Spark Word. World. Wisdom May 2014
Medley Fiction | Non-fiction | Poetry 1
Spark—May 2014 | Medley
05 May 2014 Dear reader, Presenting Spark’s May issue – Medley! Read a wonderful mix of poetry, fiction and non-fiction on the widest range of topics this month – our contributors try to make you laugh, sympathise, nod in agreement and feel for their characters. We hope you enjoy this issue as much as we did putting it together. Off you go! Send us your comments at feedback@sparkthemagazine.com. Till we meet again in June,
Contributors Anupama Krishnakumar Debleena Roy Maggie Paul M.Mohankumar
Cheers
Nandini Rajagopalan
Editorial Team
Natasha Gayari Parth Pandya Ram Govardhan
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Tirna Sengupta Vani Viswanathan Vishal Anand
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Inside this Issue
POETRY ‘Jubba’ by M. Mohankumar A Mumbai Reprise by Parth Pandya Would Not by Maggie Paul Mosquito Menace by M. Mohankumar
FICTION A Game of Chance by Sanchita Dwivedi Cheerleaders by Vani Viswanathan The Star Fruit Tree by Natasha Gayari Not Going to Dogs by Ram Govardhan The Last Refuge by Debleena Roy
NON-FICTION Love by Tirna Sengupta Role Play by Vishal Anand I am a Mother by Anupama Krishnakumar Out of Reach by Nandini Rajagopalan
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Poetry Jubba by M. Mohankumar In a poem laced with humour, M. Mohankumar writes about a man who earns a nickname, thanks to the Jubba he wears as a matter of habit.
I don’t know why, of all the thousands of people who wear the jubba in this vast country, I alone should have the word prefixed to my name.
I’ve been wearing it for a long time, precisely how long I can’t tell you... Pure white cotton, flowing down to my knees, over a white cotton dhoti. I wear it for its sheer simplicity: no collars, no cuffs, not many buttons to be doneor undone. And, incidentally, it makes a short man like me look taller.
But why, I wonder, should one be known by the kind of dress one wears rather than one’s own christened name?
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I’m a modest man. I stake no claims to sobriquets like ‘Kesari’ or ‘Swadeshabhimani’. But, sir, could you not have called me Master, going by my profession? Or Artist, painter that I am, teaching so many?
Sometimes I feel I am partly to blame. If only I had put on, say, Bermuda shorts and a T shirt and Adidas outdoor shoes and a felt hat (to cover my bald pate), and walked down the road, now and then,. startling the onlookers, perhaps I’d have earned a more pleasing nickname.
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.
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Fiction A Game of Chance by Sanchita Dwivedi Sundar Singh has tremendous luck when it comes to gambling, but his wife won’t hear of it. So when Mohanraj invites Sundar Singh to a game of chance, Singh reluctantly agrees, but is setting himself up for something he didn’t gamble for.
“Chip off the old block”, muttered Ramlal grudgingly, as he saw Sundar Singh ride around the corner on his worn-out bicycle, whistling merrily. Then turning those know-it-all rheumy eyes towards Bachua, Ramlal continued, “But maa-kasam, juaan has never made a man…..and if you are as shrewd and lucky as that chap, jealous louts will keep buzzing mad, like flies near a pot of honey.” Bachua nodded, more not to offend Ramlal than because he agreed with or understood what the old money lender had said.
“Nowhere special bhai, just got a letter here. My wife’s brother has just had a son. We can’t visit them right away…not enough money… so, this letter,” ended Sundar Singh in a matter-of-fact tone. Mohanraj seemed to swell up at the mention of the monetary crunch and continued, “Arrey bhai, why should a kismatwalah like you worry? One or two games of chance at the adda and you will be off to your brother-in-law in a plane!” Sundar Singh shook his head with a sheepish smile, “Nahi Bhai. If my wife gets to know, I’ll have a hard time making her board a plane back from her brother’s place.”
Unaware that he was being commented upon, Sundar Singh rode on cheerfully, till he almost crashed through the post office gate, one of the three pukka buildings in the village of Chaitanya. Resting his ageing two-wheeler against the red brick wall, he swung on his khaadi jhola, when Mohanraj, the village tailor, suddenly burst upon him, like a snow shower in June.
At this Mohanraj roared with mirthful laughter, his jelly-belly shaking all over.
“Arrey, wives are there for all these tantrums bhai. You don’t worry. Come to the adda tonight. “Namastey bhai Sundar. Where are you rushing A place like that is dead without masters like you,” pestered Mohanraj. off to?” 6
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Such platitudes went on for few more minutes when Sundar Singh finally gave in. Victorious, Mohanraj joined his three dhoti-clad friends at the riverside, with a smug smile. “All is well, bhaiyon. Tonight is the night, my brother Chhagan,” said Mohanraj, backslapping a man on his right, and the group roared with delight and a fake spirit of brotherhood.
chances. Let people like Sundar Singh, the favorites of lady luck, play on. Mohanraj, his cronies and Sundar Singh were given the place of honour, the center table, so that everybody could witness the massacre. When Sundar Singh played, it was showtime! Within half an hour, the din was unbearable. Sundar Singh was out to kill but for the first time, Mohanraj was not sweating. He was cheering on Sundar Singh like a true sportsman, as if goaded by some kind of kinship. His cronies were eyeing the proceedings with some scepticism, wishing to stop the riot, wishing Mohanraj to announce the entry of Chhagan, their worried eyes darting all over for a glimpse of the conman. But Mohanraj, was a man possessed. Sundar Singh had already won pachaas hazaar and still Mohanraj didn’t seem worried. He was waiting…patiently.
As it happened, Chhagan was Mohan Raj’s distant relative and a shrewd conman from a neighbouring village, adept at manipulating cards in the game of chance. Mohanraj and his cronies had an elaborate but simple plan ready to score one on Sundar Singh once and for all. Three rounds of easy wins on the usual poor bastards to boost the confidence of the would-be victim to dizzying heights, as well as the sum at stake… and then the inconspicuous entry of Chhagan…and a little something in As the stakes climbed further, the din peaked, Sundar Singh’s Chhaanchh. Simple. going up to new feverish heights. “Sattar hazaar It was a few minutes past ten. The adda was a rupiye,” the final stake was announced by a halfspot of glimmer in the otherwise quiet and dark drunk ruddy-faced villager. Some gasped, some village. Pot-bellied, happy and satiated villagers went unusually quiet. swarmed in for their usual rounds of liquor and taash. Some came in just to look on, too scared And then Mohanraj said, “Arrey Kaka, get a pint by previous experiences. Taash at the adda was a of chhaanchh for all of us and a full matka for big thing. No going back on words once a stake Sundarbhai. Today bhai has won me over,” he was put. Many had lost ridiculous amounts with- added with a huge smile directed at Sundar in these premises. No, they weren’t taking Singh who sat concentrating hard on the game, little aware of the relieved looks exchanged 7
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among Mohanraj’s cronies at this. To add to The last round began. Adrenaline pumped up as their relief, Chhagan suddenly materialized from sweat gushed out. Sundar Singh shook his head a dark corner in the periphery of the adda. to clear it for the final kill, Chhagan sat across with a suspicion of a smile, Mohanraj folded his “Sundarbhai, I want you to meet my second plump hands across his pot-belly with eager ancousin, Chhagan. He has come here for vyapaar. ticipation, his cronies tried to look relaxed, Reached today and will be off tomorrow,” said struggling with suppressed excitement like poor Mohanraj, introducing the stranger. secret keepers, and the crowd unconsciously Sundar Singh turned his distracted eyes on the leaned forward, gazing, expecting, hardly breathnewcomer and gave him a polite and confused ing, waiting for the first move…and then a smile. Chhagan folded his palms in greeting, “I woman screamed…! have heard a lot about you, sir. And none of it is “You juuandi, scoundrel, good for nothing peasfalse praise, judging from what I have seen. I ant!” have observed your game with my own two eyes and bhagwan-kasam, you are a wizard.” As if, parts of a single body, the entire crowd turned in unison towards the direction of the Sundar Singh smiled courteously and a little imvoice. “Come home this minute or I’ll kill mypatiently. He wanted to get over with this last self and the children. We are leaving for my stake quickly, without much ado. brother’s place tomorrow morning. I have the Chhagan continued, “But I am also renowned in tickets. And once we come back, if I see you my village. After what has been happening, it’s sticking around with these hoodlums anymore, evident that this last stake is yours too. If you you have had it from me,” fumed Sundar are not the one for easy wins, then let me try a Singh’s wife with heaving breasts; her voice and hand.” bulk over bearing, and ready to brook no objecMohanraj faked surprise and ejaculated, “But tion. Chhagan…”
All seemed bemused…taken aback. Mouth Supremely confident of his abilities and distract- agape, Mohanraj saw Sundar Singh quietly pick ed in mind for some strange reason, Sundar up fifty thousand from the table and sheepishly Singh took another sip of his half-finished leave the adda in the wake of his grumpy wife. chhaanchh and seemed to contemplate. Standing near the doorway, Ramlal grumbled under his breath to Bachua, “Juaan has never made a man…and if you are as shrewd and lucky as that chap, jealous louts will keep buzzing mad, like flies near a pot of honey.”
“Very well shreeman,” he spoke suddenly and a little sleepily, “Ho Jaye! But I must warn you that I am the son of luck,” he added with disarming conviction. Everybody smiled; Sundar Singh with a quiet, soporific silence, and Mohanraj and his cronies with a hint of mockery. 8
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Non-Fiction Love by Tirna Sengupta Love has taken on manic, illusory proportions in this age of social networking, where ‘only the props of love amuse people’, laments Tirna Sengupta.
I am reminded of the adored ‘hearts’ – the lovely flawlessness of their curves – that appear on everything from gift-wrappers to coffee mugs and even on ice-cream cups like a celebrity. I wonder how many times I have been enticed by them, how many times I have bought something for their marvelous appearance on it.
doing very well suddenly “breaking up” and leaving behind their times together almost effortlessly. I dwell in a world of pomp where only the props of love amuse people. The heart has two impeccable curves with a hollow within. It is a disappointing void inside a delicate enclosure. The world is often loveless. I think of commitment in love as something more profound than the loud announcement of it. It ought to be something more private than the in-vogue display of charming snuggles on social networking sites. Maybe it is all about colouring up the heart from either end with understanding, compassion, compromise, and forgiveness.
Love wafts in the air. And Februaries are absolutely soaked in it. Pictures on the Internet (hardly ever of our browns, but of the whites in pairs that please our sight), love songs and romantic pieces innocently plagiarized as Facebook statuses define love today. Love has become identical with the flip-flop of relationship statuses. Love is expensive. Love is fancy. The whole world wears the hues of love. When I peer through the illusions to look for real love, I meet a brilliant engineer who says that he has neither appreciation nor time for love, but a fling once in a while shores up his work. I see grand weddings being arranged, based on the collection of pixels in a profile and information of property. I see couples who were apparently
Courage is the true response to love’s beacon. It is the courage to go against norms and obstacles. It is the struggle of two against the world. It is the perseverance of Snehamoy and Miagi in The Japanese Wife – who had never met being fettered miles apart but fallen in love through letters – to make a marriage work across a bad 9
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communication system. It is the unwavering hardly smart. But they are wise, insanely wise. fortitude of the gay/lesbian couple to endure Doing the silliest things in love makes them social ridicule and rejection for love. It is the happy because love subdues the craving for fearless unison of the Hindu and worldly fame and drowns one in the Muslim against the meanness the yearning for the other. Love is and threats of a conservative sothe only religion to the lover. Holdciety. ing the beloved in their arms is so gratifying that the lovers can deLove has the power of the wind, nounce the whole world to attain the swiftness of a brook, the heat that moment. Love is truly divine, of a flame, the impulsivity of a but we are more taken by its signs cloud and the depth of an ocean. in a consumer space, too preoccuIt is a force that disturbs and depied with the mundane course of exams and stroys all calmness and steadiness, setting the career-making to experience it. lovers on its wild passionate rhythm. Love is a jhamela and we are too smart to get involved in it. Those who listen to the dictates of love are
Tirna Sengupta, based in Siliguri, is waiting to get into college after high school. A former Coordinator for the VOICES section of The Statesman, she has published over a dozen pieces on different issues there and in Spark as well. Tirna enjoys participating in debate, extempore and photography contests, and has been training in Bharatnatyam for the last 10 years.
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Poetry A Mumbai Reprise by Parth Pandya Mumbai is a city that has its own distinct way of working – testing yet addictive. Parth Pandya captures the nature of the city he comes from.
Where I come from Street after street Stands silent witness To the constant triumph Of Darwinian principles
Where I come from Dreams burn in a cauldron And the ashes disperse In the waiting arms Of a moonlit sea
Where I come from The greatest steal Is a few feet of space The greatest prize A few quarantined thoughts 11
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Where I come from Your constant companions Amidst the teeming hordes Are an ascending emptiness And a clandestine pain
Where I come from (sigh) Where I came from I wander still, in my dreams A city of penitent angels A city of cavalier djinns
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.
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Fiction Cheerleaders by Vani Viswanathan Mr. Rangarajan is a man of habit, routine and order. He suddenly finds himself in an old folks’ home, and finds it hard to come to terms with the people he shares it with, who seem to be against anything he stands for. Add to it the hoopla around the Indian Premier League, and Mr. Rangarajan just wants out of it all. Vani Viswanathan tells the story of what happens.
Mr. Rangarajan sat on the steel bed. It creaked. He frowned. The mattress was emanating a foul smell. He pulled the sterile white covers, covers that reminded him of a hospital. The bed had musty spots on it. A sudden moment of weakness, and his eyes flooded with tears of rage. He had been used to better living conditions all his life, even during his days with a meagre salary as a bank teller! He was a pensioner, damn it – not dependent on his children’s money! How dare they think this was the best place to put him in? How dare they take decisions on his behalf? He was managing perfectly well by himself – deciding he couldn’t do so anymore after the fracture was unreasonable. Mr. Rangarajan shook his head. He couldn’t afford to be weak, not now. He had a new place to get used to, food prepared by someone else (heaven knows about how healthy it will be!) and worst of all, follow a routine that wasn’t
made by him. At 4pm, it was time for tea. They rang a bell. They rang a bell, to summon people. Mr. Rangarajan was enraged – were they dogs? He went to the dining area. He could make out two couples, but the old folks home was mostly filled with single men and women, all now joined together in some sense of camaraderie at their fate that landed them here. Sitting alone and sipping his tea, which he immediately dismissed as too bland – just because they were old, was it fair to assume none of them can have an iota of sugar? – Mr. Rangarajan watched his neighbours. They mostly seemed to be an undisciplined bunch of people. They were loud, some sipped their tea noisily, and one was making fun of everyone present, including Mr. Rangarajan, for he was often looking at the solitary old man, sitting with a straight back, drinking tea by himself. The women were also laughing. Most men looked
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unkempt, hair overgrown and with a two-day stubble. Only one of them, politely smiling through the ruckus, seemingly paid some attention to his appearance – he was in a starched khadi white shirt, and his bushy silver moustache was smartly trimmed. Maybe this was the only person he could befriend. And just then, the man with the bushy moustache let out a loud guffaw at something that funny man seemed to have said. Mr. Rangarajan was disgusted at moustache man’s booming laughter and the way his whole body shook. He finished his tea and left to the lounge, wishing to get away from this commotion. These were to be his friends, the people he would likely have to live with until his wretched life left his body. Weakness and tears threatening him again, he picked up a newspaper for distraction. Ah, the Indian Premier League again! A nonsensical fest taking cricket to new lows. Players being auctioned off like cattle. What kind of loyalty do you expect from players who could be in different teams each year?! The dancing, the singing, the rubbish that Navjot Singh Sidhu spews at periodic intervals, and my goodness, the cheerleaders! Where are the days of discipline in cricket gone? Mr. Rangarajan couldn’t be bothered. Even if not an IPL fan, he used to watch it for the plain fact that it was cricket. Not this season, though, for the last few days before his move to the old folks’ home had been terrible. Not here, though, where he was sure to not be able to watch the match in peace, like he’d been able to at his home. Here, there’d be a bunch of hooligans cracking jokes at the drop of a hat.
from the lounge distracted him as he was on his way back to the room around 8, after dinner. Animated discussion. The toss must have happened and the bowling team must be in the field, waiting for the batsmen from the other team. He peeped into the lounge. The same group from teatime was sitting there, joined by one wiry woman he hadn’t seen earlier. The first ball was bowled. Four! They all cheered. Mr. Rangarajan coaxed himself to go in. He moved as far from the group as he could, and found a chair in the leftmost corner of the room. The third ball, the batsman was out. There was cheering irrespective of whether the batsman scored well or got out, Mr. Rangarajan realised. The old men didn’t care to support any team. They seemed to be generally enjoying the game. Even if he was a supporter of the team in yellow, Mr. Rangarajan realised he liked this approach. It made them purer admirers of the game, going beyond hysterical borders within the country. Heck, he would applaud Waugh or Cronje or Ul-haq if they played well, it didn’t matter if they were battering the Indian side! A group of foreign women came on screen, shaking about in celebration of the wicket. Mr. Rangarajan snorted in annoyance. What they were dancing to (some “Lungi dance…!”) had no connection with their steps. He wondered if the women knew anything about the game.
As the match wore on, Mr. Rangarajan realised another pattern about his fellow viewers – they But no matter how hard he tried, the noises seemed to like the cheerleaders. His opinion of their love for the game dropping steadily, he 14
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found himself watching them whenever the cheerleaders came on screen. The old men unabashedly enjoyed the dance, with one especially old, toothless man clapping to the beat. Funny man had a grin plastered on his face every time there was a slow-motion view of their dance. Even b u s h y mous tache man seemed to sit up straight and watch without blinking his eyes when the dancers came. Another topless man either rubbed his belly or arms, or scratched his back with his poonal, or revolting scratched his armpits whenever the young women in brightlycoloured clothes danced in sync. Mr. Rangarajan was revolted, to say the least.
70s, and thinking like this! Are we teenagers? We’ve been married, had children, seen grandchildren. And this kind of talk? But the strangest thing happened, the next time the camera focused on a grinning cheerleader wave her balls of coloured paper at the TV. Mr. Rangarajan had a flash of Rajam’s face doing the same. Rajam, with her two gleaming nose studs, one from her father, the other from him. Rajam who served him the perfect coffee every morning, unfailingly through the 63 years they spent together. Rajam of her black-andgrey, curly hair. The lady who never had one strand of hair astray. Who occupied a miniscule amount of space, huddled and quiet, always. And that was his Rajam, now smiling – she never showed her teeth – and flashing those coloured paper at the TV.
When another wicket fell and the dancers shook their balls of coloured paper, Mr. Rangarajan saw the group laugh loudly. “Dei Parameshwara!” said one diminutive old man in the group that Mr. Rangarajan hadn’t bothered It was simply the most outrageous thing ever. to observe. He gathered that Parameshwara was Forgetting himself for a minute, he closed his the funny man. ‘Our women, like this! That eyes, freezing the image, and chuckled loudly. would be the day!’ He immediately realised what he’d done, and Mr. Rangarajan shook his head silently. The im- opened his eyes. The group was staring at him maturity of these men! Well into their 60s and with open disbelief. Only Parameshwara had a 15
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knowing grin etched on his face. Abashed, Mr. Rangarajan looked at the TV, aware of the people staring at him. The next morning, as Mr. Rangarajan brought his plate of idlis and sambar from the counter and looked around for a place to sit, he noticed Parameshwara sitting there, by himself. He paused for a few seconds. Should he‌? Parameshwara looked up from his plate and saw Mr. Rangarajan standing there, uncertain. He grinned and pushed the chair opposite to his, inviting Mr. Rangarajan to sit there. Mr. Rangarajan walked through the tables, and sat there with Parameshwara.
Vani Viswanathan is often lost in her world of books and A R Rahman, churning out lines in her head or humming a song. Her world is one of frivolity, optimism, quietude and general chilled-ness, where there is always place for outbursts of laughter, bouts of silence, chocolate, ice cream and lots of books and endless iTunes playlists from all over the world. She is now a CSR communications consulta nt, a nd has be e n blo ggi ng at htt p:/ / chennaigalwrites.blogspot.com since 2005.
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Non-Fiction Role Play by Vishal Anand In a work of non-fiction, Vishal Anand says that the different roles that he plays don’t necessarily span a lifetime but could be essayed over a single day itself. Read on to figure out what this role play is all about and why he believes it happens.
Shakespeare, the Czar of the Queen’s language, writes in "As You Like It": "All the world is a stage...And all the men and the women merely players". He further says," and one man in his time plays many parts." Well, Shakespeare’s was perhaps the mostskilled hand ever to have wielded the pen, but on this occasion, he was only half right. The roles which a man essays need not span his whole life. I, for one, play several parts in the course of a single day itself.
During my meetings with my superiors, I am the doting audience, who listens in rapt attention, neck stretched and ears open, my attention only punctuated by the prompted and timed applause as the powerful men explain their ideas that will change the world. Or so they think.
And when I address my own juniors, my sphere of influence suddenly expands. Now, it is me who is the man in the arena, the conjuror who is pulling the rabbit out of his hat. For all its outwardly show of sophistication and under the ruse of civilization, this world still runs on the In the morning, when I reach my work place, I primitive system of barter, and I expect to ream a postman who wishes everyone he meets as ceive the same unflinching loyalty from my subif I am the harbinger of joy and good news in ordinates which I dish out to my superiors. their lives. The grin I wear is - to use a corporate terminology - customized; its width is very much In the evening, when I board the office bus to proportional to the power wielded by the hand I my home, I am the hopeless romantic, who am shaking. It has taken diligent practice for me wishes that some day, the pretty girl sitting on to master; but I doubt anyone notices or, worse, the front seat will switch off her ipod and talk to cares. me, and for once, the conversation will go be17
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yond forced pleasantries, beyond bad appraisals and inflexible working hours. But then my stop comes and I get down, and through the corner of my eye I see her tap the screen of her iPod gently and switch to another track in her portable musical player. I marvel at the convenience of the modern age!
adds colours to your life, makes you see the big picture and inflates your fantasy. There are two different worlds we live in. One is the real world, harsh and challenging. It is a world fraught with disappointments and grief, frustrations and sorrows. It is the world where morality is ambiguous and ambition is muffled. And then, there is the other world - the world which has been woven into our consciousness through fairy tales and other such creative mediums. This is the world of fantasy and dreams, where gratification is instant and no desire is outlandish.
At home when I call my family living across the country, I slip into yet another role. Now, I am the obedient son, the responsible brother, the dutiful cousin. I listen with intent, or at least try, as the mechanical voice on the other side tells me that mother's back ache is getting worse, that Rahul did not score good marks in the last exI want my life to reside in the slender region ams, that father is planning to buy a new car but where these two worlds overlap, where dreams is falling a few thousand bucks short. court reality. I do believe a man’s actions are But at night, when I am all alone, when I have closely linked to his desires and dreams lend life washed my face and the grease paint has come a beautiful purpose in a world where ambition is off, when the last of the lights have been unclear. The different roles I play, therefore, switched off, when the blaring noise coming have a purpose. They are the steps that I take on from the street has subsided, I retire to bed. the path to the vision that I dream of. Man was And as sleep engulfs me and as my eyelids wilt perhaps created to live the journey called life and close under its weight, I begin to dream. In this way. And who are we to defy that will of the my dreams I am transported to another world Creator? where I am my own man. I am the guy who calls the shots in his work place, whose witty one liners sweep girls off their feet, who takes all the big decisions in the family and whom his siblings look up to as a source of inspiration and courage. As is its wont, science has pushed a theory to describe this dichotomy: the so called left and right brain theory. The theory claims that the left part of the brain is responsible for analysis and reasoning. It helps you to lead a life on the basis of reason and logic. And the right part of the brain is bit of an idler. It is this part which 18
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Vishal Anand is a Thermal Engineer working in the aero-engine industry at Hyderabad. He holds a B.Tech in Mechanical Engineering from IIT Kharagpur and an M. Tech in Thermal Sciences from the same institute. During the day, as part of his job, he designs aero engines so that they can fly with longer life, less noise and less pollution. But during night, he likes to explore his creative side by reading and writing.
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Poetry Would Not by Maggie Paul Maggie Paul writes a poem on the ‘up-in-the-air’ virtuality of today’s times.
The thousand friends i have cultivated virtually, carefully internalizing their interests – anticipating reciprocity Would not Fill the space between me and my elusive peace - as i reach out to it in the night, alone, across my bed
The thousand longing sonnets i dedicate to you, for all to see – carefully woven symbolisms from the ‘blood’ of my gut Would not Come to my rescue - when you’re actually there - all flesh and blood, while i reach out to my phone to create a more imagined ‘you’ The thousand means and tools and weapons i possess, carefully used to track your every twitch and itch Would not Substitute the lack of actual words between us, when i drop back home at nights
The thousand ways i can capture the beauty of your angles, carefully perfecting the light, the colour, the effects, even the after-effects Would not 20
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Elicit the emotions that that one dilapidated picture could – clicked of your imperfection – ossified in our endless laughs
The thousand words i speak of your liberation, carefully regurgitating recycled theorems, rewoven theories Would not Help me understand your one day of lived bondage
Author's note: The use of I in small case is deliberate and perhaps idiosyncratic. This is so since the author feels the word with which we denote ourselves is like any other word. It is the author's belief that a social construct that gives undue stress on a person’s ego leads the capitalization of ‘i’ – just like the capitalization of g in god.
Maggie Paul passed out of Tata Institute of Social Sciences, Mumbai in 2012 and is currently working with YUVA, Mumbai - that engages in the fight for the rights of the urban poor - to reclaim their "right to the city". She is a conscientious person and aspires to be one among the many voices for the rights of the excluded. In an extremely consumerist and over-impinging world, she is in an active pursuit to keep herself from getting overwhelmed or co-opted.
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Fiction The Star Fruit Tree by Natasha Gayari Natasha Gayari’s story is about a day in the lives of an old man, his family and a Star Fruit tree and captures the nature and perceptions of the people in the house. On most days, Rimi’s grandfather kept to himself in his room, resting on the rocking cane chair from morning till evening. That afternoon, he was sitting on the tiny wooden bench under the mango tree in the front yard of the house. His youngest son, Rimi’s father, was about five years old when he had made that bench by putting together three planks of wood with a hammer and a few nails.
on her grandfather’s forehead moved up and then down.
His eyes at times gazed at the wild creepers that had crawled all over the place in the front yard. It was the season for the flowering of dahlias. White, maroon, mauve, and purple. But there were no dahlias. Moss-covered earthen pots lay clustered at one corner of the brick wall. They still supported the marigolds he had planted a He sat as still as the mango tree, a grey muffler year ago but never flowered, and stubborn framing his wrinkled face around his ears and grasses protruded from the soil inside. neck. Only his tired eyes moved, closing and The star fruit tree on the other corner of the opening in slow motion. Mostly they stared at front yard was laden with green and yellow the ground, and looked ahead when the cry of a fruits. The overripe ones hung dejected, about bird interrupted the quiet of the afternoon. to fall, bitten away by parrots and bats. Few lay Five-year-old Rimi, in her white and navy blue squashed on the ground, a fly or two circling uniform, came running through the wired gate, them. her backpack jumping on her back and the plasRimi came running to her mother, who was tic water bottle hung from her neck flapping. plucking curry leaves, near the bushes along the Slowing down, she looked at her grandfather, brick wall, collecting them in a small steel bowl. stared at him, and then smiled, as she passed by. She tugged at her cotton printed housecoat. As she ran towards the house, the deep creases 22
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“Why are you here Rimi? The grasses are wet. tree. His gaze shifted back to the ground. He You’ll have leaches sticking to you. Go.” hadn’t touched the tea that was served to him. Rimi hopped out of the thicket, towards her grandfather. She sat by his side on the edge of the bench, smiling up at him. “Why are you sitting outside today?” His eyebrows moved, but he didn’t reply. “Rimi, don’t bother your grandpa. Let him rest.”
“Rimi.” His voice was barely audible. Squatted on the grassy area near the earthen pots, Rimi was murmuring to herself, counting the tiny white stones she was collecting in the skirt of her mauve cotton slip. She dropped the stones and ran towards her grandfather. “What’s it grandpa?” She stood facing him.
“But why is he sitting outside ma? He’ll catch cold.”
He moved his hands and clutched the walking stick Rimi turned towards kept by his side. Rimi her grandfather. “You’ll called out to her mother. catch cold.” Her tone They both held him with was softer. He didn’t their hands and helped him reply. walk towards the house, into his room. Rimi’s mother laid him down on his bed and covered His eldest daughter-in-law was resting on a plashis body with a quilt, tucking it in on all sides. tic chair in the verandah of the house, sipping Rimi watched his eyes shut slowly and followed tea. “The old man looks better today.” her mother out of the room. Rimi’s mother walked towards the house with a Rimi’s grandfather slept the whole of the next bowl full of curry leaves. “It can get boring inday. He had not wanted to sit up or rest on the side the dark room the whole day.” rocking chair. When Rimi came back from “When’s your man coming back? I had asked school, he was still sleeping. Her mother said him to get some help for cutting down the star that he had high fever. There was a doctor in the fruit tree. It’s too thick with branches and house. Rimi peeked into her grandfather’s room leaves. Makes the area cold and wet all the through the door. It was dark. She could only time.” hear his deep, noisy breath. She walked into the “But father likes it when we cook the fruit, like a living room and sat beside her mother. The doctor sitting across her was dipping a sugar-coated curry. It’s good for the stomach.” biscuit on a cup of tea. Rimi waited for him to “It’s a useless tree. We have to cut it. We’ll have say something. But all he did was slurp down some firewood.” damp, spongy biscuits and tea. The old man’s eyes were staring at the star fruit 23
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Natasha was born and brought up in Assam. She completed her higher studies in Delhi and has been living (and working) in Bangalore for about four years now. Bangalore is like home to her, and she loves the city with all its imperfections. She is a community member of the Bangalore Writers Workshop.
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Poetry Mosquito Menace by M. Mohankumar A gunny bag lying on the pavement becomes an object of suspicion. M. Mohankumar’s poem throws light on the happenings.
At night, on the pavement a bulging gunny bag.. Murder, cried the passers-by. Someone dialled 100. The police came, pushed the crowd back, cordoned off the area. A constable poking the bag with his lathi heard a sound. It grunts, 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.
he said. Not yet dead. When they turned it over, out came the ‘body’; up it stood, bewildered, and said: I’m a poor rag-picker, Sir. I was sleeping in my bag to avoid mosquito-bite.
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Non-fiction I am a Mother by Anupama Krishnakumar With Mother’s Day being celebrated this month, Anupama Krishnakumar speaks about the common expectations and beliefs associated with motherhood in different circumstances. A change in attitude, she feels, will lead to healthier relationships and a better world.
Hello World, I am a mother. I work at a construction site. I carry bricks and cement on my head sweating profusely under the sweltering heat, my skin singed recklessly by the blazing sun. My seven-year-old daughter plays by a pool of dirty construction water and my one-year-old younger one sleeps in a makeshift bed under the tree near the construction site. I am torn between two worlds – my work and my children. I work and then run to feed my baby, I wonder what she gets out of my lifeless breasts – measly quantities of milk, that’s all. I constantly keep an eye on her as she sleeps, for I am worried that birds might just land up from nowhere and peck her tender skin. I work under the lecherous gaze of the contractor, who stares shamelessly at my shins and waist when I tuck my saree up to climb the half-done stairs. And even as I climb, I am worried about my older daughter. Would she be in danger? Would she be harassed in subtle ways that she wouldn’t even realise what’s
happening to her or loud ways that would make her cry in agony? Every single day at work, I look forward to it ending not with happiness, but without any mishap. That’s all I want. Nights are a different story. I get beaten up by a drunken, good-for-nothing, jobless husband while the entire neighbourhood watches in silence. Later they say, I bear it all because I am a mother to two. I am sticking along for my children’s sake, they opine. I work, I earn, I look after my children, I run the family. Yet, I live a life without dignity. World, will you stop glorifying motherhood for your own means? Will you just let me be? Hello World, I am a mother. I am cringing with pain after delivery. I can’t sit. I am bleeding. My breasts are sore because of feeding. My baby doesn’t sleep during nights. I have to sit up with an aching body and a fatigued mind while everyone sleeps. I feel like shouting at the world, I want to ask everybody to get lost. I want to
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sleep. I want to rest. I am met with indifference, I am told that nothing can be done, I have to live through this. I am supposed to feel selfless, shed happy tears looking at the baby’s face. The rest of the world has to get on with its routine. I need to cooperate. I need to transform. If I scream and throw tantrums, I am called illbehaved, selfish. Didn’t you see this coming? I am asked. I am a mother. I can’t afford to be unruly. I am meant to nurture. World, will you stop glorifying motherhood for your own means? Will you just let me be? Hello World, I am a mother. I have decided to put an end to my career, temporary or permanent, I don’t know yet. Turns out that it was a very tough call, you know. Yes, I wanted to be with the children. I understood they needed me. But the switch has bought in unexpected change. Since I am no longer the career woman, my children, it appears, are my new projects. I am answerable for their behavioural problems, their unexpected illnesses and whatever there is to do with them. Suddenly, the world thinks I have to put my aspirations behind. I have to just set aside all my achievements from the past. Even education, you know. Put children ahead of everything! If there’s anything that I need to think beyond children, it’s the house. Cooking and cleaning. And do it all with a wide smile plastered on your face. Where does
the father figure in all this? Suddenly, a big career sacrifice is swept effortlessly under the carpet called responsibility. Adding fuel to the fire, you often need to confront the rhetorical question, ‘You are at home, can’t you do even this?’ Motherhood is very challenging, I am told. It’s not an easy responsibility. I agree. But I must say this argument is inflated beyond what’s needed. For, being a homemaker mother doesn’t mean one stops doing what one likes and stops listening to her inner voice. Does it? Seriously, what really is the problem? There is this particularly annoying song that comes to mind. It goes thus - Any child born into this world is good natured. Whether she or he turns out to be a good adult or a bad one depends entirely on the way the mother brings up the child. World, will you stop glorifying motherhood for your own means? Will you just let me be? Hello World, I am a mother. I have just returned to work three months post my second child. My husband and I have decided to share our responsibilities. All seems well. But wait, there are other problems. The homemaker next door, with two of her own children to handle, believes that I am not a ‘good mother’. She thinks I do not know but I overhear her speaking to yet another neighbour as I walk past. She thinks I am being irresponsible, my children aren’t cared
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for enough and that I am selfish. I wouldn’t like to dismiss her as jealous; perhaps she is, but it is not so much about jealousy as it is about what has been fed into her consciousness by a patriarchal society that thinks a mother who gives herself some priority ahead of her children is a huge blot on the moral fabric of humanity.
them that I, as an individual, as someone who would bear the child, have every right in the world to make a choice? On whether I wanted to be a mother at all or when I wanted to be one? Is motherhood the ultimate identity for a woman? The very purpose for which she is born?
World, will you stop glorifying motherhood for World, will you stop glorifying motherhood for your own means? Will you just let me be? your own means? Will you just let me be? Hello World, I am a mother. I am a mother now, after many years. I chose not to become a mother until I was very sure that’s what I wanted. But nobody really understood, did they? All that the immediate family and neighbourhood aunties wanted to know was if there was any ‘good news’ and when the years rolled by, the foremost thought that wrote itself large on their puzzled faces was ‘why no good news?’. Was something wrong? Were the Gods angry? Should we do pujas? Should we get this woman checked by a doc? Have I seen a gynaecologist yet? It baffled me. This whole barrage of questions. Didn’t the simple thing ever occur to
Yes, we are mothers. We have spoken. And we care for our children. Don’t glorify motherhood to justify the social and behavioural structures that you have forcefully laid down for us. Respect us instead, for what we really are, for what we wish to be? Empathise with us on what we choose to do and who we choose to be. Just let us be. Before long, you will see how this will lead to much healthier and well-understood relationships. Then parenting wouldn’t be the daunting task that most of the times it turns out to be. We are sure to have better-groomed children. And soon, the world will transform to be a much happier place. For sure.
Anupama Krishnakumar loves Physics and English and sort of managed to get degrees in both – studying Engineering and then Journalism. Yet, as she discovered a few years ago, it is the written word that delights her soul and so here she is, doing what she loves to do – spinning tales for her small audience and for her little son, singing lullabies to her little daughter, bringing together a lovely team of creative people and spearheading Spark. She loves books, music, notebooks and colour pens and truly admires simplicity in anything! Tomatoes send her into a delightful tizzy, be it in soup or rasam or ketchup or atop a pizza!
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Fiction Not Going to Dogs by Ram Govardhan A man writes a mail to his dead wife sharing his opinion on his son Badri’s marriage decision, the girl he has chosen to marry, the happenings at the wedding and the house that Badri and his wife move into after they get married. Your death has exposed another chink in my armour: decision making, which was your forte, while repeating the same mistakes was mine. Ah, how quick-witted were you in pinpricking my foibles? Of course, I was, and am, a bundle of imperfections but, these days, people say I was, and am, an ideal father, husband and head of a family. However, you were the only one who knew I am none and, perhaps, as you loved to assert, worse than none. “Being smart is of no consequence, what matters is decision making. Swift decisions aren’t enough, they must be rolled-out, come what may. Rolling them out isn’t enough, they must be pursued, to a nicety.” Those were your words to our lawyer whose bungling cost us the case, honour and millions. Since decision making was your sole domain, even on the rare occasions when you appeared undecided, none of us hazarded our ideas for you loathed even minor intrusions. Having made no decisions for over twenty eight years, having played the game with-
in the confines of your decisions, now, in your absence, when I am required to take a call, I am unable even to imitate your art of arriving at decisions. But our children have inherited more of your decisive genes, and your art is thriving in them, and I feel they have taken it to another level; the only difference is that they apply tact, which was not your suit. I see glimpses of you in them by seeing how they perceive, react, and decide. And, just as you, they too decide with ease, they too decide on their own, and, they too convey after firming up. At times, even you used to reconsider some of your decisions calling them hasty, but these guys invariably get it right on first take as it were. A son sending a wedding card of his marriage to his father by courier is not unheard of these days. And we generally shrug off such things when they happen to others, somewhere else, but the truth that my son has ‘invited’ me to his wedding hit me hard, very hard, like a stab in the
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back. But you learn to shrug off this one too and move on for there’s no way out. The card is from Bernard, yes, that is the new given name of our eldest bundle of joy, Badri. No, the card is not made up of the yellow-pink stuff we adored, but a digital-age, designer one; when opened, the couple invite you to the ceremony in their own voices. They also thank you in advance, simply assuming that every invitee would turn up, but young folks cannot be accused of being too sanguine.
ding. In fact I didn’t even know the name of the girl until I received this invitation. Ruth is the name; yes, they are Christians and, hold your breath, she is to walk down the aisle the Catholic way.
Orthodox fathers of our yore haggled with neighbourhood letterpress chaps until they rounded off the total. And both parents, armed with water bottles, handed out two or three wedding cards a day hopping on to two or three buses, returning with two or three bruises, upping their blood pressure levels by two or three notches. Badri has designed the card himself, addressed them, and sent one to me saying I am too old, too lost and too feeble to get hassled over such highly outsource-able services. How can I suspect his compassion for my arthritis?
While I was bedazzled by the chandeliers, the grandeur of the church took my breath away. There were none from our fraternity, except yours truly in attendance. Badri had not even invited Sandhya, who is in Cochin now. As I entered the hall, a sole, fleeting glance was what I deserved from Badri. There was no time for him to ask when I reached, where I checked in, or, after the ceremony, will I stay back, or go back. I knew his nature, so I had checked into the same hotel in Majestic that you loved to stay whenever we visited Bangalore. But then, Ruth spotted me searching for a seat in the back, asked one of her relatives to vacate, and made me sit in the front row. After getting me a cup of coffee, and after ensuring I was at ease, she rushed to be with her father, Clement—I liked the man and, true to his name, his chubby face radiated mercy.
Yes I know the question you are dying to ask: Who is the girl? Don’t worry, he comforted me, and claimed to have saved me from the drudgery of going around towns looking for a suitable girl, matching horoscopes, and wrangling over million other things. He has chosen the girl for himself, invited no one for the betrothal, had fixed the date, and fixed the hall for the wed-
The priest, groom, and the best man entered through a side door and waited at the altar. The groomsmen and bridesmaids walked, the ring bearer and the flower girl came next, while Ruth, accompanied by her father, walked through the centre of aisle up to where Badri, now baptized as Bernard, was waiting. Both of them, one after the other, vowed, “I promise to be true to you
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in good times and in bad, in sickness and in high altitude, far removed from the seas. Whenhealth. I will love you and honour you all the ever we travelled to Bangalore, to climb the days of my life.” steep incline, don’t you remember, there used to be two steam engines pulling and pushing one The priest was vociferous enough to make up train? for the snag in the microphone, “You have declared your consent before the Church. May the “The one in the front pulled and the one in the Lord in his goodness back pushed,” that’s how strengthen your consent you used to describe it to and fill you both with his nine-year-old Badri. But blessings. What God has then, by the time he was majoined, men must not ture enough to insist an outdivide. Amen.” That was ing by one such train, the how they became man railways had introduced and wife. powerful diesel engines, and only one in the front was Overwhelmed by a doing all the pulling and swarm of overzealous pushing. And Badri thought Christians jostling to you had made up the story greet their newly-inducted of two engines and, no matmember, Badri was unmindful of my presence, ter what I said, he is still unconvinced about the but Ruth personally ensured that I was served whole business of pulling and pushing. He says vegetarian dishes. And you will be heartened to he had Googled enough about it and found know that Ruth is a vegan, while Badri has nothing to that effect. “Over-active imaginaturned a non-vegetarian, and he blames the juicy tion,” he had recently declared. billboards of KFC, McDonalds, and the threeyear stint in Redmond, where, he said, he had to From the marriage hall, they moved into an upsurvive on meat, both red and white. scale apartment, fully furnished on day one. And what followed blew my mind away; Ruth conWith her calm disposition, a sweet singing voice, ducted a Hindu style house-warming puja, just and a winsome smile, Ruth is a very affable girl. the way you used to do. While Ruth insisted on No way, no way could we have found a better framed pictures of Hindu deities, Badri wanted bride within our fraternity that is turning carnivonly one big picture - that of Jesus Christ. orous by the day and, since you always paid preRuth’s point that his father, sister or other relacise attention to detail, by the meal. tives may visit them and they may want to pray Unlike the beloved Garden City of temperate Hindu gods led to an ugly quarrel; Ruth gave in. clime of our times, Bangalore is now almost as But Badri hated every bit of what she said and, searing as Chennai, the only saving grace is ab- in the two days I was with them, I saw many of sence of stickiness since the whole city sits on your qualities in her and many of her stances 31
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reminded yours but he hated every one of them; ‘A petite beauty’ is how Badri describes his car, he seems to want a wife, not a mother. How can smaller than our retro-themed Concept One I find fault with him? Beetle. Do you remember the days when fifteenyear-old Badri used to hate the Beetle saying it The apartment, to your utter dismay, is too was too small to take his five plump friends to small, as small as our bedroom, which is divided the playground? And their cricket bats? And the into three tiny bedrooms, each one smaller than tattered mats? And his two the other, and all of them coloured cats? smaller than our storerooms. One for the two Just trust me when I say we of them, one for the two couldn’t have found a better kids they plan to have in girl than Ruth. So have a three years, and one for peaceful time in the heavens guests like me. The until my next mail. Or until I spendthrift that he is, turn up there, who knows? Badri is delighted to have Also, believe me, this generainvested in such a plush tion is not going to dogs; flat in such a ritzy neighthey are very smart, very canbourhood, and happy to did, very practical, and like pay two hundred and forthe latest, high-end electronty fat monthly instalments. “My children would ic gadgets, future-ready. be adults by the time I pay up,” bragged Badri.
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, Saraba, Muse India, Asia Writes, Open Road Review, Cerebration, Spark and several other Asian and African literary journals. He works, lives in Chennai, India. Email: ram.govardhan@ymail.com
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Non-fiction Out of Reach by Nandini Rajagopalan Here’s Nandini writing about her craving for a Barbie doll as a child, how her parents refused to buy one and how the doll continues to evade her even in adulthood. I spotted her on a fine, summer day and almost instantaneously, fell in love with her. The moment our eyes met, I knew that she was the one that I had been looking for. Calm, serene and clad in a sparkling pink evening gown, complimented by matching slippers, she was placed strategically on the upper rack of the toy store, at a comfortable distance, away from prying hands. Majestically perched on the wooden rack, she seemed to look down upon other mundane toys. There seemed to be a justified haughtiness, gleaming in her eyes. I didn’t mind. I wanted her. I stretched my hands, trying to reach her, and briefly hurled myself in the air, trying to catch hold of her; but I was unsuccessful. I tugged at my mother’s pallu, my index finger pointed in the direction of my new found love, covetousness written all over my face. My mother’s stern facial expression said it all; I wouldn’t get a Barbie. Tears welled up in my little eyes. I took one last look at her through my moist eyes and let a drop of tear roll past my cheek.
Life was never the same again. I looked at my old, ragged doll in contempt. She had been my faithful companion for as long as I could remember. I had spent many a fine evening dressing her up and taking her to tea parties. I would gently make her bed and tuck in the bed sheet to keep her warm and close her eyelids with my little fingers, singing a lullaby. I would hug her during rainy nights to keep her away from the cold winter breeze. I would wash her plastic golden hair and neatly tie a red bow on it. Yes, Mona had been the apple of my eye, but not anymore. I took one last look at her and threw her away under my bed. I didn’t need her anymore. I wanted my Barbie. And no other doll could take her place. he next few months and probably years, saw me yearn for her. I shunned all other toys away. I braved the urge to grab a stray pillow on dark, lightning-lit nights. I refused to play with the neighbourhood kids. I chose to spend the day in solitary confinement. I punished myself this way
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hoping that my parents would pity my loneliness, finally relent and gift me a Barbie. But nothing could impress my mother. One sunny day, the doll was promised in return for my good behaviour and above average score in my final exams. I read every single chapter of my textbooks diligently and completed my homework in time, desperately trying to impress my parents. Though my academic records were noteworthy, a casual “daydreams in class”, at the bottom of my report card, had ruined it all for me. I would look at my neighbour’s Barbie in envy and silently mutter a curse. I would longingly look at every guest we entertained in the next couple of years, hoping that they would gift me a Barbie. However, they would be content with buying me a big bar of chocolate; something that I never cared about. Middle school saw most girls abandon their faithful childhood companions. The toys that had been so dear to them now lay in an unwanted corner, gathering dust. Nail polishes, long telephone calls, slumber parties and late night movie sessions had taken precedence. Not for me though. I still wanted a Barbie. My parents laughed it away claiming that teen girls had no need for a lifeless doll. I simply smirked at their puerility. They surely didn’t know how much I loved her. Years rolled by, promises were made and broken and I was soon convinced that the doll would not see the light of the day. But deep down I knew that she would come to me. Hope never failed me. I patiently waited for my day to come.
*** Eighteen years have passed. I trudge through the well-lit corridors of the supermarket looking for a set of color pencils for a friend’s daughter. All of a sudden, I spot a patch of pink. My eyes fall on the pink little doll that has always evaded me. I stop and lift her from the rack and stare at her. Enclosed in a plastic cage, she glistens. I gently pull her out from the box and hold her in my hands. I look at her bubblegum pink gown decorated with shiny stars. A little crown adorns her tiny head and a wand is tightly clasped in her left hand. A chill runs through my spine. I can sense fulfilment. She has been the one that I have always coveted. She has been my dream from early childhood. She is the only thing that I had always wanted. And now, she lies in my hand, staring at the sky, urging me to befriend her. Without further ado, I put her in my shopping basket, triumph written large in my eyes. I now own a Barbie! I can now stitch pretty little clothes for her, spoil her with dainty, matching slippers, buy her a dressing table, host a kitty party for her and her other Barbie friends and even find a Ken for her! Excitement clouds my mind. I chuckle aloud, giving a wide smile to people around. But the excitement is short-lived and I am left grappling with a strange predicament. I no longer belong to the innocent world of the young. I am an adult. I can no longer care about pretty
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pinks, frills or laces. I cannot play with dolls. I am not allowed to believe in the magical. I cannot read a fairy tale and lose myself in its fantasy. I cannot pick up colour pencils and randomly scribble over the walls of my house. I cannot litter the living room with lego blocks. I cannot build a makeshift house from my mother’s old saree and spend the night in it. I cannot fill plain water into a tiny tea cup and claim it to be a hot, steaming cup of tea. I cannot randomly burst into laughter on seeing Jerry outsmart Tom. I cannot hum my favourite nursery rhyme. I cannot lick the little melted blob of chocolate that is stuck to the wrapper. I cannot happily suck a bright, orange stick of candy ice cream and roam around the streets. I cannot look at my orange stained tongue and marvel at the magical powers of the candy. I cannot build castles of sand. I
cannot play hop scotch. I cannot laugh until my eyes swell with tears. I am an adult. I am to embrace practicality. I should love banality. I should shove innocence out of my front door. I need to do behave like a grown-up. I cannot be childish. I should refrain from experiencing ordinary things creatively. I should love routine. I should become boring. I cannot play with toys. Painstakingly, I lift my Barbie from the now empty shopping cart and place her back to where she belonged. I take one last look at her, longingly, and then find my way out of the children’s section. Leaving behind a sea of innocence, happy times, silly games, slumber parties, cat-fights and adhoc afternoon tea sessions, I move on, silently cursing adulthood.
Nandini Rajagopalan is a quintessential software developer who is looking to showcase her creativity. She has an opinion about everything under the sun and she is also brave enough to express them. Her interests vary from cuddling cute bunnies to watching gory Tarantino flicks. Food is her second love; only after literature. She worships Oscar Wilde and his cynicism. She blogs at http://mangapachadi.wordpress.com/
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Fiction The Last Refuge by Debleena Roy Sobhit – fast talking, full of life and dreams, and Akash, the determined, quiet archaeologist, take a vacation together. But Sobhit harbours a secret that Akash doesn’t manage to dig out. Debleena Roy tells the story. The boat took them deeper and deeper into the forest of green shimmers and blue ripples. A lone crane glided forward, as if nodding a gentle hello. The trees that hugged the shore bent over, as if trying to protect an untold secret. They had almost reached Poovar, a lost island locked between the land, the backwaters and the sea, the sound of the silence broken only by the lashing of the waves and the flight of the birds.
“Ah, that shot, man, just surreal. You are a genius, how did you even find this place?” Sobhit jumped up again. “Work.” Akash would explain later.
Archaeology had never been Sobhit’s area of interest anyway. “How can you be excited by ruins?” he would keep asking Akash while strumming his guitar when they were roommates and close friends in college. Their regular The boat rocked none too gently, as Sobhit trekking college trips were now a distant jumped up with his camera, a Nikon DSLR. memory. Sobhit made plans every year, but Akash carefully packed his book back into his Akash was too busy to join. laptop bag. Sobhit had been insistent that they meet this “Watch it, I bet you still can’t swim!” Akash year. “You never have time, Akash. Listen, I shouted as Shobit stood up suddenly to take need to meet you. Two days, that’s all. Come on, another shot and the boat tilted, dangerously. even Obama takes holidays.” “You are more worried about your book than ”Ok, but I’ll choose the place.” Akash had finalmy camera, aren’t you? That’s a crime story, ly relented. right, just like you used to read in college?” Akash had come to meet the temple authorities Akash nodded, surprised that Sobhit rememof Padmanabha Swamy temple in Trivandrum, bered after all these years. an hour away from Poovar. He and his team had 36
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spent the last few days in the narrow dark temple corridors, excavating for gold that belonged to Travancore kings. And they had found five such vaults full of gold. And Poovar was a place Akash wanted to see. King Marthanda Varma, the most famous king of the line, had taken refuge in Poovar, when he had been ousted from his kingdom.
evening raga, in silent symphony with the swaying trees.
“My music venture is over now. My idea of distributing Sufi folk music on the cloud was too much for the Bollywood-ruled industry. And I am in between jobs. But I am working on this brilliant play.”
Akash glanced at his phone as he said that; he was expecting an update from his team.
Once in their room, Sobhit didn’t sit; he paced the room, eyes glittering, his fist clenching and unclenching. “My play, Akash, it’s a masterpiece, I tell you.”
Akash started, shocked out of his reverie. What “Can’t believe we made it finally, and look at was Sobhit talking about? you now, man, living your dream - successful “It’s about this lost soul, you know, a man in archaeologist. You always did love unravelling search of his own identity.” secrets, didn’t you?” Sobhit was still speaking at his breakneck speed. Engine, they used to call “That’s such an old, done-to-death theme, Sobhit, the eternal “Man’s search for meaning” and him in college. all that crap.” “I just had one dream, Sobhit, so it was easy. “Wait till you hear the full story. See, it’s almost You were the one with a million dreams.” sunset time, why don’t we go the beach and get “Tell me Akash; wouldn’t we be happier if we drunk and wasted? And I’ll tell you about my could just flow, where life took us, no dreams? play.” Like this river?” “Drunk, why drunk? We don’t need to get “You still talk in metaphors.” Akash laughed. drunk. Don’t be juvenile, Sobhit. This is not “Broken dreams give rise to metaphors indeed.” college. And I need to finish some work anyway, Sobhit held his camera and looked at Akash. can’t afford to get drunk.”
Sobhit was silent when he looked up. Uncharacteristically silent. “Ok, let’s go and see the sunset at least.” Akash said.
“What? Nine job changes, don’t you get tired?” Akash stretched his legs. He didn’t see Sobhit “The master agrees. Chalo bhaiya.” Sobhit gave a mock salute to the boatman who was sitting looking away suddenly. and smoking a bidi outside their cottage. “Sir, your resort.” The boat stopped. An array of floating cottages greeted them, rocking gen- The backwaters opened out to the sea, and the tly, in rhythm with the green water. Akash spied unspoilt, golden sand beach that they stepped a hammock in the balcony, outside their cottage, on was devoid of the usual littering of a sea of the ducks greeting him with their version of an humans. The orange Sun looked like it would soon be busy taking a dip in the pristine sea be37
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yond the beach; the black dots of the fisher- the silence unbroken around him. Where did men’s boats now distant specks on the horizon. Sobhit go? He was too old to be playing hide and seek. Sobhit’s camera was already out. “Doesn’t the Sun look angry, Akash? Like it could gobble up “Sobhit, Sobhit?” Akash ran down the beach, the sea? And the his legs shaking sand? And still not now. be happy or satisHe stepped on fied?” shells, disturbed a “What nonsense.” pair of crabs, but Akash’s phone everything around beeped. His team. him was empty Akash walked and quiet. Too ahead; he found a quiet. Too empty. quiet spot further Sobhit was nodown the beach, where to be seen. away from Sobhit and his camera where he could sit and talk in Akash stepped over a black bag and stopped. Sobhit’s camera. He would not have left his peace. This update was important. camera anywhere. He was too fond of it. And “Boss, we discovered one more vault. There is anyway, he didn’t know swimming. more gold. This will be one of the biggest temUnless, did he…How could that be? He was ple treasures ever found in India.” always full of life. Sobhit, couldn’t, not here, not Akash jumped up, triumphant. He spoke rapidlike this. ly, giving terse commands and quick messages. “Yes, I will be back tomorrow. You guys keep Did he go back to the hotel? But he could not this secret for now.” Call over, he turned back have. There was no other way to leave. Akash to walk towards Sobhit and the Sun. This was a walked to the edge of the beach where their huge success for him. A miracle that would boat had dropped them. The boatman was sitboost his sagging research papers and dwindling ting alone. accolades. He would tell Sobhit. Now, where did “Sir, we have to go back to the hotel, fast,” the that guy go take his perfect sunset shot? boatman urged, pointing at the darkening sky. “Sobhit!” he called out. No answer.
“But my friend, did you see my friend?” Akash And yes, he would listen to Sobhit’s play as well. asked him, his voice shaking. But the boatman had been catching up on his sleep. He had not Trust him to turn playwright at this age. even looked up. Akash called the hotel manager. “Sobhit, you are missing the best shot of the Sobhit had not reached the hotel. The boatman Sun.” Silence. His skin tingled. Akash shivered, and Akash ran down the length of the small 38
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beach. Nothing. Akash had to return to the ho- wishing he had spoken, wishing he had asked, tel. and wishing again for that quiet moment on the beach before the quietness disappeared forever. By that time Akash reached the hotel, the police had arrived. Motorboats were patrolling on the Hours passed. The long night was over. The backwaters, out in the sea. No sign of Sobhit. hotel manager and the police looked exhausted. The search was far from over. Akash had to go Akash was still trembling, his own victory forback to his work, to the lost temple whose gold gotten, not bothering to wipe his tears that he had found. His team needed him. He wanted seemed to have lost all control. “But how could to stay, to find Sobhit. He wiped his sweat that you have not seen him, Sir?” The hotel manager had mingled with tears, tried in vain to straightkept asking the same question that was relenten his crumpled shirt as he walked to the jetty. lessly going through his own mind. He shook his head, picked up Sobhit’s camera and started His boat was ready, his luggage loaded. The holooking through the pictures. He flicked through tel staff looked at him. Mute questions, continidly. But what was this? These were the pictures ued silence. Did he imagine the suspicion in Sobhit had been so busy taking! their glance? The pictures seemed to tell a story. Each picture, Even the trees hugging the shore seemed to a scene of desolation. stare accusingly at him. Akash started, his sleepless mind playing tricks on him. Wasn’t that A lone crane flying away, a fishing boat moving Sobhit behind the tree? Or was that him by the away towards the horizon, a single crab halfbeach, picking up shells? Wasn’t Sobhit sitting buried in the sand, an empty bench, a broken by the river, catching fish? Or was that Sobhit swing, a fallen tree trunk - the images were endrunning, his hair flying behind him, running to less, the visuals were too stark, the pain only too taking a shot of the rising Sun? clear, now. There was no happy picture, no picture of his wife, no picture of his friends, no Akash hugged Sobhit’s camera and got on to the picture of happiness. boat without looking back again. Akash sat for hours, going through the pictures,
Debleeena blogs at debleena-roy.blogspot.in and has had articles published in Chillibreeze and eZinearticles.
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