Spark - May 2011 Issue

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Spark—May 2011: The Team

Dear Reader, We are pleased to present the May 2011 issue of Spark, which is based on the theme, ‘My Place, My Soul.’ There’s a delightful collection of content for you this time, one that we are extremely proud of —art, photography, short stories, personal reflections and poetry that touch upon a wide variety of perspectives of the theme.

Contributors: Amrita Sarkar Anupama Krishnakumar Arnab Rudra

We hope to leave you feeling nostalgic about places that have touched your soul too.

Manali Rohinesh

So, get going and catch all the action in the issue. Don’t forget to let us know what you thought of this edition of Spark.

Mail us at

Parvathi Jayamohan

feedback@sparkthemagazine.com.

Preeti Madhusudhan

We will see you next month with yet another interesting edition!

Balaji Iyer Bijesh Krishnadas Maheswaran Sathiamoorthy

Rashmee Karnad—Jani Sandhya Ramachandran Sonnet Mondal

Till then, goodbye and God bless!

Swetha Ramachandran

Cheers,

Vani Viswanathan

Spark Editorial Team

Varsha Sreenivasan Vivekananth Gurumoorthy Writer of the Month: Bishwanath Ghosh Concept, Editing, Design: Anupama Krishnakumar Vani Viswanathan

Coverpage photograph: Nickwheelroz

TABLE OF CONTENTS S PA R K — M AY 2 0 1 1 : M Y P L A C E , M Y S O U L

Coin Purse by Rashmee Karnad-Jani The Call of Kottiyoor by Varsha Sreenivasan Falling in Love with Calcutta by Bishwanath Ghosh My Campus, My Soul by Maheswaran Sathiamoorthy The Great Indian Cynical Class by Bijesh Krishnadas A Pale Pink Dawn by Preeti Madhusudhan Pond of My Tears by Sonnet Mondal Melbourne Magic by Bijesh Krishnadas An Undying Love for Big Cities by Vani Viswanathan Of Places and Fond Memories by Swetha Ramachandran The Many Moods of Key West by Vivekananth Gurumoorthy Rail Duniya by Balaji Iyer Ripples in Jaipur by Parvathi Jayamohan Hide and Seek by Amrita Sarkar Bye Bye Ahmedabad by Sandhya Ramachandran Little Joys at Marine Drive by Anupama Krishnakumar Sunset at the Great Salk Lake by Arnab Rudra Eternal and Ethereal Kashmir by Manali Rohinesh

Coin Purse Poetry by Rashmee Karnad-Jani In from the softly falling snow buying coffee to keep me going through the next few hours

the change in my purse makes me smile some rupees, some two some dollars, some quarters and dimes

just like me all mixed up together the Indian and Canadian bits of me with a ‘small decaff, one milk please. To go’ here and a ‘kitna hua’ there

and each part special each part just right just me.

Picture by Ollie Crafoord

The Call of Kottiyoor Non-fiction by Varsha Sreenivasan

The journey to Kottiyoor.

Varsha Sreenivasan takes us on a journey through the beautiful greens of Kerala, to a little place called Kottiyoor which boasts of two temple shrines. Read on to know more about the place and the history that precedes it. Text and photographs by Varsha Sreenivasan.

Nestled in the lap of the beautiful Sahya mountains in Kerala, lovingly nurtured by the evergreen Wayanad forests and closely guarded by the intimidating Western Ghats, lies an ancient mystical place called Kottiyoor, reverentially prefixed with the salutation Sri in recognition of its divine status.

About 70 km from my hometown of Kannur, Sri Kottiyoor is cocooned within the eastern border of the district, and steeped in centuries-old myth and legend.

The road to this legendary place snakes through lush green landscape bordering the Wayanad forests, depositing you at the banks of the gushing Bavali River. Deep within the green sanctuary on either side of this river and hidden from view are two ancient temple shrines dedicated to Lord Shiva and Goddess Sati. The shrines are called Akkare Kottiyoor and Ikkare Kottiyoor, referring to ‘that bank’ and ‘this bank.’ While ‘this bank’ shrine is accessible to devotees through the year like any other place of worship, ‘that bank’ is open to pilgrims and priests for only 28 days at a specific time annually. The occasion is a cause for celebration for anxious devotees fasting in the period prior to the much awaited opening. They celebrate the event marking the end of their wait as the Vaisakha Maholsavam or the Vaisakha Festival.

If ‘that bank’ is so special to everyone converging in thousands every single day for nearly a month, why then is it shut to all throughout the rest of the year? This has been a source of great wonder to me for quite some time, being one among the countless who share the same deep, inexplicable bond with the place. The mystery still remains, though the history is more commonly available.

In the lap of Nature—cloud covered Ghats overlook Kottiyoor homes

It is said that ancient records by scholars describing significant places of pilgrimage and their importance, mention the place of Kottiyoor as the location of the fire sacrifice performed by King Daksha in ancient times. Texts say this event was brought to a sharp halt when the King’s youngest daughter Princess Sati, the divine consort of Lord Shiva, gave up her earthly form in the sacrificial flames, anguished by the insult of her lord by her father. The story goes that on seeking pardon, the Lord forgave the King and at the behest of the worried Gods, he himself completed the interrupted fire sacrifice or yagna for the benefit of all beings. A grieving Shiva is then said to have taken the form of the Swayambhu or the self-manifested lingam next to the site where Devi Sati offered her mortal form in yogic fire.

This is the event, which many Indians believe, became the trigger for the tradition called simply as Sati – the tradition of the Indian wife offering her mortal being in the funeral pyre of her dead husband, marking the end of their earthly journey together as soul mates. This tradition initially began in ancient times with the voluntary act of renunciation of the form bound to all earthly attachments in yogic fire called yogagni – the fire of awareness of divine unity. Over the years, it gradually degraded into a gruesome practice of crime against women, where her immediate society forced the act upon the individual. This custom was prevalent in several parts of India and spread out across the sub continent, until it was officially outlawed in 1829.

Rohini Aradhana - Crowds throng to witness the priest embracing the Shiva Linga to console Shiva.

But the word Sati means the feminine, the true one. To me, this is the meaning closest to my heart. To me, Sati signifies the innocent daughter true to her father, the impartial wife true to her husband and the enlightened soul true to her knowledge of dispassion and divine unity. To me, Sati signifies divine equilibrium inspiring her father to recognise the failings of ego and vanity; inspiring her lord toward earthly renunciation. To me Sati signifies the heart of all creatures, the quiet silence that speaks as the conscience of every individual, whispering the truth of ego and pride on one end and love and forgiveness on the other, asking it to choose and choose well.

Anxious crowds brave rain and storm to just be there.

To me, Sati is the divine balance that must be kept, to rescue my soul from the clutches of blind ego, to deliver the ego into the all knowing flames of Supreme Unity of all beings and all creation. Sri Kottiyoor to me like to many of my countrymen, is that mysterious altar that has unmistakeably become my place, my Soul.

Well looked after - Temple elephants await their turn of their own special worship and food offering.

F ALLING IN LOVE WITH CALCUTTA Bishwanath Ghosh is the author of bestselling travel book 'Chai, Chai Travels in Places Where You Stop But Never Get Off' (Tranquebar Press, 2009). His next book, a portrait of Chennai, 'Tamarind City: Where Modern India Began', is due for publication later this year.

Ghosh's stories have also appeared in 'Urban Shots', a collection of short stories published by Grey Oak Publishers. He blogs at http:// bytheganges.blogspot.com

What does Calcutta mean to Bishwanath Ghosh? The writer offers an interesting perspective on his relationship with the city. Not just that, Ghosh has something to add about the place he has lived in over the last ten years – Chennai. Chennai, he says is like his wife, and Calcutta, his mistress. More, in this special column for Spark.

Bishwanath Ghosh is our Writer of the Month.

Wife is someone who you resign to. Mistress is someone you yearn for – she has things your wife doesn’t, which is why she became a mistress in the first place.

I’ve been married to Chennai for over ten years now. She’s been a traditional and dutiful wife, who looks after me well, prays in temples every morning and evening for my success, has no complaints against me except when I light up a cigarette, who wears nothing but sarees (only when she is about to get into bed does she change into a nightie that is buttoned up) and makes sure her midriff remains covered when we have guests over. When I wake up in the morning to the delectably sour smell of idlis being steamed, I find her in the kitchen, already changed into a saree, preparing coconut chutney. When I hug her from behind, she shyly pushes me away: “This is not the place. Neighbours can see.” Our immediate neighbours live some 500 metres away: they are an elderly couple, whose two sons live in America, and the daughter is married to an engineer, also living in America.

At times I do feel irritated when she pushes me away. But I let it be. After all, she has been a kind and loyal wife. She has nurtured me, and given me abundant time and space to pursue my ambitions. Whatever I am today, is because of her – I can never forget that.

But then, a man has his needs. And unlike a woman, he gives in to temptations rather easily. Just like I gave in to temptation that afternoon when I saw Calcutta come out to the balcony to spread washed clothes on the nylon wire.

Until then, Calcutta for me was the bespectacled, studious and overbearing woman who I had been running into all my life but never considered worthy of a second glance. Each time our paths crossed, we made small talk – that’s about it. But that afternoon she appeared on the balcony fresh from bath – her long lustrous hair left loose and her eyes wearing not a pair of specs but dreamy sensuality. Her saree stuck to her moist skin and as she lifted her hands to hang the washed clothes, I noticed she wasn’t even fully clothed. Even though my mouth went dry, I managed to reach my voice to her balcony: “Excuse me, can we be friends?” My question brought about a mischievous smile on her lips. She looked straight into my eyes and asked: “What took you so long?” She became my mistress.

And so, for the next three weeks, carrying a Matrix notebook I’d purchased from Chennai airport and a black matte-finish Sheaffer fountain pen that I helped myself to at a pen shop in Calcutta’s Citi Centre, I went around the roads and streets of Calcutta – Kolkata, if you like – partly on foot and partly by taxi.

It is a city like no other in India. Give a dilapidated look to the buildings of London, then suck the permissive air out of Paris and implant it over London and people it with Bengalis – Calcutta would be that city. It is a different matter that most people living in Calcutta may not realise this – most of the time they are too busy being agitated or angry.

The cause of their anger could be anything under the sun, but it's mostly about politics, sports and work.

When India lost to South Africa in the World Cup, the family friend I was watching the match with remarked angrily, "India te ektai captain chhilo, shey holo Sourav Ganguly!" – India has produced only one able captain, that was Sourav Ganguly.

I also happened to watch the final with him. Moments after Dhoni hit the decisive six and the Indian team rejoiced on the field, he remarked, rather bitterly, "Ei shob to Sourav-er ee toeri kora chhele" – These boys have been groomed by Sourav, after all.

That's the typical Bengali man. He is, however, effectively neutralised by the Bengali woman. She can be deliberately coy or outright blunt, but she is almost always ravishing and intelligent. She loves to talk – though, unlike the man – not about things that do not have a direct bearing on her life.

She also knows how to let her eyes do the talking: hardly makes any difference whether she is Englishmedium or Bangla-medium, south Calcutta or north Calcutta, domestic help or the lady of the house. Oh! Calcutta!

Some images and sensations from my three-week stay shall always remain etched: the hair of Ms Mysterious sweeping across my face while I leaned to light the cigarette dangling from her lips as the taxi zipped through the wide empty road along the Maidan; hanging on to every word spoken by Sunil Gangopadhyay, the most popular writer in Bengal after Tagore, as he recalled his journey and also the time spent with Beat poet Allen Ginsberg ("He taught us that poetry is a 24-hour occupation, you cannot set aside a few hours to write it"); the taste of aam panna sold on College Street; walking up and down Park Street, as if I was in Soho; sitting 80 feet directly above the Hooghly, on the deck of a ship turned into a hotel, sipping chilled beer while being caressed by the river breeze; digging the fork into delectable kebabs at Peter Cat and Mocambo; and, above all, the voice of Kishore Kumar! Every other song played on FM channels in Kolkata happens to be either sung by Kishore Kumar or composed by R.D. Burman – listening is believing.

I am back in Chennai now; back in the arms of my wife – the familiar smell of jasmine on her hair, the familiar feel of the nightie, the familiar feel of being pushed away. But the list of irritants has suddenly increased. Chennai is the only city on this planet which does not sell canned beer – ah, the joy of having a moisture-coated can of beer sitting at your elbow while you type a story on the computer. Even in Kanpur, my hometown, you get all the standard brands of alcohol, but in Chennai – “No saar.”

Here, I cannot order a pre-meal drink in any restaurant because alcohol can be served only in hotels that have a minimum of twenty rooms (someone please explain the logic). Here, there is no street like Park Street, or for that matter an equivalent of Mumbai’s Marine Drive or Delhi’s Connaught Place, where you can hang out in your best evening wear. Here, there are no sidewalks to begin with, and taking a stroll on a road would mean squeezing your way through parked vehicles or constantly guarding yourself against

the speeding ones.

Here, you begin your day by haggling with the autorickshaw driver, and pay as much as Rs 100-120 for a distance of just five kilometres. There, you flag down a taxi – not autorickshaw – and get into it in style by merely mentioning the destination to the driver, and after an interminable ride, you are poorer by only Rs 120-150 (the driver has to return the change, even if it means a couple of coins). As the day proceeds, the list of woes increases – at least for those who have lived in metros other than Chennai. For those with relatively modest incomes, Chennai has very little to offer, except the vast sands of Marina where you can buy chilli bajjis and enjoy the view of the waves. But when was the last time you went to Marina out of your own volition?

In the ten years that I have been married to Chennai, I have loved her whole-heartedly in spite of her flaws. There have been times when, irritated by her flaws, I have pretended to love her. But love has remained the common factor – after all, she is my wife.

Then Calcutta came along – the voluptuous and intellectual female who blew my mind. Adultery was inevitable. The question that now stares at me is – will Calcutta treat me with equal passion once I abandon the warmth of Chennai for good? Further, once the mistress becomes the wife, what’s the guarantee that I won’t start finding faults with her and yearn to return to the arms of the first wife?

My Campus, My Soul Photography by Maheswaran Sathiamoorthy In a series of photographs, Maheswaran Sathiamoorthy captures the little details that represent the essence of his university, The University of Southern California (USC).

Tommy Trojan, the most popular unofficial mascot of USC

A repository of knowledge—one of the libraries at USC

Campus greenery that soothes the eyes

When the rains kiss the roads, the campus laughs out and then, there is a riot of colours!

And Nature converses with invention too—fallen leaves keep the bicycles company

The Von KleinSmid Center - the tallest building on campus; and a reflection of modernism

Paths that curve delicately, leading to meaningful destinations

The popular neighbour—the Hollywood sign visible from USC

Downtown Los Angeles, visible from USC

Glowing majestically in the night, the campus, along with downtown buildings on the right

The engineering school, called the USC Viterbi school of engineering, is named after Andrew Viterbi, who designed the Viterbi algorithm

The soul of USC—the sincere student!

The Great Indian C ynicalClass Non-fiction by Bijesh Krishnadas For most Indians, India is more than just a country. We share a certain connect with our nation that extends beyond just nationality. The feeling ‘My country’ is one that exists at an emotional level. Having said that, is the Great Indian Middle Class that’s at the heart of India’s economic boom also the one that cribs about India’s supposed ills? What do they think of India? Bijesh Krishnadas shares his opinion.

The Great Indian Middle Class(GIMC) has been often characterised as the driving force behind India’s rise. The GIMC has caught the imagination and attention of the marketing wheels of the business world.

The spending power of this socio-economic class has been making massive strides and the market has been keeping up with this, creating products and services that cater to the fancies of the middle-class Indian.

What we don’t hear about is the cynicism of the GIMC. The GIMC grumbles and groans about the ills of India - the lacklustre governance, the crumbling infrastructure and the corruption. All this while lapping up their new-found luxuries. The same ones that complain about the traffic on the road are the ones that are driving their single-occupant cars to work and back. These are the same people that feed the bribe-mongers because they don’t want to spend a few hours to get something done.

During the recent series of disasters in Japan, the Internet was overflowing with comments and observations that hypothesised the state of India if a disaster of this scale had occurred here. Yes, while a country and its people were suffering the worst, the GIMC sat in their armchairs and dished out their views of how India would’ve coped with this. Links were copy-pasted on how the Japanese waited patiently for rations with the counter point that it would’ve been chaos in India.

There were no known reports of looting in Japan. India, of course, would’ve become one big mosh pit of plundering and theft. No one remembered the camaraderie that the common man showed during the Mumbai floods in 2005 or, for that matter, during the Tsunami of December 2004.

For all the great work that the Japanese agencies showed, it was conveniently ignored that the Fukushima power plant was at its end-of-life but the government had “controversially” approved a life-extension of 10 more years. It was also ignored that the head of the power company had gone underground instead of facing uneasy questions.

Agreed that most times, disaster recovery operations in India are tripped up because of the red tape and corruption but India has recovered from disasters before. While we don’t have the prowess to rebuild a highway in seven days (unsubstantiated if I may add), we have made massive strides in the last decade in our infrastructure.

The Border Roads Organisation rebuilds roads in the treacherous Himalayan ranges every few months and enables those far flung communities to remain connected.

There really wasn’t any reason to have compared the two countries. Japan, a hotbed of earthquakes, was forced to be always ready for a new earthquake and that readiness showed in their response to the disaster. It’s as simple as that.

The middle-class Indian is quick to blame the government and the politicians for everything that is wrong with the country. They are quick to lament about the destruction and the ills. What they don’t notice is that some of their peers have been working in the background to cure these maladies. There is a tirelessly labouring community that tries its best to rid India of its social issues. There are young stalwarts who are giving up their lucrative careers to make their country a better place. It doesn’t matter how many of them succeed in making a difference. What matters is that they are trying. While they do, all the GIMC does is sit in armchairs and predict how and when they will fail in their endeavour and tell tales of how India is like a dog’s tail that can never be straightened.

There have been many successes in bringing reform to various aspects of India. The RTI act is one that has made a very big difference. People are using RTI to bring awareness about corruption in the government. It is a powerful tool to bring government workers to book and “encourage” them to do the jobs they are paid to do. Then, there are the organisations that have been slowly but steadily gnawing away at issues like poverty, domestic violence and child abuse.

For every negative that one can think of, there is one positive that is overlooked. Unless the average Indian believes that change is possible and that the country can still be redeemed, the efforts of those that are making a difference may never see the success they deserve. It’s time we leave our cynicism behind and appreciate the small victories that are being won every day.

A Pale Pink Dawn Fiction by Preeti Madhusudhan

A journalist who looks fairly out of place in the city she is in; yet she is someone who carries herself with enviable ease, someone for whom being out of place isn’t much of a bother. And then there’s her friend too. So, what do these two women do? Preeti Madhusudhan tells you a story that’s set in Chennai.

Picture by Reset Reboot

Another warm day. Rainbow arcs of sunlight danced on the dirty blue walls of her bedroom diffracted by the textured glass window panes.

“Dirty is the shade, not the quality,” said Varsha, in defense of the wall she had painted on her own with the permission of her landlady.

She lay watching the sunlight dance on her wall for a few minutes. She could hear the waves beating upon the sandy shores. The beach was her only respite. Raised amongst pines and firs, she had felt an alien when she first landed in Chennai. The oppressive heat, the chaotic traffic and the psychedelic posters made her feel she was trapped inside a kaleidoscope.

The bathroom fixtures, heavy with the salt from the groundwater and the sea air, creaked as she brushed, answered nature's call and bathed. It was six in the morning and the water was already warm. As soap and water erased the last traces of the late night party, she patted herself dry with her towel, dressed, shortened her yoga time by half and laced up for her run. As she ran nodding and smiling at familiar faces, she mentally wrote her article seeing each word clearly as it would appear on the news reel. She was quite a picture in her shorts and sleeveless t-shirt that revealed a slender, taut and fair body topped by an attractive face. The morning regulars at the beach had gotten used to her in these six months. But there were always newcomers who were taken unawares, and it always amused her to see the dazed look on their faces. Though known for the warmth with which they welcome newcomers and embrace them into their society, the farthest your average Chennaite went as far as adapting the alien’s culture was to pull on a modest salwar-kameez or the occasional kurta to a carnatic music concert, denims and skirts and colourful t-shirts being a fad of the young ones. She enjoyed the “shock value,” as Rajan, her photographer and best friend called it. “He has to be gay not to have made a move on you yet,” declared Ritu her roommate. She did not believe in platonic relationships though the party she worked as a volunteer for in the leisure time she got from being a painter, advocated brotherly love.

Ritu was still sleeping, curled into a ball near the poster she had been working on the previous night for her party. The ash-tray was brimming with the beedis she had been smoking. The room had probably become too stuffy for her, forcing her to open the windows. The thin white drapes fluttered. The sun was going up, the light had changed to a strong white now from her favourite mellow pink of the dawn.

Varsha hurried to the bathroom for her second bath for the day. The first one was to relax, the second one to tense-up for work. The more bunched her nerves were the better she was. She worked the old way, jotting things down on small notepads she carried in her satchel, typing on her computer at work only to submit the final proof to her editor. Typing on a computer robbed the romance off her work as a journalist, she felt. She studied and breathed to write, to twist sentences into stories, into reports that reached the door steps of millions. Her father, a sub-registrar who spent his leisure time reading, had lined her childhood with books. He was proud of his journalist daughter and wrote to her every week after reading her article. She was living the life he had dreamed of. Much to the agony of her mother, he was proud that she was single in a big city, living life on her terms. He was proud of her flagrant taunting beauty, her arrogance in her skill and her ram-rod straight manner that piqued those around her.

As she meticulously sliced her breakfast apple, she was still piecing together the penultimate paragraph. It was a series on AIDS that she was winding up this week. She had two more days to submit the piece. More than enough time to compose, edit and deliver. But there was something different with this article.

“Now that is a classic cliché, isn't it?” she smiled to herself as she ran up the steps of the bus and sat at the back row by the window. The conductor nodded at her, tearing off her ticket and stopping to chat for a few seconds before swaying on to the next passenger. He was used to her now as well.

Used to her appearance to be precise. She wore a loose white full sleeve shirt, the sleeves of which she had rolled up, the first few buttons opened to reveal a black t shirt, and baggy beige cotton trousers. Her slender frame made the clothes seem looser than they really were and made her look frail and delicate. She got her notepad out and jotted down short sentences. When she was on the field or in the press to the see the newsreel roll off or in her cubicle past office hours when she had turned the air-condition off to guard herself from her circus ring-master of a conscience, she took the shirt off tying it around her waist. Inside her office it did not matter. It was not what she wore, rather it was how she wore it that got her the second glances. Her clothes hung inches off her body, floating, flowing with her as she moved with the grace of an ascending pelican. She looked elegant and naked no matter what she wore. The clothes made her look vulnerable and her large eyes liquid, impassive, countermanded the effect. A mild confusion, unease and panic that arises with the mind's inability to classify someone under a particular “type”, invariably alienated her from her colleagues, especially the female ones. One glance was just never enough. She was also aware that her editor kept her in for the “shock value”. She knew she was skilled and efficient; she was never refused an interview.

Though it had a lot to do with her grit and nerve, she knew they wanted to see what would bend her, if they could make her feel obligated, snatch a grateful smile out of her, so they could place her, file her under category “c” or “z” or something. Anything. She was invited to all the launches, important events and parties. So while she actually just wrote a social column she covered all the important Picture by Nina Mathew Photography

events and parties with Rajan and a reluctant reporter who tagged along to report the event she had been invited to.

There it was again. She hated to admit it, but cliché or not, this was different. She had never been unable to express her thoughts.

“This cannot be a writer's block, can it?” she wondered aloud. The regulars in the bus had become used to her mutterings. “But only a fiction-writer stumbles against a block, I just document and present.” She had been regularly turning down offers from her friends in publishing firms to author some fiction. “You just cannot beat around bushes, can you?” Rajan joked everytime she turned down another offer. “Raju, you bloody well know that they just want to bed me.” That always shut him up.

The bus stopped a few yards away from her newspaper's office. She was picturing the last few lines of that paragraph as she walked past the security post, the tag around her neck beeping off her presence. Her manicured feet, clad in suede sandals, echoed off the cloister that led to the lobby. And she got stuck at the same place again. She just could not finish that paragraph. She stopped in her tracks. The sentence stopped. It won’t go beyond that word. The sun was ascending. It will still be a mellow pink back home she thought. She was blocking the entrance to the lift.

“Varsha, I hate to break a profound thought...”

She turned, her eyes as impassive as ever, her thin lips widening briefly into what could have been a smile or grimace or just a coincidental muscular spasm. She gripped her surprised colleague's forearms as if to steady herself and turned towards the dingy, gray stairwell. She sprinted up the stairs, keeping the city in sight as she ascended. The pale brown haze that hung limp above the roads and buildings seemed a cloak, a golden honey awning that trapped the heat. Honey green house. Honey house? Naughty, Ritu would call it. She laughed to herself as she walked into her office.

She started typing her article. “Will get over that paragraph when I come to it, have two more days to go anyway,“ she told herself. Words, sentences poured in, the nervous energy that had been building in her ebbed down. It was like a menstrual cycle to her, the accumulation of word tissues, sentence linings and walls of paragraphs all ready to receive a new child, each article a weekly delivery unlike the monthly disappointment of flushed tissues and fetal walls.

She stirred the tea bag in the chipped china while she opened her mail. A reminder from the editor to attend the Saturday soirees that his wife organised, responses to the ongoing series that was winding up this week, ads, and a mail from Ritu. She sent a mail once in a while when she couldn’t reach Varsha over the phone, inviting her to a party meeting when there was a speaker she particularly wanted Varsha to hear, or when there was a late night party at a friend's place, or when there was an exhibition of boring paintings or a demonstration by a painter that gave Ritu obscene thrills.

“What is it now you schmuck?” she muttered as she opened the mail.

There was a single line.

I tested positive.

Varsha closed her eyes to see a cluster of firs on a steep decline. The sun must be a white dot right above one's head now, she thought. As it is here.

Pond of My Tears Poetry by Sonnet Mondal Catching fish, One, two, three.

Three in three tips...

My grandfather didn’t applaud me, Not a matter for him.

Catching daily Whenever I am here Or I used to be here...

For the place remains No more alike.

They have grown old And I fear going to water alone No, not for the black, blue, green waters But for the alarm of Melancholic nostalgia That would coil me Like a python...

Grip me and throw me And ingest my patience My things to cherish....

My tears will form another pond beside now Perhaps then I will be fishing in it.

Picture by Ollie Crafoord

Melbourne Magic Photography by Bijesh Krishnadas

The Arts Centre, from the Yarra Bank

The City Skyline

Empty roads, silence of the night—city in introspection

Melbourne’s riot of colours, tickling the soul

Music on the street—a facet of Melbourne

An Undying Love for Big Cities Prelude and Photo Essay by Vani Viswanathan Big Cities fascinate her for various reasons, says Vani Viswanathan. Despite all the flaws that they may have, they are magical. In a special photo essay, she presents to you the soul of two of her favourite cities that she recently visited—Athens and Istanbul. While you get ready to be transported, here’s also a small prelude that will sure be the perfect launch pad. Text and pictures by Vani Viswanathan.

Big cities are magical. Yes, they are crowded, polluted, full of thievery, and dirty, but they hold dreams – dreams of people migrating in search of better life; they are historical – they are the metros because of their historical importance; they are interesting beyond compare – because of the mix of people they have, and the mix of people they attract as tourists.

As anyone else, I have a few favourite big cities myself. Chennai ranks high up, because I was born and brought up there, and would defend the city to any lengths possible. Singapore, because it was the first city outside of India I ever visited, lived in and spent years in, is up there too, despite my getting bored of the smallness of the city and its dream like organization. Bangkok, Ho Chi Minh and Hong Kong are special too. And from my recent travels, I’ve added Athens and Istanbul on to my list.

All these cities have little somethings that you will want to remember despite their many flaws. Despite the terrible traffic, I’ll love Bangkok because of the reverence people hold for their King, its rich cultural history, pleasant, smiling people, and the yummy food. Despite its constantly polluted sky, I’ll remember Hong Kong for its intense Chinese-ness, sloping streets and lovely skyline. Ho Chi Minh, despite being a fledgling city compared to the others I’ve talked about, I’ll love for the sheer craziness it is – its madly twisted telephone wires, out-of-whack traffic and the small, nice people.

It would be unfair of me to compare these cities to my latest favourites, Athens and Istanbul, because being miles away, they are a different ball game altogether. Athens and Istanbul offered everything that we know Europe best for – cold weather, dark cobbled streets, rich history, beautiful landscapes and buildings, roadside cafés to people-watch. Istanbul has the additional draw of being both Asian and European, what with nothing but a bridge connecting the Asian and European side together. Fresh from a trip to these two cities, I can’t get over the charm these places offered – making me feel lost in the manicured concrete jungle that Singapore is.

In this photo essay, I’ve tried to capture the essence of Athens and Istanbul as I saw it through my eyes and camera lens.

Athens and Istanbul—A Photo Essay

The Acropolis is seen wherever you go – at least in central Athens, it is. Turn into any street, and you see the Acropolis staring right down at the city. It gives you the shivers as you realize buildings built in 400 BC serenely look over a busy, lively city.

The quintessential Greek tourist’s destination – only this time, I had to try hard to capture something that doesn’t include the endless scaffolding and all the cranes that are up to restore the building. The Parthenon was a temple built to honour goddess Athena, and is typical ancient Greek architecture. It’s something to stand there and watch the structure you’ve heard so much of, read so much about, and again, when you realize it’s more than 2500 years old, you are awestruck.

The ancient Greeks got more than just their architecture right – their skill at sculpting is beyond belief.

This is a statue of Nike, the Greek goddess of victory. There are more typical Greek statues of bearded men that are more popular, but I liked this particular one for the amazing grace and detail it exhibits – look out for the beautifully drawn eyebrows, and the very perfect lips.

Beyond the architecture, though, Greece had much more to offer; a selection of my favourite moments below.

A (brave!) young girl is surrounded by pigeons that are looking for any peck of grain she might throw. The pigeons are everywhere – in city squares, outside churches, but most often near the bread vendors who are around in pretty much every road corner.

Typically Europe – cafés on roads made of cobbled stones. I didn’t tire walking on these, and many of my lunches and dinners were here too. It’s some sight to watch passengers – dressed in their smart, warm clothing – walk by, smoking, old men/young children playing the accordion to beg, young African men sell fake designer purses and Bangladeshi men selling the weirdest of items – ranging from a device that helps you thread a needle to little megaphones!

One of the most interesting faces of the city was its graffiti – it was beautiful, it was everywhere, it was colourful and added a lot of youth to the ancient city! Hardly anything was spared – even interstate trains

were sprayed with graffiti! I couldn’t help get amused of the ‘designated areas’ that Singapore allowed for graffiti – barely a couple of places as far as I can remember.

I can say Istanbul is out of the world – unique for a number of reasons: one of the largest cities in the world, part European and part Asian, a deeply religious Muslim country, and a place with stunning architecture.

The bridge that connects European Istanbul – the business and financial side of the city – to Asian Istanbul, primarily a residential area. There is an underground passage that’s currently in the works too!

Typical European? Cobbled, sloping roads and streets everywhere that made feet ache!

One of Istanbul’s fascinating features – beautiful tulips everywhere – parks, roadside, traffic junctions, all

over! You can almost say that they are obsessed with tulips in the city. I visited Istanbul just when the annual tulips festival had ended, and had a chance to feast on the wonderful colours splashed all across the city.

If you’re in Sultanahmet, the central historical district, six minarets and the dome of the beautiful Blue Mosque will greet you. The biggest and grandest mosques – called so because of the intricate bluecoloured tile work inside the mosque – was built in the 1600s. The structure is especially beautiful at night – the lighting on the mosque is so beautiful it feels surreal.

Istanbul’s culture carries heavy influences particularly from two periods – the Byzantine (Roman – and therefore, Christian), and Ottoman (Muslim). One of the byproducts of this mixture of influences is the Hagia Sophia, a church built by a Roman Emperor that was eventually rebuilt as a mosque, the Aya Sofya.

While the outside might seem less impressive, you only have to step in to be dumbfounded by the magnificence of it all – beautiful tiled portraits of Jesus and Constantine emperors, of Jesus with Mary, and large, gilded letters in Arabic – all in the same building. This photograph does no justice to the beauty of the place, but it’s the best I could do – and it doesn’t even capture the painting on the dome of the entire building.

The whirling dervishes – Sufi saints who just whirl around in a trance, to religious Sufi music. It was captivating to watch! The right palm faces up, while the left palm faces down – connecting the humans to God. If you’ve watched the Indian movie Jodhaa Akbar, you might have seen this in the song ‘Khwaja mere Khwaja.’

Finally – more colours in Istanbul – the Egyptian Spice Market. Over 4,000 shops, crowded in a labyrinth that’s difficult to get in and out of – so much so that we got lost and went into the same shops again and again. You get everything Turkish under the sun – ranging from spices to accessories to kebabs.

Of Places and Fond Memories Non-fiction by Swetha Ramachandran

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Frayed edges and hazy outlines, memories lay stacked in my mind, in little albums. With fresh ones having replaced parts of older memories, some are nothing but vague recollections whilst others remain well preserved, having been dusted and polished from time to time. When I open the travel vault of my memories, dozens of images pop up in my mind, like bees flying out of a hive that has been disturbed.

Like little picture postcards, the memories from various trips align themselves, displaying many a happy, joyous and embarrassing moment. As I try to recollect, the oldest and most tattered memory is of the trip to Tiruvananthapuram alias Trivandrum.

I remember, I preferred calling it Trivandrum as the name Tiruvananthapuram was too complicated to pronounce for my six-year-old self. Except for the fact that this city was the capital of Kerala and that Malayalam was the regional language, I knew nothing about the place. But within days of arriving in Trivandrum, I observed that almost every forehead had a line of sandalwood paste and every head glistened with coconut oil. And Malayalam in no way looked or sounded like Tamil. If languages could ever be described as curvy and rounded, then Malayalam would perfectly fit this tag. It had a unique ring to it that made even speech sound like a song. In spite of observing all this, I was incapable of understanding the language. Consequently, I concluded that Kerala was entirely different from Tamil Nadu and that it was right to have separated this narrow, lengthy stretch on the bottom left of the Indian map into a separate state (in contrast to my previous opinion that it should have been joined with Tamil Nadu).

Like every other tourist, I did visit places in and around the city. But my memory here seems to be manipulated. I remember having visited the Kovalam beach, with my hands tightly clasped in my mother’s, scared of losing my feet

beneath the layer of beach sand. I also vaguely remember going to some museum and a park that had an endless stretch of green lawn. Although the memory of my very first trip seems tarnished, some things still remain undamaged by time. As I leave this memory behind, my mind conjures its own collage of Kerala; of a canopy of trees, banana chips, mild evening showers, elephants, ancient wooden staircases, coloured drinking water, yummy jackfruits and lots and lots of relatives!

Memories of Bangalore, another capital city, rush in next. When I think of present-day Bangalore (now Bengaluru), vivid images of huge malls and tech parks come to my mind. But the Bangalore that I had been to was all about hydrogen balloons sticking to the ceiling, glasshouses at Lal Bagh, huge buildings of the Vidhan Soudha and the famous M.G.Road! I also remember visiting the Shiva temple on Old Airport Road that had such a huge statue of Lord Shiva. In fact, I can still vaguely feel the wonder I experienced way back then. And speaking of temples, the Bangalore ISKCON temple surely did surprise me with its most un-temple like atmosphere, what with pizzas and bondas being sold at the premises along with a cartload of expensive goodies. And with an avid Rahul Dravid fan for a sister, it was ensured that we passed by the cricketer’s house! From hopping about relatives’ houses (is there any trip exclusive of this ritual, I wonder!) to eating milky kulfi ice creams in the rain and learning ‘haalu baeku’ and ‘snaanu baeku’ (I want milk, I want to bathe) from my little cousin, the memories of Bangalore leave me feeling happy and nostalgic!

My train of memories moves on to a different terrain, further north along the Western Ghats to the city of Mumbai (then Bombay). And this memory originates much before the time I stepped into the busy metropolitan capital of Maharashtra.

It begins with the beautiful scenery of Khandala and Lonawala, of the CST Express passing through innumerable tunnels with the continuous shouts of vendors selling chikki and vada pav in the background! I can’t recall anything more of the train journey and the memory shifts straightaway to the sight of the busy, crowded Mumbai railway station with slums alongside the tracks. And right from the time we got down at the Mumbai station, I could feel the lack of South Indian flavour. No jasmine wound long plaits, no vibudhi (holy ash) on the forehead and the women did not drape their sarees the way my mother did.

The city introduced the innocent, eight-year-old me to an entirely different world! I still remember how my family was in for a culture shock when we passed by a girl in a mini skirt, the likes of which we had seen only movie stars wear. The roads were perennially jammed with cars, bikes, buses and taxis. And having just started learning Hindi at school, the only thing I did was read name boards whilst my sister who was better off with the language went asking ‘Yeh kitna hain?’ (How much does this cost?) to shopkeepers.

Be it Bandra or Worli, Andheri or Thane (the various localities in Mumbai) there was some cousin’s aunt or uncle’s brother to be visited.

Almost half my Mumbai memories seem to be occupied with these visits and those boring conversations (read monologues) associated with them. Thankfully, our trip was spread over quite a long period, giving us enough time to go sight seeing too. We visited the majestic looking Gateway of India and took the standard family photo in front of it, with pigeons flying in the backdrop. Time spent at the shore of the Mahalakshmi temple overlooking the sea was a welcome break from the perpetual Mumbai traffic.

And I do remember seeing the grand Taj hotel opposite the Gateway of India and hoping that some famous personality would pass by

(preferably the entire Indian cricket team)!

Mumbai, with its modern ways of living left an indelible impact on me. From the paan-chewing co-passenger in the bus to the pre-Ganesh Chathurthi festivities, the choc-a-block markets, the Marine Drive, the friendly people and the typical Mumbai chaats, a lot of things about this city remain fresh in my memory.

As I leave my Mumbai diaries behind, a group of the ‘hill-station’ memories come rushing, displaying the mist hidden mountains of Kodaikanal, the eerie suicide point of Ooty, the quaint little cottages of Munnar and the tea estates of Yercaud. Those trips that have always left me refreshed and rejuvenated and ready for the books–and-stationery-buying phase of the next academic year!

Meanwhile my mind also dishes out many short trips and recurrent visits-to-the-hometown, for a cameo. Ahmedabad, Cumbum, Coimbatore, Palakkad, Guruvayur, Hyderabad and Madurai; those places that have more than one memory in their name. They have so much to tell, a different story for every time I have visited the place.

And as always with every instance of a trip down the memory lane, the memories slowly get back to their covers. They go to occupy their shelves, neatly packed and stacked. As I lock the travel vault of my memories, I realize how every trip, every travel leaves a part of itself within you. It gives you the joy, the happiness and the excitement of unveiling a treasure.

And ultimately, every trip is, but an asset gifted to one’s memory, to be safe guarded and well preserved, only to be browsed and relived, time and again!

The Many Moods of Key West Photography by Vivekananth Gurumoorthy Vivekananth Gurumoorthy captures the many moods of the skies at Key West, Florida,—the southernmost tip of the U.S.

Blue skies with streaks of orange caress the blue waters. Twilight sparkles at Key West.

The setting sun is undoubtedly the show-stealer. The golden ball dazzles spectacularly against an orange backdrop and over golden waves.

The sky a seductive, enchanting and mesmerizing black. She is magic personified in the night.

Rail Duniya Non-fiction by Balaji Iyer One cannot think of destinations and travel in India without thinking of trains.

Trains are indispensable to the Indian way of life and for quite a few people, are a mind-blowing source of fascination. Just like Balaji Iyer. Catch him rave about Indian trains and the love he has for them. Remember, if destinations touch your soul, trains are the means to that salvation.

Indian roads are personal. Not only do they shamelessly intersect with other roads seemingly without purpose, they also invite the life outside into them.

People take over the road in a very literal sense, with only crawlspace for vehicles. Life spills out of the verandah, onto the road and finds momentum there. The rail on the other hand, because of its structure, precludes any outside life spilling onto it.

Travelling by rail gives one the privilege of being an impartial observer, watching life flow past.

The Indian Railways has probably done more for unifying this country than any other organisation or phenomenon. In the pre-irctc.com era, huge volumes of train timetables were the only database for numerous train schedules. The books had page after page of tables, with references to still more tables. Strange trains going to even stranger places.

Murkong Selek, end of the line. Okha, another end, Kanyakumari and Jammu, well known ends. In retrospect, those days of poring through those tables probably cultivated in me a love for travel.

Quite recently, my cousin shared a link on Facebook, a site for Indian Railway fanatics. I was of course overjoyed. I wouldn’t be the only geek to obsesses over whether Ledo or Lekhapani was India’s easternmost terminus or whether Sandhurst

Road was still India’s only split level station (no, in case any of you are wondering). I could participate in earth shattering discussions involving railway gradients, and locomotive engines. It is always sobering to know that there are other crazy geeks out in the world who share similar passions. After all, of what use is knowledge if unshared? And how long can I tell my bedroom wall that the Ibadat Express up becomes the Ziayarat Express down?

This extreme love for Indian Railways, I have always professed. Apart from the usual blahs about travelling (getting to see new places, new experiences, etc. ), there is a simple pleasure in sitting in a moving train, looking out of the window for hours on end and letting imagination run wild within. India being what it is, the landscape and the language change every few hundred kilometers. New scripts announce station names, chai becomes coffee becomes buttermilk. The dull oppressive heat of the day pulls at one’s lips and moulds hair into interesting shapes. Huge bridges span sandy rivers, the timbre of the train’s sound deepening as the devout throw coins that glint off the sunlight and fall in slow motion. Depending on the season, the world outside is a bevy of greens, in every conceivable shade or dull browns. The earth itself is vibrant, fertile with promise, as colourful as the

women in fields, the train whistling out to them. On some other days however, the train rushes past a dreadful landscape, not wanting to stop, urging the very earth towards urban progress, its slipstream leaving behind a litter of plastic cups and plates.

If I take to the skies to travel now, it is only because of speed. But my best views from airplane windows have been of watching trains. Long snakes of metal sneaking through the countryside, lost in their own world utterly unaware of great mountains yonder, or the great ocean ahead. In a fit of sudden nostalgia, I took the Amtrak to Chicago once, from New York City. It packed as much punch as a cup of stale tea. Sure the landscape was beautiful and all that, but there was no romance. The train moved mechanically to reach its destination. It did not caress the earth, flirt with the rivers, whistle at the countryside and plunge into a relaxing sigh at the destination. Indian engines tire beautifully, emitting a last puff of smoke as they come to a halt at the terminus. The tracks below are greasy and the train itself looks worn out, a testament to the journey undertaken. American engines are noiseless, clean, efficient and sterile.

If it is still not apparent that I am a fanatically-hardcore, socially challenged, railway geek, I shall say so now. Apart from indulging in random railway facts, I also love tracks. Yes railway tracks. Those metallic lines on which trains run. There is a beautiful symmetry in the way tracks move: a grace with which they curve about, the coy way in which they separate and the way they raucously merge. The awe-inspiring smell of Indian Railways (that’s cost me two dates so far) and the threat of accidentally ingesting cockroaches notwithstanding, I wish I could endlessly go up and down trains. Breathing India all the way.

Picture by rpb1001

Ripples in Jaipur Fiction by Parvathi Jayamohan

Two women who meet in Jaipur begin to understand each other through small conversations. Where does it go from there? Parvathi Jayamohan weaves a tale.

Picture courtesy : Wikimedia Commons

Moori stood squinting at the sun. She had a pink cap on, her hands at its edge, shielding her further.

Agreed, the view was spectacular, a pink palace in the middle of a lake, viewed from the top of a hill.

But right now, all she could think of was dipping into a tub of ice. The sweat ran down her neck, between her thighs, from all places, pulling her T-shirt into all of her minimal curves. Under her cap, her hair was brewing sweat and dirt. They had reached the spot 15 minutes back, but the firangs were still gaping at the view and muttering exclamations. They could head back home and show off their tans.

But she could not. A tan on her made her look green. She wished the guide would stop reinventing history and herd the firangs along. This is not what he wanted either, she guessed; lolling around infinitely in the sun, but months or perhaps, years of experience had prepared him mentally. Not physically though, for, he was a bigger mess than her; not only did he sweat and collect dust, he gave off the human odour, despised by all of mankind, well, most. She had seen some of the foreigners take a step or two back every time he raised his arms to display the view. She did not mind. Nobody who used public transportation in Delhi could afford to. They were all too familiar with men rubbing off their scent in buses and trains, come to think of it, in most streets too. She never took much notice of it unless she suspected that the man had malicious intent.

She looked across at another group of guided tourists and caught sight of a tall, (well, relatively tall, 5’5”, as opposed to her 4’11”) slim figure in dark orange shorts and a white shirt tucked in. Her black hair was pulled back and scrunched together in a careless manner and large green shades rested on her nose. She was personally, more in favour of smaller shades. But all the same, she was attractive, like the burning stub of a cigarette. The woman seemed to share her lack of admiration for the view.

Maybe nobody found their own country as fascinating as other people did. Or maybe it was just the two of them. The woman bought a chilled bottle of water from a grubby looking vendor and was rubbing it against her neck. Back of the neck, then front. Yes, definitely attractive.

The woman caught Moori’s prolonged glance. She assumed her eyes held reproach behind the shades.

But the woman smiled then and Moori was relieved and finally looked away. The woman was still looking at her when she turned again. She was fanning with the hand which wasn’t holding the bottle and sticking her tongue out like a thirsty dog. Moori smiled this time. The woman crossed over to her side.

There was no introduction. Once beside her, she jerked her head towards the right and said, “There is another palace or court or something of the sorts up ahead. Nice cool marble. Wanna walk on a little ahead?” Now she looked at her. Moori nodded. Her throat was too dry. She pictured them lying flat on the white marble, like kids in snow, flapping imaginary wings.

She borrowed the bottle of water and the woman introduced herself as Rita. She glugged down the water and paused to say, “Moori.” Her name was often analyzed, it sounded interesting, but it was just something people ate really or was it a fish? Rita did not analyze. She just repeated the name. Moori had known a girl named Rita in school. Class IV. She was stout, coarse, chatty and had long, straight bristles of hair all over her-sideburns and a little on the chin even. What people did to names!

“So what brings you here?”

“Work”, Moori said, with a straight face. The real answer, she didn’t know which-rest, adventure, escape, would seem like an invitation to pry into her soul and she did not want that. Especially not when she suspected she had none. Rita, on her part, laughed lightly and added “I am soul searching too.”

They rested with their backs against the marble. They had gone to the centre of the structure, (it seemed like a court) where the sun could not reach. The itch on her back was losing its battle. Both puffed with relief. Rita dangled her shades by the v of her shirt and took off Moori’s cap.

“Hey!” Moori shouted, both indignant and embarrassed. Of the few things she had mastered, one was putting people in their place when they crossed the line with her. Most stayed way off mark. “You were dying in there,” Rita put it so frankly, that she just said “ok.”

Then the question and answer session started. Rita was from Goa, her father stayed with her, she was close to him, he cooked, her mother died when she was young and was pretty. Did she smoke? No; currently single, plenty of trials and all errors, did odd jobs, served ice creams, drinks, taught in kindergarten, done a few jigs, taken photography lessons and worked in a petrol pump, never worried about money, pitied those who did, travelled about in India, not abroad, feared snakes, slept with lights on till 15, liked awkward people. Moori was from Calcutta, living in Delhi, parents were back home, had one elder sister who was married but separated and now living with a pet turtle, preferred bald men, could never get to growing nails, was working as an assistant editor for a newspaper, had a threeleaved clover tattoo on her left ankle, was it good luck?, preferred rum and cocktails, liked to visit places but hadn’t travelled about much, liked beaches more than hills, had had two boyfriends, the rock on her finger was from her ex-fiancé. The conversation slackened.

“Heartbroken?” Moori was getting used to the other’s directness and refusal to apply tact. Funnily enough, she was beginning to feel at ease with it. Charmed even.

“No more. Just lost.”

They sat around for a while longer, digesting all the information each had received, reflecting on what they had given away, what they shouldn’t have. Then Rita got up.

“How about we head back now, to the Elephant? Then we can meet for dinner and I can dig out more of what you are not willing to spill.”

Moori gave a wry, condescending smile. “Alright. An early dinner, say 6, no, 6: 30.”

Moori plunged exhausted into her bubble bath. She slipped in and out of reality. She thought of her old friends. She dreamt that one of them had died and she did not go for the funeral. But days after, she went to visit her corpse, but the funeral was still going on, it was crowded and she would have to risk people noticing if she tried to head back. So she entered the room that had the corpse. Her other friends were there, looking at her accusingly. They all looked sort of green. But the dead one was standing around too. Lying on the ground was Rita. A white sheet over her, nose plugged with cotton, eyes shut, but the mouth a little open, as if she was still trying to breathe, without letting others know.

She slid upwards in her bath, gasping and out of breath. For a minute, she sat there collecting herself, then got out, toweled herself and walked out naked towards the mirror. She sat in front of it, legs folded like a yogi, but her back slouching. She picked up the perfume beside the mirror table. She opened it and took the scent deep into her. It was mild and flowery. It was a gift from her sister. Her sister had confused the scent for something fruity, and had asked her why she chose this! It had annoyed her at the time, more than the gratefulness she felt towards her for buying it. It was 4:30. Her first instinct was to wear something chic and she was quite tempted to go hunting at one of the shops, right outside the hotel, but decided against it. She would settle for the pleated skirt, heels and well set hair.

At 6:30, the sun was still out, but not as harsh. She sat on the hotel verandah, beside an iron table, painted white. Her elbow was resting on it and the palm supported the hollow which was supposed to be her cheek. Her legs were crossed and she flapped her right chappal. She had decided against the heels too. But she was aware of her attractiveness, the glances spared in her direction. And though attention generally made her nervous, she felt assured with her wrist smelling of flowers.

Rita arrived, looking fresh in a pink kurta, white pajamas and black oshos. They both had an appetite, so they energetically discussed what they should order, and that was all. Once the food came they both ate it with what seemed like silent reverence.

Orders were placed for rum and coke, then Rita started sniffing the air, “What is that scent...” she trailed off as she looked around the verandah. Moori offered her wrist, holding it out, with a twinkle in her eye.

Rita sniffed warily, “This smells familiar. At least, I think it does. We have it back home. I can’t quite place its name. It lasts only a day or two and is strongest in the evenings. White, or rather ivory.”

“Oh yeah, I think I know the one you are talking about. We had it too. There is this story around it in Mahabharata. My mother had told me when I was young. It was Draupadi and Bheem, i think; he was one of her five husbands. They were walking through the forests. Then all of a sudden, she got this lovely scent and insisted that Bheem go get it for her, the flower. And though he found the whole thing rather tiresome and whimsical on her part, he went to get it for her.” She felt good after narrating it, Rita, mustn’t have known, she was sure.

“Are you whimsical too?” Rita asked.

She didn’t know. Was she? Would she have asked her fiancé to go chasing flowers when they were trying to make their way through a forest? That’s ridiculous. But she sat pondering, rolling the ice in her drink, round and round.

“I wasn’t the one who asked for a big rock. A ring, yes. It’s the done thing after all.”

But she had called him cheap and it was soon after that that he had made a grand gesture of his apparent generosity.

“But I had to leave all the same,” Moori added after the pause.

And he had followed it up with another gesture of generosity, he let her keep the ring. Why did she do it? Why did he? She twisted her ring, round and round.

They took their drinks and strolled around the hotel lawns.

“When are you heading back?” Moori asked, remembering there was no tour plan charted out for Friday, if Rita was free they could hang out.

“I am not sure. You?” “Delhi again from Monday.”

“You should break free from the crowd, go check out the city yourself, you know?”

“I would get lost on my own. So I will stick with the guide.” Moori’s indirect request for company, as far as she was concerned, got rejected. She felt peevish.

“But you should.”

“But why?” she was looking at her now, a little annoyed.

“Because I think we both know that the only life worth living is…is that of an explorer. Chartered territories are stuff for reading not doing.”

They stood there, looking at each other, Moori taking stock of this woman. She didn’t know whether she should splash some rum on her face or vehemently nod her head in agreement. “Well, everything sounds right from your mouth.”

“At least a couple of drinks down,” Rita added cheerfully. “And on that note, you wanna grab a few more drinks, head back, put on some music and do some silly dancing?”

Moori woke up the next morning with what was clearly a hangover. Rita wasn’t there and she couldn’t have expected it either; she wouldn’t have stayed on herself if she had been the one to wake up first, Moori told herself.

She looked around all the same, beside the pillows, under the bedside alarm, amongst the clothes thrown aside carelessly, for a note or a hint. Nothing but. She sat back. Her eyes hurt, so she blew hot air into her palms, and pressed them against her eyes. The music, she realized, was still playing in loops; a man sang, in a voice that seemed to look around lazily, happily for trouble...just a lil’ bit of danger…our lil’ secret…. cos no one will ever know, that this was happening….so tell me why you listen, when nobody’s talkin..

Picture by joeleyva

Hide and Seek Art by Amrita Sarkar

Destinations—they play hide and seek with us. Not all of them—only those that really touch our soul.

Sometimes, they may be right there and at other times far away—they hide and we seek, just like excited children do.

Bye Bye Ahmedabad Non-fiction by Sandhya Ramachandran

Sandhya Ramachandran loves Ahmedabad for reasons more than one. It’s a place that has taught her many things and has given her a truckload of memories. Catch her sharing her feelings for the city that has given her priceless wings. Sandhya also promises some bonus. She picks some moments in her train journey from Ahmedabad back home – a short piece that will make you say, ‘Oh yes, I have been there too!’.

#1 : An Affair with Ahmedabad And a chapter comes to an end. The road forks to lead me back home.

Two years of a dream lived. Memories that refuse to get categorized, jump into suitcases, get themselves a ticket and travel with me back. Memories that jerk at my hand and tell me- "Stay back, you moron. We were all born here. We want you to relive those times with us!"

Living life to the hilt, finding new ways of seeing and thinking, growing a wholenew-me from the seed that I was- Ahmedabad offered me everything like a Good Samaritan.

I've found many new things- from within the crannies of me; I have discovered strength and spirit, from around; some friends for a lifetime, from the place, a beginning in a journey of knowledge. There has been so much learnt and unlearnt, so much loved and gained, and some lost forever in this place.

Every inch of wall, in my nest of a C-201, has stories to tell. Of tears shed, my tryst with loneliness, fatigue, fear; also in those swirls of red, yellow and blue are many

many tales of mirthful evenings, happy movie-watching, art and poetry, heart to heart talks, dreams dreamt, got and lost, and a gradual growing up I'm slowly sensing within.

I came here a jumping stone trying to be everywhere, dancing with joy. I'm leaving as a more rounded stone, aware that I could either be a jewel or a doorstopper, and in this knowledge have slowed down and am looking at myself differently.

The city has made me independent, confident and happy. There are little memory notes I've left behind in many loved spots. I'll come back to them, time and again, rewind my tapes and play those times again in my mind! Yes Ahmedabad, our love will never be over...

A wonderful journey's major part comes to an end. I'm one diploma film away from finishing my course here. NID has given me wings, I'm going to flap them and try them out. They look shiny, not sturdy yet; they look fancy and pretty, not beautiful yet; but they are my wings all the same. I'm going to try and fly...and yes, fall many times and hurt and cry, but then I'd have still moved a few babyflaps ahead! #2: Upper Berth II AC! Travelling by train from Ahmedabad is never really a pleasant journey. Yes, even

by AC II tier! Especially when you know that the next time you go back, there is no hostel! AND when there are kids around!

Generally talkingbubblingenthusiastic me, hibernates into her quiet phase in trains. For fear that little noisy kids would find my lap more comfortable, or would insist I play silly games through a journey of a day and a half.

Beautiful dimples MUST NOT deceive one into believing angelic souls nest within.

They screech if you want to affectionately test-drive your fat paws to pinchvroom on their cheeks.

And screech they will for the rest of the journey as helpless papas and mamas cajole, plead and beg them to stop. Surprisingly, I fail to recall my sister or myself

ever going through such a phase in our lives where we embarrassed our parents with our rock-music decibel-ed yells.

Generation gap exists, even between 5 and 25!

Armed with an i-pod and a wonderful book to read, I steer myself to safety from their innocent eyes that plead me to smile at them.

Kid loving me dies for those few hours. The only second I let my guard down and smile divinely at them is when they pick their bags to leave. I wave a thrilled bye, much to the bewilderment of the kid and the parents prodding him/her in the spine to “tell a bye to aunty/sister/madam”- whichever they think fit!

It is fun to hide behind a mask of quietude in trains and observe accents, talks and behaviours in people around. A mild voyeurism. A perverse pleasure. An escape.

People forget me in the background of the window berth water bottle holder and let their guard down, to nudge one another affectionately, look greedily at a packet of chips someone else is munching and to whisper something rude about a copassenger to one another.

There are also times when I don a complete myself, chit chat with fellow passengers, and occasionally, even sketch them and have a jolly good time.

And once in a while, it is a selective truth telling time, to creepy middle aged men with blurred intentions and garrulous friendliness that trigger my suspicion alarm instantly! To them I tell white lies, and abruptly turn away if the conversation gets too uncomfortably long. Or like this time, excuse myself to get down to fetch some snacks, so that the man gets the hint and heads back to his bay, family and whatever of life he has!

It is quite a fascinating thing- these train journeys. Meet. Greet. Leave. A short lifespan lived in a few hours. #3: Veththakozhambu Calling Egmore, in Tamil. After nearly-36 hours of stretching on the upper berth for fear that kids would nudge me every two seconds of my ‘God of Small things’ reading, and make me muddle up my Velutha for a Baby Kochamma! *shudder*

Appa and Peppa(periappa) awaiting in the station. Delight welcoming me in their eyes.

Ahmedabad seems like a distant dream. Loving arms, veththakozhambu and urlakazhangu, smell of my street, friends to talk to and fill in the gaps that have emerged from then to now, neighbouring shop where I can pick dazzling earrings for downright cheap prices loom ahead in a well-edited, trailer-esque manner.

Babyflaps, yes. But, Baby first. To float in the loving womb of home. *contented sigh*

Little Joys at Marine Drive Non-fiction by Anupama Krishnakumar Anupama Krishnakumar has fond memories of Marine Drive in Mumbai for the little joys that it has offered her every time she has been there. Her words do all the talking in this piece. Read on.

I have lived in six cities and two towns so far at different stages in my life. Each of them has been special in its own way. Yet, just as a child has her favourite toys, one of the places that continues to hold a special place in my heart is Bombay. My stay there was rather brief spanning only a few months. All the same, it is one place that gently touched my soul with its infectious spirit.

From the day I landed there, a beautiful and unique sense of freedom encompassed my being. It’s quite indescribable, this feeling – something that’s best understood only as an experience. So many little things come rushing to my mind, when I think of Bombay. Yet, the one place that has left a lasting impression on me is Marine Drive. Even now, after all these years, if I close my eyes and try to conjure the image of Marine Drive, it springs into life with perfect ease. And I often tremble a little too when I distantly feel that serenity that accompanies the sight.

Walk. When I was in Bombay, I would spend my evenings walking down the stretch, particularly during the weekends. It used to be such a liberating exercise. Tension and worries would evaporate effortlessly into thin air. And there was this certain oneness that I would feel with many people there.

Picture by Anupama Krishnakumar

I would wonder, as I walked, whether in some little way, our life’s stories would have matched, at some point – a certain joyous moment or a total let-down moment, a little success or a sour failure, a strange dream or the most common Bombay experience – a slight nod of acknowledgment or a warm smile or a pleasant chit chat with a regular, co-commuter or a bad brush with a dirty crowd, all of them in the local trains. And that’s when I would catch a friendly woman in her thirties throwing a warm smile my way, perhaps to say, ‘I know what you are thinking, I wonder about it too.’ And the dreamy, contemplative me would stir out of my thought pool and flash a smile back, saving myself from a disturbing embarrassment.

your happiness and fears to the sea? Or about just sitting and reading a heart-warming book with the waters for company? There are no words.

Watch. I love watching people. No, I don’t stare.

I observe without people knowing they are being observed. And then, I write stories. Marine Drive used to be my treasure trove of inspiring characters. And the calm waters, the gentle breeze and the colourful canvas of a sky only did all they could to nudge me on – serving me with ideas on the platter and charging my levels of imagination. Many a time, I used to carry a small notepad along with me when I went there and would scribble ideas that literally burst out of my head and then, the rest of the story would take shape as I wrote them on the reverse of wasted printed sheets on the way to work and back, sitting in the train.

Filling me with a beautiful tranquillity..

Sit. I used to love sitting and watching the sea – her face – from evening to night as the golden glow of the evening would dissolve into the magical black of the night and the water, just like a docile and obedient wife would reflect the moods of the skies. The joy of simply sitting and doing nothing but looking at the sea is priceless, so is the joy of sitting and enjoying a single scoop of Baskin and Robbins’ ‘Nut Crunch’ as the breeze ruffles your hair. Oh, what then do I have to say about the joy of sitting and confessing

I wrote this once in my scribbling pad: “What are you, but divine magic?

So suave, so dignified, so soothing, so elegant..

I close my eyes, open my arms wide, I speak, I confess, you smile, you listen, And, In the gripping power of your silence, You absorb my fears and my happiness And caress me with a tender breeze

What are you, but divine magic?

So enthralling, so mesmerizing, so striking, so magnificent.

O' dear Sea, You are true bliss!”

And that’s what makes Marine Drive a place that touches the soul. Because it gifted me with little joys every time I went there. And all the while, the breeze was always there – to soothe, to caress, to relieve, to lift the sagging spirit. Marine Drive is indeed special – it’s a romantic affair with a place for a lifetime. To borrow Jeff Buckley’s words, ‘She is a tear that hangs inside my soul forever.’ Only that she is a tear of pristine happiness.

Sunset at the Great Salt Lake Photography by Arnab Rudra

A family rejoicing the calm sunset at the Great Salt Lake in Utah, U.S. Truly, Destination Unwind.

Eternal and Ethereal Kashmir Non-fiction by Manali Rohinesh

Kashmir – the place that has been in news for many years now, brings to mind many images – both pleasant and disturbing. Manali Rohinesh shares her thoughts on Kashmir – the way she saw it.

Kashmir – the word conjures up images of unparalleled beauty and the reality more than lives up to those images. If anything, it’s so mind-blowingly lovely that when the locals quip about not wanting to leave ‘jannat’ to even visit Mumbai, I know the feeling. After just 10 days there, Kashmir has now entered like a narcotic in my bloodstream.

The people are very polite and their blend of Kashmiri-Urdu-Hindi patois is pleasant on the ears. And they seem genuinely happy to have people come visit Kashmir because tourism and selling of handicrafts is the only income stream for them as of now, as things are returning to normal there.

Everywhere I went – Gulmarg, Pahalgam, Udhampur, Anandpur, Jammu, Srinagar - had a lot of military presence, so ironically instead of creating an environment of fear, I never felt safer in my life than when I was there! There are five different paramilitary forces there maintaining law and order – the Army, the Indo-Tibet Force, the CRPF, the BSF and the Jammu & Kashmir police force. So, with so much show of force, it is only advisable that tourists respect their efforts and adhere to rules and any spot checks that they may conduct.

For instance, there were some places where we were told not to shoot photographs, in other places, we were told to keep our bus windows shut. In many places, we were asked to get out, so the bus

many places, we were asked to get out, so the bus could be searched because if a local Kashmiri was found travelling with us, we could find ourselves in prison! One is not allowed to stop on the National Highway 1 and dilly-dally. Even near Dal Lake in Srinagar, we had to be prepared with our belongings and wait in the aisle before the bus stopped, so we could get out as soon as possible.

It’s patently clear that the army rules there and I for one saw the difference! The roads were far better maintained – much cleaner and broader. In the mountains coming from Jammu down to the valley, the roads are frequently washed away by massive landslides and the armed forces painstakingly rebuild it again and again. If one sees the massive boulders that have been flung down into the Tawi river, one knows that the task is very commendable. And of course, there are men standing in full combat gear even high up on those mountain ledges, where as far as I could make out, they just had clouds and some stray goats for company!

I didn’t hesitate to appreciate their courage to a soldier who was only too pleased and touched. He said he was glad that their contribution to the country was being recognised by us. I did also ask him how things were going between the civilians there and the armed forces and he said that trust was being built slowly and people were offering help such as bringing medical facilities to them.

He did admit that dispelling suspicion that has accumulated over so many years was also not an easy task because so many families have been at the receiving end of strong arm tactics from both sides – the terrorists looking to recruit locals through an atmosphere of fear and intimidation - and the armed forces who had to get information out of these recruits once they were nabbed.

This is really the Catch 22 situation that Kashmiris find themselves in. But with unemployment levels being high, I saw many men loitering around in front of abandoned shops, market junctions and bus stops on weekdays, when they should have been at work. So, it is really obvious why such men are ripe for picking by terrorists. I wish Indians would start investing in their own way in Kashmir’s future and not wait for the government to do it all. We could do something simple like start travelling to Kashmir and create opportunities for people there to start earning money. Even if you did something enjoyable like booking a holiday on a houseboat (and I know this is a memorable experience because I tried it and loved it) and follow it up with some shopping (which everyone loves doing), you’ve spread your money around in a state that needs it, despite the massive subsidies.

At the moment, Kashmiris get a subsidy of Rs 4,000 per family member, so if people are not weaned off this, they will have no incentive to work. The women have a hard life but since they live in such a beautiful place with such wonderful climate, they hardly seem worse for wear. During the springsummer season, they farm and maintain vegetable gardens, apple orchards, flower beds, kesar (saffron) fields and during the colder autumn-winter season when tourism dries up almost completely, they bring out their sewing kits and do the intricate resham work on dress materials. They embroider everything from large bedcovers, complete hisaris to tiny kurtis for children. The Pashmina shawls, Pashmina saris and Kashmiri carpets which are handwoven are expensive but worth every penny.

Pashmina shawls can be priced as high as Rs 15,000.

Picture by Tony George

I also tried Kashmiri pulao and qahwa, a drink that has no milk but an amazing amount of other ingredients like green tea leaves, ginger, pepper, cinnamon, honey - all of this boiled in hot water and served. I loved it, especially in the cold (we Mumbai-ites considered it cold but it was really spring there in April, but the temperature in Srinagar hovered at 17 degrees and it never gets much hotter than that!) weather - this was a really ideal way to soak up some warmth.

And what’s more, I had this in the home of a Kashmiri. They welcomed us with open arms and let us wander through their beautiful lakeside home, which we people in Mumbai can only fruitlessly dream of ever owning.

That home was a simple but spacious wooden cottage but it just might have been a mansion on the shores of Lake Geneva in Switzerland. Actually, because it’s our own dear Kashmir, it’s even more precious to me than Switzerland will ever be.

Picture by Himalayan Trails