Spark - November 2013 Issue by Spark Editor

Spark Word.World.Wisdom November 2013

Going Mobile Fiction | Non-fiction | Poetry | The Lounge 1

Spark窶年ovember 2013 | Going Mobile

05 November 2013 Dear Reader, Hope you enjoyed the festival season! How often did you use your mobile phone to call your dear ones, sending wishes across, clicking a picture and sharing it immediately - or filming fireworks on your phone? This month, we pay a tribute to 'Going Mobile'. Contributions span a range of ways in which the mobile phone plays such a large presence in our lives. Look out for heartwarming fiction and quirky poetry besides our usual dose of non-fiction. We hope you enjoy this issue and as always, we look forward to hearing from you on what you thought about Spark this month. Do send us your comments to feedback@sparkthemagazine.com.

Contributors

- Editorial team

Sudha Nair

Anupama Krishnakumar Archita Suryanarayanan Parth Pandya Pranusha Kulkarni

Vani Viswanathan Vinita Agrawal

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

Concept, Editing and Design Anupama Krishnakumar Vani Viswanathan Coverpage Picture

Spark November 2013 ﾂｩ Spark 2013

Dominik Syka

Individual contributions ﾂｩ Author CC licensed pictures attribution available at www.sparkthemagazine.com Published by Viswanathan

Anupama

Krishnakumar/Vani

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Spark窶年ovember 2013 | Going Mobile

Inside this Issue POETRY I’ll Marry My Mobile Phone by Pranusha Kulkarni For Whom the Cell Tolls by Parth Pandya FICTION A Mobile Phone for Patti by Anupama Krishnakumar Always On by Vani Viswanathan Phone for Ammu by Sudha Nair The Case of a Man and a Woman by Anupama Krishnakumar NON-FICTION ‘I Need No Paint Brushes!’ by Archita Suryanarayanan THE LOUNGE TURN OF THE PAGE| Blitzkrieg : Conquering Genres of Creativity by Vinita Agrawal

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Poetry I’ll Marry My Mobile Phone by Pranusha Kulkarni Youngsters today are highly addicted to their mobile phones so much so that they have cocooned themselves into a virtual world. Cell phones have grown to be their extended selves. Pranusha Kulkarni’s poem is a parody on how addicted they have become to this millennial gadget.

Sitting in my home alone, Friends ‘n family at the throw of a stone, Lost in the oblivious zone, Hey you, ‘m with my mobile phone!

Girl friend’s waitin’, guy friend’s textin’, Doin’ my status updatin’, the music gets me roller skatin’! Datin’, hatin’, baitin’, ‘n cheatin’, I do it all, with a heart elatin’!

Hey you, ‘m nomophobic, ‘N I’ll make you claustrophobic! You’re gonna be so agliophobic, That it’s all gonna be phobophobic!

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Don’t you dare touch my phone, You’ll go home with broken bones, Don’t you dare check my phone, Hey you, I love my mobile phone! *** I need no food, I need no water, Just some money, and my life’s all honey, A charger and a socket, ‘n all the world’s bygone, Hey you, get off my way, I’ll marry my mobile phone!

Pranusha Kulkarni is a fifth year student at the Karnataka State Law University’s Law School in Hubli. She blogs at http:// pranushakulkarni.blogspot.co m/

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Fiction A Mobile Phone for Patti by Anupama Krishnakumar In a work of fiction, Anupama Krishnakumar narrates the affectionate relationship that a grandmother and her grandchild share and how a mobile phone strengthens this bond. Read on.

Grandmother is no more. Pattamma Patti or Pattu Patti as I liked to call her is no more. It wasn’t an absolute shocker, given her age. But when I received the news from Appa over phone, I felt the lump heavily on my throat and I knew tears were readily stinging my eyes. This, from someone who is widely known as not being sentimental. The bond I shared with my grandmother was something special. Well, most of us do, you may say and I do not disagree. But why I specifically call the relationship special is because she remained, till the end, one of the very few persons I really, really was attached to. I am not a person who has many people in my life whose company I treasure. If you count them, even a dozen would seem too much and a bunch would be an absolutely ill-placed qualifier. If you get what I mean. The moment I heard the news about Grandmother, I flew down to Madras from Pune. My parents weren’t surprised. They knew that I wouldn’t miss my last chance to see patti in her

physical form. I hated the sight. Patti lying still? Come on, that was unheard of in all my years with her. Wasn’t she as busy as a bee despite her petite form? I quietly stood witness to all the rituals, looking at her pale face, recalling all my memories with her, hating the harshness of reality, trembling at the stony coldness of death, feeling a hitherto unfelt of bitterness and well, missing my grandmother. And in no time, she had become someone who existed only as a memory, a departed spirit, no longer in a form that one could relate to physically. When I entered her room. I shivered. The strangeness of the moment was daunting. Confusing. Gnawing. Exasperating. The pangs of absence ripped my heart. It confounded my deep sorrow. It made me feel worthless in a world that chose to chase meaningless things with a heart and mind that believed such acts as the essential nature of human life. Her death had been a rather peaceful one – something that anyone in their last years would pray earnestly for. She passed away during her 6

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afternoon nap without bothering anyone. It seemed like she slept and never woke up at all. It was so simple and yet absolutely strange. For, hadn’t I spoken to her a night before she died? On the mobile? The mobile that I had gifted her? Gifted her on drawing my first salary? The gift she had spent time thinking over and finally pronouncing it to me? The dream of an 80-year-old woman? She clearly told me that she wanted something simple. I found it amusing – the gift she chose to ask me when I told her I wanted to get her something from my first pay cheque. After all, her darling grandchild whom she had seen since day one was now all grown up and a software professional who earned handsomely. Why, a mobile, Patti? I had questioned her earnestly and she had responded with twinkling eyes that she could call me and I could call her whenever we wished while I was away at Pune for work. When I expressed doubt over how she would learn to use it, she had laughed and answered, ‘Darling, I have raised six children. This mobile phone is no big challenge!’ And so, I bought her a rather simple phone (despite her reassurances that she could master any kind of technology) without too many frills and fancies. But since she was particularly insistent, I chose something with a QWERTY keyboard (she wanted to send SMSs easily!) and a camera (come on, what’s a mobile phone without pictures? She had questioned).

When I placed the new mobile phone in her hands, she was fascinated. So fascinated that she examined it by turning it around repeatedly with the excitement of a child handed a new toy. Like an eager student, she soon learnt the basic ways of operating the mobile, picking calls, dialling numbers, seeing messages, charging the device, and of course, using the camera. And once I left, she would speak to me everyday – I would call her mostly and sometimes, she would ring to find out how I was doing. Her questions to me were more or less the same each day – did you eat?, is your health alright?, are you working over time?, did you pray?, when are you coming to Madras next?, and so on. Thus we bonded, carrying the thread of closeness forward over thousands of miles through calls aided by a device that my grandmother considered magical. A blessing this is, she mentioned to me once, I can’t believe I am talking to you everyday. This, she said, was something unimaginable during her younger days. We spoke and we looked forward to it every day, till the night before she breathed her last. Now, as I sit on her bed looking around the room she inhabited, I feel a sense of loneliness. I carefully look at each of her possessions – a spectacle case, a notebook, two pens, a bowl of fruits, a water bottle that still holds some water – the remaining amount of what she would have probably drunk one last time, a Bhagavad Gita book, a picture of my grandfather and …her 7

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mobile phone, the one I gifted her, the one on which she spoke to me, the one that was her last gift. With trembling hands, I pick the phone up and look through – last dialled numbers, received calls, SMSs – loads of them junk that Patti hadn’t cared to delete. Something within urged me to open the images folder and I realised she had tried her hand at photography too, trying to click pictures of things she was attached to, pictures from her window of the street outside, the people there…I smile despite the haunting sadness of her absence – she indeed used her mo-

bile phone, used it well indeed. While I am looking through the pictures, the phone suddenly bursts into a song – it is M.S. Subbulakshmi singing Kurai Ondrum Illai – it’s a call from an unknown number. I pick it up and a lady’s voice talks briskly – ‘ Is it Mrs. Pattamal? I would like to talk to you about a retirement scheme.’ I stay quiet and the person calling sounds confused and slightly annoyed. ‘Hello, hello..Mrs. Pattamal….can you hear me?’ she asks twice. I let out a deep sigh and cut the call.

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 Always On by Vani Viswanathan Vani Viswanathan captures four different moods from using mobile phones, through four byte-sized stories. Amma There?? Yes Which of these is good? <Image 1> <Image 2> <Image 3> Whatar you buyign it 4 Just felt like it. Tell me quick! Second one is lik what v gt 4 last yrs Diwali K. The other 2? Which one do u like? Both. Can’t decide. That’s why I’m asking you! Like third one a little more. Never bought yellow bef. Thats what I ws thnking Number 3 then? Yes :D Okbye! Love you :*

His parents, Smriti’s parents, and Smriti’s brother will surely want to see this. “Ayush is at the other end, all ready to run. The kid in a blue tee-shirt and dark blue jeans.” He zooms in on Ayush, to highlight him from the other kids milling about in the area. “This is a 50-metre race, and Ayush is running with other kids chosen across KG 1.” The whistle blows. The children start running, some a few seconds later, looking around in bewilderment as their friends take off. Ayush runs as fast as his little legs carry him, and he swings his baby arms forward and back swiftly. Vishal giggles. Ayush looks hilarious – and dead serious about his run. Vishal’s giggles are being recorded too. Huffing and puffing, the child runs forward. Vishal cheers, looking at the tiny Ayush – on the screen – running towards the finish line. The ******* child is among the early finishers, and pants for Vishal has the camera turned on and ready. The a few seconds before he spots his father. children are at the far end of the ground, getting “Papa! PAPAA!!” ready to run 50 metres. He begins recording. “Congrats, buddy!” Vishal says, showing a 9

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thumbs-up sign, all the while looking at a grin- The way he was flustered, excited and nervous ning Ayush – on the screen, seeding the video now… he remembered high school days when online to send it to the relatives. he secretly adored Stan, but was unable to speak with him. He would collapse into a bundle of ******* nerves whenever he saw Stan, who pretended to Juggling her purse, laptop bag and her lunch not be even remotely bi-curious. And to find bag, ear phones in hers ears, she struggles into him today on Grindr was a victory of sorts for the train. Her leaning corner, right by the door, Vic. “Ha!” he says. He taps on Stan’s picture. is free! She makes a dash for it before the other Stan’s wearing a crisp black suit, a white shirt woman inching towards it. A look of triumph underneath, with cufflinks. The man had style. on her face, she pulls out her phone and loads Deep brown hair, matching his deep brown Twitter. Soon, a host of websites are opened up, eyes. Is a lawyer. Stan. Intimidating as ever. Vic making the phone browser hang. She patiently wonders if he can do it. Memories of being ragrestarts it, and starts reading. Election favourite ged to humiliation in high school – by a party polls. The latest ‘undiscovered’ travel spots. Re- led by Stan, no less – come back to home. You view of the movie she wants to watch the com- know how torturous high school can be! Is it ing weekend. A beautiful essay on the – wait for time for redemption, Vic wonders. Would it! – comma! She loves that she can get so much things have changed? Taking a deep breath, Vic from following the right people on Twitter. Her informs Stan of his location. Twitter account is not for tweeting useless updates about what she had for dinner or the song Stan gets a ping. A ‘Vic,’ somewhere close by. she’s hooked on to, no ma’am! As a new mother He clicks on the profile. A well-built, muscular to a three-month-old who keeps her awake all man, leans against a surf-board. Nice tan, sunnight, even after her ten hour-long day at work, glasses, and a charming, disarming smile. Why Twitter on the train is when she gets her dose of does Stan feel a stab of familiarity? Met him news, views and the latest in the world of litera- somewhere downtown, maybe. Stan responds to ture. She was so happy when smart phone pric- the ping, asking Vic if he would like to come es were slashed like crazy – she could have nev- down to the club where he is. er had the heart to spend a few tens of thousands on a phone. Before she knows it, it’s time for her to get down. There, a 52-minute-long journey, gone by like a breeze. ******* Vic’s heart races when he spots a familiar face on Grindr as moving somewhere close by. Stan! How long has it been since he had seen Stan? 10

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

Spark窶年ovember 2013 | Going Mobile

Non-fiction ‘I Need No Paint Brush!’ by Archita Suryanarayanan Archita Suryanarayanan spots a child doing up a drawing on his mother’s smartphone. The incident prompts her to mull over how mobile phones draw people more and more into a virtual world particularly with their technological excellence. She writes down her thoughts in a piece of non-fiction. I dipped a brush into a bottle of blue paint, and then into water in a small steel bowl, watching a circle of light blue form around the brush. And then, I ran it across a sheet of white paper, watching a line of dark blue streak the blank sheet. This was a decade back. Now I see a child seated opposite me in the train, he is using his mother’s tablet-phone. He is selecting from digital boxes of colours and draws using his forefinger after selecting a brush thickness. There is no mess of paint, no newspaper underneath that is filled with test streaks of various shapes, no bowl of water that attains green-grey hues after the odd mix of colours dipped onto it. There is no palette where the black paint remains stubbornly unwashed, no assortment of brushes lying about. I peep a little and watch what the child is drawing on the tablet- the ‘scenery’ we all drew over and over again in our childhood. The two mountains, neat equilateral triangles, and the sun rising perfectly from the centre with long, spiky

rays. There are three birds flying amidst a couple of clouds, a narrow, meandering river in front of which is a small hut. The hut has a tiny door and symmetrical windows, and a spire of smoke rises up from the chimney. There’s also a stick figure of a boystanding, watching the fish in the river. *** The boy inside the drawinghas never seen a phone. There are notelephone lines outside his house, and there are no gadgets constantly beeping inside. His mother is not checking recipes on a smartphone while cooking, and then sharing a picture of the cooked delicacy with a hundred people thousands of miles away. No one in his little world is using that little device that can be kept in your pocket and allows you to ‘connect’ with thousands in the virtual world, but cuts you off from the real world. ‘Sharing’ for the boy inside the drawingmeans dividing a sweet in two to give a friend;he has not heard of virtual‘sharing’ - his experiences are not instantly

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communicated to a bunch of people who couldn’t care less. He has ten friends who play with him under the skies, who lie on the grass with him and count stars at night. To him, memories includea sign scratched on a rockbehind the house, not seventyphotographsclicked on a smart phone that do nothing to immortalise the moment. Laughter is shouting out with cheer while playing a game orthrowing stones into a river, nottyped hollowsounding syllablesor graphical smileys. His‘group’isnot a set of individualswho use an ’app’ that gets them chatting with each other while they forget realpeople around them but folks who hang about when it really matters. His ‘group’ ran on the fresh sand leaving footprints that weren’t digital. They looked at the clouds and spotted whimsical animals, they woke up to bird sounds and smelt the change in seasons through the flowers, they dreamt, they imagined, for they couldn’t always see. They

read books about secret passages and magic potions and saw the secret passages and magic potions in their heads. They heard stories of African jungles and saw the thickets of trees in their heads. They didn’t ‘google’ everything on a smartphone, they didn’t need ‘apps’ to teach them colours, they saw their first green on an early morning leaf and their first lilac in the evening sky. *** The train halted at a station and the child drawing the picture ‘saved’ the picture on the phone and got down; he would not look at it again. He would not have dusty sheets of paintings stored under a bed in his house. He will not discover it one day ten years later and smile at his childish strokes. His painting will soon be lost in the digital labyrinth. As will his innocence, as will his experience of the real world.

Archita Suryanarayanan is an avid reader and aspiring writer, a student of journalism and an architect. A mixture of opposites, for her, the mundane often becomes magical. She hopes to capture through writing, those fleeting moments that make everything else worth it.

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Fiction Phone for Ammu by Sudha Nair Ammu, married only six months to Manoj, who lives in another country, longs to know him better. The muted conversations they have on the phone as his parents sit listening around her aren't helping. A mobile phone comes to the rescue.

"Phone for Sister Ammu," the nurse at the reception yelled across the hallway. Ammu was sorting out the patients' files in the ward when she heard her name being called out. She ran towards the phone, surprised. She rarely got calls at the hospital where she worked, especially at night. "Hello?" "Ammu, it's me." The familiar sexy voice sent blood rushing to her face. It was Manoj, her husband, calling long distance from Saudi Arabia. Ammu pulled the telephone cord a little further from the desk and spoke softly, as she did when Manoj called at home. "Hey, it's night duty today," she said, happy to hear his voice. "That's why I called you there," he said. "It's so difficult to talk to you at home when amma and achan are constantly hovering around you."

home regularly thrice a week and his parents were always in the living room near the phone, at the pre-ordained time, waiting eagerly to speak to their son, to know if he was doing okay or if he was working himself too hard. They would repeat the same questions every time he called, asking what he had eaten for breakfast, lunch, and dinner, if he was sleeping well. His father often advised him about saving more and sending money home for investments in realestate that he claimed would secure Manoj's future, while his mother coaxed him to cook his own meals and to avoid eating out too often. It was odd that they were so involved with his dayto-day affairs, in spite of the fact that he had lived abroad alone for nearly two years. When the phone was handed to her reluctantly, or so it seemed, all she could manage to say were a few "Yesâ&#x20AC;?es to his affectionate queries without feeling embarrassed and flustered by the audience How had he known? she wondered. Maybe it close by. Did his parents not realise her need to was the soft tone of her voice and the few be alone with him? Did they forget the feverish words she spoke whenever he called. He rang excitement newlyweds would have? Anyway she 14

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dismissed these dismal thoughts quickly. "I only have a few minutes," she said, sighing, wishing she had more private time with him. It was just six months since their wedding. Their engagement and wedding had been conducted in quick succession on his previous visit to Kochi, and after the wedding he had returned to Saudi without her. She knew she couldn't accompany him to Saudi. He had told her so even before they were married. Then it had not seemed to matter, but now it weighed heavily on her mind. They had barely had any time alone, she thought wistfully. He broke into her thoughts. "I am coming home for Onam. What should I get for you, chakkare?" Sweet jaggery - that's what he liked to call her. She felt a new wave of longing, the exhilaration of seeing him again. A fifteen day vacation was all he could take every six months at his job as an electrical supervisor. "Could I窶ｦwould you buy me a mobile phone?" she said, blurting out the thought that had struck her and lingered in her mind for a few months now. "Malathi, my colleague got it, and she speaks to her husband almost every day," she said. She didn't know anybody else who owned a mobile phone; it was much of a novelty those days. When she'd seen Malathi's new mobile phone she was awed; it was all she could think of for days. She didn't know how to mention it to Manoj, and when. She wanted to speak

to Manoj every day; it was only natural. She felt she still did not know him as much as she longed to. She had wondered about the side of his life that was unknown to her, his working hours and what he did during his free time, what he ate, when he slept, and what he wore to work. She had wanted to share funny anecdotes about the hospital and her friends, or complain about the sheer magnitude of work sometimes. With no means of communication with him, he was as alien to her today as he had been six months ago. Many men who worked in Saudi, she had heard, staying away from their families for decades. The thought scared her. What if he became one of those men, and she could never communicate her feelings to him? What if she never got a chance? He seemed to be considering her request. "Ok let me see," he said casually, yet a spark of hope surged within her. "Can I have a goodnight kiss now?" he teased. "Umma." Ammu longed for a hot shower when she came home exhausted the next morning. She turned on the water and as it cascaded on her shoulders and down her legs she felt the tiredness melt away from her limbs. She lathered her body slowly, taking her time. All was quiet except for the soft patter of water. Images of Manoj slowly trickled into her thoughts. It was a bumpy

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bus ride on their honeymoon to Munnar. It was a much-needed escape from a house full of wedding guests. She remembered vividly the breath-taking view from Kochi to Munnar as their bus went winding through the zigzag hairpin bends overlooking rolling hills carpeted with green, lush tea plantations. A train of large, wispy clouds leaned in so close to their window, merely a touch away, slowly gathering in the distance into darker, grey puffs that threatened a downpour. The constant bumping against each other was turning them both on. They reached their room just in time as the skies opened, as torrents of rain came gushing down, drowning all other sounds. Then in a maddening rush, with an urgency that could not have been withheld any longer, they tore at each other's clothes, desperate to make love while the winds howled and thunder clapped ceremoniously outside. As the rapid, fervent raindrops beat down against their window pane and a sweet, muddy fragrance emanated from the earth, on that cool, wet, stormy evening, Ammu and Manoj were swept away in their own sweat, saliva and passion. Abruptly, grabbing onto the metal bar in the shower Ammu squeezed her eyes shut, as she suddenly felt a shudder radiating through her body. She reckoned, as she turned off the shower slowly that it would be another agonising night without Manoj, and a long, agonising week before he arrived. When Manoj finally arrived, he had a sleek, shiny phone for Ammu. "For my chakkara," he kissed her passionately. "Now we can talk in private every day," he said, hugging her and squeezing her bum fondly. It was a thrilling moment for both. Now that he was here, she had taken off from

work; they visited relatives, went for movies, dinners, to the beach. Every night they made warm, urgent love that was driven by the need to make the most of their time together. "Ask him to look for a job elsewhere so he can take you along," her parents advised her. She never got a chance. Two weeks of his vacation passed quickly. Soon time was up, and she felt a desolate lump in her chest as she bade him goodbye. Her new phone was her only hope at intimacy now for the next six months. "Chakkare," he told her during his routine call home, later that night. "Go to your room and pick up on the first ring." She did, but as soon as she heard his voice she broke into sobs. "Shh窶ｦI'm with you now. Don't cry," he said, whispering endearments until she calmed down. Her heart still felt heavy. "Do you remember Cherai beach?" he was saying. "Your eyes were lit up like a child's as the waves rode up your legs, as they crashed higher and higher almost reaching your chest," he chuckled. She felt instantly better at the recollection of that evening. "You were such a gorgeous sight to behold, your wet hair sticking to your sand-streaked yet adorable face," he chuckled again. "And there was such a thrill in your laugh every time the waves came at us and as we both tottered trying to find firm ground. You held my hands so tightly the whole time. And when the sun was about to set, you stood gazing at it until it sank, transfixed. And I watched you as you watched the sunset and at that moment I realised what a fool I had been to have you and yet not want to spend every moment with you. And all the way back here I've only been tortured by those

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thoughts. The gentle jingle of your bangles as you brought my coffee, the smell of camphor mixed with jasmine in your wet hair, the soft touch of your fingers, the sweet whispers in my ears, the sight of you every morning making me want to pull you back into bed. All of it is driving me crazy." Ammu lay down on her bed, letting out a deep sigh and a giggle simultaneously at the joy gurgling within. Suddenly they had so much to tell each other, and laugh about, and talk away that night. She could feel a warm tingle in her bones when they finally said goodbye. She sank deep into her bed, closed her eyes and let herself drift. At last she now had him all to herself. She could speak to him to her heart's content, revelling in their fantasies, deliberating on their future. She could broach what her parents had recommended; suggest that they consider Dubai perhaps, where a friend had moved. The possibilities of a happily married life now seemed immediate and bright, not a bleak, distant future. She'd accompany him the next time; she

just knew it in her heart. She could see their plane take off over the Arabian Sea, a train of large, wispy clouds leaning in close to their window, merely a touch away, the two of them soaring higher and higher, towards a new shore. They'd be together. Together and happy, soon.

Sudha, a mother of two, is constantly trying to pursue new avenues to push her creative boundaries. A chronic daydreamer, she is in awe of people who have followed their heart. Sudha is passionate about music, fitness, her family, and most recently, writing.

Spark窶年ovember 2013 | Going Mobile

Fiction The Case of a Man and a Woman by Anupama Krishnakumar Meera and Siddharth are reeling from the sting of their first fight. They stare at their mobile phones, aching for the other's call. And then a call arrives... Anupama Viswanathan tells the story. ‘Don’t play that guitar again,’ she screamed only to realize a moment later that there was after all no sound at all, except for the low whoosh of the gentle evening breeze; not even the strum of a guitar. But she had heard it just a little ago and his voice – she had heard that too. His intoxicating voice singing her favourite song, his intoxicating voice that had held the audience in trance for many years now, his intoxicating voice that made her go dizzy with love. There was no trace of that voice too. Then why did she imagine it? She stared at her mobile phone that had not buzzed even once since morning. How much she waited to see the words, ‘Sid calling’! Or at least ‘One message received’. She stood in the balcony with a cup of coffee in her hand, the coffee getting colder by the minute. But she didn’t seem to mind; didn’t seem to really realize that the coffee was growing cold. She hated it when coffee went cold; she liked it steaming hot, just off the stove. Yet, today, it didn’t bother her; it didn’t matter to her. What ran in her mind was just this: why did

she imagine she heard him play the guitar and sing to her? She flopped into the bamboo swing that was swaying very, very gently, egged on by the breeze, and stared into the distance. Siddharth, the eminent guitarist and playback singer and she – Meera, his faithful friend, lovable lover, and wistful wife, just as he called her, had had a big fight in the morning – what would have otherwise been a peaceful and romantic Sunday morning. And if there was ever a book of firsts that she would maintain – this would go in as the first fight post marriage. What a nightmare of a beginning it had been to the day – Siddharth had yelled and walked out of the house not even looking at her face once – perhaps if he had, he would have reconsidered his decision; surely the tears that were streaming down her cheeks would have melted his heart or so she believed – that much of pity was still left in him. Meera thought of the days when she and Siddharth were so blissfully in love. Then she had

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imagined a beautiful life ahead and was so desperate to tie the knot – like those fairy tale stories where she saw nothing short of a ‘happily ever after’ life post their marriage. And, that wasn’t many months back. Now, well, here she was, finding herself wandering around like a lost child, in the huge spaces of her mind. What was it that had changed? After all, didn’t she always think both she and Siddharth were here to break the rotten beliefs that accompanied marriage? The silly man woman differences that people spoke about with an unwanted vivacity? Philosophy irritated her to no end and today she sat thinking just about life – philosophy became the much wanted agony aunt. Meera’s mind wandered. She suddenly wanted to be close to her mother – lie down on her lap and she wanted her father’s bear hug, which every time that she had been wrapped in, had made her feel the most secure in the entire world. And as the thoughts trickled down like little drops of rain on a glass window, fear and agony gripped her throat. She felt like she had just swallowed a glass splinter which had rammed inside her throat, ready to choke her mercilessly to death. Slowly, the reckless mind began replaying the happenings of the morning. ‘Let’s drive down to Lonavla today,’ Meera had said, as she had drawn the pale green and yellow striped curtains apart to let the morning sun

filter into the room. Hearing no response from her better half, she had jumped on the half-asleep Siddharth and sprinkled some water from the jug on the side table, on his face. ‘Won’t you listen?’ she had giggled. Cold annoyance – that’s what she had met with in return, followed by an enraged conversation that had left Meera bursting into tears and Siddharth storming out of the house. *** Siddharth sat looking at the setting sun. He found the sun’s orange blissfully soothing – calming his agitated mind. The disturbing conversation from the morning played on before his eyes for the nth time that day. ‘Meera, don’t you know how to behave?’ ‘What..I mean... I was just fooling around!’ ‘Precisely. You think you can do whatever you wish and get away with it.’ ‘Now, come on, Siddharth... I...’ Tears. ‘Now, there you go. All you women… you always start something and get away with tears.’ ‘Stop it, Siddharth. You men are so efficient in blowing up things. You are all fine before marriage... and once you have had a taste of it, you are bored…’ ‘What shit! What do you expect me to say? That you early morning nagging and your silly act of throwing water on my face should be awarded

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hugs and kisses?’ ‘Oh... so you are already tired of me? That hugs and kisses have now become privileges to be awarded? I should have known.’ ‘Known what?’ ‘That you are no different from another man. You don’t know what it is to love a woman.’ ‘And what are you..? All but a nagging, selfish, self-absorbed woman.’ ‘Just get lost, you god-damn idiot! Just get lost.’ ‘Shit. I realise why people say women are a bloody pain.’ He had muttered those lines, stormed into the washroom, brushed, bathed, changed and walked out. *** Meera sat and watched two little kittens playing around in the garden. She smiled unconsciously. They were cute. And the sight suddenly calmed her down. She reflected on what had happened earlier that day – for the first time from the point of view of what she had done and not from the point of view of how Siddharth would have reacted during another time. Perhaps she was just having fun throwing water – nothing wrong with that, she felt, the problem was with the way she had reacted. She could have probably been more patient in handling his question – ‘don’t you know how to behave?’ And then maybe, things wouldn’t have been as bad. She looked longingly at the framed photograph that was lying near the bed. Honeymoon picture. They were beaming. *** Siddharth looked at his phone – he had changed it to silent mode and slipped into his back pocket in the morning and forgotten about it. He

pulled it out. He looked at the wallpaper and smiled. Honeymoon picture. They were beaming. There were five missed calls – none from Meera. In one passing second, he felt the stupidity claw at his heart. He needn’t have over reacted, needn’t have prolonged that conversation. Unnecessary words needn’t have tumbled out. All of it dawned on him this quiet moment as the birds chirped their ways back to their nests. He dialled her number. *** Meera walked up to the terrace to get some air. Her phone rang. ‘Sid Calling…’ Just as she turned, trembling, she saw him – sitting there, right in the terrace. He looked up at her from where he sat. She walked up to him and sat next to him. Birds dotted the darkening sky and the moon began to rise. Silence filled the space between them. ‘You were here, all day?’ she finally asked. ‘Yes.’ ‘Did you eat?’ ‘No, did you?’ ‘No.’ Silence again. ‘You couldn’t even call once..’her voice trailed off. ‘Meera…’ ‘I know I shouldn’t have talked that way..’,’but..’ ‘I know..am..sor..’ Suddenly, she jumped over and sealed his lips with hers. The ‘ry’ never escaped his lips. Up in the sky, the moon beamed.

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Poetry For Whom the Cell Tolls by Parth Pandya Parth Pandya captures the various ways in which mobile phones feature in our lives, through haikus.

An invalid man Forever bed-ridden, talks On his mobile phone

She loved a good drive She loved a good drive with gin Knocked them down like pins

A face beams at me Smiling, I pick up the phone “Hi!” an angry voice

Pigs knocked off by birds Level cleared. Pumped fist. “Hurray” Baby cries alone

A flight touches down People wake up with glee the Phones they put to sleep Sword ready to strike Tense wait while the screen turns red A loud cell phone ring Girl gives boy her love Girl gives him vivid photo Permanent regret I sNt u a msg I knw Dat u wud luv it Nly If u NdRstud it

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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The Lounge

November 2013 22

Spark窶年ovember 2013 | Going Mobile

Turn of the Page

Blitzkrieg : Conquering Genres of Creativity by Vinita Agrawal

Vinita Agrawal reviews Blitzkrieg, a “mesmerising presentation of art” that goes beyond being a collection of poems.

Blitzkrieg by John Gosslee Rain Mountain Press Publication 2013 Blitzkrieg is an unusual title for a poetry book. It literally means - an intense military campaign aimed to bring about swift victory. John Gosslee's collection of poems, like its title, is a poetry book with a difference. After all, how many books of poems does one come across that resemble a multimedia presentation? The book is exactly that. Apart from poetry, it contains prose, sketches, illustrations, painting and photography. Does that leave anything out? Music, perhaps? Actually even that is taken care of by presenting a link to the acoustical landscape. The first chapter is set to electronic music

by classically trained Taras Mashtalir of Machine Libertine. The poetry on the page is vibrantly read out utilising 21st Century genres, techniques and digitized voice. The book provides a link to the same: "LISTEN AND WATCH COMPOSER TARAS MASHTALIR’S MUSICAL SCORE AND FILMMAKER ROBERTA HALL’S ADAPTION BLITZKRIEGHQ.COM" In the words on the website devoted to the book - 'At a time when the media says that the book is dying, John Gosslee’s Blitzkrieg is a genre-transcending book; the project features each of the traditional arts executed in a nontraditional way to deliver a beautiful assault on the senses...to demonstrate that books are alive and well.'

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A preface like three-liner verse sets the mood for a journey in self-recrimination or perhaps incrimination: Father, deliver me. I am a pelican that has swallowed the fish being reeled in by the fisherman *** The book has a detailed story of migration in its core poem “Portrait of an Inner Life” (which is at the heart of the book) about how it almost didn't make it with publishers, until one fine day - it just did. Other poets reading this book who face rejection of their work, would take heart from the honest confessions regarding the journey of this poem. The poem has only eight lines but is candid to the core. It holds the book together, deconstructing larger meanings out of innocuously superimposed images of small vs. large, danger vs. aggression and emptiness vs. form. published in Rattle #37, 2012 and used for critia mansion cism by Rattle editor Timothy Green, poet Morinside a hovel ri Creech, and translator and poet Steven Komarnyckyj. Later in the book, he or she is treatan elephant ed to Yumi Sakugawa's pencil sketches of the trapped in a swallow images thrown out by this poem. The combination of a cornucopia of creative the claw arts makes the book enchanting and enticing at the end of a roar and gives it an edge over other poetry books in terms of format. a knob The striking thing about Gosslee's poetry is its without a door stunning imagery. His use of words is minimum - no poem is more than a dozen lines, yet within *** this brevity he manages to slide a plethora of The reader is duly informed that the poem was images before the reader's eyes: 24

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At one point you get "ripped off by mosquitoes in black bandanas" In another poem titled Rebirth, he says Or hear "rain drums outdoor restaurant tables"

'a drop of water on an ash leaf pearls into a magnifying glass'

Or And in “Silent” see "a troupe of lamb, zucchini and cranberries bundle a fork" 'an old man on the metro train coughs into a beige handkerchief Gosslee's visualisations of situations are ex- he is the first person to look at me all night' tremely poetic and laced with wry derision. In a *** poem titled “I Stop Like An Axe Flung Into A There is an interesting twist of a poem at the Tree,” he says end of the Poetry section in the book. Gosslee, tongue in cheek, constructs a new verse from I arrive at the bridge and the shadow is a deer the lines of the previous poems. Maybe he it jumps and we look at each other wants to prove that poems are a fluid mysteries hooves scuttle towards a knoll open to any interpretation both by the reader the mound of spirit collapses and the writer. I stop like an axe flung into a tree my hand on the deer’s neck rests Towards the end of the book appears a bald-art its antlers point at the constellations collection of photographs by Brandon Mcrea and I raise my head to see which ones depicting poems’ literally-held like messages in a *** bottle, beer ads, soup cans, a gate, machines etc. The photos add vim, vigour and verve to the His creativity drips with attitude and it is for this book and carry forward the stark, dark spirit of reason that one does not miss the complete lack commonplace life as viewed by the creative eye. of punctuation in his work. Overall, Blitzkrieg is a mesmerising presentation of art that has as much to read as to view, as In “A Water Can Sprays A Flowerbed City,” he much to reflect as to digest and as much in form writes: as in substance. 'mismatched flowers pivot on their stems to see More details of the book can be seen at my empty boots fill with cold soup as I ascend' www.fjordsreview.com

Vinita Agrawal is a Delhi-based writer and poet and has been published in international print and online journals. 25

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Spark窶年ovember 2013 | Going Mobile