Spark Word.World.Wisdom June 2014
Fiction | Poetry | Art | Photography | The Lounge
Mirth 1
Spark—June 2014 | Mirth
05 June 2014 Dear Reader, This month we decided to take a break from the serious and go easy! The June issue, therefore, is a celebration of fun, laughter and smiles. We present to you a line up of fiction, poetry, art and photography that explore the theme, Mirth, in different and not to mention, very interesting ways. Here’s to the lighter side of life. As always, we would love to hear from you on what you thought of this issue. Mail us atfeedback@sparkthemagazine.com. Until we see you next month, smile away! Cheers
Contributors Aju Mukhopadhyay Bakul Banerjee Maheswaran Sathiamoorthy M.Mohankumar Parth Pandya Preeti Madhusudhan
Editorial Team
Ram Govardhan Rrashima Swaarup Verma
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.
Swati Sengupta
Spark June 2014 © Spark 2014
Akshay
Vani Viswanathan Vinita Agrawal Coverpage Picture
Individual contributions © Author
Concept, Editing and Design
CC licensed pictures attribution available at www.sparkthemagazine.com Published by Viswanathan
Anupama
Anupama Krishnakumar Vani Viswanathan
Krishnakumar/Vani
editors@sparkthemagazine.com Powered by Pothi.com
2
Spark—June 2014 | Mirth
Inside this Issue
POETRY Monsson by Vinita Agrawal The Devout Son by M. Mohankumar Indian Election by Bakul Banerjee Tic by M. Mohankumar FICTION An Unlucky Man by Parth Pandya Highbrow Pursuits by Ram Govardhan Three Smile Stories by Vani Viswanathan Brunch at Chez Laurent by Rrashima Swaarup Verma THE LOUNGE TURN OF THE PAGE| A Stream of Sweet Pain Threads Vinita Agrawal’s Poetry by Aju Mukhopadhyay SLICE OF LIFE| In Search of the Warrior Poet of Love - 2 by Preeti Madhusudhan PHOTOGRAPHY Amused by Maheswaran Sathiamoorthy ART The Joy of Preservation by Swati Sengupta
3
Spark—June 2014 | Mirth
Poetry
Monsoon
by Vinita Agrawal Rains are a delight for the young and old alike. Vinita Agrawal writes a poem as the nation waits for the monsoon to arrive and rejoice! Almost lost a shoulder Waiting for the rains Stood so long against the walls It caused me a lot of pain
Monsoon, monsoon...come soon, come soon
The clouds are building up Thick and grey and moist Soon they'll burst and I'll see My inner longings voiced
The rain will fall like sheets Of refreshing heavenly water I'll be experiencing madness Of awesome cheer and laughter
4
Spark—June 2014 | Mirth
Monsoon, monsoon...come soon, come soon
The sun will disappear And days will be encased In marvellous coolness Not in searing sunny rays
Paper boats will bob joyously At every rivulet on the road We'll all become children Sailing happiness afloat 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.
Monsoon, monsoon...come soon, come soon
Trees will be bathed With the rapture of the drops All dust washed away from Roofs and tree tops
The numbness of my shoulder Will soon be forgotten My waiting shall turn to a dance When the rains are begotten!
Monsoon, monsoon...come soon, come soon
5
Spark—June 2014 | Mirth
Fiction
An Unlucky Man by Parth Pandya
When Nimish was born, Lady Luck left his side. But one dusk in Mumbai, he finds an abandoned wallet on the road – could it be his chance for an adventurous ride? Could he actually get lucky this time? Parth Pandya has a story that’s sure to tickle your ribs. Nimish Hiremagalur was not a lucky man. No Sir, he could not be accused of it. Lady Luck gave him the slip at the worst of moments. He once went gambling, won a lot of money, and promptly got robbed on the way home. On another occasion, when he came home early to surprise his wife, his wife had a surprise ready for him – a hairy man waiting in the closet full of clothes with very few clothes on him. He got so fed up with his life once that he decided that he will run away to wherever his dart landed on the map of the world. He hit his home city with great accuracy. No Sir, there was no escape for Nimish, there was no respite for him. No good things happened to him, and when they did, there was always a trip and a fall waiting for him. The Universe must have believed he was unlucky. Nimish certainly was convinced of it. He was sure that he lived at the bottom of rock bottom.
people would have probably missed it in the fading light of the day. A little brown blob lying on the road. But Nimish always looked down while walking. He saw it and it made him stop in his tracks. It was a wallet. Thick, brown, dogeared, lived in. Nimish stared at it like it was about to explode. He thought about what he should do next. For the first time in a long time, he looked up, then left, then right, as if he were about to cross a road. He gingerly picked up the wallet, half expecting the police, the income tax department, a SWAT team and perhaps an entire contingent of news reporters with their mikes and cameras, to swarm on him, accusing him of having pulled off a great heist. That eruption of people never happened. No one came. It was just him and that carefully held wallet in his hand.
He opened it curiously. The wallet had two compartments. The first had an infusion of It was in the midst of this deep conviction that cash. A wad of notes dangled at him. Several he stumbled home on a February evening. Most thousand rupee notes were neatly arranged to6
Spark—June 2014 | Mirth
gether. He turned the other flap open and looked for any signs of identification. There was nothing he could find that spoke about its owner. No license, no credit card, no photographs of a beloved. Just a slip of paper with an address. “Razzak bhai, Dharavi”. And a picture of a gun drawn on it. It seemed like the calling card of a Bollywood star. That definitive style of a man who expects the world to know who he is. Dharavi, the largest slum in Asia, home to many Razzaks. But clearly, as the man must have believed, only one Razzak bhai. Nimish’s eyes lit up. This seemed like a mystery wrapped in an enigmatic thrill. A man not trained to trust his luck suddenly found himself wanting to go on a limb and show some faith. Perhaps there was a story to be pursued here. A story to brighten up his life. A story to make his bygone be bhai-gones. He would return the purse, triumphantly, to a don of Mumbai. The don would offer him a reward that he would refuse. The don would be touched by his gesture and give him a gold chain that he was wearing, as a symbol of brotherhood. If he was lucky, he would even part with his favorite red colored scarf. If the stars were aligned, he would ask his moll, Rani, to pour him a drink. And if the stars really aligned, maybe he could spend some time petting the don’s pet tiger, Shera. Yes, yes, Nimish thought. Why not? Perhaps all his unluckiness had accrued as tax he was paying, for a day like this. His imagined don and the imagined
don’s imaginary largesse was waiting for him three kilometers (or as they say in Mumbai, one hour) away. Nimish hailed an auto-rickshaw and told him to head to Dharavi. He held the wallet very close to his heart. When the rickshaw coughed and sputtered along the Sion-Bandra link road, doubts began to cough and sputter within Nimish. Where would he start? Who would he ask? Will they take him in? Or take the wallet and shoo him away? Will he ever get a chance to talk to Razzak bhai himself? “Sahab, kahaan?”asked the rickshaw driver, pointing out to him the obvious flaw in his grand plan. Standing at the mouth of Dharaavi was like landing at Ellis Island and having the whole of USA to explore. He asked him to stop near the corner of the universe. A paan shop, around which all the comings and goings of the neighborhood found their orbits. One paan shop in Dharaavi, one of the many in a hive of local news hounds. Could he find his lead here? “Razzak bhai?”he went up and asked as the owner greased a fine Banarasi paan with choona. “Razzak bhai,” the paanwaala responded? “Yes. Razzak bhai,”he said, handing him the card from the wallet. The paanwaala gave the card a glimpse. The choona froze in its tracks. A look of disdain crossed his face. 7
Spark—June 2014 | Mirth
“Wait here,” he told Nimish. He reached out to as a threat to sell guns? his side and picked up a cell phone. Frantically, “How much?” he asked. he punched a few numbers, never for a moment “30000 rupees.” taking his eyes off the man with the card. “He’s here,” were the only two words he ut- Where am I going to get this kind of money, he wondered? And then it struck him. His flight to tered. a great life, that wallet, was loaded with cash. He Nimish’s excitement paled and was replaced by took it out and simply handed the whole thing unease. He wondered what the paanwaala had to his corpulent new friend. Not the don, but made of that card. All it had was a simple name. his right hand. When Nimish had asked him about Razzak, had the paanwaala treated it like a question or a The counting of money was done meticulously statement? Was he assuming the he was Razzak and Rs. 2000 returned back to him. bhai? “It’s good. Now take your guns and go,” the His answer was swiftly delivered to him. Three burly men with flowery shirts with their top three buttons open, closed in on him. One held him by the hand and led him to a narrow bylane. Nimish started saying his prayers. This was going to be the end of him.
man said, handing over a rather heavy bag to Nimish.
“What?”
rickshaw-waala handsomely and ran up the stairs. He nervously opened the door to his house, latched the door and ran to his bedroom with that bag. Sweat poured from his temples and his sweaty palms almost lost grip of the bag.
Nimish didn’t dare open the bag. He didn’t dare look them in the eye. He simply took the bag and walked out of there as fast as he could. All the way home, his eyes nervously looked for “Do you have it?” the largest man with the signs of police trolling the streets. squeakiest voice asked. When he got to his building, he paid off the “The money” “For what?” “The guns.”
Nervously, he opened it. There they were. The “Well look, I am not really here for the guns. I guns. Nearly a 1000 of them. All made to order. am here to meet Razzak bhai.” By someone whose wallet he had accidentally “He can’t meet you. He has gone away.” found on the road. Nimish looked at them with new eyes. This could be the start of something “Where? Dubai?” new. Something exciting. A career in arms dealThe smallest fellow laughed. “Dubai? No, to his ership perhaps. The lucky break that could alter village. In Uttar Pradesh.” After a pause, he said, his life for a better path. Nimish, no longer the “The money, or else, I’ll have to call the police” loser. Nimish stood confused. What goon uses police 8
Spark—June 2014 | Mirth
With renewed vigour, he picked up a gun to of the company that made them. Razzak bhai’s examine it. The disappointment came sooner company. than the feel of the gun could register in his “Lucky Waterworks” hand. It was February. In time for Holi. All these guns were built to fire was colored water. His face fell. Good fate had tempted him only to turn its back on him. That merchandise seemed to laugh slyly at him. The receipt of goods taunted him a bit louder. It had the name
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.
9
Spark—June 2014 | Mirth
Photography
Amused
by Maheswaran Sathiamoorthy Just one look at their amused expressions will have you smiling too for sure... Maheshwaran Sathiamoorthy's photographs do the magic.
10
Spark—June 2014 | Mirth
11
Spark—June 2014 | Mirth
Maheswaran Sathiamoorthy graduated with a B.Tech degree from IIT Kharagpur and is a Ph.D. from the University of Southern California. His interests include counting bokehs and taking out of focus shots. He also likes being unpredictable, random and enjoys coffee and 0000FF sky.
12
Spark—June 2014 | Mirth
Poetry
The Devout Son by M. Mohankumar
A crow’s arrival at a man’s window every other morning worries him terribly until an old seer comes up with an interesting explanation. The man’s action following that is indeed amusing to one and all. M. Mohankumar’s poem speaks of the devout son.
When the crow flew in and, perching on the ventilator, cawed and cawed, he woke up with a start, shooed it away, and thought no more of it.
But when this happened, morning after morning - for days on end he wondered whether it presaged some calamity, and was alarmed.
He sought counsel from godmen and pundits versed in ancient lore till he was almost driven mad by their wild interpretations.
13
Spark—June 2014 | Mirth
Then came a wizened, old seer, one with matted hair, blind in both eyes, who said it was his father’s spirit, come to bless his devout son.
These days, he eagerly awaits the darshan. As the crow flies in, he folds his hands in prayerful silence and goes on bended knee.
And out on the road, when he sees a crow, he greets it with folded hands, unmindful of the passers-by who look on, amused, wondering….
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.
14
Spark—June 2014 | Mirth
Fiction
Brunch at Chez Laurent
by Rrashima Swaarup Verma Punita, a Partner at a law firm, has been invited to – and she can’t believe she’s going – a kitty party. An afternoon full of discussions around designer bags, maids and charity events… how is she going to handle it? Rrashima Swaarup Verma pens a story that is sure to make you smile.
As I hand my car keys to the valet and step out, I wonder for the hundredth time whether this is a good idea. I’m usually a very in-control sort of a person and hardly, if ever, unsure about anything. But now here I am, about to step completely out of my comfort zone. ‘I’m a lawyer, for God’s sake! How did I ever land up in a kitty party of all things?’ I mutter to myself as I smooth down the skirt of my black suit. Most of my wardrobe consists of black and grey trousers, skirts and jackets, punctuated here and there with the odd dress or sari on the rare occasion that I want to jazz it up a little. I slip off my sunglasses and adjust my handbag on my left forearm. After all, that’s how most of these women carry their bags, isn’t it? To clarify my position, I haven’t anything particularly against kitty parties. However, to put it kindly, given a choice, I wouldn’t be caught dead in one of them. For one thing, I’m a Partner in one of the country’s leading law firms and
therefore usually too busy to make time for something as frivolous as a kitty party and for another, even if I do have the time, I’d much rather do something constructive. But when my dearest friend Vidya called last week and suggested that we meet for lunch, I didn’t think she meant this. I still can’t believe that she talked me into it. The crafty little wretch, she always did have extraordinarily good convincing abilities. As I enter the restaurant, I can’t help but look around in awe. Chez Laurent is a spanking new French restaurant in the heart of South Delhi and has received rave reviews in almost every newspaper. Not surprisingly, it is as elegant and chic as I’d expected. There is a wine room at one end, a show kitchen with a Molteni range and an overall contemporary style. Expectedly, almost all the tables are occupied since it’s a Saturday afternoon but Vidya’s group is easy to spot – how difficult would it be not to notice more than half a dozen gossipy women all
15
Spark—June 2014 | Mirth
chattering and laughing at the same time! I walk over to the table and Vidya’s eyes light up as soon as she sees me. She envelops me into a warm hug and then proceeds to introduce me to all fifteen of her friends. I smile and greet everyone with confident poise. I am, after all, the modern career woman and now that I think about it, how difficult could it be to make small talk with these women for an hour? After all, designer bags, maid servants and charity events is probably all they’ll talk about! “So Ramola, we loved the Sencha tea you got us from Japan.” The lady who has spoken, just like all the others, wears a huge solitaire on her perfectly manicured hand and has sleek, shiny hair which she can toss quite effortlessly over her shoulders. I know I don’t have sleek shiny hair and it’s been more than two months since I got myself a manicure but then between client meetings and court dates I don’t really have a lot of time for frivolous things like manicures and blow dries. It’s different for these women who probably spend half their lives in spas and salons anyway. “Yes, it was very flavorsome indeed,” agrees another lady, as she delicately sips her iced tea, careful not to smudge her lipstick. Ramola, who happens to be sitting directly opposite me, smiles in response and waves the thanks away. “Speaking of tea, did you read about how the Indian tea industry is facing sustainability challenges?” adds a lady from the far end of the table. “The industry has to learn to manage production costs to stop prices from rising and potentially reducing consumption.” “Yes, but it is essential that the industry retains its workforce with competitive pay!” exclaims another lady. “Furthermore, if further mechanization is introduced, training must be given to
maintain quality issues.” I look up in surprise. This lady too has glossy hair and perfectly manicured nails and doesn’t look like the type who would know much about the tea industry in India.“Well, I’m glad you liked the tea,” remarks Ramola then. “We’re planning to visit Darjeeling in September and I’ll get you all some Oolong this time. It’s going to be a short trip, though, since my book launch is in October.” This woman writes books! She’s actually an author! I look at her with new respect. Amazing, to say the least! “We’re going to Jaisalmer next month,” comments another lady in a floral dress. “My husband was suggesting that we go abroad but really, why bother? There are plenty of options in India. In fact, they say that the Indian tourism industry is going to grow at 7% this year outperforming the general economy by 2.5%.” Is it? Why do I not know this? “Hey, I’ve been meaning to ask! Can any of you recommend a furnishing store around here? I’m thinking of redoing the apartment.” I’m just about to remind Vidya that this is probably the fifth time in two years that she’s re doing her apartment but another lady speaks up before me. Just as well! For want of anything better to do, most of these women probably redo their apartments all the time anyway. “Well, Ikea was in the process of setting up stores in India but now it seems that the first one won’t happen before 2016,” says the lady. “Really? I thought it would happen sooner than that!” I say. I can’t help my disappointment. I was looking forward to shopping at Ikea. I really like their furniture. “Well, apparently they haven’t even identified a location for their first store. Don’t you read the newspaper?” laughs the lady, glancing at the expensive watch on her wrist. “I wonder where
16
Spark—June 2014 | Mirth
the food is? I’m famished!” Don’t I read the newspaper? Well! I’m almost crimson with mortification. Of course I read the newspaper! Just because my work doesn’t leave me with a lot of spare time to go through every little piece of news does not mean I don’t read the newspaper. She made me feel ignorant! And why aren’t they d is c us s in g maids and charity events and designer handbags? I feel positively let down! Lunch is delicious but I don’t think I even noticed what I ate. We’re now finally on the last course and even though the Crème Brûlée that I’ve ordered is usually my favourite indulgence, I can barely taste it. The babble of voices at our table has become louder, faster and more insistent and I simply can’t keep up with it. “Singapore Prime Minister Lee Hsien Loong invited Narendra Modi to visit the country and …..” “Mumbai property market finally looking up again…..” “World’s oldest sperm discovered in Australia……blah blah blah.” My head is spinning and I feel like I’m in the middle of a dream. I have never felt as tongue tied before and I suddenly realize that I haven’t said much throughout lunch. Thankfully, the waiter suddenly appears with the bill and all the women start digging into
their bags. The sound of rustling notes is a welcome respite and I heave a sigh of relief. “Well, Punita, I hope it wasn’t too awful.” Vidya smiles sheepishly at me as I hand the parking coupon to the valet. An assortment of expensive cars has already started lining up the driveway. “Don’t worry about it,” I assure her as we hug. “It was certainly an eye opener to say the least.” She laughs and kisses me quickly on both cheeks. “Well, let’s catch up soon over a cup of coffee,” she suggests, “…just the two of us this time.” “Not a chance,” I retort “My turn next time! I’m dragging you to a lawyer’s conference next week.” We laugh together and my car arrives. “You’re just in time. I just made some coffee.” My husband Sandeep smiles at me as I enter the apartment and I beam at him happily. I’m actually pleasantly surprised to see him back early since he’s been working late every day the last few weeks. “So, you and a kitty party, huh? I can’t believe it! How was it?” he laughs as he hands me a mug of freshly brewed coffee and I sniff the aroma appreciatively. “Well, I guess it was certainly interesting,” I remark as I sip my coffee and he raises his eyebrows.
17
Spark—June 2014 | Mirth
“Interesting? What’s interesting about a kitty ity events at all. And by the way, I don’t think party? You must have discussed designer hand- I’ll be able to accompany you to that FICCI bags, maids and charity events with a bunch of lunch next Saturday. I’ve joined the kitty party.” frivolous women all afternoon.” He looks at me expectantly but I’m quick to shake my head. “Frivolous? I don’t think so. And we actually didn’t discuss designer handbags, maids or char-
Rrashima Swaarup Verma has an MBA in Marketing. She is Senior Director – Business Development with a leading, multinational business intelligence and strategic consulting company. She has worked on numerous projects with leading Indian and international corporations and has wide experience in business writing across a diverse spectrum of functional and industry segments. Rrashima is also a fiction writer and poet and several of her compositions have been published in leading newspapers, magazines and literary journals.
18
Spark—June 2014 | Mirth
Fiction
Highbrow Pursuits by Ram Govardhan
During these times, where surviving is itself turning out to be a big task, here’s a man who actually ‘lives’ his life typically dream like and how! Ram Govardhan writes a story that is sure to raise your eyebrows! “Nobody in India lives; everyone, even on a generous estimate, just survives,” he says, “Unless you are well-endowed or have married into money.” Surviving, indeed, is a perilous, full-time job. Whether one is employed, unemployed, selfemployed or bankrupt, regardless of class, every passing day is a testimony to one’s grit and fitness to survive. Fitness and survival have been Siamese twins since Darwin’s days and as relevant to present-day Indians. And the ones who survive India, and go on to live overseas, evolve into an unbeatable species not only to conquer Downtown San Jose but also to trail-blaze and turn up trumps anywhere on earth. Yet such species, on rare visits to India, feel unbelievably suffocated, while people unevolved like us continue to survive with great aplomb. However, there are a few uber-Indians who know how to ‘live’ here too, like our man, a digital-age beggar, whose comic-tragic portrayal, you, the reader of Spark, are about to be treated to.
“Joblessness, technically, is a better survival tactic; you can choose your calling and, as a matter of greater consequence, you can choose a less egoistic boss. Indisputably, of all the walks of life, begging is a greater survival tactic,” he says. But then beggars are said to be surviving without a right to choose, which, in our man’s case, is simply untrue. He is the only soul yours truly has ever seen who seems to know a thing or two about ‘living’ life as opposed to mere deathdefying survival or, as is the case with most of us, hand-to-mouth life. You, the middle-class reader, at the end of this narrative, may figure out whether our man is living life happy as a king or is just surviving like most of us. With his outlandish gait, a vivid broad-brimmed hat, dreadlocks under it, an extravagantly embroidered jacket, a matching khadi sling-bag and a neatly trimmed torpedo beard, he looks a veritable scholar polishing his thesis and preparing for viva-voce. These are the very intellectual
19
Spark—June 2014 | Mirth
looks that unfailingly keep other ordinary beggars from approaching him for they know scholarly people are seldom charitable on streets. You can spot him on the six-laned information technology corridor where he meticulously spots his almsgivers whom he fondly refers to as prey. As he zooms on his kill, given his instinctive grasp of pure mathematics, and of quantum mechanics, he is so methodically deductive that he seldom misses the bull’s-eye, saving crucial minutes of every one of his sorties, and hours in the cumulative sense.
quickly analysed. And most important of all, how harried someone is on the phone while walking takes most weightage among all the inputs his brain frantically computes to seize the moment. Close quarters or far-off, his hit rate is eight out of ten; irrefutably not a bad ratio for a one-eyed beggar, but then his eyes are hidden behind the most luxurious eye wear in the world: Christian Dior Glossy Gold.
Since he is a great face reader, hitting the road is not that tough even in the tropical heat; he doesn’t even look at half a face, he just goes by the shape of a nose. Still, in general, since noses are too tiny to achieve any degree of accuracy from far afield, he waits until his prey is close at hand. Nonetheless, when an occasional beaky nose appears in the distance, he goes ahead and lays a wager with intuitive panache. Of all the sorts of noses and faces he encounters, a strong hard face is what he loves to bet on. Positive outcomes of such hard-nosed encounters satisfy his soul for they testify efficacy of his manoeuvres and reinforce their continued relevance.
His skills, honed to razor-blade sharpness, earn him enough dough within few hours, letting him to live rest of the day. Did you, the reader, spot the word ‘live’ in the preceding sentence? Yes, he lives: he has a Bose Home Stereo. Instead of the old compact disc player, these days, he just plugs in his smart phone or a flash drive, lessening the wear and tear, to enjoy his evenings and nights over beverages and assortment of pizzas. Past dinner, the music lingers over Coetzees, Millers, Becketts, Naipauls, Okris, Murakamis, Joyces, Solzhenitsyns, Achebes, Rushdies, Morrisons, Tolstoys, Hemmingways, Nins, Russells, Marquezes, and Tagores. However, on holidays and Sundays, he uses the extra hours at his disposal to catch up with the latest sensations on literary horizon: the Byatts, Adichies, Cattons, Díazs, Constantines, Lahiris etc.
He is also a decent-plus grade gait reader; he spots a sucker from a mile away simply by the way of his walking—the swing-span of arms, the length of strides, and the pace of steps are
Looking at heaps of books, sometime before American recession turned vengeful, the landlady had said, “Obviously, you have taken this room to store your books and CDs, and you
20
Spark—June 2014 | Mirth
somehow find some place to sleep among tential prey, he takes his position and, as his kill them.” moves into the ring of no return, he unleashes the first sentence, and waits for the prey to reBut the advent of Kindle changed all that; he act. When there is no yield, he sets the second began shopping, downloading, browsing and sentence free that is to do with job loss. More reading e-books, blogs, magazines, newspapers, than ninety percent of his prey are tamed by one and other broadcasting digitally. Suddenly, the of the two and, of late, he has grasped that both empty space made him feel lonely but, in three were better than either alone. weeks, quickly regained his usual tactile sense of socialising with great authors and musicians Discarding the customary salutation of bowing, within the confines of his room. he never, in his words, ever stoops, but behind his innocuous, erect craft, there is method, tact, Before long, he upgraded from the simplistic insight, underpinning and forethought. And Amazon Kindle to Kindle DX, then to Kindle aspects of behavioural science, Keyboard, and then to psychology, and crowd manKindle Paperwhite and, agement are all there in good despite owning a Kindle measure to maximize yield of Fire at the moment, he is every bead of sweat. also evaluating other ebook readers from China, He loathes tricking people in Japan and Taiwan. The tattered clothes; his wardrobe digital devices save him boasts of dazzlingly patterned huge sums of money that and pure Yves Saint Laurent he paid out to newspaper clothes that are never more vendors; he used to get than three months old. And the five magazines a month most ethereal of his accessories and four newspapers a that tames his prey subconday—he can tell us as to why Berkshire Hatha- sciously is generous sprinkle of Luna Rossa— way is always on the money or why Hillary the most masculine Prada fragrance for a man would succeed Obama, or why Boko Haram on the move. Whenever all three of his tricks will throw up the next Bin Laden. Or, nearer fail, this perfume has consistently softened up home, as to why Modi will retire as the greatest the most apathetic of almsgivers. prime minister from Panchavati, popularly He hates saving for a rainy day; by spending a known as 7 RCR. few more hours in field, he goes overdrive only Despite his incredible fluency in English that for three sorts of contingencies: hospitalization, matches that of his almsgivers who do night acquiring expensive albums and buying expenshifts in diverse twangs of English, he has nar- sive literary tomes. After supper, three to four rowed down the three most effective sentences hours a night, he pores over books while the that he calls ‘juicy baits’. After spotting his po- home stereo blares Beethovens, Floyds, George 21
Spark—June 2014 | Mirth
Michaels, Santanas, Burmans, Garfunkels, Brax- lost theirs or have bad enough credit histories to tons, Estefans, Stings, Bachs, U2s, Marleys, lament their woes, our friend’s credit score is Scorpians, Boltons, Take Thats, and Adeles. He 900, the maximum score rating agencies have has bundled all the CDs ever been able to give. and put them away on the He is biding his time for the day attic, for his DT HyperX when he could access the OuterPredator flash drive net Wi-Fi that is said to be free boasts of one terabyte of cost, since the internet chargspace. And YouTube has es he pays per month are extorcome as manna from tionate to say the least. And, heaven; he no longer having read so many great ausplurges on expensive thors over the years, he now music albums. intends to write a bit, which is Due to the savings made why he is now unpacking his possible by e-readers, fourth laptop: Stealth MacBook YouTube and ePro. commerce, he is paying his credit card bills in As for religion, or way of life as he prefers to time, avoiding cumulative interests that come put, having spent a couple years in Ethiopia disguised as service charges. This is the credit with the multinational company, he has emcard he was given by the bank when he was embraced Rastafarianism and, just as all other Rasployed in a multinational company ten years tas, asserts that Haile Selassie I is none other ago. While many of his former colleagues have than Jesus Christ. Amen.
Ram Govardhan’s first novel, Rough with the Smooth, was longlisted for the 2009 Man Asian Literary Prize, The Economist-Crossword 2011 Award and published by Leadstart Publishing, Mumbai. His short stories have appeared in Asian Cha, Quarterly Literary Review of Singapore, Muse India, Asia Writes, Open Road Review, Cerebration, Spark and several other Asian and African literary journals. He lives, works in Chennai, India. Email: ram.govardhan@ymail.com
22
Spark—June 2014 | Mirth
Poetry
Indian Election by Bakul Banerjee
There’s a mirthful side to something as serious as elections in India. Bakul Banerjee’s poem paints the lighter picture.
India voted. Women in rainbow-coloured saris queued up by polling places. Vermillion powder on partings of hair was a memorable color-burst. That was mirth.
For many summer weeks, politicians dragged out citizens from their humble shelters, while in the US robins pulled out worms from the moist earth. That was mirth.
Swallows squawked, as the squirrel hung upside down from their bird-feeder, while India plunged into voting head first That was mirth.
23
Spark—June 2014 | Mirth
A Chai-wala became the Prime Minister defying societal odds while thumbing his nose to the idea of a privileged birth, as the critters in Chicago frolicked with mirth.
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.
24
Spark—June 2014 | Mirth
Fiction
Three Smile Stories by Vani Viswanathan
Vani Viswanathan pens three stories of various levels of mirth. Rinki had a wide grin plastered on to her face, her head thrown back. It was a grin her friends knew too well – it struck when she was down half a pint. She slowly unknotted her extremely-curly hair that was held up high with a clutch and began to make jerky movements with her shoulders, in tune with the beat. Soon, the curly-haired head began to sway this way and that. Her friends watched her, amused, and began to egg her on. One of them, down a good many puffs from his pipe stuffed with nefarious herbs, found her curly hair bobbing about hilarious. He called her ‘Einstein,’ and started guffawing, thinking he’d said something very funny. The other fairly sober people paid no attention to his remark. But Rinki had heard. She laughed, even as she continued swaying, swinging her arms about. She laughed some more, the pitch slowly rising. Soon, it turned eerie, with her screeching
continuously, pausing only for seconds to catch her breath. She then bent over, picked up her bottle of beer, shrieking all along, and gulped from it as the rest cheered on, asking her to down what was left in the bottle. They all hurrahed. Rinki stopped suddenly, and crumpled to the ground, beer coming out of her nose. *** “I’m telling you, the baby did it!” he said. She didn’t seem convinced. They’d spent the last hour trying to get the baby to chortle like she’d done when he sang ‘Chiku Buku Rayile’ – neither could fathom why the baby had found that hilarious. Now, as they cried themselves hoarse trying to sing the song, the baby stared at them nonchalantly, wondering what all the fuss was about. He was disappointed. He’d had a day alone with the baby after really long. He’d been bored out
25
Spark—June 2014 | Mirth
of his wits, and felt a surge of pity for her, for she’d had to do this all day for the last seven months. When the song played on TV, he’d hummed along, and he hadn’t even realised that it was the baby who had chortled until he looked around to see from where the weird sound was periodically coming.
drink leftover rasam off his plate. He was also amused that someone this ancient still liked and disliked things, because he heard his maami say ‘The old hag still likes her payasam.’ Maybe that was a bad thing, he thought, making a mental note.
Nevertheless, she was the oldest person he He’d been witness to something the baby had knew. And there was a special thrill he felt in done the first time, and she couldn’t see it. Coswatching this old ‘hag’ eat something she liked, mic conspiracy, he thought. because she broke into a smile that made his Later that night, as she changed out of her sari heart full in a way no favourite treat of his into a nightie and he lay outside in the other could. room, she cooed “Rukkumani, Rukkumani, akSeenu pulled out a golden foil from his shirt kam pakkam enna sattham…” to the baby. The pocket. He removed the foil and felt the chocobaby chortled wildly. late underneath. It was soft, partially melted in “Our secret, ok?” she said, and pulled the baby the stinging heat. He edged closer to his grandclose to her. mother’s ear, and said ‘Paati, chocolate indhaango!’ and put the two pieces in her moist palm. *** She looked at him quizzically through her thick Six-year-old Seenu snuggled up to his 85-yearspectacle lens. He pointed to her palm that had old grandmother. “Paati, naan Seenu!” he clarithe chocolate. She realised there were chocolate fied to his deaf and nearly-blind grandmother. pieces there, and put them in her mouth. Her skin hung in folds down her chin. And her arms. Seenu played with the loose skin hanging Seenu’s heart swelled as she opened her nearlyat her arms. She leaned towards him, smelling toothless mouth in a wide, beatific smile. vaguely of old age and betel nut. How she could still manage to eat betel nut at this age, with her Vani Viswanathan is often lost in her few remaining teeth, Seenu wondered. world of books and A R Rahman, Seenu had paid much attention to her over the last two days, since he had come over to his maama’s place for his summer holidays. She seemed to be chewing something all the time. ‘Chhup, chhup,’ the sound came, from her mouth. She slurped when she had anything liquid. Rasam. Buttermilk. Coffee. He was fascinated. He tried slurping the next time he had to 26
churning out lines in her head or humming a song. Her world is one of frivolity, optimism, quietude and general chilled-ness, where there is always place for outbursts of laughter, bouts of silence, chocolate, ice cream and lots of books and endless iTunes playlists from all over the world. She is now a CSR communications consultant. Spark—June 2014 | Mirth
Art
The Joy of Preservation by Swati Sengupta
Swati's artwork has its origin in a mass media campaign done a few years ago on the dwindling tiger population in India, and indeed in the world. In her eternal optimism, she was trying to fathom the endless joy we would get when we'd be able to push that dwindling curve upwards, and rejoice in the birth of every newborn cub.
Swati is a Communications, Branding and Marketing professional based out of Bangalore. Thanks to the nature of her job, she dabbles with colours, words, ideas, figures and forms. When she is not working, she loves travelling, lazing around on weekends, painting, solving sums or playing Mastermind, and will travel to the end of the world to watch an amazing sunset.
27
Spark—June 2014 | Mirth
Poetry
Tic
by M. Mohankumar Two men meet by chance and a comical conversation ensues. M. Mohankumar captures the dialogue through a poem.
Standing at the cross-roads,
‘Oh, what a mix-up!’ the former thought.
he asked a passer-by, ‘Which way
And he said, ’It’s a tic, my friend.
to the New Theatre?’ And squinted.
I meant no offence at all.’
The latter paused for a moment
“So it is with me - a tic,’ the other said,
and, squinting, said, ‘I don’t know.
visibly moved. Then they shook hands
Ask someone else.’
and parted, full of fellow-feeling.
The former reddened in the face, and said, ’How dare you insult me, squinting the way you’ve done?’
And the latter said, ‘It’s you who mocked, mimicking my squint. I could see mischief in your eyes.’
28
Spark—June 2014 | Mirth
The Lounge
June 2014 29
Spark—June 2014 | Mirth
Turn of the Page
A Stream of Sweet Pain Threads Vinita Agrawal’s Poetry by Aju Mukhopadhyay
A thread of pain or pathos resulting in compassion runs through her weaved words which becomes sweet poetry, says Aju Mukhopadhyay, in his review of Vinita’s debut book of poems, ‘Words not Spoken’.
Born in Bikaner and now living in Mumbai, Vinita Agrawal, studied in Darjeeling, Kolkata and Baroda. Drawn spiritually towards Buddhism, maybe by pre-birth affiliation, she is a Buddhist by inclination and choice. She is particularly keen on understanding woman’s role and position in Buddhism. Vinita has written essays and presented papers in many learned assemblies but she is a poet by nature with her heart blooming first before the intellect. Because of her mental setup and inclination towards a particular world view, her poems reflect her mind, heart and faith meticulously but they are not simple rhyming of her thoughts, nor straying on different subjects as they appear before her eyes; her subjects are always selected.
Words Not Spoken is the first book of poems by Vinita, containing 82 poems covering a period of 16 or more years. “Sometimes their wayward pain rises like stream and scars our lips as we sip the brews delicately from gold rimmed bone china cups” Oolong, Orange Pekoe or Darjeeling/14 This is the first poem of the book. Its background is the painful life of tea-leaf pluckers who live an abominable life of poverty whereas the leaves that they pluck are of rare delicacies of the world.
30
Spark—June 2014 | Mirth
Pain is the poet’s constant companion, “The released you night passes like a slow thread / through the I watched my happy times swirl out of existeyes /leaving behind a soot of pain.” (Soot of ence” Pain/115) Mortakka /45 Why? With a melancholic disposition, the poet paints Because in her life “the gallnuts of karma protime with a dismal brush which is the reflection trude from every angle /like branches on a forof her anguished heart. “time at its worst /is the est path / and irritates like gadflies. . . . and I am empty room and doorway of a house /in which born again /after the night has passed.” (The an old man lives silently /waiting only for Logo of Being /16) death.” (Time /31) To the poet, pain is stubborn, it never loses its Her love seems never to have been fulfilled, full ground. “In existence there is pain,” she says, of desires as they are. Decay and death intermin“The pain seeks shelter in our bodies . . . . / gle in her poetry giving rise to unease and uncerwhen life is done /and death has taken us /the tainty. pain remains /stubborn, sullen, amazing pain / insinuated to another’s body per- The roads are drained of destination haps.” (Pain /48) they mingle, they separate but lead nowhere. She cannot escape this karma and its effect which gives her company even after she is reborn. The karmic effect is according to Buddhist canon but it is originally Hindu religious faith and philosophy; the idea of karma and rebirth. For after all, Buddha only revolted against the falling trends of Hinduism, whatever it was at his time, but he was not out of it. Hindus consider Sakya Muni, his other name, as an avatar.
Drained /111 Vinita Agrawal is a Nature lover too; a conservationist. She is deeply pained by the trauma that animals face as well. “This May my country’s tigers did not smile staring extinction in the eye . . . . This April
The pain arising from a mother’s death is the count of eggs poignantly shared in “Mortakka”. It is tremenfrom sandhill cranes was scary . . . . dously emotional, tugging the heart strings. Civilization had ravaged their marshy “Daddy carried you in an earthen pot all five kg of ashes . . . .
wetlands and razed it to dry fields”
Slowly the urn
Screams Etched in Stone /91-92
raised shoulder high
In another Nature poem, “Anklets of a Lost Habitat” (28), the irony is evident - Nature cre31
Spark—June 2014 | Mirth
ating havoc but recreating art works in the field someone being born a girl. The woman poet in of death, alluring delighted village girls to deco- her laments, rate their bodies with such dead shells. “They say I run deep /like a well. . . . Do they The partition of the counknow that /mere straws of try in 1947 inflicted a deep poise /hold this well togethscar in her life as in many er?. . . . some sins are unforlives. She gives a graphic degivable, /like being born a scription and captures the girl.”(A Well /110) trauma of that communal parHer lament continues in tition accepted by the then another poem where she feels leaders of the country as it that she is already past sixty suited their purpose. which is a streak of her ro“I was ten then and stayed ten mantic imagination for she all my life, isn’t sixty yet. frozen against a berm of terror and trauma.”
“No matter what or where a woman is
Season of Partition /41
She is loved
The same memory of partition recurs in her “Just for Tonight” (57). Being a Buddhist by heart, she has full sympathy for the Tibetans uprooted from their native land. She finds her own image in them.
only as long as she is needed” Stone Bubbles /59 Some poems speak of love that has faded away or has been snapped, causing inevitable pain gnawing the heart like,
“The enemy has ravaged modest dwellings at “Let us prepare for the distance.” gunpoint Draconian /70 .... Or hungry, empty “Have I told you about the sound I always the refugees are here heard only to keep alive the stories of their land”
whenever we were together?
The Refugees Are Here /32-33
A whine . . .
“When I Look at You” (102) is a song of it came from me Tibet, a country desolate. My insides knew you would leave me, In one of the poems, she rues the fate of 32
Spark—June 2014 | Mirth
they knew.”
it never gained weight
Hangman /84
never wanted sex . . .
Some romantic lyrics indicate that its happening and had the detachment would be a delicate peacock dance but in reality, that the Buddha would have envied . . . . love is wistful thinking leaving the poet in a it was everything that I could never be” painful daze. Puppet /49
“When longings suck me like torrential rains,
It is the dichotomy of life, of flesh and blood; adoring something or someone, wishing to be Some Day /22 but actually failing to catch one’s dream in realiThe ideas and teachings of Buddha have per- ty. meated her being. She adores him, reveres him “I clasped my dreams too close to heart most. So she writes, and never set them free . . . “Buddha- the enlightened one . . . lives in all of when time escaped with my dreams us then I shall come to you”
fold yourself inwards - as fine and as deep as I lost one person - me . . . . you can go It left an empty me” to reach the light-maker in you.”
Iniquity /121
The Light Maker /76
Finally what is left is emptiness, Shunyata. Though Vinita’s poems seem to be pessimistic, actually they aren’t so materially. For, they are not the result of any frustration but are based on faith expressed in very artistic and poetic ways. In such a poetic journey like the one she has made, what is left is a bare truth: Shunyata.
Buddha realized the core issue of human existence that desires of all kinds keep us ever in a state of dukkha or sorrow which according to the Hindus is produced by the ripus, the six inherent cardinal passions that bind a man to the earth necessitating rebirth. Buddha advised man to come out of the cycle of desires to finally attain nibbana or Nirvana. Vinita, the follower of Buddha, bought a puppet from the bazaar of Jaipur which looked beautiful. In it we find a suppressed irony of life, “it saw but never spoke never cried always smiled, looked bridal . . .
Imagery, alliterations and metaphors abound in her poetry, mostly subjective that tell many tales of her life. Although a stream of pain flows through her poems, they are very satisfying when read as pieces of art. The famous words of Shelley come to mind: our sweetest songs are those that tell of saddest thoughts. Vinita’s poetry fills the reader with Karunyam (compassion), one of the navarasas (nine emotions), a part of
33
Spark—June 2014 | Mirth
the ancient aesthetic theory of Bharat Muni A Words Not Spoken. Vinita Agrawal. Howrah; thread of pain or pathos resulting in compassion Brown Critique-Sampark. 2013 runs through her weaved words which becomes sweet poetry. Work Cited
Aju Mukhopadhyay, Pondicherry, India, is an award winning bilingual poet and author. His poems and stories have been widely anthologised and translated. His essays have been published in more than 50 books. He is in the editorial boards of many important magazines. Eight books contain discussions on his poetry. His Japanese style of verses abounds in international ezines and some magazines with two books of such poems published. He has three books of short stories published in Bangla and two in English. One of his short stories has been published in a Collection of Indian Short Stories in German language. He has recently been awarded Albert Camus Centenary Writer’s award. His recently published book is Manhood, Grasshood and Birdhood (10th book of poems) and The Story of India’s Progress (mostly on the present position of India) is expected to hit bookstores soon.
34
Spark—June 2014 | Mirth
Slice of Life by Preeti Madhusudhan
In Search of the Warrior Poet of Love—2 In the second part of her series exploring the path taken by the tribal chieftanturned-Vaishnavite poet Kaliyan, or Thirumangayazhwar ,Preeti describes her journey to the temples whose Lords the Azhwar sang about, in Tirunarayur, Tirukannapuram and Nagapattinam. All along, be prepared for a treat of the Azhwar’s poetry translated into English, and Preeti’s exquisite commentary around them.
The December romance that Tamil Nadu exudes is brilliantly captured in the 3000-year-old poems of the warrior-poet Thirumangayazhwar. So elegant are his choice of words, such skill in their usage, that his poems are a beacon light to the cult of abject love and surrender that such a love commands. It is with fervor similar to a fashion aficionado’s who flocks the Paris fashion week, that we set out in his path. With a base camp at Kumbakonam, we have already visited the famed Tiruvelliyangudi, Pullamboothangudi and Aarvamudhan temples.
stead. The sweeping spread of emerald green fields pregnant with the latest harvest, the innumerable water bodies that encapsulate the ancient temples, all find a poetic mention in Kaliyan’s verses. Though he composed verses on 88 of the famed 108 Vaishnavite sites, including songs on the distant Saligram (in Nepal) and Badrinath, his songs about temples around his home in Tiruvali, are especially close to our hearts, as the scenery and the very air reflect the fertile imagination of this superior poet. These sites and this landscape molded a warrior and a highway robber into an Azhwar.
The region around Tiruvali a small town 60 kms from Kumbakonam, a southern city of phe- In the second decade of his epic Tirumozhi, a nomenal cultural importance, is Kaliyan’s home- composition of 1084 hymns, he sings placing 35
Spark—June 2014 | Mirth
himself in the role of the heroine’s mother, of granite-pillared front Mantap of the temple was the plight of her love-struck daughter. enough to cool our heels. Contrary to the design of the typical elaborately sculpted Dravidian Scented unguents and sandal paste pillars, the pillars here sport a contemporary These though she applies on her bosom stark, chicness. Black, massive and cylindrical, this colonnade serves the probable notion of the That the gentle moon rays burn builder to subjugate, inspire awe and instill the The rumbling ocean torments, she laments sense of minuteness. Conversely, they also assure the devotee as he walks in looking up at the Her tender body glows golden with pangs of separation capitals of successive pillars, of the eternal secuHer bangles slip from her frail hands rity and refuge he obtains at the feet of the What do you intend to do of this girl Lord. Seated atop progressively steep sets of granite stairs, are the majestic Lord Srinivasa O lord of Tiruvidandai and His consort. Unusually seated in a separate The songs of this decade dedicated to the re- sanctum at right angles to the Lord, is the stone clined Lord Vishnu at Tiruvidandai are perhaps Garuda atop whom the processional image of one of the most romantic of the poet’s compo- the Lord is carried out during the temple festisition .Yet it is the Lord of Tirunaraiyur who vals. got the madal from the poet. A madal is a set of verses that proclaim a man’s love for his non- This is the Lord who initiated Azhvar into the chalant lover. It is said that Lord Ranganatha lofty lineage of Vaishnavite saints. The mortal asked Tirumangaiazhwar to compose a madal love that Kaliyan had for lady Kumudavalli on him for which he received a delightfully blossomed into a love for the Almighty and it cheeky reply. “Madil inge, madal ange”, was here that it received official sanction and “compound wall (Madil, the wall that surrounds acknowledgement. And Kaliyan expresses his a temple) here, verses there (referring to Tiruna- gratitude in 100 hymns of the Tirumozhi and rayur)”. The Srirangam temple owes its enclos- both the short and long Madals. ing walls to a large extent to Azhwar. Azhvar At this juncture we should pause to admire the collected ( resorting to scheming, conniving and poetic prowess of Tirumangaiazhvar. Adept at thieving when straightforward collection didn't all four styles of Tamizh poetry, covering sponproduce results) funds and oversaw the con- taneity, poetry with a specific structure, pleasstruction of the great compound wall of the antness and prowess, Tirumangaiazhvar was Srirangam temple-city complex. called "Naarkavipulavar" – poet of four styles. To this Tirunarayur thence we proceed early Kaliyan's works help deconstruct and delineate Nammazhvar's works, just as the Upanishads do next morning. to the vedas. Mastery over the Tamizh language There is a rush to alight from the car, as we yielded a confidence to the titillating words of reach Nachiyar koil, as Tirunarayur is known in Kaliyan, so much so that he was gifted a spear the non-Vaishnavite parlance. One sight of the 36
Spark—June 2014 | Mirth
by Tirugnyanasambandar, a contemporary Na- I saw at Tirukannapuram yanmar, when he extemporaneously produced a And then the perspective of Azhvar changes hymn on Lord Thaadaalan at Chidambaram from being that of a humble devotee marveling acceding to the request of the Nayanmarr. at the immensity of the Lord, to that of a conA way with words, the cerned mother querulous about noble bearing of a fierce the plight of her daughter (also warrior, delightful misAzhvar) lost in her love for the chief and an unrelenting lord of Tirukannapuram. steadfastness in love; one From a moon-drenched courtyard, this can't help but envy lady girl gazed out Kumudavalli. Behold Kannapuram she pointed About 40kms from TiBolstered by her lover’s emissary, lost runarayur is Tirukannapuhas she ram, one of the most significant Vaishnavite shrines, having pocketed a 100 verses from Kaliyan. It is believed by staunch Srivaishnavites that the Lord at the lofty zone of eternal peace denies liberation to the souls at his gates, if they haven't had a darshan of Him at Tirukannapuram. Poets take anything as their muse. Flowers, trees, the moon, even an ancient Grecian Urn. To our poet who melts at the sight of a bee drinking honey, the flow of his beloved Ponni, what would the result be if the subject of his ruminations is the divine lover, Krishna? He who is the music, the musicality, as sweet as milk Is the cream of milk, is omnipotent, being the space, He who is an effulgent flame Is the sacrificial fire, is the light of the lamp The soil, the mountain, the water The night sky, the moon, the knowledge Of learned men, to my eyes contentment
All modesty; under the auspices of the One of Naraiyur. Adjoined by an immense tank, the temple stands proud and alone but for a few houses by its side. The lord stands tall at about eight feet, surrounded by his retinue. Every temple here has a legend, invariably that of a divine vision granted to a Maharishi, a Tapasvi, and or to pardon someone's sin. These blessed souls too are represented tall and handsome, in postures of supplication and eternal bliss. So there He is, with an entourage; quite the celebrity with his regal countenance. One can almost hear the clicks of multiple flashlights. There is something else intangible yet distinctly perceptible here. Call it the imagination of a pre-conditioned mind or sheer infectious romanticism, but the Lord here is discernibly ancient, and looks nothing like idols seen anywhere else. And when one peers in the semi-darkness the bare outline of a smile emerges on His delicate lips. That smile is the full-moon that suddenly bursts out from under dense clouds. It brings to mind the words of another poet from a distant land, Christopher
37
Spark—June 2014 | Mirth
Marlowe: "The face that launched a thousand He came riding a handsome bird ships" Oh! (Acho!)The beauty of the Supreme Yes, definitely the face that can launch the And the priest here sings all the ten verses pauswords from a thousand poets. ing to elaborate the meaning prescribed by our Our senses satiated, we take leave of the Lord preceptors. His golden voice rings majestic, ricNeelamegam of Tirukannapuram. There is an ocheting off the walls of the sanctum, the rising air of triumph in the car. The quiet roads make and falling intonations plays with the sentiments way for the bustle of a busy city, Nagapattinam. of the devotees. The beginning of every verse The paddy fields are gone, and so too is the sun. brings new joy, and we marvel at the language, Dusk brings to mind Somerset Maugham's ob- the poet and the subject, the Lord. But every servation on the tropics, that dusk seems too finial “Acho, Such beauty” sees the satiation of come all of a sudden. How true. In seconds, the this joy resulting in priceless expressions. The vivid orange horizon is pitch-black. We arrive at men both young and old have dour faces, veins Nagapattinam temple. taut, eyes threatening to release the floods of rapture. The women are near hysteria, they have Such is the divine countenance of Lord Soundathe most beatific smiles drenched by the monrajan of the Nagapattinam temple, that Azhvar soon of their joy, their saree pallus soaking wet. calls him "Naagayazhagiyaar- the beauty of I looked at my son ready with a look of remonNaagai". He sang 10 songs on the lord here, all strance lest he is tickled and laughs. But no, he ending with the words is too bewildered, entranced by the priest’s sing"Achovoruvarazhagiyava," referring to His ing. handsome countenance. The Tamizh word "acho" stands for exclamation, awe, helpless- As we will see in the concluding part, with ness and admiration. Azhvar has used the word deeds bordering on communal chauvinism, to simultaneously mean all of these emotions in Azhvar is still quoted in modern-day Buddhist his 10 songs and in true Kaliyan style, abject texts, as the man who was instrumental in the love! The erudite, expressive poet is at the end downfall of that religion in these parts. On the of his tethers here. How does one describe what final day that winds up this surreal journey, we he sees at this temple? travel to his birthplace, the hamlet, Tiruvali where he wed his lady-love received enlightenGrown tall as clouds, grazed by the moon is ment. We wait, with bated breath, to finally have Maliruncholai, whose Lord came and a glimpse of the Azhvar himself in all his regal glory. positioned himself in my heart and eyes Or is it the master of Neermalai, am unable to say; Grown tall as clouds is a golden mountain Come see Him, the dark cloud atop that 38
Spark—June 2014 | Mirth
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.
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
39
Spark—June 2014 | Mirth