – Rishad Saam Mehta, author of ‘Hot Tea Across India’ “Spark is an online magazine with a difference. As I learnt soon after being invited by Anupama to be part of it, the magazine chooses every theme with care and then the stories that appear on this are unusual and intriguing, exploring every aspect of the theme in different interesting ways. It was quite a learning experience and continues to be. There are of course many online magazines but Anupama and her team have managed to make Spark stand out, and this in itself is very inspiring and laudable. I am sure Spark will continue to be widely read, even more so, and am glad to have been part of it, in a small way.” – Anu Kumar, award-winning writer, author of ‘It Takes a Murder’, ‘Letters for Paul’ and ‘The Dollmakers’ Island’

“Congratulations to Spark on completing three years when so many magazines are struggling to survive! It was a great honour to be featured in the magazine with an amazing line-up of talented Indian storytellers.” – Dr. Dipika Mukherjee, award-winning writer, author of ‘Thunder Demons’ and Professor at the Institute of “Congratulations to Spark for completing three Linguistic Studies, Shanghai International years. It is a well curated online space for words. Studies University, Shanghai A considerable amount of thought and care has gone into the design to make the information and navigation easily accessible. I was impressed 48

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at the quality of questions that Anupama asked of me. The effort and research put in by the editorial team is meticulous. Today good content is appreciated. These qualities will make Spark sparkle in the long run. Good luck!” – Jaya Bhattacharji Rose, literary consultant and columnist “Spark is a wonderful initiative with some interesting content. Hearty congrats to the Spark family and wishing you many milestones. May it grow even more in 2013.” – Preeti Shenoy, author of ‘The Secret Wishlist’, ‘Tea for Two and a Piece of Cake’, ‘Life is What you Make it’ and ’34 Bubblegums & Candies’ "Spark is a very unique initiative. Love the magazine and the passion with which they write their articles. I wish the team even greater success in their endeavours." – Varun Agarwal, entrpreneur, co-founder of ‘Alma Mater’, ‘Reticular’ and ‘Last Minute Films’ and author of ‘How I Braved Anu Aunty and Co-founded a Million Dollar Company’

dia, something which so many mainstream magazines of our country fail to do! Wishing you the best in all your creative endeavours in the coming year! – Kutti Revathi, feminist activist, poet, filmmaker “My congratulations to the Spark team for completing three years. In an age where magazines sprout and die out within a matter of months, this is indeed a commendable achievement. It is apparent that the magazine has carved out a name for itself and has a loyal bunch of readers, may their tribe increase. I’m happy I was given an opportunity to be featured in this beautiful magazine, thank you, it was indeed an honour. Here’s wishing you many more anniversaries.” – Fehmida Zakeer, award-winning writer

"There is so much to read online these days. Very little to inspire, though. That is where Spark brightens things up considerably. Little nuggets assiduously gathered and then effortlessly scattered amongst its readers. The fact that it is a garden of good personally tended by Anupama is what makes it special. I enjoyed writing for “Spark has become a regular stop in my creative it. I enjoy reading it." – Swapan Seth, ad guru, voyage when the days and its meat are not CEO of ‘Equus Red Cell’ and author of ‘This enough to inspire me. I myself have been ambiis all I have to Say’ tious of starting a magazine of art and literature for some time as I want to be the editor of that “There are many online magazines that are sort of magazine in my own language. Spark is providing food for thought, however where really such an engaging art and literature maga- Spark makes a difference is the way stories are zine created with lots of visual, emotional and conceptualized and tied together. The theme is common sense. It represents the progressive well researched, the people involved are all well landscape of contemporary creative minds. I connected in their genre and the final flow of the personally enjoy in exploring its creative sub- story will nowhere give you the feel of strings stance and presentation. My favourites in Spark being tied. It all flows beautifully, like a converare Story Board, Poetry and Social Lens. I am sation with friends over coffee, nothing out of really excited when the team extends its hands of place, nothing wary and in the end leaves you the spark to touch the bottom of Southern In- with a smile on the face – both as a satisfied 49

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reader and yes, as a proud person who has been featured in there. Thank you Spark for your contributions to the literary sphere and needless to say I wish it just gets better in the coming years. Much love and warm hugs.” – Sagarika Chakraborty, author of ‘A Calendar Too Crowded’

magazine focuses on thereby making it an interesting and informative read. I wish the very best for Spark for the coming year and the years to come." – Prasanna, internationally renowned guitarist, music composer and the Founder President of Swarnabhoomi Academy of Music

"I am glad to see Spark celebrate its third year of quality online journalism. I am delighted to see the range of subjects and personalities that this

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The Lounge

January 2013 51

January 2013|3rd Anniversary Potpourri Issue

Storyboard| Film Freak

Memories in March by Yayaati Joshi

A mother in denial, a ‘lover’ on an existential trial; Sanjoy Nag’s directorial debut discusses alternate sexuality in a way it isn’t usually discussed says Yayaati Joshi in his monthly column, Film Freak.

In a society where both gay right activists and homophobes thrive in equal proportions and intensity, it is hard to predict the degree of ambivalence that people might have towards the film. It is also futile to understand the intent of the filmmaker - regardless of whether the film was supposed to be another artistic feather in Deepti Naval’s cap or an experiment in filmmaking, the result (in the form of a feature film) is all we have to discern. The premise is poignant but in an unconventional way. A mother loses her son. But the loss of the son is soon overcome, not by the usual ‘life moves on’ ideology, but by something more befuddling. The theme of the film could be summed up in one (somewhat rhetorical) question-‘How would you react if you found out that your dead son was homosexual?’ Those who’d

like to answer the question by saying “So what?” should be reminded that for many people, regardless of their culture, homosexuality is still taboo. Deepti Naval answers that question with a variety of confused emotions: with disgust, with shock and even with indifference (for the death of the son is too gloomy to shift the focus to something else). But, for a major part of the film, she answers the question with denial. It is heartening to see her maintain her composure as she denies the fact about her son’s sexuality, the characteristic of the powerful urban mother who has learnt to master her emotions. All the same, I watched in awe as she is shattered to learn that her son indeed had a romantic affair with a man. This is not the ignorance of the middle class mother (many of whom are actually unaware that such relationships are be-

January 2013|3rd Anniversary Potpourri Issue

coming common now). Rather, this inability to keep a straight face is the confusion of the unprepared mother. To my mind, Deepti Naval’s stance was that of the unsuspecting fisherman, who had heard and was thus aware of storms, but largely due to the storm’s hitherto absence in his life, he is unable to react when his boats have been destroyed by it. So great is her denial that when she finds a pack of prophylactics in the deceased son’s house that her ‘faith’ is renewed. She immediately calls a female friend to confront her as if the evidence of the false charge has been found; her son was not what he was alleged to be. But her hope is not meant to last long. The female friend (Raima Sen) rebuffs her so causally that she is unable to find a counter-argument. This scene, a powerful one, does more justice to Naval’s role than the quiet moments in which she remembers her son and sobs. On one hand is the causal ‘Who cares’ attitude of a generation that grew up amongst homosexuals and on the other is careworn bafflement of the mother who is not sure which to mourn more - her son’s death or the knowledge of his same gender assignations. Without leaning too much in either direction, of regret, or of astonishment, Naval strikes a fine balance as a sad mother.

As the film progresses and she becomes acquainted with her son’s ‘lover’, the memories of her son haunt her revealing to us that he used to be a woman’s man, thereby compounding the mother’s trouble. The lover (Rituparno Ghosh) confronts her to make her realise that one way or the other, she has to accept the ‘fact’. Although by the end of the movie the mother has warmed up to her son’s partner, it is with supreme suspicion that I see this acceptance. This suspicion is not my jaded mind telling me that it is hard to get convinced; this is the film making a finer point about how even a broad minded, urban parent is likely to react to a situation like that. On seeing this film, one can make a very strange and tenuous connection with another film, Encounter: The Killing, in which a family refuses to acknowledge the son’s identity on finding out that he was a criminal. In that film too, the deceased’s parents are rich, modern and uppity. Yet for all their modernity, I guess when it comes to their own children, parents are less likely to liberal. For example, the same people who watch reality television/movies and all its vulgarity with interest might not like it if their sons and daughters ape the behaviour which is classified as ‘modern’. Although I am not a parent, I guess I might possibly react in the same way.

There are layers to Naval’s confusion. It’s not Any takeaways? Just one word—hypocrisy. just the uni-dimensional conundrum that worries her. The fact that an important aspect of her son’s life was not known to her puzzles her too. 53

January 2013|3rd Anniversary Potpourri Issue

Yayaati Joshi is a man with simple tastes and intense beliefs. Contrary to the bling associated with the capital city, he prefers the company of close friends, an engaging book or an Alfred Hitchcock movie. His placid demeanour is often mistaken for reticence; Yayaati is a self-proclaimed loner, whose recent pursuits include his foray as a budding writer. Yayaati blogs at http://rantingsofadelusionalmind.wordpress.com.

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January 2013|3rd Anniversary Potpourri Issue

Slice of Life by Jayshree Misra Tripathi

A Day in East Africa What does it mean to be an Indian living in a foreign country which, over a period of time, has also become your homeland? Jayshree Misra Tripathi talks about a tale that is close to her heart – of moments of life in an alien land and the Indians she meets there. Person of Indian Origin (PIO): has acquired citizenship boudoir, for the residence had once belonged to of another country. a rich colonial coffee-farmer. A quaint and picturesque cottage, it serves its purpose, with There are over 20 million PIOs in the 'Diaspora' across sprawling lawns, eucalyptus and jacaranda trees, 110 countries. that now tilt sideways, to follow the sun………. “Communities play a significant role(s) in the economic, I must stop quoting from songs, especially now that I scientific, political, intellectual and cultural richness of the have touched the soulful mid-fifties! countries in which they settle...” from the UN Report on The pleats of my saree fall delicately straight, the the Diaspora 2006 soft silken fabric drapes well, with a sensual feel, ******************************************** but alas, it is a bit short! How can the weavers I shall tell you a tale close to my heart, of flash moments do this to me? I have bought handloom sarees of life in an alien land. Memories fade, as do faces, but ever since I was twenty one! I have championed the connection remains. Come, dear reader and 'multi- their art in over eight countries, across all the listen', if I may coin a hyphenated word, in the stream of oceans. They have cast off at least a four-fingers worth of the border! If the pleats disengage consciousness we all possess. while I glide on these slightly silly silver high It is almost time. I am hyperventilating in front heels, the hoi polloi ladies outside will scoff in of a full-length mirror in the box-room, hardly a disdain! 55

January 2013|3rd Anniversary Potpourri Issue

DC glares through the archway and impatiently Some even peck me on my Lakme-powdered glances at his watch. cheeks or blow into the air, “Muah, muah.” The butterflies in the pit of my stomach cause such a flutter that I stand absolutely still, but I propel myself forward. Even after 30 years in the foreign service, the thought of facing a large crowd is still intimidating! Our very own hometrained desi Jeeves opens the elegantly carved front door, imported mahogany of course, with its ornate brass knobs and handles that glisten with much well-applied Brasso. The colonials certainly knew how to live like lords, far away from their often humble abodes ‘back home.’ I raise my head, lick my parched lips and step outside, two steps behind DC. You could hear a pin drop. I smile at the sea of faces and bend with folded palms, in our ancient greeting, Namaskar, then stand ram-rod straight as the national anthem is played. DC has done the honours, walked briskly up to the flag-post and tugged the rope, so that it billows forth, while the rose petals descend in tune with the anthem. I am truly happy. For the duration of the anthem, I swell with pride and goose-bumps.

A powerful hand grabs my wrist. Startled, I jerk back and turn sideways, only to face an elderly lady, with beautiful, dangling silver jhumkas and long black hair cascading behind her, styled for this special occasion. “Corrupshion, Caammonwealth Games! How will India deal with it??” I do not mock her accent as English is her third or fourth language, a fact which most people tend to ignore. She speaks the local language fluently and Hindi too. Why do we Indians always make fun of each other’s accents? East, west, north, south... we just speak English in our own ways, as we have been taught, in our various states. How is it that we do not mock the Europeans for their accents? C'est la vie? Where is DC?? He has to answer the corruption issue. Over the past 25 years I have had to learn how to often bite back a retort, swallow my pride and intelligence, along with the rest of it. It is often hard to accept lost career opportunities as one grows older, but deep down I know that I had made the right choice in following my husband around the world on his postings. It has been an incredible life!

It is a National Day, a very special occasion in our diplomatic world – adding to the collective memory of a people transplanted, but who remain strongly rooted in their Indian heritage. For each of whom an invitation from DC is extremely important, as it underscores their con- I do enjoy meeting people everywhere and tend nection to India. to rally forth on subjects that are non-political, The ceremony unfolds. After the speeches, it is yet truly close to my heart – the education of time to mingle. I cannot hyperventilate now, I children from economically-challenged families, chide myself and sally forth to meet our guests. literacy of adult women, who have spent most of their lives trying to fend for their families and “Namaskar! How are you?” have been unable to step-up the economic ladThey want to shake hands, I cannot refuse. der – universal issues. How may we help fami56

January 2013|3rd Anniversary Potpourri Issue

lies move out of slums? Life in Cardboard Boxes for so many unfortunate souls... in the gullies of New York or New Delhi or the slum in Nairobi called Kibera? Sad. How may we as citizens of the world help them? We need to preserve our environment too. A woman's work is never done!

well-received, for I note the friendly nods and satisfied smiles on the guests' faces. There are a variety of fruit juices with exotic names and I have added our very own sweet and namkeen lassi to the list. People love the typically Indian fare. I always have a dish from each region of our land and this too, is well appreciated.

I stroll across the lawn to greet another lady, in her mid-seventies. “Fourth generation!” she says. There is so much of implied history in just those two words. I nod in revered acknowledgement and endeavour to steer her towards the refreshments. “No onions, no garlic.” I nod my head vigorously as we have set up a special table for such guests. “You know, my grandfather used to ride bicycle and go far to sell things. It was hard work, very hard work. He poor. But my father built 25room house. God is great.” Transliteration works well in such international environments. I nod yet again in respect, take my leave and move on. She is a truly dedicated philanthropist and does not bat an eyelid at charitable functions as she signs away $150,000 cheques as donations.

It is the conversation of the Indian-origin guests that is fascinating! I soak in their words. Rallying about local politics, excited about their new constitution, about India and their ancestors, their well-settled children in the U.K. or the U.S., their travelling for six months in a year... I want to assimilate as much as I can in this brief period of interaction, even at a National Day function! Yes, I do! True, I may never meet them again, yet they want me to know their entire lives!

We talk. Just a fortnight ago, a meaningless death had been reported. A young Indian-origin doctor was caught in the crossfire between the police and some robbers in a nearby town. And then the PIO real-estate baron shot at one of his By the time I reach the corner of the garden, construction sites, still lies in a coma at a local guests have begun to partake in the midhospital. A PIO woman who stopped to ask for morning luncheon repast. The ‘bitings’ (yet andirections at a petrol pump had her earrings other quaint local term for snacks) have been I move ahead and exchange smiles with the local foreign office lady in her traditional kitenge dress with the colourful head-gear. “Jambo!Karibu! Welcome!”

January 2013|3rd Anniversary Potpourri Issue

snatched away before the power windows of the car rolled up. And PIO guests visiting from London, whose taxi, caught in a traffic jam on a winding road uphill, had the rear-view mirrors removed in a fraction of a second.

ransacked his car and fled. There is the usual talk of the dissatisfied young who need 'fast money'.

The sacrifices made by such old-timers in their chosen homeland, who had brought economic It is time for the guests to depart. Farewell for strength to the country and fought alongside the another year. locals in the anti-colonial resistance movements, means little to the present generation. It seems “Namaskar, Namaskar... thank you, thank you PIOs are helpless prey to kidnappings, assaults for your presence” I bid them farewell. and even untimely death. The flag flutters in the slight afternoon breeze as My cell phone rings shrilly and disrupts my I pick my steps back into the residence. In a few chain of thought. It is DC. hours, the garden will be restored to its pristine beauty, without the tents and tables. There will “Did you hear about the shooting? He was at be small talk in the city this evening about the our reception yesterday.” event and a critique tomorrow! Who was preI am distressed by the thought that we may have sent, what he or she wore, whom she or he greeted each other a few hours prior to his unspoke at length to, or did not… and the food! timely demise. My heart sinks. How shall I A small item in the next day’s newspaper catch- grieve if I cannot recall his face? All I am aware es my attention. It is tucked away on the third of is a deep sense of foreboding and that such page, a few terse lines, stating the untimely death events will remain embedded in my mind forevof a PIO attacked at the entrance of his home at er. No closure is foreseen, just a sense of loss. I around 9 pm. The assailants had shot the asgari wonder if this is just another day in the diaspora at the gate, then shot the PIO and the driver, for me.

Jayshree Misra Tripathi has taught English for the International Baccalaureate (IB) Diploma and as a second language. Born in Orissa (1956), she was educated in England, Orissa and Delhi University, where she received her M.A. in English in 1978. She has worked briefly, in the mid-80s, with the news agency UNI and the Times of India, Delhi. She recently qualified for a postgraduate diploma in Human Rights Law from the National Law School of India University, Bangalore. Jayshree is the wife of a foreign service officer in the Indian Civil Services and has three children.

January 2013|3rd Anniversary Potpourri Issue

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January 2013|3rd Anniversary Potpourri Issue