Spark WORD. WORLD. WISDOM October 2014
Desire Fiction | Non-fiction | Poetry | Art | Photography | The Lounge
05 October 2014 Dear Reader,
Contributors
We are pleased to present to you, the October 2014 issue of Spark that explores the theme ‘Desire’. A very fascinating theme, isn’t it? We promise you will agree with us more when you check out the stories, poetry, essays, art and photography we have for you this month. It’s a lovely spread that is reflective and thought-provoking at the same time, weaving in different facets of Desire – ranging from simple to materialistic to spiritual. Don’t miss this issue! Before we sign off, we wish you a very happy and sparkling Diwali!
Debleena Roy
– Editorial Team
Gauri Trivedi Goutam Bhattacharya Maheswaran Sathiamoorthy Parth Pandya Preeti Madhusudhan M. Mohankumar Rajlakshmi Kurup Ray Iyer Rrashima Swaroop Varma
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.
RK Biswas
Spark October 2014 © Spark 2014
Vinita Agrawal
Individual contributions © Author CC licensed pictures attribution available at www.sparkthemagazine.com Published by Viswanathan
Anupama
Krishnakumar/Vani
editors@sparkthemagazine.com Powered by Pothi.com
Runes Subbaram Danda Sudha Nair
Coverpage Picture See Ming Lee Concept, Editing and Design Anupama Krishnakumar Vani Viswanathan
Inside this Issue POETRY Thirst by Runes Waves of Desire by M. Mohankumar Wake Me Up by Ray Iyer Crossing the Line by Vinita Agrawal FICTION A Flutter of the Heart by Sudha Nair In the Absence of Desire by Preeti Madhusudhan Sonia’s Dēsīderāre by Rrashima Swaroop Verma A Bedtime Story by Debleena Roy NON-FICTION The Destination of Desires by Subbaram Danda To Write or Not to Write by Gauri Trivedi Living With Desire by Rajlakshmi Kurup That Little Blue Car by Parth Pandya THE LOUNGE TURN OF THE PAGE | Dilli—A review by RK Biswas SLICE OF LIFE | Of Momos and Jaa by Goutam Bhattacharya PHOTOGRAPHY Longings of a Lifetime by Maheswaran Sathiamoorthy ART She by Captain TwinkySpiff & Ray Iyer
Poetry
Thirst by Runes
Coffee and kissing are such pleasurable acts writes Runes in her short and sweet poem on Desire. Read on.
Let me drink off those Caffeine scented lips Staying unsure of Which intoxicates more. And in between let me pause And sip on my own cup Breathing in the brown scent And remnants of your breath Coffee and kissing Such pleasurable acts A sensorial overload and sin My thirst, seamlessly blending Your lips and my brew!
Runes is a part-human part-fairy who eternally ruminates on the idea of love. She lives in her bubble singing songs, reading, writing and fighting her inner demons!
4
Spark—October 2014 | Desire
A Flutter of the Heart
Fiction
by Sudha Nair Sudha Nair tells the story of a woman whose boring life of regular sounds, voices and bustle is changed by a serendipitous encounter.
Maya awoke to the sound of the faint, faraway tinkle of the morning temple bells. As she entered her kitchen, a hungry pigeon was already perched on her windowsill cooing and pecking at the glass until she sprinkled some leftover rice for it to eat. There was a soft thwack of the newspaper at her doorstep which meant that the young boy was doing the rounds today; his father was probably unwell. The persistent ringing of the bicycle bell indicated the milkman was late today and she better hurry up and bring out her pail. All the sounds around her meant something to her, lent a familiarity to the bustle around her. She could discern if her husband was tired by the gruffness in his voice, or if her mother-inlaw was irritated, by the brusqueness in hers. She hated some sounds like the blaring horns outside her street and the incessant snoring of her husband all night. But she loved voices the most of all. The laughter-filled voices of her sisters and friends gave her immense joy, and the calm voice of her mother help soothe her frayed nerves.
constant whirring of the fan above her head, the hum of people walking in and out of the office, the overworked office boy's chappals clattering as he walked from desk to desk carrying files, trays of coffee and lunches. The only voice she heard was her boss's, asking for some clarification on numbers which didn't tally. She reminded herself that morning, as she fixed her morning coffee, that her kitchen needed to be fixed, wincing at the thought that she'd forgotten again to call the tile company about new flooring. The tiles looked old and boring just as she herself felt, although she was in no mood to alter the drabness and lack of vigour she felt about her life. She moved like a robot some days, cooking the same repetition of vegetables for dinner, carrying out her routine chores with the kind of listlessness that bordered on boredom.
At work that afternoon, the phone at Maya's desk rang as usual. It was her husband, Ravi, who called every afternoon like clockwork. "What vegetables should I buy today?" he asked. In fact she loved voices so much she should He always liked to buy fresh vegetables for dinhave been working at a call-centre. Yet at fortyner every evening. two, she worked in a drab accounts office, sorting through numbers and files. There was the "Buy bhindi," Maya said. 5
Spark—October 2014 | Desire
"Again?" he said.
"This is my mother's number," he said then, sounding sheepish. "But you can call back to"I will be making it after a whole week," she morrow and I'll be here." said, a slight irritation lacing her voice. So, she had been right about his hesitation be"Oh well. Ok. Don’t forget to call the tile comfore. Maybe he had assumed that the female callpany though," he said, and disconnected. er was a friend of his mother's. "Can I have your She had made a list of three numbers. She decid- number so I can call you directly instead?" she ed to get down to it immediately and dialled the said. first. "Hi, I'm looking for Nitco tiles for my "Sure," he said, giving her his number and name. kitchen," she said. Vivek. "Sorry madam, we only stock Somany," said the Singing to herself as she cooked stuffed bhindi voice at the other end. for her husband and seventeen-year-old son that She had no luck with the second number either evening Maya's spirits felt slightly lifted. She was because it only kept ringing. in a joyous mood. She even slept peacefully that Someone picked up when she called the third night dreaming about her brand new kitchen tiles, never once hearing her husband's snores all number. night. "Hello?" she said. She sensed a very slight hesitation at the other end but she could have been During lunch break at work the next day, she dialled Vivek's number. He seemed happy to wrong. "Aishwarya Marbles?" she said. hear from her. She told him she had seen some A deep, throaty male voice at the other end said, kitchens online and went on to discuss the look "Yes." that she preferred. He replied to her queries For a moment, she was thrown by the richness about what colours he thought would go well of the voice but she pulled herself back together together and what flooring would be best for the quickly. "I'm looking for Nitco tiles for my kitchen. kitchen," she said. She listened intently as he spoke, each time lik"Yes madam. We have those. How can I help ing the way his 's'es sounded when he emphayou?" said the sexy voice, making her go weak in sized the ending of words like "choice," "tiles," "taste." Something about his tone and manner the knees. too gave her joy. The man had the tiles she was looking for. There was also something about that voice that made "When do you need this by?" he said. her feel reassured that she would be in good "In a month," she said. hands. Her lunch break was almost over so she told him she'd call back the next day for more A few days later Maya called Vivek again. He remembered her. details. "What do you call those tiles that are laid out in
between the kitchen shelves?" she asked him.
"Oh, I was visiting my mother," she said with a laugh. "It was long overdue unless I wanted to "Dado? Oh we have plenty of patterns to choose hear a barrage of complaints." from. You should come down to the store to take a look," he said. "Sounds like my mother although she sees me at the store every week," he said, and she could "Why do they call it dado?" she said. "It almost hear the smile in his voice. sounds like dodo." She felt a mild flutter in her He laughed. chest at the turn of their She liked the way he conversation, but dismissed laughed. She laughed the feeling. Did a middleback. "I'll pick a time to aged woman feel like that? come by," she said. "Let she wondered. "Look, you me call you tomorrow." shouldn’t talk about your mother like that," she said She sent a message to to Vivek. Vivek that night. This is Maya. Btw, I'm going out "Like what? She too likes of town tomorrow. I will to complain is all I'm saycall you next week. She felt a slight pinch of dis- ing," he said, laughing at his own joke like a appointment at his terse reply. Ok. naughty child. "Look, I'm really looking forward She was going to her mother's. The thought of to your visit," he said. leaving her husband to cook his own meals always made her uncomfortable. Neither did she like the change in her routines. But as always the weekend flew by with her counting the days when she would get back. She missed the familiar sounds of her home and especially the new voice that had been a source of delight in the last few days. Back at work, she called Vivek again. After dialling his number, she realised she had nothing new to say. She hadn’t scheduled a date for the tiling, or chosen the colours, or picked a date to go to the store. What was she going to say to him? He picked up before she had a chance to disconnect. "Did you have a good holiday?" he asked.
She blushed although it had been the most ordinary thing to say. It wasn’t like he was asking her on a date or something. Two days passed and she didn’t call him. She couldn’t understand her own rampant thoughts. Did those brief fifteen minutes over the past several days now signify anything? A few times their conversation had even strayed towards casual talk. She knew his mother visited the store once every week, and cooked excellent biryani, and that it was Vivek's favourite dish too. She couldn’t get over his voice or their afternoon tête-à-tête. There couldn’t be any harm in making a friend, could there? Or in adding a new voice to her happy voices list? But what would Ravi think? That his forty-two-year-old wife
from an eighteen-year-old marriage was behav- away. She would make the auto wait as she made ing like a silly school girl? a quick drop-in at the store. Just one glimpse, she promised herself. A week passed. She had started to pay more attention to the way she dressed now. She had There was no-one but a girl at the reception. even bought herself a few new saris. It had been Inside, she was quite mesmerised by the rows ages since she had bothered about her appear- and rows of tile displays on the walls. She heard ance. Even Ravi had begun to wonder what was him behind her after a minute. "May I help you, happening to her lately. Today she applied a little madam?" She hadn’t heard or seen him come in. gloss on her lips, sprayed a dash of perfume un- From the corner of her eye, she noticed his tall der her armpits, and tied up her waist length and well-built frame. She turned briefly to face wavy hair into a chignon. him, taking in his clean-shaven face and beatific smile while shaking her head no. He was gor"Are you going out today?" Ravi asked her that geous, just as she had imagined. Then she turned morning. back quickly and made a dash out of the store, "No…just to office," she said, sucking in her just catching the change of the expression on his slight paunch as she wore her sari. face to bewilderment. At lunch she weighed over the possibility of taking up Vivek's proposal to go to the store. She didn’t have to. Vivek had shown her where to find the online catalogue. Ravi and she had pored over it and made a few selections. Ravi could go to the store to order and make the payments. There was no real need for her to go too except to meet Vivek. She had considered this when she was at her mother's. She wanted to see what he looked like. Wouldn’t it feel better to put a face to a voice? In her mind he was at least in his mid-thirties with a charming smile. She wasn't so bad herself, except she was older. But why did that matter when all she wanted was to make a new friend? Didn’t she talk to male clients sometimes? Didn’t she have a few male friends at work? Then why was she having second thoughts? The next minute, handbag in hand, she was off hailing an auto outside her office to the Aishwarya Marbles store which was fifteen minutes
On her way back, she thought about her visit. In the end her desire had got the better of her, but the good news was that he hadn’t recognised her. She had been absolutely right about his charming face that matched his charming voice. She was not ashamed at having fulfilled her heart's wish. The fact that he didn’t know her made it easier for her to not feel shy when she spoke to him next. She only had to make some excuse now to not go to the store. A month passed. For Maya, life went back to the temple bells, the cooing pigeons and the snoring husband, but it was enriched by that charming voice that she sometimes called to chat with, even after her kitchen looked resplendent in its shiny new tiles.
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.
The Destination of Desires
Non-fiction
by Subbaram Danda Subbaram Danda writes about his visit to the ‘Destination of Desires’, Darjeeling, sharing his experiences of witnessing the statues of the Buddha at the Japanese Peace Pagoda as well as many other fascinating attractions including the snowclad peak of the Kanchenjunga. It’s a visit that made him dwell intently upon ‘desire’, he writes. Text and Pictures by Subbaram Danda. It was a delight to watch the Japanese Peace Pagoda standing majestically in bright white among the green pine trees on the outskirts of Darjeeling. Slow moving streaks of grey clouds in the blue sky provided a touch of enchantment to the scene. Instantly I came under the magic spell of the dome-shaped Buddhist structure. Its appeal was profound. I was in the Queen of Hill Stations with my family on a short summer sojourn. The visit had been our long-standing desire. We had been told not to miss the pagoda under any circumstances. True, our first impression was gratifying. Located on a vast site, the 94-foot tall edifice, called stupa by Indians, has been attracting visitors ever since its inauguration in November 1992. Japanese monk Nichidatsu Fuji, the guiding figure behind it, wanted it to serve as a source of inspiration for people of all races and creeds to work for international harmony.
circular wall of the pagoda was a large statue of the Buddha shining in golden colour in a serene sitting posture. The statue depicts the Buddha preaching renunciation of unbridled desires as a panacea for all evils. As I kept looking at the sculpture, various thoughts on the dimensions of desire flooded my mind. History is replete with instances, where over-ambition has led to disastrous consequences. The Pakistani and Chinese incursions into the Indian territory in the past are glaring examples. In the epic age, Ravana’s lust for Sita made him meet an inglorious end, though he had been a great devotee of Lord Shiva. Currently, cases of avariciousness to amass wealth by hook or crook are aplenty.
Great thinkers have also advocated the principle of abdication. Greek philosopher Socrates felt that “from the deepest desires often comes the deadliest hate.” Noted British Political Economist John Stuart Mill emphasized the same idea From the gate we walked for a while to the base in simpler terms, “I have learned to seek my of the pagoda and started climbing its semihappiness by limiting my desires rather than in circular steps. Straight ahead at the top on the attempting to satisfy them.” 10
Spark—October 2014 | Desire
On the other hand, small desires have always received encouragement. My thoughts raced back in time. I recalled what Management gurus had told us in our class. “The starting point of all achievement is desire. And a creative man is motivated by his desire to achieve.”
is the culprit.
Darjeeling offers many attractions for holidayseekers. It was our desire, a reasonable one, to see as many of them as possible. Prominent on our itinerary was the peak of Kanchenjunga, the third highest peak in the world (28,209 feet) to be seen with We moved naked eyes from the around the pagoprecincts of our reda at the top levsort. The next day el. Besides the we witnessed it. The statue of the snow-clad mountain Buddha in the glistened alluringly front, there were against the backdrop three others in of the blue mid-day different styles – sky close to the horireclining, standzon. What an exhiling and meditatarating sight it was! ing. The four sculptures faced the four cardinal Small desires bring great joys. directions. The reclining Buddha was in Nirvana People vacationing in Darjeeling long to visit pose (emancipation from earthly bonds) watched Tiger Hill, from where one can have a spectacuby tearful devotees and members of the royalty lar view of the sunrise, provided the weather is during the last moments of Buddha’s life. The fine with no mist or cloud formation. The sun standing Buddha was offering his blessings to first emerges as an orange spot on the horizon devotees to enable them conquer fear. The Budand gradually grows into a ball of fire. The entire dha in the meditation posture was promoting skyline of the mountainous terrain glows ‘focused concentration’ to attain a state of transwathed in brilliant crimson light to the elation quillity. Between the statues there were a few of the sun gazers. sandstone panels, realistically etched, representing the outstanding episodes in the life of the We had arrived at the hill-station having yielded peace apostle. The common refrain of them all to the temptation of travelling by the Toy Train, was that for peace and happiness, equanimity of officially known as the Darjeeling Himalayan Railway, which runs on a two-foot narrow gauge human thought is essential. track from the town of Kurseong to Darjeeling. As we returned, I looked back to catch a last It is the recipient of the World Heritage status glimpse of the pagoda. I felt refreshed in my accorded by the United Nations Educational, mind. Desire and ambition are not bad concepts Scientific and Cultural organization (UNESCO). after all. But it is their excessive magnitude that
Senior citizens can recall that the block-buster Hindi film of yesteryears “Aradhana” featuring Rajesh Khanna and Sharmila Tagore immortalized the Toy Train by shooting a song sequence “Mere Sapnonki Rani” along the route.
Located behind the zoological park is the Himalayan Mountaineering Institute, a centre of education and research in mountaineering. Set up in 1954, it has a rich collection of models, paintings, sculptures, photographs, manuscripts, autographs and equipments of well known mountaineers. Of interest is the “samadhi” of Nepalborn Tenzing Norgay, who was the first to step on Mount Everest in 1953 along with New Zealand’s Edmund Hillary.
It took three pleasingly meandering hours to cover the 30-kilometre distance. For the most part the track ran alongside the ghat road and there was no wall or fence separating the rail-line from the road. As the train chugged on its way, we could take a look at the green valleys,slender There are several Buddhist monasteries in and streams and tea estates. Softly caressing cool around Darjeeling. They are essentially shrines hilly breeze kept us in good humour. where people throng to offer prayers in front of large colourful Buddha statues. The best way of appreciating the beauty of the hill-station in a panoramic setting is by taking a A passion with tourists is shopping for Darjeeride in the Darjeeling ropeway. Buying tickets ling tea. The hill-stationproduces a wide variety we got into a cable car and glided over the town- of teas – black, green, white, blended, flavoured for 40 long minutes enjoying the sights of closely and scented. They have their own distinctive -packed houses on hill slopes, plunging gorg- taste, colour and aroma. Its high-grown variety es,lush tea gardens and ghat roads. has acquired international reputation. Visitors to Darjeeling make it a point to visit the Padmaja Naidu Himalayan Zoological Park named after the former governor of West Bengal. We were no exception. The zoo isknown for its conservation and breeding programmes aimed at saving the endangered animal species of the eastern Himalayas. It was a pleasure looking at some of the exotic types of high altitude animals such as red panda, black bear, snow leopard and yak, besides colourful Himalayan birds.
Celebrated American writer Mark Twain had once described Darjeeling as a “land that all men desire to see.” It is true even today.The queen’s charms are always worth exploring! We returned home happily, our small desires having been fulfilled. British writer Samuel Johnson could not have been more explicit when he said, “Some desires are necessary to keep life in motion.” And they yield great joys too!
Subbaram Danda is an author and a former journalist. Two of his books in print format -- "Marvels Very Majestic" and "The Rustles of Pleasure" are available at Amazon.in and Flipkart.com. He was Chief of News Bureau of a multi-edition business daily and later Media Relations Chief of a foreign diplomatic mission. He has travelled extensively. Photography is his cherished hobby.
Waves of Desire
Poetry
by M. Mohankumar Desire is what brought this world into existence and desires are those that drive life on this planet. M. Mohankumar shares his thoughts through a poem on the waves of desire.
Not a passing wind skimming the surface, but wave after insistent wave, billowing and buffeting. It has been so from the beginning.
Religion says that God created the world. So there was God’s desire to begin with. He wanted living things to multiply, inducing in them desires of the flesh. And then man’s unbounded desires.
Blind belief? Turn then to science. Big Bang? It leaves quite some blanks. (When will the last word be said, if at all?) But science has provided proof enough for life’s progress, down the millennia, adapting and evolving, demonstrating a deep desire to survive and flourish. The desire of the moth for the star? 13
Spark—October 2014 | Desire
The sea of life is chaotic, seething with desires. Big fish and small fish, eating and eaten up, swimming and sinking.
The Buddha saw it as a wild fire.
‘Bhikkhus, all is burning… Burning with the fire of lust, with the fire of hate, with the fire of delusion.’
And nature decks itself out, arousing desire with its sights and sounds, with its flavours and fragrances.
And everyone desires a life of pleasureexcept the seeker and the anchorite. They too have a desire - to be desireless.
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.
In the Absence of Desire
Fiction
by Preeti Madhusudhan It’s rare to find someone who works hard on a task not because they desire results but because it is a duty that has to be performed to perfection. Preeti Madhusudhan writes the story of three brothers and their father whom they revere and is their biggest inspiration. It was going to be a warm, humid day, Viji could tell. At five in the morning, the petals of the December flowers were already feeling a little fickle, as though they were sweating. As he absentmindedly rubbed the petals between his fingers, the deep- purple-hued velvety softness came out as a film of inky-blue staining his forefinger. His thoughts astray, he wiped it on his spotless white dhoti. A fleck of dirty-blue in the sparkling white, like the voter's ink on a clean finger. The 40-watt bulb a few feet away gave out an ethereal orange glow. Dawn wasn't going to arrive for a while, so the morning's crisp air was as yet unlit. He was on his haunches, another white cloth restraining his thick curls away from his welldefined brow. A gentle, almost mystical smile twitched around the corner of his thin lips. He held a trowel in his right hand and was mechanically digging up the soil around a jasmine bush. His left hand was similarly engaged in levelling up what was being dug. His thoughts, however, were in Kanchipuram, raking up an incident from decades ago.
morning, as he continued gently tilling the soil around his favourite jasmine. If Kowsalya saw him now, she would lovingly chide him. Kowsalya had been a gentle breeze, a loving companion and a much needed friend. She knew as though by some sixth sense, from day one of their married life, when he needed company and when loneliness. The far corners of the sky, above the fields opposite their house, were just turning a mild mauve. It reminded him of the vastra adorned by the Lord Vishnu at the principal temple at Kanchi. Very uncharacteristically, he almost chuckled. He was amused by his mind's inability to think of anything else this morning.
His mind raced back to that May, years before any of them had married. Viji and Gopu had as always returned to Kanchi for the grand festival in the principal temple whose main deity was Lord Vishnu’s. Viji from his job in the Nuclear power plant at Kalpakkam and Gopu, Viji’s younger brother, from his job in the Central bank in Kallakurichi. Gopu had arrived the Viji recollected their countless temple festival evening before. Ramu, the eldest one, was away experiences in the temple town of Kanchi this 15
Spark—October 2014 | Desire
at work. As Viji entered home tired from the bus journey, his aunt started boiling milk for his coffee. He was just wiping himself dry after his bath, when she had started her usual barrage of questions, complaints and accusations. He hadn't written to her in a long time, he was aware of that. But he had just been too busy with work. So he let her rattle on for a while, knowing it will cool her down. But Gopu had interfered in his support, "Akka, must you start immediately? He just came in! ". This was enough for her to start off on him. It was just then their father entered. Something about him stopped them all in their tracks, even their aunt.
er little they had, never desiring more. The only desire, urge any of them ever felt was for a sight of the deity at the Vishnu temples. They worked hard at anything knowing that was the way anything ought to be done. With dedication and absolute commitment, not because the deed would yield a specific result, but because the very act of performing a deed with efficacy and love was in itself the reward. If they studied well, it was because that was how it was to be done, if they learnt the Vedic slokas and the Tamizh hymns well, that was because The Lord deserved nothing but the best of recitals, not for any other reason. They worked hard at school at studies and at various competitions not because it was It wasn't that he had a physique that intimidated. going to give them better job prospects, but only He was just about the average height, average because they didn't know how else to perform. weight. He had a wiry structure that all his three sons had inherited. There was a quiet about him, They saw their dad live an earnest, simple life a peace and an unguent like quality that soothed teaching Sanskrit, not just as a language but also even the most viperous of persons. He always the principles of life that it held within its deep managed to calm his sister with a glance and vestiges. The language and its potency gripped even quell the active tongue and imagination of him and teaching it at the school for a salary or Gopu. Bereft of his young wife when he was imparting it freely to those that approached him, about 30, he had raised his three sons with his accorded him the opportunity to delve deeper in widowed sister's help. His sister raised the chil- it. Without actually intending to, he emulated its dren with the minimum resources available to cleansing effulgence to his sons. The boys knew her. His Sanskrit proficiency gave him a pittance their father, though a widower at 30 with three for a living, but earned him immense respect in young children, hadn't married again much the community. He had raised his boys just like against the common practice of those days. He him, ram-rod straight, with heightened senses of hadn't wanted them suffering the angst he had, morality and principles. under a step-mother. They were aware that he had given up his rightful inheritance to their The boys never felt the want for anything. They grandfather's property in favour of his stepviewed the world through their father's immacubrothers, just to avoid complications for his falate perspective of goodness and simplicity. They ther. The three boys had imbibed his selflessness believed in their maker's grand plans for everynot through their father's conscious moral policone. Through their father and aunt's conditioning. On the contrary, he had never sat them ing, they grew learning to be happy with whatevdown, or lectured them on anything. They saw
him be a certain man and they just knew that pu's incessant questions and comments as alwas the way for them too. ways, there seemed to be a slight hesitation. A slight lag, a snag. Gopu was talking about his job So it came to be that day all those years ago that now, his observations on Kallakurichi, the peoMay. When they ple he shared his lodghad completed ings with. their evening ablutions, their dad "Gopu." with a slight incliFinally their father innation of his head terrupted Gopu's monsaid, "It's time". ologue. They were ready "Hmm?" anyhow. The three boys and "I don't think this new their father had a job offer you have got telepathic conis a good idea. I don't nect. Even in a think it will suit you. " crowd, amidst the jolly commotion of a family gathering, they al- "What job offer?" Viji asked puzzled. ways knew without being told, when their father "He got good marks in the Administrative exwas ready to leave. ams, you remember?" It was their father's underThey set off on a long walk from Siva Kanchi stated way of talking of his youngest son's 25th where they lived to Vishnu Kanchi. Ramu, rank in the IAS exams. Even in front of his own children, he didn't want it seem as though he would join them straight at the temple. He didn't need to be reminded. He carried a set of dhoti was needlessly proud. Or that may be the way he and upper cloth to the school he was visiting in honestly felt about that. That his son prepared his capacity as the assistant education officer of well for and appeared in an exam and had perthe region. The younger boys and their father formed well. But of course, Viji remembered it. walked talking in their customary low voices. Ramu and he had been inordinately pleased Every once in a while, someone from one of the about that. shops that lined the main road came scrambling up to their father, with their palms joined in humble prostrations. Their father stopped in his tracks with a gentle smile, and after an affectionate enquiry about their family, would move on, politely refusing their offer of a seat or a cool drink. Viji could sense that something was troubling their father. Though he responded to Go-
"Yes?" "You know that it wasn't good enough for the first two or three choices? But he got a letter stating that he was eligible for a placement in the government's secret services. And I just think that it would not suit him." That none of them were accustomed to arguing with their father was the only fact that restrained
Viji. He felt the boy needed this opportunity, and for the first time he felt that his brother deserved this as a reward for the amount of work he had invested and waited for his brother to respond. He veered round to his brother. There was a just trace of something in Gopu's eyes for a flash of a second. His long straight hair fell over his forehead hiding his white and red mark he had applied. With what had become an involuntary action, he swept his hair back to reveal his mark and with that he had also swept away whatever emotion it was that occupied his eyes a moment back. He now smiled, a broad infectious smile that crept to his eyes too. And plain relief washed his features. That was all, no more words were required between them. Viji had never felt more pride in being his father's son or his Gopu's anna. "Ramu would be disappointed but he will understand too," he thought as they reached the mandap. They were there just in time. Children had gathered around the drum mounted the donkey, begging the drum-beater for a chance to hold the stick and beat the drum. The usual crowd of women with their young, village folks with their bright clothes and brighter devotion milled around the place. Ramu was standing at the edge of the frontal procession of hymn singers, talking with their cousin. They soon joined the group in their usual places. Viji turned around to catch Gopu's eyes. In that instant, they both knew. They felt that same vibrancy they always felt in the divine presence. The ambience and the intangible life-force they experienced then told them their father was right. Now years later, yesterday when Viji talked with his superior in the steel plant where he was the chief civil engineer, he once again felt the peace
that they always felt in the presence of their father. The previous evening's conversation ran again in his mind. "But Vijayaraghavan, I know it was you that designed this final mix. Before you took on this project, we never got the right yield. You know how the rust kept reappearing. " The frustration and annoyance was evident in the Chief Executive's voice. He looked at Viji as though he was mentally insufficient. No one could be this nonchalant. With a slight shrug and a patient smile, Viji answered ,"The rust didn't reappear and we achieved stability even at the highest temperature, didn't we? That is enough for me." "But then Vijayaraghavan, if I don't include your name in the design sheets now, you wouldn't be able to travel to Berlin next month to present the papers. And promotion, incentives and salary hikes will naturally follow!"His incredulity was palpable. "You will find that Neelamegam or Veeru desire this more than I ever could. In fact I don't at all. It was my job and I did it. That is my reward. May I leave now please? ", he said in his usual even-toned mild voice. This was probably the most that anyone in the plant had heard Vijayaraghavan ever speak. The open-mouthed-glazed-eye expression of his boss came to his mind and Viji burst out chuckling. Kowsalya looked out the window from their bedroom in surprise. The east was now flushed a deep orange, the sun was on his ascent.
Preeti Madhusudhan is a freelance architect/ interior designer living in Sydney with her husband and eight-year-old son. She is passionate about books and is an ardent admirer of P.G.Wodehouse. She inherited her love for books and storytelling from her father, a Tamil writer. Preeti is trying to publish her maiden novella in English.
To Write or Not to Write
Non-fiction
by Gauri Trivedi What inspires a writer? Joy, pain, triumph, experiences or perhaps just a keen sense of observation? In poetic prose, Gauri Trivedi describes how the desire to write is always within her, surfacing only in times when things are not quite right. It is not an inspiration she deliberately seeks, it’s just the way it has turned out to be.
I reach out for you only in despair, like one Inadequate to state that the words lie buried longs for a missing soul mate’s hand. somewhere, I blurt all out, empty my mind and what comes Just takes a catalyst for them to manifest. out may seem poetic at times. Like a shadow that never leaves a body’s side, Seeing happy faces around, brightens any day, the yearning to write is anchored deep inside. makes me feel blessed for all that I have. Like bright sunshine spreading its light, lifting Just as one would, with a childhood friend, I gloomy spirits everywhere in sight. take you for granted often now and then. Joy gives the optimism needed to survive, only it Traveling a distance, disappearing in time, but does nothing for me to ponder and write. never really going anywhere. A tear, an ache, a regret that stays, visible or not A tug is all you need to pull me back in your is all that it takes. range and though it appears to be a mutual hunIt isn’t always about me, the pain and protest; ger, The injustice of things that can’t be made right, I know I need you more. A few who see things that way will surely have to agree, Occasionally now a friend would ask, why haveAnguish not necessarily your own, is a muse, to n’t you been writing off late? those who can feel. For the seldom reader who is merely curious, there isn’t an answer plausible to give. 20
Spark—October 2014 | Desire
Sometimes I write to cover a lie but most days it To write or not to write isn’t always a matter of is to glorify the truth. choice, The words flow out giving anger a vent, the un- Months sometimes go by without as much as a shareable burdens however, never find an outlet. syllable and suddenly, On days like these I am cautious what I pen, Words come out faster than I can possibly write worried that facts will slide into the unfilled them down. gaps. Only makes me wonder if they were always hanging around, Antithetical as it may sound, words are overrat- Waiting for an inspiration to help me pull them ed, and silence speaks much more. out. The delinquency of quiet however is that it is open to decipher. Verses twisted and turned, intended to deliver a punch: still less cruel than silence deliberated to hurt. Occasionally, therefore I refuse to write merely to convey my indifference.
Gifted mortals can spin a tale, dream up a fantasy lying awake. My mind however, declines to collaborate. Days pass by without a story to share. The writings inscribed, all come out of my heart, when happy and content, it is reluctant to share.
Absence does not mean it ceases to exist. The desire to write is always within. The question perhaps is what not to write. For rewards or accolades or momentary fame, how much of your soul are you willing to bare. It takes courage to dig deeper in the self and I hesitate to concede that which can be revealed.
Gauri Trivedi is a hobbyist writer who takes her reading pretty seriously! A corporate lawyer in another world, she wears the tag of a SAHM proudly these days. Writing is where she finds peace when everything around is chaotic to say the least. Visit her blog messyhomelovelykids.blogspot.com to read more.
Art
She
Illustration by Captain TwinkySpiff, Poetry by Ray Iyer This piece is a collaboration between poetry and art and is part of Ray’s Typewriter Diaries Project by Rachana Iyer. The poetry is by Ray Iyer and the illustration is by Captain TwinkySpiff of Pathological Pernicious Sparkles. The poem is from the perspective of a certain 'She' who is very desirable to the world, who is out there giving in to people and satisfying her own 'desire' to heal and transform people but she herself as the innate desire to find that one thing can be her 'fix'.
Note from the artist: I have worked on this illustration by personalising the words with my existence, understanding what these words would mean to me, and then taking a pencil and letting the idea flow. I have attempted to fortify my relationship with the words by shaping them out in ink. The shading with ball point pen is to add relatable depth. The colours used are Black and Red. All that is going on is in Black – a colour that harbours all other colours within its definition. Like my heart. Like our Hearts. Like your Heart? Wherever ‘She’ can and wherever it is needed, she breathes life into those hearts again. The Red emerges from the Black at those places. The lines, forms, shapes depicted are the ones I envisioned in accordance to the many questions that come to the mind when I read the poem. What maintains my balance on the tight rope I walk on, from which I can fly away? What is it within me that is worthy of revering? What captures you? What is so lovingly terrifying? It is my Darkness. The souls I constantly heal, witness my darkness. Yet, this darkness is healing them. How? They know not. Hence. the reverence.
22
Spark—October 2014 | Desire
Sonia’s Dēsīderāre
Fiction
by Rrashima Swaroop Varma Life seems to be flowing pretty normally for Sonia till something extremely mindblowing and beautiful captures her heart one day when she drops her daughter at playschool. Rrashima Swaroop Varma’s short story on a woman’s desire is sure to keep you hooked. Sonia shook her head in exasperation as she tried not to notice the commotion in front of her. It was a bit much, wasn’t it? And the way the woman was preening, it was absolutely ridiculous! Even her stance seemed different today. All because she’d got a brand new, glossy, limited edition Louis Vuitton hanging on her perfectly moisturized forearm. After all, it was just a bag. Who notices or even cares? Everyone! Actually, Sonia had to admit to herself, everyone had noticed and squealed the moment Adila had walked into school. She felt like telling all of them to get a little perspective. It was only 8:30 in the morning and much too early in the day to be getting so animated about a mere bag. Except of course that it was not just a bag. It was a beautiful, utterly gorgeous, deep red, limited edition, this season’s must-have, Louis Vuitton and currently the center of attention at Sonia’s daughter’s playschool. For her of course, it was instant love. Adila, the proud owner of the bag had tried to look as casual and matter-of-fact about it, everyone else hadn’t stopped exclaiming and Sonia couldn’t seem to quell the feeling of envy that was steadily rising up inside
her. Of course she was envious. How could she not be? All the other women at this top-end, snooty playschool alternated between at least half a dozen luxury designer handbags each, which they tossed around quite matter-of-factly as they sipped their green teas while waiting for their children. Everyone except her. She was the only one who didn’t own one of these essential symbols of social and economic acceptance and admittedly felt just a tad jealous about it almost every day. Her family and friends had warned her about this of course, when she’d decided to send her daughter to South Mumbai’s most coveted and impossible to get into playschool for toddlers. Most people who sent their children there were completely loaded and a few bags here and there made no difference to their bank accounts. Sonia’s life alternated between mortgages, loans and a conscious effort to plan expenses and save as much as possible every month. It was expected therefore that there was no room for frivolous things like 3000-dollar handbags in her life.
24
Spark—October 2014 | Desire
So there she was, almost shamelessly staring at the bag and wistfully sighing almost every two minutes. Made up of gleaming red, patent, monogrammed, Vernis leather with a shining, gold chain and solid, initialed clasp, it really was the most beautiful creation of mankind she had seen in a while. In fact, she had this sudden desire to reach out and touch it or better still, run away with it. She wondered what would happen if she did that. She could pretend she was getting fits or something and frankly, Adila with her tiny body and lithe frame, was absolutely no match for the robust Sonia. She could grab it in an instant and run away, far away from here where nobody would ever find her again and she could be alone with her gorgeous, gorgeous bag. Even as she returned to pick her daughter up from school, the bag continued to haunt her. She sighed once more and then quickly rearranged her face into a welcoming smile as her two-yearold daughter came bounding out of the school. Wonderfully oblivious to the meaner material desires that her mother had been obsessing about, her eyes were shining and she looked excited and happy as they settled into the car and she started telling Sonia all about her day. Well, at least one of them was satisfied with her lot in life.
She supposed it was just one of those days when one feels like bursting into song for no reason in particular. In fact, so much so that she was still smiling brightly when she dropped her daughter off at school and headed to the gym for her daily workout.
An hour and a half later, she emerged from the gym feeling even more rejuvenated than before. She didn’t very much feel like going home so she decided to get herself a cup of coffee at the nearest mall. There was hardly any traffic at that time and she made it to the mall in good time. After she had parked the car in the basement parking, she took the elevator to the ground floor. She stepped out of the elevator and was looking around for a coffee shop when she suddenly stopped. As luck would have it, the newest store to open its doors in this swanky mall was a sprawling, sparkling Louis Vuitton. Sonia stopped stunned. Rows upon rows of the most stunning bags in every colour of the rainbow seemed to call out to her. Monogrammed, patent, with sling, without sling, soft leather, clutches, evening bags. They were all there, occupying pride of place along neatly arrayed scarves, wallets and accessories. Sonia stared transfixed. She had never in her life seen a more beautiful, sublime, almost ethereal sight. It was The next day dawned nice and bright. It had almost as though she was in a dream. rained the previous night and even though the She couldn’t move, she couldn’t speak, she sun was out, there was the delicious fragrance of couldn’t breathe. That red Alma in gleaming rain in the air. The flowers were blooming, the Monogrammed Vernis was so gorgeous and the birds were chirping and Sonia felt oddly joyful.
patent, black evening clutch was the most elegant thing she had ever laid her eyes on and oh, the Capucines in crocodile skin was magnificent. By then she was almost salivating and she felt a sudden surge of longing so strong that she almost wanted to weep. She stretched her hand out and touched the clear crystal of the glass barrier that separated her from these utterly gorgeous creations. She wanted to touch them, she wanted to stroke them, she wanted to have them. She needed to have them. Her wallet contained exactly enough money for a cup of coffee and a sandwich and maybe a refill of gas at the pump and no more but she couldn’t stop herself. Her mind was numb and before she could even think about stopping herself, she had opened the glass door and walked in to the store. And then suddenly, things began to happen. “Congratulations!” shouted out the entire staff in unison as she stared at them in confusion. A woman in a smart, black suit walked up to her and smiled “You are one lucky lady!” she exclaimed with wide eyes. “Never in the history of Louis Vuitton have we had a sale, promotion or heaven forbid, given away a free gift. But this is a very special occasion. You are the very first customer to walk into our brand new store which opened just this morning. We completed 15 years in India yesterday and this beautiful store was inaugurated by our Global Creative Director. So my dear lady, we are delighted to offer you as our very first customer, this lovely, limited edition bag with our compliments.” Sonia was too astounded to speak. Instead she continued to gape at everyone even as the lady in the black suit placed a smooth, chocolatecoloured box in front of her. It had the legendary initials embedded on the front and Sonia
stared at it almost reverentially. The lady in the black suit undid the delicate satin ribbon from around the box, opened it and even as everyone in the store held their breath, pulled out the most exquisite bag Sonia had ever seen. It was a rich, decadent wine colour with a smooth, cream colored sling and a solid, gold monogrammed buckle in the front. Sonia stared at it in awe as the entire store suddenly went wild. Someone clicked a picture while someone else thrust a glass of champagne into her left hand and then everyone started cheering. But all Sonia could see was the bag. She reached out to touch it and almost gasped as she did so. It was an instant connection. This was her bag. It belonged to her. It really did. She closed her eyes as she stroked the bag lovingly, the buttery smoothness soft against her fingers. She could hardly fathom what was being spoken around her even as she tried to believe that this was truly happening. “Limited edition blah blah blah……” “…….never before in the history of Louis Vuitton blah blah blah….” “…..almost a miracle….” “…..what a lucky lady…..” She opened her eyes and suddenly smiled. It wasn’t a dream. It was really happening. The lady in the black suit laughed as she placed the box into Sonia’s shaking hands and clicked another picture. Sonia gulped down her champagne, asked for a refill and gulped that down too. If anything called for a celebration, then this certainly did. She closed her fingers around the box, savouring one of the best moments of her life. “Thank you,” she whispered as everyone smiled and she walked out of the store, clutching her precious bag. It was truly a dream come true.
Rrashima Swaarup Verma has an MBA in Marketing. She is Senior Director – Business Development with a leading, multinational business intelligence and strategic consulting company. She has worked on numerous projects with leading Indian and international corporations and has wide experience in business writing across a diverse spectrum of functional and industry segments. Rrashima is also a fiction writer and poet and several of her compositions have been published in leading newspapers, magazines and literary journals.
Non-fiction
Living With Desire by Rajlakshmi Kurup
Rajlakshmi Kurup ponders over the various connotations that the word ‘desire’ takes, especially when it comes to women.
Desire – the word has so many meanings, as many connotations. The irony about the word is that it is so gender-specific. When a man has desires, he is desirable but when a woman has desires, she becomes despicable. The word ‘desire’ is typically used to convey a strong feeling of wanting something, and strong sexual appetite. Sadly, most of us in general associate desire with the latter meaning. That is perhaps why the word attains such different connotations for two genders. Yet again, desire is such a word that whatever meaning one attributes to it, the former or the latter, the word does not have a desirable impact on women. Be it any meaning, when it comes to women, she is desirable only when she has no desires. A wife cannot have desire (with the latter meaning) while ‘a woman of the house’ cannot have desires (with the former meaning). Yet, this is a world where half of the its working population, whether at home or outside, is women. This is also a time when women sit at the top and make decisions that churn the wheels of the global economy.
life faced the question “‘Why do you have so much desire?” and also been advised ”Don’t desire too much. Be content with what you have.” This is the world that searches for Sunny Leone’s photos and more on the net but at the same time, laments her desire to be in the mainstream, on social media platforms. It is the case of desiring her from one end and lampooning her from the other for her desire.
Yet, doesn’t the world ride on this word ‘desire’? A new generation is born out of desire, the world runs about to meet the desires of its family and society, the dominant forces work overtime to suppress the desires of lower class, the latter living each day with a desire to uproot the dominant class and so on.
The world can be a desirable place to live in only when desires become gender-neutral, not just with regard to its meaning but also its application. It is when ambitions and aspirations become embellishment and not stigma that we can It is also true that women who ‘have it all’ or call ourselves a cultured society and a progreswho do not ‘have it all’ have at least once in their sive nation. Following lines can sum up what a 28
Spark—October 2014 | Desire
woman feels when she has to face gender stereo- that you desire that I have no desires? types just because she desired to…stand for herYet again, I want to scream and say it is this deself, fend for herself and live for herself. sire of yours to subjugate me that makes me Desiring to desire, I became undesirable want to rise like a phoenix and walk with pride with a heart and body full of desires. If ‘desire’ is a wrong word, why was I born, a result of an ardent ‘desire’? If being a woman is undesirable, why is she a victim of desires? If desire meant a need or an aspiration, why is it
Rajlakshmi Kurup is a freelance writer.
Wake Me Up
Poetry
by Ray Iyer Words that drip with desire. That’s what Ray Iyer’s poem is about. Read on.
Make me howl
Tonight is the night
like a werewolf
I will die a human
on this full moon night.
or come alive as an animal.
Use your tongue on my contours as a paintbrush.
Dip it in the coffee you never drank and color me brown.
There are secrets hidden in corners I have left for you to find.
Use all your force intuition and weapons as you tear me apart.
Ray (Rachana Iyer) is a wanderer, seeker and an only child of two beautiful souls. She found herself writing poetry since the age of 12 and has not stopped since. She believes that writing can be healing and a powerful medium to create change. She works in the social impact sector in rural and urban India. She writes in her blog ‘I am a Kaleidoscope’, has performed spoken word in Dubai, Turkey and India and also runs the ‘Ray’s Typewriter Diaries’ project online. 30
Spark—October 2014 | Desire
A Bedtime Story
Fiction
by Debleena Roy A couple struggling with a new baby – for the first time – in their lives rediscover passion. Debleena Roy tells the story.
It was 10 p.m. Sheena’s daily going-to-sleep routine had been longer than usual tonight. She had stared at me with her large, round eyes even as I sang nursery rhymes and patted her head just as my mother had said children liked to be patted. My limited stock of nursery rhymes was exhausted after singing “Twinkle Twinkle Little Star”, “Hush-a-Bye Baby”, “Mary had a little Lamb” and “Buy a Pancake”. The formula was not working. Sheena was wide awake. “Aren’t the words of the rhymes scary? How can they expect children to sleep if they have words like ‘when the bough breaks, the baby will fall?’” you asked me as you walked into her room.
row,” I joked. “The long alaap might put her to sleep.” “Ok, now you take a break. Let me try telling her a bed-time fairy tale. I thought of a new one during the long client meeting today.” You sat with me at the edge of her crib and chuckled as she smiled her toothless smile at us. Blissful, happy, sleepless. We had refused to tell her any damsel-in-distress stories. And we had vowed that we would invent our own stories full of inspiring morals and nuggets of wisdom. Of course, your knowledge of fairy tales was not much better than my singing. Each day, we were learning how to be better parents; Sheena was teaching us, helping us more than all the free advice we were getting.
“Valid point, Mr. Know-it-all. “ I was already feeling exhausted. Sheena was still smiling sweetly at me, her tiny hand reaching out to catch my You started your story. hair; she probably thought it was her latest new Long, long ago, Snow White and her step-mother were toy. I bent down and kissed her nose. the best of friends and entrepreneurs who had invented a “Here, I found proof. Article on the sinister orinew, weight-reducing apple. The magic mirror was their gins of nursery rhymes. See. No wonder they business partner, showing them pictures of new, obese don’t put her to sleep, Suja.” You already had patients who needed their help. A fat, overfed Prince, the Wikipedia page open, living up to your nickwho was a little too fond of doughnuts, was their first name and your insatiable need for knowledge. client. “Maybe I’ll try singing classical music tomorBut eating was only 70% of the weight loss formula. For 31
Spark—October 2014 | Desire
the remaining 30%, one needed exercise. Snow White and her step-mother interviewed hundreds of potential applicants and finally employed seven dwarfs. Dopey, Grumpy, Happy, Doc, Sneezy, Bashful, and Sleepy – seven gym trainers, one for each day of the week, depending on the mood you were in that day. Push-ups, skipping, aerobics, Zumba… they had it all covered among the seven of them.
because she still stared round-eyed at both of us. We both needed inspiration. Wasn’t there a selfhelp book on how to put children to sleep? “Maybe we should sing a Bollywood song. Remember the first song you sang for me, Auro?” I asked, ready to try anything, something that would make her sleep.
“Kabhi kabhi mere dil They had strict rules for mein…” You needed the prince – no more than no invitation to sing one doughnut per week, the song again. one royal soup and salad everyday, three magic You bent your head apples to munch on. The and sang, holding magic mirror monitored Sheena in your lap and his weight loss and gave staring at me, your regular updates to Snow mellow voice casting a White and her stepspell on my sleepy mother. Within a year mind. they managed to make And then we both him a new person – less smiled. For Bollywood worked when everything of him, more to him. And they saved more fat princes else had failed. We laid her gently on the cot, the happily ever after. glow-in-the-dark stars casting a soft light on her Your version of an old fairy tale. And then you sleeping face. shared the moral of the story: Eat healthy and keep inventing. You can be anything you want, “Shh…” I warned you as we both stood up quietly. “We have a drama queen in the making, you and you can rescue fat princes too! think? Or she likes Papa’s music more than his “And just what part of the story do you think stories.” Today’s sleep routine was finally over. she could even remotely understand, Auro?” I “How much time do we have till she wakes up, asked as you finished the story and gave me a Suja?” you whispered. long hug. “Most of it, I guess, see how she is smiling. She “I haven’t yet mastered her sleep prediction model. A few hours at the most. What do you must have got your sense of humour, Suja.” think, Auro?” I was whispering too. “Aha Auro, if only she had inherited your sense “Come here then,” you said, reaching for me, of sleep!” kissing me on my neck, caressing my shoulder. Today’s story must have been particularly bad We couldn’t speak. You pulled me towards the
carpet in the living room.
long hours of wakefulness.
You trailed your fingers down my cheek, gently removing my glasses even as I kissed you at the nape of your neck, where you hair curled slightly. I loved kissing you there; you loved it when I did that.
“Pains still, Suja?” you asked, gently, as gently as only you could, your hands circling it with infinite care. “No, but it remains a scar for life, Auro.” I replied, bringing your hands back to my face again.
We didn’t dare switch on any lights for fear that “But it’s my favourite part of you. A sign of how she might wake up. much pain you happily bore to give us our own And then your Blackberry beeped. Your hands bundle of magic.” You were kissing me there had left my face by then, your fingers tracing a now, slowly, softly even as my hands were runslow, tantalizing line downward. ning through your thick, dark hair. “Trust Hari Sadu to remember just the right mo- It was magic. It was a dream. It was real. I ment to call.” Your laugh was a whisper; your wished it would never end. I closed my eyes. I fingers didn’t leave my breasts. woke up to the strains of classical music wafting through the air and the sounds of happy laugh“Won’t you answer? It’s your boss, Auro, might ter, yours and hers, mingling together. be important?” I moaned. She smelt of milk, of oatmeal and of baby soap. “You mad? That man needs to get a life.” You reached over me and switched off the phone. You smelt of me, of unfinished passion, of desire and love that grew through diaper changes We turned to each other again, every minute a and lullabies. I took Sheena in my arms. We reminder of the time we needed to be with each both cuddled her and then hugged each other. other, a reminder of how much we missed being this close. “I thought of a new story. Cinderella and her wonder sleep-yoga cure. For tonight,” you whisYour fingers traced my scar, the long scar across pered in my ear. my belly. As if you had all the time in the world, as if time itself had stopped and the two of us “And I am making a list of 70s Bollywood hits. were floating, together, lost to everything else Get ready,” I retorted. Just then Sheena burped. but each other. Each touch, each kiss, each cry, a And our day started. known memory, a new dream. We wanted to savour each precious moment, snatched between fitful snatches of restless sleep and uncertain,
Debleeena blogs at debleena-roy.blogspot.in and has had articles published in Chillibreeze and eZinearticles.
That Little Blue Car by Parth Pandya
Non-fiction
For someone who grew up in Mumbai in the 90s, Parth Pandya’s dream of owning a car is not unthinkable. But did he eventually end up living his dream? He shares the memories of a desire.
What is a car? Is it just a vehicle on four wheels or is it a disguise for something larger? An ambition, an aspiration, a dream, a desire? Cars have continued to infuse passion and devotion amidst the believers over years. The car lover waxes eloquent about the purring of the engine, the thrill of its acceleration, the union of the man with the machine, the aesthetic joy that the contours of a vehicle bring. It is often a reflection of the owner. A status symbol, an extension of self. Now that I have laid out a philosophical treatise on cars, let me tell you a story. This is a story of a man and a car and that little desire in a small crevice of his heart. It is a true story. It is my story. I was a teen growing up in Mumbai in the 1990s. Mumbai is a crazy metropolis today. It was a crazy metropolis then too. It was packed like a can of sardines, but the lid was safely on (unlike today, where the can seems to spill a little bit of its guts each day). One of the great things about the city was that you could get around without ever needing a vehicle that you owned. There was the great train service (even with its daily incidents of people getting run over or electro-
cuted). There were the ubiquitous autorickshaws with their square shaped mysterious meters and tariff sheets. And where the autorickshaw could not reach, you had the speedier big brother of the auto-rickshaws, the Padmini Premier taxis. Lastly, you had the BEST buses, the red behemoths of the road. BEST stood for Brihanmumbai Electric Supply and Transport and I am sure the people of Mumbai were glad that they were allowed to travel along with all the electricity that was being transported in the buses. There was the single decker. There was the double decker. The stalling, sputtering, accelerating, exhilarating buses that every other vehicle driver feared. An elephant among the hyenas. When presented with such an interesting bouquet of options, the ordinary Mumbaikar would hardly miss the rose-shaped hole. Their own car. I was one of them. To be precise, my father was one of them (since I had no buying power being a poor engineering student). In fact, my grandfather was one of them too. Two generations of my family had thrived in Mumbai without entering the realms of car ownership. From the vast clean environs
34
Spark—October 2014 | Desire
of South Mumbai to the newly developed jungle of Andheri, they had journeyed across the length and breadth of the city without ever getting a car. Heck, they never even had a driver’s license.
evening was spent going around in this car listening to music that might not pass muster with me more than a decade later. We were whatever the equivalent of ‘cool’ was, then. There may have been other better looking, more efficient, So, there I was. The third generation. Dangerluxurious vehicles on offer, but my mind was set ously opinionated. Mildly ambitious. Engineered on the Maruti 800. for the future. The 90s kid. I must have traveled a hundred thousand kilometers on the streets of When I look back at those times, I often wonder Mumbai, aided by the wonderful public why it was that I chose a Maruti 800 of all cars. transport system of the When you don’t have the city. For the longest resources or the wherewithtime, I was content in al to acquire something bemy state of being unatyond your means, your tached. To not having a dreams come to your rescue car, that is. If you and let you soar on the looked around then, wings of fancy. But then even in the richest city this was India in the 90s and in India, you wouldn’t this was me. The country see the Ferraris and the Jaguars. But change was was waking up to a new reality but my dreams rampant in the exhaust-fumes laden air of India. were firmly rooted in the Hindu rate of growth. In the just liberalized economy, cars of different It was a state of mind then. A pragmatic desire. sizes from different makers were trickling in. We A dream I could wrap my head around. A Maurhad moved ahead of the exotic Impala and ti 800. Dark blue in color. With a functioning air Contessa, the standard issue Premier Padmini conditioner. And a sound system that would and the Ambassador, the family friendly Maruti gleefully take my collection of audio cassettes. Omni and the ‘luxurious’ Maruti 1000. There would be the cloud covered night in But what truly captured by heart was that little Mumbai where the rain would not let you see Maruti. The Maruti 800. That little box that fit beyond the first five feet. A Faiz ghazal sung by the roads of Mumbai, never threatening to graze Ghulam Ali would waft through the music sysits seams. That small angular hood, the trunk tem while the wipers worked overtime to rid the that ended just after it started, the tiny mechani- windshield of the pouring rain. That Maruti cal doors, all got an approving look from me. would glide through the lanes adjoining the sea The pint-sized tires glided on the bumpy roads where the waves would work hard to be heard of the city in sweet motion and the honking in over the rain. ‘F’ minor was a good fit in the general cacophoI decided that the first car I would buy would be ny. I was lucky that a good friend had one of a Maruti 800. Only if to realize a dream. But that these little marvels at his disposal. Many an would not happen. I didn’t know back then that
I would go on to live abroad a few years later and would finally buy my first car in 2003. Not an Indian product, but a German one. A Volkswagen Passat. A tank disguised as a car. I didn’t know I would buy my second car a few years later. This time, a Japanese one. A Lexus SUV. A gas guzzler not pretending to be anything other than that. Recently, I read somewhere that production of the Maruti 800 has been discontinued. That puts an end to that flight of fancy. Even if it were available now, buying it would perhaps be an impractical thing to do. Yes, practicality. That which fed the dream will now cull it.
In a parallel universe, though, there is still that little blue charming car I would own and drive. I would just add one more thing to it to fit in with my current reality. I would make it an automatic.
Parth Pandya moonlights as a writer even as he spends his day creating software and evenings raising his two sons to be articulate, model citizens, who like Tendulkar and Mohammad Rafi. He has been regularly published in forums such as Spark, OneFortyFiction and Every Day Poets. Taking his passion a step further, he has recently released his first book 'r2i dreams', a tale of Indian immigrants as they work through the quintessential dilemma, 'for here or to go?' You can know more about the book at https://www.facebook.com/r2idreams
Longings of a Lifetime Photography by Maheswaran Sathiamoorthy Through his lens, Mahesh depicts the longings/desires of a person (male in this case), as he goes through life, starting with candies, toys and so on to peace/ spirituality in old age.
37
Spark—October 2014 | Desire
Maheswaran Sathiamoorthy graduated with a B.Tech degree from IIT Kharagpur and is a Ph.D. from the University of Southern California. His interests include counting bokehs and taking out of focus shots. He also likes being unpredictable, random and enjoys coffee and 0000FF sky.
Crossing the Line
Poetry
by Vinita Agrawal A lonely woman decides to put an end to her stifling loneliness by stepping out and living life in her own terms. Vinita Agrawal captures the happenings on a wet July evening in Mumbai through a poem.
On a wet July evening in Mumbai she inhales grey clouds, exhales a vacuum. Her toes stare up at her questioningly will she cross the line tonight?
There is no universe in loneliness, no existential expanse. Just a rock like reality that drags you down an abyss of void. Solitude, a cramped emotion crimps the morning to the evening, somehow. An untidy roll of nothingness. A mortar and pestle pounding zeroes, soundlessly.
On this wet July evening, as the city bellies to the swaying monsoon she picks up her purse, opens the door with her lips and steps out to confront her desires.
39
Spark—October 2014 | Desire
July, stunned, pauses its delivery of pixelated smoky raindrops, stokes the charcoal hunger still warm under her tongue and ignores her conundrums helplessly foundering on the other side of the line.
Vinita is a Mumbai based writer and poet. Her poems have been published in Asiancha, Raedleaf Poetry , Wordweavers, OpenRoad Review, Constellations, The Fox Chase Review, Spark, The Taj Mahal Review, CLRI, SAARC Anthologies, Kritya.org, TouchThe Journal of healing, Museindia, Everydaypoets.com, Mahmag World Literature, The Criterion, The Brown Critique, Twenty20journal.com, Sketchbook, Poetry 24, Mandala and others which include several international anthologies. Her poem was nominated for the Best of the Net Awards 2011 by CLRI. She received a prize from MuseIndia in 2010. Her debut collection of poems titled Words Not Spoken published by Sampark/ Brown Critique was released in November 2013. Her poem was awarded a prize in the Wordweavers contest 2013.
The Lounge
October 2014
Turn of the Page
Dilli—A Review by RK Biswas
Dilli, an anthology of poetry on Delhi by under-30s is a collection that captures the love-hate-and-other emotions that the city evokes, says RK Biswas in her review.
Dilli An Anthology of Women Poets of Delhi
here by the Hindustani version of its name – Dilli.
Susmit Bose, the Delhi based singer and songEdited by Semeen Ali. Foreword by Susmit writer writes in his foreword: “My curiosity in Bose. reading this anthology is more because I underPublished by Poets Printery stand that the poets are all below 30…I am exA quote from Rabbi Shergill’s Delhi Heights – cited about the relationship of these modern “Main tha, tu thi, aur thi Dilli bass” (it was me, you poets with this great city and how they perceive and Dilli only). Thus begins Dilli An Anthology it through their poems…” of Women Poets of Delhi, published by the South Africa based, Dr Amitabh Mitra’s publishing house Poets Printery, and edited by noted Indian poet Semeen Ali. There are seventeen poets in this anthology, held by the common threads of their gender, age group (all below 30) and their relationship, not always easy, but always intense, with the city of Delhi, referred to
Perceive the city these 17 poets certainly do, but not through the rosy romantic eyes of someone who grew up in the ‘60s and 70’s. So much has happened since then. And we can hardly expect those who came into a world with so many fissures to sing paeans. It is enough that the poets here have spoken from their hearts.
The first poem I Heart Her by Aanchal Jagnani is In Kartika Budhwar’s long narrative poem Proud a quick itinerary through Delhi. The next three New-age Woman she explores the travails of a poems are by Aditi Angiras, and they create a single woman coping with life in an unforgiving, compressed vignette of young life in Delhi, in- horribly chauvinistic city, and when she finally viting one to “live in those corners of the city returns to her hometown, into her old organism, that still feel like a heartbeat.” However, right “as if the city didn’t change you/ As if it didn’t after, in Aiman Jahangir’s poem Existence, one is teach you/ What you get for being a proud, new cautioned “… the city/ that -age woman.” stole his life,/but gave The images of harsh physical him/’food; identity.” This beauty made sharp by the poet’s image carries over into Anidisense of otherness, of not beta Deo’s poems as well. Her longing recur again and again in sketches of Delhi’s underbelly Kathryn Hummel’s contemplawhether in a Sufi shrine or a tive poems, as she says in Words street scene – Rangreza – or in of Longing “Fragile sounds of the several shades of blue in others swell/ and drop from the the poem of the same name, roof as (she) writes,” while she all evoke that “brilliant mockremains “searching and longing.” ery of hope.” Nevertheless, In Nayyara Rahman’s Looking for “They all try hard to live in Newspapers we travel as aliens this city, New Delhi/ Where through Delhi’s streets “to Conlife is an endless challenge yet naught Place/That delightfully to be won…” as Antora Rah- Coverpage Art by Dr. Amitabh urban concept/ Delhiwallahs man says in her poem Time Mitra have made their own,” and reWon’t Stop. But any Delhi lovturn empty handed with the poer will always want “the city et. Nishita Gautam also has a poem set in Conto remain part of my life, my love.” naught Place in her poem We Proudly Brew where No anthology of poems on Delhi can be com- you can see “bright serpent of human faces/ plete without a reference to JNU. So we have Slithering in the corridors of Connaught Anusha Chandrashekharan’s Of Love in JNU, a Place…Waiting for the Manna.” bitter-sweet depiction of the campus and its life, Delhi is a city that evokes longing in not one followed by her ironic love poem on Delhi – but all three of Pallavi Narayan’s poems, as she Delhi My Love. Irony aside, Delhi “isn’t that says in Unnamed “If the city forget us/ And we man/ you find charming at first sight/its magour places in it/This space could be ours,/ As it netism trickles/ Till it is shining bold and otherwise is/ Momentarily, fleetingly/In the bright” is what Ishnita Nayantara Keskar will interstices.” Payal Wadhwa conjures up a lyrical have us believe in her poem.
passage across Delhi’s middle class Swell and through her images one truly sees the city’s colours “…pickled/ with stories, yours and mine/ handpicked/marinated/and sundried.” And then, for the first time in this anthology, the city of Delhi is addressed directly, as one would a living thing, and a conversation takes place openly between the city and the poet Prarthana Banikya, where she begins by almost accusing Delhi in her first poem Kaleidoscope – “At first I did not like you.” However by the second poem A Lot Like You, she has managed to build her personal bridge across Delhi’s heart. So when she leaves the physical city behind, Delhi still remains with her. Delhi, you see, forges bonds with everyone, however thorny. Delhi means something to each. As Preetha Datta asks in her poem Whose is Delhi? And provides the answer as well – “It belongs to no one/ Yet it is part of everyone.” Which brings us to Priyam Goswami Chowdhury’s poem Why I Walk in Delhi where she explains that it is “…breaking words/ And forgetting verses while you are writing,” because “it is like a drug prescribed in mild doses/”and finally because Delhi’s “….trees and leaves drain me/ Of the life that I am creating under your starless skies.” The last two poems in the book are by Semeen Ali. The first, Chandnichowk – how can we have a book of poems on Delhi and ignore Chandni-
chowk? – is a tightly woven vivid picture of morning in this quintessential part of an old Delhi locality. The last, Dilli - the titular poem in this collection – is again a picture, one that is painted with delicate brush strokes, of a city that evokes mixed emotions no doubt, but can never be tossed aside. For here “Remnants that speak/ Of time that left/ People have arrived/ Stories are being told…” Love poems? Yes, but not like the syrupy coo of doves beneath the eaves. Because these poems are about a city that elicits strong reactions, which are not necessarily as simple as love and hate. Sometimes they are both and other times mixed with feelings of dread, fear, awe, benevolence or even condescension. Anyone who has lived in Delhi or even visited it for some days will certainly recognise and emote with the voices in this collection – which is what makes the book work. A few poems felt under done however, and would have benefited from greater interaction with the editor. I also thought that one or two poems had compromised on composition and even grammar for the sake of idea, when all these elements are equally important for the success of a poem. A keener editing eye, would have given this unique anthology more sheen.
RK Biswas’s novel Culling Mynahs and Crows was published by Lifi Publications, India in January 2014. A short story collection – Breasts and Other Afflictions of Women – is forthcoming in mid 2014 from Authorspress, India. Biswas’s short fiction and poetry have been published in journals and anthologies, both in print and online, all over the world. Notably in Per Contra (USA), Sybil’s Garage (USA), Markings (Scotland), Mascara Literary Review (Australia), Cha: An Asian Literary Journal (Hong Kong), Asia Writes (Asia), Every Writer’s Resource (USA), Off The Coast (USA), Kritya (India), Bare Root Review (USA), South (UK), Words-Myth (UK), Pratilipi (India), Eclectica (USA), Nth Position (UK), The King’s English (USA), Poems Niederngasse (Switzerland), Dirtcakes (USA), Crannog (Ireland) The Little Magazine – India, Going Down Swinging (Australia) and Etchings (Australia), among others. Her poem “Cleavage” was long listed in the Bridport Poetry Prize in 2006 and also was a finalist in the Aesthetica Contest in 2010. In 2007, her story Ahalya’s Valhalla was among Story South’s notable stories of the net. Her poem “Bones” was a Pushcart Nominee from Cha: An Asian Literary Journal in 2010. In 2012 she won first prize in the Anam Cara Writer’s Retreat Short Story Contest. She blogs at http:// www.rumjhumkbiswas.wordpress.com
Slice of Life by Preeti Madhusudhan
Of Momos and Jaa Having lived in Bhutan for three years and experienced some interesting facets of the place, Goutam Bhattacharya decides to write on the exquisite variety of food that he had the chance to feast upon during his stay in Bhutan. Here’s a piece that’s sure to tickle your taste buds!
I spent three years of my life on the hills of Eastern Bhutan. As a fresh postgraduate I had joined the ‘Education Department’ at Tashigang Dzongkhag under the ‘Royal Civil Service Commission, Bhutan’, working there from 1990 to 1993. My life and experiences in Bhutan during those three years have always kindled the desire in me to embark on a special literary endeavour – write something like what centre-page articles of famous newspapers are made of. It probably has something to do with the richness and variety of these experiences, including the nature of the poor but amiable hill-folk I had come across. Eccentric, loquacious, gluttonous, woebegone, untidy, moody, alcoholic and so on - an unending list indeed! I had never seen such an amalgamation of humanity before. Their sloven-
ly robes were foetid but their heart, spotlessly clean. Their life and the surroundings can be befittingly expressed by the word ‘pristine’. Some of the other things that captured my attention there were the desolate life in the small army joint-check-posts amidst the forbidden hills, the mysticism of Shangri-La, the tranquil monks of the remote and lonely monasteries, their occult anecdotes of re-reincarnations, the primitive-lifestyle of the nomadic Brokpaa people, and the ecstatic chhaam, the famous maskdance of the hill-folk during their festivals – these fascinated me completely. But what caught my attention the most were the mouth-watering delicacies of the country. Think Bhutanese food and the first thing that comes
to my mind is the puffy bondaa. Each time it makes me wonder how this bouncy delicacy reached Bhutan all the way from South India! Maybe the fortune-seeking keralites imported it long back. Nevertheless, Daaju karna’s brasserie provided some really tasty bondaas, all lapped up by children from the nearby school during recess.
Momos, or steamed dumplings, also deserve a special mention here. Sold in almost every restaurant, these momos were dumplings filled with boneless pork or beef and used to be one of the most sought-after delicacies. The tasty bonelessmeat preparations were concealed within.
I also recall a small triangular area in front of the tshongkhag (shop) of I was under a delusion Tshering aapaa, where villagthat noodles can’t get ers from the nearby hamlets better than the Chiwould bring dozens of fresh nese version but thukorange, apple, apricot, plum paa, the delicious and raspberry, Bhutanesebuckwheat noodles of red-rice, buckwheat, maize, Eastern Bhutan, was known and unknown vegeno less in comparison. tables, fern-fronds, orchids Every other Sunday and yummy mushrooms. morning, Indians and The shopkeepers would sell other foreign nationals working in that part of their commodities to these villagers and in reEast Bhutan would gather at Tshomo aama’s turn the villagers would barter these items hitchdelicatessen for its special thukpaa, particularly hiked from their respective hamlets. the one with toothsome mushrooms. Tshomo It may sound rather crazy to savour a literally aama’s shop was not like a restaurant at all. It hot alcoholic beverage. However, there was the was a big, unfinished, traditional wooden house. steamy-hot shing-chang, which was enjoyed by the A massive chunk of rock lay there behind the hill-folk in certain festivals. During gelid winter house. A pretty big wooden press was installed they would heat this limpid homemade liquor on that rock to squeeze buckwheat-noodles. My and pour the contents of chicken-egg very slowfirst visit was on a drizzling-cold-evening with ly into it. The amazing hot-drink was considered my colleague, Mr. Gurung, a Nepalese national. auspicious in their custom. But only spirited The lady at the shop offered us big glassfuls of souls can enjoy such truly hot-spirit. By the way, steaming tea. I was told that the said beverage the slightly sour home-made-beer, Bang-Chang, wasn’t chaa but jaa, the time-tested Tibetan butwas not only tasty but also nutritious for they ter tea. In addition to tea, they would concoct used malt to prepare it. leaves of mistletoe and other herbs like myrtle. One has to drink it to believe how effectively No party or picnic was complete without the the said beverage would give soothing warmth ecstatic Aemadachhi, a hot but non-spicy curry. Fresh green Bhutanese chilies and cheese were in those cold surroundings of sherchokp-hills. the chief ingredients.
It was indeed mouth-watering. But relishing it in be a bad idea, after all. a get-together was a perspiring experience. Whenever I think back to my times at Bhutan, it’s the food that comes to my mind instantly. As someone who loves food, this is hardly surprising. Now after all these years, when I muse over my desire to write a proper center-page article, I begin to wonder if it has to be on Bhutanese food. Coming to think of it, it wouldn’t
Dr. Goutam S. Bhattacharya was born and brought up in Bishnupur, West Bengal. He has been teaching Biology for the last 22 years.
SEND US YOUR CONTRIBUTIONS TO editors@sparkthemagazine.com FEEDBACK feedback@sparkthemagazine.com WEBSITE www.sparkthemagazine.com Facebook: http://www.facebook.com/pages/Spark/240605447679 Twitter: http://www.twitter.com/sparkeditor Image credit information available at www.sparkthemagazine.com