July 2014
Spark Word. World. Wisdom
conversations Fiction | non-fiction | poetry | the lounge 1
Spark—July 2014 | Conversations
05 July 2014 Dear Reader, What’s life like without conversations? The spoken or unspoken kinds? The real or the imaginary variety? Our July issue explores this wonderful topic with beautiful fiction, poetry and non-fiction. Grab a cuppa and settle down with this issue – we guarantee you a treat! Don’t forget to email us at feedback@sparkthemagazine.com with your thoughts on the issue. Until we meet the next time, here’s to more heartwarming conversations in our lives!
Contributors
Cheers
Latha Vijaybaskar
Editorial Team
M.Mohankumar
Ajay Patri AM Aravind Anupama Krishnakumar Bakul Banerjee Divya Ananth
Parth Pandya Preeti Madhusudhan
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.
Sandhya Ramachandran Vani Viswanathan Vinita Agrawal Coverpage Picture
Spark July 2014 © Spark 2014
Grazia Horwitz
Individual contributions © Author
Concept, Editing and Design
CC licensed pictures attribution available at www.sparkthemagazine.com Published by Viswanathan
Anupama
Anupama Krishnakumar
Krishnakumar/Vani
Vani Viswanathan
editors@sparkthemagazine.com Powered by Pothi.com
2
Spark—July 2014 | Conversations
Inside this Issue
POETRY Conversation Inmates by Vinita Agrawal What Were They Talking About? by M. Mohankumar Samskara Unwound by Bakul Banerjee Evenings by Sandhya Ramachandran The Teacher by M. Mohankumar FICTION What We Remember by Ajay Patri In Which by Anupama Krishnakumar Nothing Good Happens After 2am by AM Aravind Forever in an Hour by Latha Vijaybaskar Conversations by Parth Pandya NON-FICTION Silent Conversations by Divya Ananth Weaving Stories With Conversations by Anupama Krishnakumar Losing Conversations by Vani Viswanathan THE LOUNGE SLICE OF LIFE| In Search of the Warrior Poet of Love - 3 by Preeti Madhusudhan
3
Spark—July 2014 | Conversations
Conversation Inmates by Vinita Agrawal
Poetry
In a delightful poem that celebrates conversations, Vinita Agrawal likens a conversation to origami, water, buckwheat and more. Conversation is origami a clever two-sided sheet crafting swans, mansions, vultures out of nothing in a train or plane when your head is jumble of hellos and goodbyes
Conversation is a vestment a metal habit reserved by fathers for sons caught sleeping late daughters caught partying late mothers are bridges between words and silence a subway to the relief of a room
Conversation is water gurgling like hungry stomachs between friends tumbling awkwardly like a new-born calf between relatives flowing silently between you and your dog 4
Spark—July 2014 | Conversations
stagnating between a couple growing apart sparkling like champagne for a beau
Conversation is a walk in the woods contemplating your worn boots feeling the mist, soaking in the rain missing a warm hand doodling in the mud with a stick a nervous twitch of silence Vinita is a Mumbai based writer and poet. Her poems have been published in Asiancha, Raedleaf Poetry , Wordweavers, OpenRoad Review, Constellations, The Fox Chase Review, Spark, The Taj Mahal Review, CLRI, SAARC Anthologies, Kritya.org, TouchThe Journal of healing, Museindia, Everydaypoets.com, Mahmag World Literature, The Criterion, The Brown Critique, Twenty20journal.com, Sketchbook, Poetry 24, Mandala and others which include several international anthologies. Her poem was nominated for the Best of the Net Awards 2011 by CLRI. She received a prize from MuseIndia in 2010. Her debut collection of poems titled Words Not Spoken published by Sampark/Brown Critique was released in November 2013. Her poem was awarded a prize in the Wordweavers contest 2013.
Conversation is a stutter swallowing hurt, hurting with swallowing a faltering smile, an apology a mile etched out on a six-foot bed a lizard sulking on the wall, eyeing all a morning that's as plastic as the night
Conversation is buckwheat starching interviews, nourishing bosses; dusting glass ceilings, flavourless as a drone energizing as a game of Chinese checkers worse still, chess, a cover crop designed to checkmate
5
Spark—July 2014 | Conversations
What We Remember by Ajay patri
Fiction
A husband and wife get talking about the day of their wedding that happened 40 years ago. As the conversation flows, there’s a lot that the reader gets to discover. Here’s a beautiful short story written by Ajay Patri.
As I brush my teeth, I see a solitary strand of Maya's hair floating in the basin like a water snake. It curls and uncurls itself, fighting bravely against the current until it finally gives up and disappears down the gaping hole. I watch the space where it was a moment ago, as if waiting long enough will make it return. When it doesn't, I spit out the minty toothpaste.
I look at the clock on the bedside table and see that it is 12:30. When I turn to Maya, her smile is wider, the skin around her lips looking in danger of rupturing like thin paper. “Forty years.”
As I keep looking at her, her smile falters by the slightest degree. Her eyes glaze over and she looks at the clock herself, like she is unsure of I enter the bedroom and blink my eyes a few having registered it properly the first time. times, adjusting to the soft glow of the yellow light and the deep shadows it throws. I see Maya “It's our anniversary!” look up at me from her book. She places it on There is a hint of annoyance in her voice and her lap and opens her arms out wide. I gather her nostrils flare like they always do when she is her into my own arms. Her pointy bones bore peeved. I run my thumbs down her face, from into my torso but I don't let go. I clasp my left the deep pits below her eyes to the corners of forearm with my right hand behind her narrow her lips. back and feel her slow breathing on my neck. “I forgot! I'm so sorry, honey.” “I am tired of reading this book. I just can't She looks at me with narrowed eyes, deliberatseem to get through it.” ing on the sincerity of my apology. She finally The tiny stubs of hair above her ears tickle my smiles again. nose. She pulls apart and smiles at me. “You don't have to be sorry, silly. It's been forty “Did you see the time?” 6
Spark—July 2014 | Conversations
years and you are not getting any younger. I “It was.” can't expect you to be the smart young man you Emboldened by my support, she ploughs on were.” with her creation. I cannot help but smile. Maya is not always this “The leaves were all falling from the trees then. energetic these days. She sees my grin and And I remember the wind which kept sweeping reaches up a slender hand to ruffle my hair. all those leaves around all the time. Do you re“You remember the day now, don't you?” member that?” I do remember the day. It was raining heavily “I do, Maya.” from morning, the heavens pelting us with It couldn't all be made up, I tell myself. These raindrops the size of lemons. We got home vivid details have their place in our collective completely drenched. memories and I need to associate them with the “I remember the rain.” right events to better appreciate these little talks of ours. They can't all be meaningless, conjured Maya looks at me quizzically. out of a movie she saw years ago or read in a “Rain? What are you saying?” book when she could still read books and not Maya looks lost again, her confusion amplified be stuck on the same page for five months in a by her frailty. I want to hit myself for being so row. callous. There was a time when we could have had proper conversations and that time is long gone now. These days, all I'm supposed to do is smile and agree with whatever she says. And now I have gone ahead and assumed that she remembers the rain.
It would be too cruel if our lives have been replaced in her mind by these images of feinted happiness.
“You were sweating so much that day, dear. I remember watching the sweat stains on your shirt grow larger and wishing we could just go “I'm sorry, dear. You know me, I keep forget- home so I could help you take it off.” ting. I think I'm confusing it with a different Her smile is mischievous and for an instant, she day.” looks like she did on our wedding day. Then her She is slow with her forgiveness this time. She face contorts in concentration again at trying to looks at me warily, her face carrying the look of remember imaginary details and I am struck someone who has just been woken up from a anew by how much a struggle this is for her, deep sleep, a look that has become increasingly even if she is unaware of it herself. common on her delicate visage. “And the flower. You gave me a flower.” “It was a bright day, wasn't it?” My heart skips a beat. How does she remember She sounds like a child seeking my approval. the flower when everything else about our wedForcing myself to not break down, I nod. ding has been mutilated beyond recognition in 7
Spark—July 2014 | Conversations
her head?
“It was the most romantic thing you ever did for me.”
For I did give her a flower on the day of our wedding. A yellow daffodil. Not the most romantic flower to present to your newlywed wife but then, it was a spurt of spontaneity that made me stay out in the rain when we finally made it to our home. Maya ran in and I stopped outside, my hair plastered over my skull and the rain beating a steady rhythm on my exposed body. I was distracted by the flower, a lone thing of colour and beauty on that gray day. The plant itself was bent, battered by the rain and burdened by the half bloomed flower. I walked up to the sidewalk where it grew and plucked it off the plant. Its sodden petals were thin and I could see the veins crisscrossing their length. It seemed like a blessing, a sign of something that I couldn't wrap my head around. When Maya saw me enter, dripping wet and cradling the flower like a newborn child, she had a strange expression on her face. It felt like she was seeing me truly for the first time. It's an expression that has stayed with me.
I laugh at the quiet certainty with which she says those words. This was always the way my Maya made pronouncements that were meant to goad me into a mock battle of words. It was a cue for me to defend myself, say that I was still capable of springing romantic surprises. But now I contain myself, knowing that I cannot get carried away. “There I was, wondering where you had gone. Leaving me unattended merely hours after we got married.” She wrinkles her nose in pretend disgust and a small bottle of happiness inside me seems to have been opened after ages. She remembers the flower and she remembers that I did not follow her into the house. She pulls me closer and whispers in my ear. “How did you know that roses are my favourite?” I look at those sunken eyes and am overcome by a familiar sense of dejection that accompanies my repeated attempts at making sense of our conversations, of reliving a profound sense of heartbreak over and over again. The truth is not good enough for her anymore and it should stop meaning so much for me.
“You remember the flower?” “Of course I do. How can I not?”
I realise my eyes are stinging with tears and I close them to keep them from her. She kisses me. It is meant to be a gentle gesture but her gossamer lips only manage to have her teeth bruise my own lips. I do not let her go until I I didn't know, I tell her and finally break down feel the strength ebb away from her body with crying. the effort of kissing me. 8
Spark—July 2014 | Conversations
Ajay Patri a twenty-one-year-old law student, currently studying at National Law School of India University, Bangalore. He is painfully awkward in social situations, a rabid football fan, a fan of avant-garde European films and a terrible guitar player. He reads all the time, maintains his Goodreads account diligently and is fascinated by the writing of authors such as McEwan, Ishiguro, McCarthy and Coetzee.
9
Spark—July 2014 | Conversations
Silent Conversations
Non-fiction
by Divya Ananth
Sitting in the middle of a bustling restaurant, Divya Ananth absorbs the sights and sounds of the world around her. The restaurant is a hub of conversations of all sorts including a couple who converse in silence. She captures her fascination and thoughts about this dialogue in words. It was a Saturday afternoon. Most restaurants were reeling under the pressure of too many guests, too many reservations, too many hungry families who were losing their calm, and too many parking woes. A famous restaurant in Chennai was battling such a demanding Saturday afternoon. Waiters rushed to take orders, ran between kitchens and tables, smiled and greeted customers, sometimes even got an ear full from annoyed guests for mixing up orders.
was a slice of humanity, having a good meal over conversations that ranged from elections to train timings to the searing Chennai heat to the wedding around the corner to shopping and inflation to school and education systems to TV shows to temple visits to recipes to practically every single conceivable topic in the universe.
Amidst the din and noise were couples who argued, masked by that safe drone that drowned their angry repartees. There were overly dressed Inside the restaurant, one could hear the drone women, belonging to a kitty party group giggling and buzz of people. A hazy, dull noise that was like teenagers, forgetting their homes and its constant, medium-pitched and punctuated occa- niggling tensions for a few hours. sionally by a loud guffaw, or a wailing baby. It Seated bang in the middle of this ocean of orgawas an unmistakable noise. Of nothing in particnized chaos, I took in the sights and sounds. I ular, but so palpable that a sudden silence would have always been fascinated by people - the feel truly weird. Like the strange silence that manner in which we conduct ourselves, the colbefalls a room when the power goes and the lective sub-conscious, our expressions, our adfans stop. herence to certain unsaid rules that makes us This was no five star restaurant, where one want to belong, our single large movement hears only the stylish clinks and clanks of cut- through time and life, all of which crafts our lery, and hushed sophisticated languages. This civilization, shapes our language and moulds our 10
Spark—July 2014 | Conversations
children.
know!
Lost in thought, I sipped my coffee in silence. My eyes fell on a twosome, seated at the farthest table from the entrance - a couple, well in their thirties, well-dressed and exuding an air of contagious mirth. How she laughed, head thrown back, water streaming from her eyes, and how he looked at her, eyes full of affection and joy. I couldn’t take my eyes off, because something about their conversation seemed very odd. At first I thought I was imagining it, thanks to the hum and whirr of the populace around me.
Did they ever have differences of opinions? If they did, what would they do if they couldn’t scream swear words? Or say I Love You to their child or to each other? Or cheer for Kohli during a match? Or express a happy tune in the heart? What would they do if an auto ran into their bike, and they felt red rage? If they met with an accident and had to call for help?
I looked on, risking being looked for looking. He was conversing with rapid movements of his ten fingers and two hands. His eyes made up for the loss of voice, and his hands were so swift that words formed as he drew designs in the air. The lady seemed to understand every single syllable (for want of a better word that translates syllable in a silent world) he expressed, responded with such ease of similar motioning of fingers.
With every sunrise, the birds create such a ruckus with their endless discussions, the squirrels squeak, the leaves rustle. Language and conversations seem to be a birthright for all forms of life. Yet, here are a few with sight sans sound, and few more with sound, sans sight.
The din around me seemed to ebb away, like waves receding, rendering an ocean quiet. I tiptoe and stand at the threshold of their world, being awed by their lives of quiet. I try to tune into silence, but in vain! The voices from near and far keep ringing in my ears. I hear my babies’ infectious laughter, I hear the sobs, I hear What could they be discussing? About a film the shrieks of surprise of friends, I hear the they watched? About the amusing faces babies phone ring and a happy Hello, I hear the temple make? About EMIs, grocery and other neces- chants, I hear the angry quarrels, I hear life. sarily mundane things that plague us? About the While we search for that elusive silence, would waiter and others in that room with little idiothey yearn for sound? While we try to save relasyncrasies? They could make fun of everyone as tionships by saving our words, would they wish much as they wanted, and no one would ever 11
Spark—July 2014 | Conversations
they could talk to create new ones? I wish they such a joker, it seemed, because the lady just could hear and I wish we sometimes didn’t. couldn’t stop laughing! What a paradox life is. Their conversation continued. The man was
Divya Ananth is an advertising copywriter – a creative consultant. She simply loves to travel, and Carnatic music is her anchor in an otherwise crazy life. She’s also a busy mom of two adorable boys, and juggles cricket and tennis classes, organizes play dates and reads Geronimo Stilton with them. Writing, to her, is an intimately joyful experience.
12
Spark—July 2014 | Conversations
What Were They Talking About? by M. Mohankumar
Poetry
M. Mohankumar’s poem is a poet’s musing on a conversation between two people that stops suddenly when they spot the poet at the doorway. Read on. I would have passed them by, as I often did, but this time, as I entered the hall, their smoke-filled, alcohol-scented conversation stopped suddenly and a silence fell, an awkward, leaden silence and, they looked at each other and looked down sheepishly Then, one of them, the one with nicotine-tinted fingers blew smoke into the air and beckoned to me insouciantly; but I excused myself and passed on, wondering what they were talking about, perhaps the latest salacious scandal of the town, they being part of the ever-grinding rumour-mill. But why did they stop suddenly as they saw me in the doorway? Was I the subject – or the object? I felt a bit uneasy for a day or two, then forgot all about it. Till I sat down this morning to write a poem, and went on staring at the blank page and then the whole scene flashed across my mind. And I thought, why not make a poem out of it? 13
Mohankumar has published seven volumes of poetry in English. His poems have appeared in almost all reputed literary magazines in print in India. His first collection of short stories in English, ‘The Turning Point and Other Stories’ h as b e e n p u b l i s h e d b y Authorspress, Delhi. Mohankumar retired as Chief secretary to Government of Kerala.
Spark—July 2014 | Conversations
In Which
Fiction
by Anupama Krishnakumar
One of the defining aspects of conversations is the mood. Anupama Krishnakumar writes two stories, one each for two of the most important of these moods - dark and light. In which…She speaks to her reflection
could raise eyebrows, bring people down on their knees. Her listeners often felt that magnetShe had been contemplating doing this for a ic pull as if she laid her magical fingers gently on while. Standing in front of the mirror and maktheir souls. ing a conversation. With her own self. The suffocation that came with loneliness had grown Then it all went wrong. Not on one fine day. It quite threatening, driving her insane, leading to happened over days, months and years. There suicidal contemplations. You would think that are relationships that turn success stories into you have heard enough of such stories from all disasters. Nope, they aren’t only for the books. over the world. Such types existed everywhere. They do exist, in real. For some, love could be But you would change your mind when you poison. Deadly, dreadful poison. Love could learn the true nature of her character. make you a slave and forget what you once were. It’s like drugs. Intoxicating; life-killing deShe was once nothing but a picture of radiant sire that’s hard to let go. Love sometimes could confidence, in appearance, gait, action and conbe a costly mistake. It could be quick sand. versations. How amazingly she could strike a conversation – she seemed to have been born to Over years, she ended up getting caught in one do just that. With perfect ease. The way she and her confidence was sapped out. That’s to chose her subjects of discussion, the poise with cut a long story short. She no longer felt good which she shared her opinion, the grace with about herself. She lived a life of irony – which she listened to others, the way her entire surrounded by people but speaking to none bebody coordinated by way of delightful gestures cause she didn’t feel like. The very thought naucomplementing the words that poured effort- seated her. Her mind played devil, she couldn’t lessly from her mouth, punctuated, paused and tear herself out of misery. She didn’t know what delivered just the way they were meant to. She explanation to offer to what she had done to 14
Spark—July 2014 | Conversations
herself. But again, life’s not without realisations. got better and better by the minute. Words, reOne night, she listened to her heart after many assuring, morale-boosting and truthful, tumbled years. It asked her to speak up. Throttle the fear out and began to power her spirit. After many that had chained her days, she looked words to her throat. forward to bringing about change. To be So she shut herself herself again. To up in her room, start all over again, stood in front of the to go back to what mirror, stared at her she once was and reflection long and loved being. Somehard. What had she times, she thought done to herself? to herself a few days “Oh you stupid girl, later, all you needed what have you done to do is to talk to to yourself?” She your own self. Then messy situations just untancould hear her scream inside. But the words gled themselves magically. Nothing quite like it. didn’t come out. She feared talking to her own Really. reflection. What if someone heard her? What if someone said she was a fool to be talking to *** herself? What if he came and inflicted blows on In which…The grandfather and grandchildren her already battered body? She looked at her talk sunken eyes, pale face and trembling stick-like hands that bore the brunt of many a hit. Bruises “Thatha, thatha…tell us something nice, somethat told her sad story. The abusive fate that she thing interesting, back from your days,” eighthad refused to fight for some reason that she year-old Vishsaka and five-year-old Shreyas chorused pulling their 70-year-old grandfather by couldn’t exactly fathom. his hands from the single-seater sofa that he sat She continued to look at herself, first trembling on. with shame. Then slowly, she told herself that she had to find a way out. But no, she couldn’t The children were visiting their grandparents for convince her own self. If only things were that their Puja holidays and Mr. Srinivasan had barely been able to conceal his excitement ever since easy. She turned away from the mirror. his daughter announced the proposed vacation Yet she did one good thing. She tried again the trip some two months ago. next day and the next and the next. And to her surprise, a week later she stopped feeling “Ok, ok…wait, wait, let me just think over what ashamed. She took a deep breath and began I can tell you,” said Srinivasan, crinkling his speaking to her reflection, first slowly and hesi- nose and rubbing his forehead to demonstrate tantly and then with an air of confidence that the intensity of his thinking. 15
Spark—July 2014 | Conversations
The children absent-mindedly kept lifting his noting the conversation happening between the hands up and down gently in great anticipation. siblings. “Alright,” announced Srinivasan, clearing his throat, “Forget the past. Let’s keep it for another day,” he said. “I am going to tell you about an important announcement made for old people like me recently.”
“I have learnt in school,” the sister responded matter-of-factly. “Thatha…come on, you tell us,” she continued.
“So yes, the government is wondering if they should actually stop people from living over 75 Vishaka’s eyes lit up. Shreyas stopped shaking years!” Srinivasan said trying to sound serious. his grandfather’s hand. “But how?” Vishaka was evidently engrossed. “And…what’s it?” Vishakha asked, impatience “Well, when someone turns 75, they should just escaping her beautifully etched lips. somehow die!” he exclaimed. “Vishaka, do you know that India’s population “What?” screamed Vishaka. “But that’s such a is increasing really sad thing.” fast? We are such Shreyas, meana thickly populatwhile, was peering ed country, which intently at his is posing a lot of grandfather’s face. problems for our He couldn’t follow growth.” much of what was “Oh yes, thagoing on, seemed tha…,” said Vilike some adult shaka, in a contalk to him. He templative tone, was trying to garthe little finger of ner information her right hand from his grandfainside her mouth. ther’s facial expressions. “What’s pop…population?” questioned Shreyas. Srinivasan looked at the child and was conHe thought it actually twisted his tongue around sumed by the innocence in his large, black eyes. a bit. “Shreyas, my little darling of a boy, look at you. “Uff, Shreyas….,” replied an impatient Vishaka, Your innocence is so matchless, priceless. I see “it means the number of people living in the Lord Krishna in you.” country,” concluding with an air of selfThe five-year-old let himself be carried away confidence. into a conversation which had now taken a turn “How do you know?” asked Shreyas wide-eyed, to a point of his understanding. Yes, he did while an amused Srinivasan looked on, carefully 16
Spark—July 2014 | Conversations
know about Krishna, the God. He had heard a “Thatha,” he called out suddenly. “Don’t worry, lot of stories of his magical endeavours. they will give you parachute so you won’t fall,” he opined, citing some cartoon that he watched “Thatha, are you saying I am Krishna?” regularly to support his argument. Srinivasan laughed. “Yes, yes, you are.” “But then, they are smart. They know we would Shreyas was thrilled. He decided to ask his escape if we had parachutes. So they won’t give mother for a flute and a peacock feather. He us parachutes,” Srinivasan continued just so to had to. see how the whole conversation proceeded. Vishaka looked at her brother with a smile on Shreyas looked dejected. He seemed to be lost her face and then turned her attention to Srini- in thought for a while. Then his face lit up. He vasan. had found a solution to the problem. “So, how will they make sure that people don’t “Thatha, you just said I am Krishna, right?” live beyond 75? Will they die?” Vishaka ques“Yes…” tioned with anxious eyes and a quivering voice. “So, I will do magic and make a parachute apSrinivasan, who was lost in his grandson’s eyes, pear for all of you. Then you can escape!” broke out of his reverie. He patted Vishaka on her head and said, “hmm, well, I will tell you He grinned widely. Srinivasan could no longer what they are going to do. They will have a list hold his serious expression. He threw his head of all people who have turned 75, tell them they back and laughed and pinched his grandson on are all going on a super good airplane ride and his cheeks. when in mid-air and above the sea, they will The smart Vishaka now knew what this was all push them out.” about. Vishaka was stunned. Her eyes were wide open. “Thathaaa…” she stressed on the last syllable. She put her hand over her mouth which had “It’s all a joke, isn’t it?” she asked. dropped open in shock. “Of course,” said Mr. Srinivasan, hugging both “Oh, no! Thatha, how could they do that? his grandchildren in a tight embrace. That’s not fair! What will we all do without our thathas and pattis?” Even as Srinivasan was trying hard to control himself from breaking into a smile, Vishaka continued, “Thatha, you are 70, in five years they will push you into the sea!” she was close to sobbing while Shreyas started showing signs of getting perturbed. He realised that something was wrong. 17
Spark—July 2014 | Conversations
Weaving Stories With Conversations by Anupama Krishnakumar
Non-fiction
For a writer of stories, conversations are brilliant fodder. While citing many stories that she wishes to write focusing on dialogue, Anupama Krishnakumar insists that conversations need not be always about words and between people. They could go beyond words and the usual subjects. What would life be like without sharing, expressing and making a point? Definitely hollow and stagnant, I think. And strange. The need to communicate is an inherent part of our lives and it is hard to imagine a world without conversations. As someone who has always been fascinated and drawn unfailingly towards human nature and behaviour, conversations are something I think deeply about. There’s so much that can be made out of how people converse and what they converse about. Of course, the degree of how much someone talks varies from one person to another but again, it’s hard to find someone who doesn’t talk at all. As a writer, I think of so many instances of dialogue involving people and wish that I find the time to write, write and write. Go on and on without a care about the world, write as if there’s nothing much else that I have to do. Most of the time, the picture comes up in front of my eyes and the words wait impatiently at my fingertips as they rest on the keyboard.
My mind imagines a little girl who has had a fight with her mother. She is distraught and is filled with sadness and regret. But she can’t run to her mother; she doesn’t want to do that yet. She watches the cloudy skies sitting by the window and when the skies split open and the downpour roars down to earth, she doesn’t think for an instant. She jumps, runs, her skirt and hair flying in the wind. She looks up at the rain and lets her tears mingle with the water drops and starts speaking. What would she say? What would she tell the rain? I crave to listen to the voices of my imagination and write a beautiful conversation that’s honest, confessional and is full of lovely innocence. My mind imagines a get-together of a bunch of friends from college after 15 long years. They meet, talk about how much their lives have changed over the last 15 years. For a while, they laugh, muse, discuss and fall silent, leaving behind their present, living temporarily in the collective consciousness structured by their shared
18
Spark—July 2014 | Conversations
memories of a place that they once belonged to. The hangover is strange and it weighs down on each of their souls. Suddenly the present feels unreal and all that their lives are filled with now seems to ebb away. In that little group are a man and a woman, who have, in their minds, thought that they are over and done with the past and it can’t really come back to them again. But for a brief, very brief instant, amidst all the cheerful and contemplative multi -way conversations, they both catch a glimpse of each other. The eyes converse and they realise that their eyes don’t lie. The longing soars and comes gushing from the depths of their hearts and stings their eyes. In that instant, beneath all the superficial conversations of enquiring about the well-being of their families, they realise that their spark of love hasn’t died. My imagination continues its journey to destinations unknown, taking me by surprise each time and many more stories are born. I think I should write a story about the last conversation between a dying grandmother and her grandson, one that’s full of pain that comes with helplessness and gloom that surrounds the inevitable fate of life on earth. I wish to write about an intelligent conversation, an argument of sorts between a teacher and a student, both extremely
smart, well-aware of what they are talking about, yet full of respect for each other. I think of a conversation between a father and his teenaged daughter about love, life and relationships. I think of a criminal’s moment of realisation and a monologue he has – the one last conversation that he wishes he could have (but can’t) with his wife and children, in which he regrets his act and expresses his longing to be with them. I wish to write stories on a bunch of women who can’t stop laughing at a joke shared, a drug addict having a hallucinatory dialogue full of swear words for the world he hates, a group of beggars engaged in a discussion as they sit counting their fortunes and misfortunes for the day, a dozen senior citizens having a heated political debate and ruing the fate of the world after they are gone, tut-tut-ing over the irresponsible ‘younger generation’, a group of children doing pretend-talk, acting adult-like, women haggling over vegetable and fruit prices with a poor vendor, travellers bound by a common journey, long or short, chatting up on nothing in particular. Oh, the world is so full of them. People, conversations and stories! Does the journey end there? No, not at all. There are conversations that are not all about words. Sometimes it is just a gesture. Sometimes it is all about sounds and sometimes it is even
19
Spark—July 2014 | Conversations
silence. I want to write about a conversation that happens between a mother and her unborn child. She doesn’t utter a word but communicates to the child in her womb through her thoughts and the movements of her hands over her belly. And the foetus kicks, in response. I would capture her thoughts and the baby’s kicks in words. Isn’t that a beautiful conversation? Or what about conversing with an infant who has just about started to grasp the nuances of words? He understands the words that are spoken but can’t express himself in words. Yet, he responds with movements of his hands or by making sweet sounds through his mouth or both. Isn’t that conversation too? Don’t cats, dogs and other animals express themselves to us, their gratitude or anger or restlessness in their own ways? Words never find a place there. Yet, they are conversations. I wish I could write those stories too.
couple that hates each other but their shadows that love each other and express fondly their affection for each other, or two friends who can’t do without each other but their shadows that, time and again, keep arguing with one another. Or a bunch of care-a-damn, happy-golucky teenagers enjoying and screaming at a party, while their shadows, solemn and serious, utter a few words of disdain and wait for the whole nerve-wrecking episode to get over. I mean, why not? Surreal though it is, isn’t it always fun to look beyond the obvious? And after all, do we humans know everything? Perhaps shadows do talk! As someone who owns two bookshelves stuffed with books, it isn’t surprising that I also start thinking of books having conversations, late in the night, when the human world has switched off all lights and retired to bed. Perhaps they ease themselves out of their positions to get some air (especially mine would, for the shelves are totally stuffed!) and begin talking. My imagined conversation would proceed thus. They would discuss their covers, fonts, paper qualities, and the stories and characters or the content among themselves. The more serious books would probably critically evaluate themselves, going to the point of stating that the other is full of nonsense while the lighter ones would just giggle and laugh it away.
While real conversations, those that involve people definitely capture my imagination, I have also wondered whether conversations can occur between subjects that are beyond the obvious. I guess all it needs is a wee bit of imagination and stretching your thinking a little beyond the boundaries that we exist within. Allow creativity to take charge for a while and you will end up thinking of a million beautiful instances. That’s what I try to do. Even as I go about my routine, my mind conjures up many kinds of conversaThe classics would probably sound deeptional possibilities. throated, sincere and proud because they have Like two shadows talking to each other, for in- proved themselves over the years. They may stance. And no, they don’t talk what their own- have a comment or two on their reprint ediers talk or feel what they feel. The shadows, I tions’ covers, but the excellence of their content imagine, have personalities and cravings of their would remain undisputable. The younger books, own, totally disassociated from their owners. A written by aspiring writers, gleaming in fancy20
Spark—July 2014 | Conversations
looking, colourful covers and grainy paper tex- that they really want to and not what was scripttures, would not comment much and look up at ed for them by someone else’s mind. the seniors doing all the talking, while conversIt’s a sea of possibilities, as you can see. And I ing with their peers in hushed tones. am not even done talking about half of what Well, while the keeps striking me. books have their The magnitude of conversations, I what all you can imimagine the world agine and write when within those books it comes to conversacoming alive withtions is simply mind out the knowledge blowing. Someday I of the books themhope to be able to selves. The words capture them all in transform into realities held within the seams of writing. Till then, I shall observe and absorb the book and the characters start talking, living conversations of all sorts, which form the basis their lives, set in the settings etched by words. of our existence. After all, what’s life without And once they are done, they pop out of the conversations? books and run away for a brief while to their own characters’ land to engage in conversations
Anupama Krishnakumar loves Physics and English and sort of managed to get degrees in both – studying Engineering and then Journalism. Yet, as she discovered a few years ago, it is the written word that delights her soul and so here she is, doing what she loves to do – spinning tales for her small audience and for her little son, singing lullabies to her little daughter, bringing together a lovely team of creative people and spearheading Spark. She loves books, music, notebooks and colour pens and truly admires simplicity in anything! Tomatoes send her into a delightful tizzy, be it in soup or rasam or ketchup or atop a pizza!
21
Spark—July 2014 | Conversations
Samskara Unwound by Bakul Banerjee
Poetry
Based on the famous conversation between Nachiketa and the God of Death, Yama in the Katha Upanishad, Bakul Banerjee pens a poem that explores the possibility of going back through one’s life to negate bad deeds with good ones, instead of going through death’s door.
Nachiketa, the young sage who argued with Death, is preparing the sacrificial fire, but he must hold the door to the afterlife closed for a while. I yearn to discover life and learn about regeneration. I have yet to unwind my consciousness, my Samskara. The vision of the roaring fire surrounds me. I crush wild strawberries beneath my feet.
“Are you here? Or is it an impossible dream?” I call out to my destined sojourner. In my heart, I heard your message to be here. I wait for you. I have never been here before, yet I know this place. The magnificient Datibatsu of the famed Todaiji temple towers above me. “There, you are.” I don’t know your name. You 22
Spark—July 2014 | Conversations
stand behind the screen of incense and smoke. The transparent charnel house floats between us. This ancient temple is capable of storing the heavy weight of my collective Samskara if I choose to shake it out of my soul.
“Do you have any questions before we begin our journey back?” I observe. No answer. Your lips move and hands make gestures. “Did you say you do not know what answers will bring conclusions and happiness?” I wish to clarify. The blossoming cherry tree drops pale pink flowers on you as rings of smoke rise from hundreds of haphazard, self-immolating incense sticks honoring the Prince who promised to teach how to end of suffering. “Are you blessed by the Prince?” I ask.
“We, you and I, must untie our burdens of accumulated Samskaras before I can be ready to pass through the door that only Nachiketa will open.” You do not respond. “Shall we take turns in turning our bodies in the charnal house?” I suggest. You nod in agreement to this act of purification.
Why were we instructed to mourn our beautiful 23
Spark—July 2014 | Conversations
lives, mostly filled with simple joy and laughter, only tinged with occassional
Samskara: According to Swami Vivekananda,”Each work we do, each thought we think, produces an impression, called in Sanskrit saMskAra, upon the mind, and the sum total of these impressions becomes the tremendous force which is called “character.” A more common meaning of the word is a purification ceremony or rite marking a major milestone in one’s life, for example, the last rite. These rites are often associated with major changes in the human body.
melancholy? Why couldn’t we shed our negative Samskara as we went along regeneratng ourselves along the continuum?
Why do we lose and rediscover our beloved in sacred places or do such places become sacred after the loss? Why do we often mourn our past? Is it because the wisps of happiness must not be regifted? Rituals and thoughts strenthen me. “Shall we begin the journey back?” I ask for permission. You nod after a pause, as if you are taking time to read my mind.
Together, holding hands, we dive into the deep green, meandering river across the temple. The journey to the past unfolds. You, the stranger beside me, keep your head
Award winning author and poet Bakul Banerjee, Ph.D. published her first volume of poems, titled “Synchronicity: Poems” in 2010. For the past fifteen years, her poems and stories appeared in several literary magazines and anthologies throughout U.S. and India. She lives near Chicago and received her Ph.D. degree in computational geophysics from The Johns Hopkins University, Maryland.
under water. We watch fish, turtles go by. Lotus flowers are caught among mangroves. Slowly, I feel the weight of my Samskara slipping away. Actions, good or bad, imperfect reactions to burdensome duties toward others and unpleasant work float away.
We swim in unison toward the beginning. 24
Spark—July 2014 | Conversations
Nothing Good Happens After 2 am by AM Aravind
Fiction
A late night conversation, which starts off innocuously turns into something that can have major impact on the whole world. AM Aravind has a story. “Such a lovely view. I can spend all day just star- er – our God – controls everything in here. And, ing at this,” said Mike leaning against the win- other universes which may exist.” dow, staring at the beautiful star-studded sky. “I can’t believe I am having this conversation “Exactly,” said Kumudha moving towards him. with you. We are scientists,” he paused and continued with a smile, “for God’s sake.” “Even better, when your loved one is by your side,” said Mike, putting his arm around her and “So what? I am a scientist and I’m proud to say pulling her closer. I believe that every single thing – be it the revolution of planets around the sun or the revolu“Shhh… Let me go,” said Kumudha, trying half tion of electrons in an atom – is controlled by -heartedly to free herself from his embrace. God.” “Don’t you worry about George. He went to “My dear nuclear scientist,” he said, pinching sleep two hours ago.” her cheeks playfully, “do you realise that you She just smiled and rested her head on his just told an astrophysicist that all his research shoulders. and your research are useless. You just discredit“So, Mike… This vast universe, the beautiful ed all laws of physics.” star-field… Doesn’t all these make you wonder “I didn’t. I love science. Science is what helps about the creator?” me understand everything that God has created “Heard of something called The Big Bang? Hel- and everything that He controls. But, it’s going to take time for us humans to decipher the laws lo?” behind God’s complex creations. For instance, “Not denying the Big Bang. But, just think… we started space exploration in 1950s – that’s Why did the Big Bang happen? Who caused it? I about 850 years ago. We have taken this long to truly believe that a supreme power created the set up a colony outside earth, in Mars. And even Universe. Through Big Bang, I mean. That pow25
Spark—July 2014 | Conversations
that is not self-sustained. Without support from “Mike… You promised me you won’t mock home, it is dead. The progress of science is slow, God or my beliefs.” but I love the journey towards understanding “The closest I’ve ever come to experience God, God.” if I’ve to admit, is the positive vibes that you get “But, Kumudha, this colony was born out of from a good-hearted person. That’s all there is our need for resources, not greed for knowledge to it. When there’s so much negativity, how do as you say. We exhausted all our fossil fuels. We you expect me to believe in God?” used up most of our “Fine. Whatever.” she Uranium, barring said angrily, and moved tonnes of the metal away. Both of them being hoarded by strapped themselves privileged countries onto their sleeping in their nuclear warbags, but sleep evaded heads. 40 years ago, them. when we learnt that After about two hours, Thorium, our potenKumudha turned totial Uranium substiwards Mike and said, tute, caused hitherto “Mike, I have a crazy unknown side efidea.” fects, we had no other choice but to mine Uranium from Mars, lest our planet runs out of “Oh leave it, Kumudha. Let’s not start again.” electric power.” “No… no… Not that. Listen to me. You said “I know this history. What are you trying to say, God’s within each of us…” Mike?” “That’s not what I…” “Don’t make the Mars mining mission sound like it’s something great, Kumudha. We are on “… and we bring Him out through our good deeds. I have been thinking about it. Why don’t our way to Mars for commissioning the Uranium mining and refining plants, and I am not we do a good deed which will save the whole proud of it. Think of the plight of the 60+ men planet? “ who have been toiling in unfamiliar terrain for Both of them were out of their sleeping bags the past two years, constructing the facility now. there, to provide electricity for the countries “What are you talking about?” who are hoarding the same metal to cause destruction. I see only exploitation, discrimination “Listen. We know the whole world is starved for and elitism. You said your God controls every- energy sources and the existing Uranium will last thing. Why does he let all this happen? It is all for just a few months. We know how critical Uranium is. We will have tonnes of it in a few horrible, isn’t it?” 26
Spark—July 2014 | Conversations
months. We will hold the world for ransom.”
of water and splashed it right on her face. She was completely shaken. He went to her with a Mike was speechless. There was complete sitowel. lence. He kept staring into her eyes. He was waiting for Kumudha to burst out into laughter “I am really sorry, Kumudha. I didn’t know any moment and say, “Fooled you, Mike.” what else to do to stop you.” But that didn’t happen.
“Mike, I….”
“It’s not easy. But, we can pull it off, if we plan “Please, go to sleep now. You are too tired. well. I can take like-minded scientists into our Let’s talk later.” side. This will be a coup. We take control of the *** reactors. We will hold the power.” For the next three days, they hardly spoke to “I’m more bothered about the ‘why’ rather than each other. At the end of the fourth day, as soon the ‘how’, you know?” as George went to go to sleep, Mike went to “Don’t you see it? We’ll make the world a better Kumudha. place, Mike. One world. No more boundaries. “Kumudha, I have been thinking about what No more exploitation. No more discrimination. you said. What you said could be possible.” We’ll share all the wealth of the world with everyone, just like how it should be done. This will Now was Kumudha’s turn to be surprised. be great, not just for us humans, but for the “The amount of Uranium we mine now would planet as a whole.” last us for at least 10 years. We have that long a period to set the world right, and to find ways to extend our control. But there are several major “I strongly believe this is God’s will, Mike. I holes in the plan. How long is it going to take think there’s a reason He brought a girl from a for the army or even the cops to overpower small town in Tamil Nadu and a boy from Lonus?” don, together. There’s a reason that He has given us the required knowledge and power. Only “My dear Mike, you have not just fuel but one we can save the world, Mike. It’s a crime if we of the most lethal weapons too. We threaten to nuke the whole world and take the armed forces don’t use this opportunity.” of the world on to our side. We reach the public “Stop it, Kumudha,” he shouted. But she through mass media. Tell them about how the seemed too possessed by the idea. world is ruined. Tell them how not just the rich “You mocked my God saying he hasn’t done and privileged, but every single human will have anything to stop the nonsense in the world. access to all the resources. We will have people Now, when He shows us a path, you refuse to on our side, protesting against the governments. take it.” Is this too far-fetched, Mike?” “Kumudha, you are not thinking straight.”
Mike could take it no more. He opened a pack “A bit, yes. But we have five months before we 27
Spark—July 2014 | Conversations
reach earth again – enough time to discuss and beeped. Mike turned it on. plan everything. We can take George into confi“This is Mission Scientist Vikram, ISRO, with dence. Or eliminate him if need be.” some terrible news. A nuclear war has broken Kumudha gasped loudly. out killing millions of people in the past hour. The resultant nuclear winter is expected to com“You thought you could do this without bloodpletely wipe out the entire human race, along shed? All for the greater good of the planet, Kuwith most complex life forms. The planet is not mudha.” expected to be hospitable again for thousands Mike then went down on his knees, pulled out a of… ” box from his pocket and stretched out to her. As Vikram continued speaking, Kumudha and “Kumudha… Let’s go rule the world. Will you Mike stood there, completely stunned, looking be my Queen?” pale and white. Tears were running down her cheeks as she said, “Yes! Yes! Yes!” At that moment, the holography display system
AM Aravind, who was a marketeer and a product manager in a Telecom company, quit the job and became an entrepreneur. He loves music and photography. An ardent AR Rahman fan, he has also composed music for short films. Bird photography really excites him as does baking. AM Aravind blogs at http://arrahmaniac.blogspot.com
28
Spark—July 2014 | Conversations
Evenings
Poetry
by Sandhya Ramachandran
How would evenings without conversations be like? Sandhya Ramachandran’s poem gives you the picture.
In the evenings, there is no escape. When the sun begins its retreat, and the trees woo back the breeze Cynicism is the often preferred company that we sip in our green teas in our wind-kissed verandah.
There is never any conversation.
Stray birds twitter around but there is an invisible wall
Sandhya Ramachandran is a storyteller who loves to tell her stories in words, images, film, doodles and other mediums of expression she can find.
and so we hear nothing but the deafening silence and the faint murmurs of bitter undertones sips of tea and words unsaid. 29
Spark—July 2014 | Conversations
Forever in an Hour
Fiction
by Latha Vijaybaskar
An impulsive 23-year-old has an hour to decide if the ‘good and stable’ man she’s having coffee with is good enough to get married to. Latha Vijaybaskar describes the dilemma.
“I want to dive off a cliff. Naked.”
neck and forehead. I want to place my sweaty palms on that pristine white table cloth, get up Oh my God! Did I just say that aloud? To and run. I want to stay calm, poised and see if Raghavan? On our first meeting? Our only Raghavan can fall in love with me in an hour. meeting, a paltry hour and a half in a crowded cafe that our parents decided would be enough But first I want to take those words back. Can I to learn about each other, fall in love and dream just say “You provoked me into saying someabout babies. thing rash?” Even before my mouth is open, my foot gets Well, after all, in the hopes to be well prepared – inside. Shit. and to impress, may I add – I went through his LinkedIn page, Facebook page (where a girl “OK, cool. You can ignore it. No. called Shruthi always liked or commented with Take back the whole think. Tsk. admiration on all posts), and even his company website though I don’t understand the Greek Sprout some gyan. What? and Latin of financial terms. All to make him Google it? Not now”. feel comfortable talking about hobbies and work OK, I am stressed. My family already loves this culture and what do I get in return? guy, pressure is high and I don’t know how to An interview. The man has the gall to fold his fall in love in under an hour. Maybe they should hands, give me an amused look and say, “Tell write books on that. me about yourself”. And I confess I’m frightened. I can feel those I want to smack my CV on his pompous head. threads of vacillation and self-doubt creeping up “Now that you are recruiting, let me see…” and my spine, creating tiny sweat droplets up my I start counting off my fingers. 30
Spark—July 2014 | Conversations
“I am 23 years old, and that makes me five younger than you. I cannot sing to save my life, so don’t expect the entertainment. I can manage a decent meal and don’t consider cooking a talent. I love to read and hate to be disturbed when I’m doing so.”
of the public too”.
cent of Mr French Manicure, our head HR, as I answer, “We should make people believe in the magic of Santa – of life’s little surprises. That is why this week you can call our customer care with unusual wishes and the weirdest wish will come true”.
I shoot out those words. The first lines from my favorite novel, one that I keep reading as a talisman to remind me I am my own boss. And now I want to take them back. But Raghavan is already speaking.
“French manicure happens to be your Marketing head?” Raghvan asks, trying not to laugh. Oops! There goes my mouth again. “HR head.”
“C’mon, tell me your wish for Santa Claus. Raghavan has the grace to flush out an apology, What would you want this Christmas?” which puts him up the I quickly think of my list. ladder in my mind – not • I wish my job were too much, just a couple more interesting. of rungs. From then on we stick to talking about • I wish I could fall in our jobs – how he loves love with you and not marry his and how I cannot say you just because you have all I hate mine. In fact his the required ‘good and sucpassion for his job is cessful qualities’ you have infectious. I could like • I wish I knew if you this guy. liked me “I love that Christmas campaign you have – • I wish I could be satisfied with the ar‘Santa’s weird wish’” Raghavan prompts, keepranged marriage concept ing our conversation on safe grounds. Scratch them all and think of something munOh yeah. This past week has been a nightmare dane. at the call centre where I work because of that rotten campaign. Marketing and HR never give “Even a mundane wish will do, if you don’t a bloody thought to us at customer care when have a weird one”. That patronizing smile does they start something. I put on the tone and ac- it.
“You want to be an architect? Or did you just “Who still believes in Santa and his gift bearing get expelled?” he asked. reindeer sledge these days?” Wow. He actually understood that weird wish “Well Mr French manicure did, and from the was a line from “The Fountainhead” my most nonstop calls we receive, I must say a good part favourite book. 31
Spark—July 2014 | Conversations
“Neither. I just want to be that sure about myself, to have Roark-like clarity.” I realise that maybe I did not blabber away on impulse. Maybe I want to be sure I am doing the right thing by marrying this man my parents feel is ideal for me. Maybe along with the practical aspects of the success of our marriage I am looking for a good dose of Mills and Boons style romance.
“No, ahem, just family” I decide to put the texts away and concentrate on our conversation.
Anyway, the good point is he reads. Now if only I could fall in love with him. I look deep into his eyes and wait for those love bells to ring, my feet to tingle and…
For the next few minutes we try to chit chat and I am still desperately trying to decide if marrying Raghavan is the best thing, when he gets a call from his dad.
“So.” I wait for some witty sentence to pour out from my consciousness and flow freely from my mouth, but nada. Nothing. Saved by the waiter this time. Our order comes in.
“Would you like to order now?” the waiter asks. “Yeah appa, I am OK. I like her.” He gives me this self-satisfied smile. “I am trying to fall in love here!” I just catch that sentence from escaping. I have done Does he expect me to blush or fall over or enough damage already. So while Raghavan or- whatever? ders I check my texts. “What do you like about me? We don’t even Sid has sent me two messages. I quickly scroll know each other well enough to like each other!” I know arranged marriages are based on the down. premises of convenience and mutual respect and “How is Mr Ford Fiesta?” not love, but that grates on my nerves. My parents are so thrilled with this alliance. Raghavan moves forward in his chair, his eyes Raghavan is a CA topper and that makes him focused on me, all traces of that amusing curl of the Adonis in my father’s eyes. He works in a lips gone. “Because I fell in love with a pretty great company and owns a Ford Fiesta. My looking girl in shaded green salwar that my mom mother has these stars in her eyes whenever she showed me last week and I have waited, really talks about Raghavan. Hence Sid, my brother impatiently, for seven days to meet you. Will and best friend named him by his car. I quickly you marry me?” Mr Ford Fiesta has suddenly press reply. accelerated to Ferrari-like speed. “Tank full, GPS ready, slow acceleration”. There can be romance in an arranged marriage “Office?” Raghavan asks. after all.
Latha Vijaybaskar is a thirsty bibliophile. When she was unable to lift her nose from the pages of a book after her MBA, MPhil and years of teaching marketing, she decided to write and find an alternate cure. She has published short stories in anthologies and magazines like Muse India. While working on her first novel, she stops to scribble the other voices in head in her blog www.beforeabeyondz.com
32
Spark—July 2014 | Conversations
LosingConversations
Non-fiction
by Vani Viswanathan
A lost phone makes Vani wonder about the conversations she’s been missing out on. A week ago, I was robbed of my phone, along with a purse full of other things – a wallet, some pretty make-up thingies I’m almost sure I’ll never buy again, little memorabilia given by friends and relatives, house keys, and my most precious companion, the iPod. Even as I come to terms with the idea of being a victim of crime, I was surprised at the realisation that losing the phone was the least of my worries. Part of it was because I had a spare phone, and I knew that it wouldn’t be long before I could get another SIM card with the same number. But I was especially surprised that I didn’t miss the connectivity that I’d been used to – and kind of become addicted to – over the last couple of years. Whatever happened to being dependent on those endless ‘communication’ apps? Whatsapp, Gmail, Twitter, Facebook, Instagram, Hangout… how could I survive with ‘connecting’ to people through just phone calls, SMSes and emails (from the laptop…gasp!)? I realised I was happier without my phone ‘whistling’ every few minutes, or for checking for notifications that silently creep up to the top left corner of the screen. Informing me of a ran-
dom image, forward, a ‘wassup?’, a comment, a message, an email, a ‘like’, a retweet and worse, notifications of a tweet or Twitter account that a number of people I follow, have tweeted or followed. Why did I need all this information? Whatever happened to your phone working for you, rather than you working for it? And with such thoughts, I have enjoyed the past week of being smart-touchphone-less, checking my good old E63 only if it rings, and not every two minutes. And what a pleasure it’s been! The solid phone has gone for four days on a single charge. It’s a delight to type on a QWERTY keyboard, where I’m not relying on autocorrect software that makes me recheck every word I type. The phone has absolutely no internet connectivity because even though it can manage going online, I have deliberately saved myself the trouble – even if Nokia was a frontrunner in making smartphones at some point in time, using buttons to move the cursor is really painful!
33
Spark—July 2014 | Conversations
I don’t feel like I have been missing out on any important conversations, because they continue to happen over calls and SMSes, and sometimes, emails. It was alright to not be part of a Whatsapp group comprising colleagues who sit a stone’s throw away, or not see what silly food, outfit, ingenious angle of architecture that someone felt compelled to take a photograph and post on Instagram. It was okay to check emails only when I logged on, and to respond to chat pings only when I wanted to. I have even relied on my sense of direction to figure out routes. Most of all, it’s been awesome to not see the happening lives people seem to be having and not feel a pang of guilt and self-pity at the absolute normalcy in my life.
being able to quickly Google addresses of stores, find shops, and figure my way around. I miss seeing photos of my niece and nephew and receiving out-of-the-blue messages which remind me that friends from far away still think of me. I miss going on YouTube to satiate sudden music cravings or quickly pulling up details from an email. I terribly miss scrolling through Twitter, as this was something that kept me quite updated on news and views. Something that the episode has made me think about is that if we’ve adopted some technology, it’s because we do find it useful. It’s just about making sure you’re able to take a step back and remember – and enjoy – what life is like without it. I’m quite pleased that I wasn’t panicking or drowning in sorrow about losing the phone, or feeling unloved because of not being connected 24X7 (what I miss most is the iPod, my faithful companion through countless journeys and sleepless nights).
I have always been someone who’s wondered what adult life would have been without cell phones – how did people coordinate on where to meet, how much did letters help in staying in touch with a loved one, or even more daunting, find new love? And now, I wonder how it was With this clarity, I have begun the search for the during college days without smartphones. How new phone. And begun imagining what I’ll look did we survive without internet on our phones? back to in 2020 and wonder about how I surI don’t plan on being a smartphone ascetic for- vived in 2014… maybe we’ll have holographic ever, but it’s been a decent ride. A week on, video calling by then? however, I’ve begun to feel the pinch. I miss
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 chilledness, where there is always place for outbursts of laughter, bouts of silence, chocolate, ice cream and lots of books and endless iTunes playlists from all over the world. She is now a CSR communications consultant, and has been blogging at http://chennaigalwrites.blogspot.com since 2005.
34
Spark—July 2014 | Conversations
The Teacher
Poetry
by M. Mohankumar
Two men revisit their school days and dwell on a teacher who taught one of them a valuable lesson for life. The Teacher, a poem by M. Mohankumar is about that conversation. ‘He was a great teacher,’ he said, recalling our old school days across a span of thirty years.
‘Do you remember the day he slapped me in the face?’
‘I do,’ I said. ‘We were stunned, every one of us in the class.’
‘I’d dozed off.’ he said. ‘He came rushing but there was no anger in his face, only disappointment.’
‘The pain,’ he said after a pause, ‘did not last long, but the sound still reverberates in my mind.’ 35
Spark—July 2014 | Conversations
‘The sound of one hand’*, I said.
‘That changed my life,’ he said, ‘That and his words in the autograph: dharmarthakama samameva savya’ **
My friend is now the M.D of a multinational company.
*A famous Zen koan **Partake of righteousness, wealth and pleasures in equal measure.
Mohankumar has published seven volumes of poetry in English. His poems have appeared in almost all reputed literary magazines in print in India. His first collection of short stories in English, ‘The Turning Point and Other Stories’ has been published by Authorspress, Delhi. Mohankumar retired as Chief secretary to Government of Kerala.
36
Spark—July 2014 | Conversations
Conversations
Fiction
by Parth Pandya
In three byte-sized stories, Parth Pandya brings out the charm of well-crafted conversations. Read on. The Last Banter
staff. Some people would be losing their jobs.
“Did you see the newspaper yesterday?”
The news was accepted with a sense of inevitability. These two brothers, bonded by a com“No, why?” mon labour, could see the writing on the wall. The two thin men sat on their haunches on the The suspense though was overbearing. Would wooden platform, passing to each other a fast one of them lose their job? Or, would both? disappearing beedi. Will this be their last act of bravura? Would it be “There has been a shortage of onion crop this the last beedi they shared thus? year. The prices are going up.” “Did you check it?” “First, they will take our jobs away, and now we “Yes, it’s tight. Everything is in order.” can’t afford onions!” The pride in their work was obvious in their “Oh well, at least we won’t need the onions to demeanour. They believed that their work was a cry. Our tears will be real.” solemn duty. A moment’s pause and they both broke into The beedi was put out. guffaws. “It’s about time. He should be here.” However, silence followed laughter as both sat A bevy of men walked in through the door. The reflecting on the misfortune that was about to focus was one on a lean bespectacled man in the befall them. center. He walked with the grave air of a person There had been a memo stuck with pins to the lost in thought. notice board. It went onto inform them that The two men saw him and wondered who the their division was overstaffed and that volume more condemned one was. With a careful leap, of the work did not justify the volume of the they got down from the gallows. 37
Spark—July 2014 | Conversations
Conversion
“That means that its chances of survival by itself are fairly remote. In that case, I would say that “What’s your name?” the woman should jump leaving the man and The tone of the question had all the marking of the child behind.” a rough interrogation. “Why is that?” “Pinocchio.” “Logically, the survival of the species is depend“How old are you?” ent more on women than it is on men.” “Sixteen.”
“But couldn’t the woman take a chance and carry the child along?”
“Where are you from?”
“Perhaps, but the probability of survival would reduce too much to make that viable.”
“Italy.” “Pinocchio is a strange name. Are you a real boy or a wooden puppet?” The sentence was delivered in a derisory tone and laughter was heard across the room. “I suppose you just need to see whether my nose grows when I lie.” The laughter died out in the hall. People nervously shifted in their seats. The answer was unexpected. It was mean. It was anything but what they had expected out of Pinocchio.
Heads shook in the room. The project file was shut down with a large thump. The subject should no signs of empathy humans are capable of. Their only currency was logic. The plan to humanize subject CRN11 was going nowhere. A hundred years had gone by since the Turing Test was passed. What Alan Turing didn’t know is that even when he asked “Can Machines think?” he couldn’t have imagined that the only thinking they would ever be capable of was being logical.
“That’s a little rude, don’t you think?” the tone Perfection softened a bit. “Never mind. Let’s continue.” Prasoon was fascinated by the ten avatars of “Solve this riddle for me. A man is on an airVishnu. There was a comic book on plane with his wife and child. The plane catches ‘Dashavatar’ (ten avatars of Vishnu), an animatfire and they have only one parachute between ed movie on it, photos and idols of most of the them. What would they do?” avatars in the wood-crafted temple next to the “How old is the child?” kitchen, and at least one or two names in the extended family named after them. “Three.” 38
Spark—July 2014 | Conversations
Prasoon’s ten-year-old mind wrapped itself around the many possibilities that Vishnu had to offer as a superhero. His parents were happy that in the era of the Ironman and Superman and all other forms of men and women doing super-deeds, their son was found peering over his Hindu mythology book at quiet moments on a sleepy Sunday. What they were not prepared for was the many questions his enthrallment would bring about.
an arrow has to be fired and he aims it at Parshurama. Doesn’t that mean that he is fighting against himself?” “Why do you say he is fighting against himself?” “Papa, you forgot? Rama is an avatar of Vishnu. Parshurama is also an avatar of Vishnu. Doesn’t that mean he is fighting himself?” “You have a point here, Prasoon!”
After a pause, the father added “Rama was a “Papa?” he asked his father, who was hidden really good man. Maybe even better than behind the sports pages of the newspaper. Parshurama, and he needed to prove that point. Set that standard.” “Vishnu is very powerful, right?” And the explanation expanded some more. “It is not that Parshurama was bad, but Rama was “And he can take many forms at the same perfect. Not all of us can be perfect all the time time?” like Rama. We may be more like Parshurama. “Yes.” Sometimes we make good choices and sometimes we don’t.” “Can he take any form he wants?” “Are you saying that we may make mistakes and “Yes, he can.” said his father, a tinge of irritait is ok to fail?” tion building up. “Yes. You know, Rama didn’t punish Parshu“Does he always fight against evil?” rama. He let him go.” “Yes, yes, we have spoken about this many “Oh!” times before, Prasoon!” Prasoon rushed into his room and came back “But he is always good, right? So why does he with a sheet of paper, handing it gingerly to his fight against himself?” father. The paper was folded down and a face with a “Papa, can you please sign this? You are my Raquizzical look peered at the boy. ma,” he said with a sheepish smile, as his father “What do you mean?” pored over the red lines in his son’s report card. “Yes.”
“In the book it says that when Rama goes to marry Sita, Parshurama comes and is very angry with him. He challenges Rama to string his bow which he claims is as powerful as the one Rama has broken. When Rama strings it, he says that 39
Spark—July 2014 | Conversations
Parth Pandya is a passionate Tendulkar fan, diligent minion of the ‘evil empire’, persistent writer at http://parthp.blogspot.com, self-confessed Hindi movie geek, avid quizzer, awesome husband (for lack of a humbler adjective) and a thrilled father of two. He grew up in Mumbai and spent the last eleven years really growing up in the U.S. and is always looking to brighten up his day through good coffee and great puns.
40
Spark—July 2014 | Conversations
The Lounge
July 2014 41
Spark—July 2014 | Conversations
Slice of Life by Preeti Madhusudhan
In Search of the Warrior Poet of Love—3 In the final part of her series on travelling the route taken by the tribal chieftain -turned-devout poet Thirumagaiazhwar, Preeti Madhusudhan describes delightfully the last stop, the temple dedicated to the Azhwar at Tiruvali.
Having set out in the quest for the perfect love – that displayed by the Azhvar Kaliyan towards The Lord – we had covered a few thousand miles from Sydney suburbs to the rural hamlets of Tamil Nadu. Starting from Kumbakonam, we have gone on a spiritual trail covering the various temples and their lords that he sang of. Our trail, we soon discover, includes places which commanded his supreme attention, sites that witnessed the completion in the evolution of the Azhvar in terms of poetical and devotional maturity. As though from the outward spirals, we move towards the centre of this trail , to his origins. The intensity in eagerness of us travellers is akin to frenzy now.
Tirumozhi, the Azhvar says of the Lord: My master my parent my consummate worldly relation My liege my divine possessor He goes on in the same decade to state that the Lord is more compassionate than one's mother who gave one life. This is the state of mind of the Azhvar, once he has received enlightenment through divine intervention. It is to Tirvali, the place that bore witness to the said event, that we venture thence from Nagapattinam, where we were last drenched in the poetic verses of the Azhvar.
We take a brief detour at Tirukkannangudi, where we hear the tales of the mischief and reliOn our way to Tiruvali, his birthplace, we mull gious fervour of the Azhvar that still have the over the life of this tribal chieftain, Kaliyan. In Buddhist historians talk of him in hushed tones. one of the earliest poems of his magnum opus, They raise their eyebrows in disdain, tut-tutting 42
Spark—July 2014 | Conversations
their tongues, shaking their heads thinking of what could have been, had it not been for Tirumangaiazhwar's intervention. Here's the tale. There seems to have existed in Nagapattinam a Buddha vihara with a golden statue of the Buddha. Kaliyan, having heard of this statue and being in desperate need of money to build the enclosure wall at Srirangam, decided to rob this golden Buddha. I can almost hear what you say, “But of course", here's the man who sees the lord everywhere and who has been bid by his lovely consort Kumudavalli, to tend to the work of the Lord. Riding his white steed Aadalmaa, the warrior poet set off to Nagapattinam and stole the Buddha in the middle of the night. While en route to Srirangam, it was here at Tirukkannangudi that he buried the Buddha for safe-keeping. This bold strike seems to have been a terrible blow to the growth of Buddhism in the region. A small hamlet, the temple and its environs are markedly distinct in one key aspect from the others in the region that we have visited till now. It is barren – even in the pitch dark of the twilight we can see the barren lands, the absence of water bodies that seemed to pop into view around every corner till now and the presence of just thorny bushes and brambles. It is said to be because of the curse of Kaliyan. when he was refused hospitality and place for the safe-keeping of the Buddha statue; the Azhvar in anger is said to have cursed the place to remain barren till eternity, so generations of visitors know the people's apathy to
Vaishnavism! But not so the scene that follows. Yet again emerald green fields beckon, and delightful rivulets and ponds adorn the sides of the road as we finally depart Kumbakonam to our final destination. Tiruvali lies a little way off the national highways between Kumbakonam and Sirgazhi. Every petty shop along the highway worth its two cents knows Mangaimadam and Azhvar's birthplace. Mangaimadam is where the poet married the damsel he loved, the beautiful Kumudavalli to whom the religion owes the making of its versatile Azhvar. Now there is a dirty mud road bustling with bus stops and stores selling everyday things as wares. Right behind that is where he bit the toe of a newly-wed groom, the Lord himself in disguise. The tribal chieftain by now was a waylaying robber, who burgled his way through the feeding of the 1000 Vaishnavites a day, undertaking repair works at temples, all in an effort to woo his Kumudavalli. Having heard of a party of newly-weds, he robbed the group relieving them of all their riches. One imagines the Azhvar's thought process: “And what was that? A shiny toe ring that hadn't been removed from the groom. That could certainly fetch enough to feed a few thousands more. And why isn't anyone in my thieving gang able to remove that? Here, let me try, shouldn't let these nincompoops in charge of anything. Phew! That's tight. Well, maybe not so tight with my teeth now, that will wipe the silly smirk
43
Spark—July 2014 | Conversations
of the groom's face. He does looks extremely attractive though and vaguely familiar, like I have seen him somewhere, no, everyday. That is strange, he doesn't wince when I bite and tug at the ring. Now I have a better grip, there, pull, pull. Wait, that's not metal at all, it’s his toe, but it isn't like anything I have tasted before, it’s honey, no, it’s the very nectar of the devas. Oh, heavens! Now I know where I have seen him, why I think I have seen him everyday. When I close my eyes now, it is him I see in me, and it is him I see outside me, he is the sky, he is this blinding light that pervades all this space, all these people, he is all of them, he is me, he is everything.” Wasn't that the moment that defined the personality, the very being of the Tirumangaimannan from then on? The very song of the decade dedicated to Tiruvali temple lord is particularly poignant here. Azhvar sings,
at noon everyday. The words of another Azhvar come to mind here. Periyazhvar – the father of Andaal, the renowned female Azhvar who married her divine lover, the Lord – sings of the jubilation in Gokul at the birth of Lord Krishna. He says, that the inhabitants in their madness and excessive joy, ran and jumped so their feet hit their posteriors! That is how we must have appeared to the onlookers at the main street that ends at the temple at Tiruvali. It is a calm street with a neat , broad mud track. The houses on either sides are straight from the pages of Malgudi days. Low, long houses with terracotta tiled roofs, broad thinnais in the front porch with slender, ancient, wooden columns and no people outside. It is deserted. Everyone excepting us mad city folks have of course retired to their noon siesta after a heavy meal. We rush, the temple door is open, but no. the priest says, the sanctum sanctorum doors are locked, and we have to return at 4pm.
We have waited an entire week – no, an entire I dropped at your feet upon which you penetrated my lifetime, some of us confess – so what is a few heart more hours to us? After a meal at a kind soul's home, we stretch our limbs and settle to hear following your entry I prostrate, my folk songs on the bard of the hamlet. Tirusweet muse mangaiazhvar is the folk hero in these parts. oh! lofty one, my cherished life The folk song here recounts more tales of mischief. The lines talk of the time when the bard employed a few masons and carpenters for the Srirangam enclosure wall work. Once the work is completed, the workers want payment. And what does Kaliyan do? He pushes them into the Kaveri river, saying they will attain the abode of the Lord, Vaikuntam, for their service to him! We almost jump out of the running vehicle, hur- And legend has it that they did indeed! rying to get past the temple doors, which close Just past the place following yet another green spread, the ubiquitous water body is a tiny temple, a dot on the landscape which is pointed out as the birthplace of the Azhvar. We drive past that, only to reach a better place.
44
Spark—July 2014 | Conversations
It is 4pm. Our wait is over the journey has come to its finial. Atop steep steps that lead to the sanctum sanctorum, there, standing with his very beautiful, big-eyed Kumudavalli, is the poet we have longed to see. His matted locks, coiled atop his elegant head, include a turban as the Margazhi festival is still on. There is the slightest of bend in his posture near his hip that make his posture more graceful and yet more manly. The broad shoulders tell the tale of countless battles. His handsome features arrest our eyes. We are unable to turn around to view the Lord. The spear gifted him by Tirugynanasambandar, the Saivite Nayanmaar, rests on his broad chest as would a drop of water on a lotus leaf, yet it is his hands that are joined in loving supplication and the ever gentle bend of his head in a bow of subjugation that make him our Azhvar.
gives moral strength to the reader. The reader identifies with his slips and falls and applauds with enthusiasm when all is well. Azhvar taught people that committing mistakes is human but to acknowledge them and conquer them to step higher is the lofty purpose of the soul.Through his songs, we have followed the saint through his downfalls, his mortal love and we have watched him morph into the champion of social equaliser – love for the lord. We have cried, laughed and played coy with him through his songs. We have relished the lord through his eyes, we have fallen in love and thrilled at His every curve and decadent feature. Having held the Azhvar's hands thus far, we have been led through the greatest heights of love. It is now time to prostrate before his majestic allure and take leave. We leave carrying his words and his valiant love.
A protagonist who evolves from a mere mortal to a stellar proponent of ideals, is more appeal- Hail azhvar! ing than one who is born righteous. The former
Preeti Madhusudhan is a freelance architect/ interior designer living in Sydney with her husband and eight-year-old son. She is passionate about books and is an ardent admirer of P.G.Wodehouse. She inherited her love for books and storytelling from her father, a Tamil writer. Preeti is trying to publish her maiden novella in English.
45
Spark—July 2014 | Conversations
SEND US YOUR CONTRIBUTIONS TO editors@sparkthemagazine.com FEEDBACK feedback@sparkthemagazine.com WEBSITE www.sparkthemagazine.com Facebook: http://www.facebook.com/pages/Spark/240605447679 Twitter: http://www.twitter.com/sparkeditor Image credit information available at www.sparkthemagazine.com
46
Spark—July 2014 | Conversations