Spark september 2013 by Spark Editor

Spark Word.World.Wisdom September 2013

Kaleidoscope

Sparkâ&#x20AC;&#x201D;September 2013 Issue | Kaleidoscope

05 September 2013 Dear Reader, This is an issue that takes a break from our usual themes and goes totally freestyle! Catch our contributors present themes close to their hearts through fiction, non-fiction, photography and poetry. Don’t miss our special interview with author, Meghna Pant. The Lounge has a book review of Jeet Thayil’s Narcopolis and a discussion on an interesting Tamil movie in the Storyboard section. We hope you enjoy this edition 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 Abhishek Tiwari AM Aravind Debleena Roy Jaya Siva Murthy Kalpanaa Misra M.Mohankumar

Until we see you again next month, Goodbye and God bless!

Parth Pandya

- Editorial team

Ramya Sethuraman Rrashima Swaarup Verma

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

Shweta Sharan Vani Viswanathan Vinita Agrawal Yayaati Joshi

Spark September 2013 © Spark 2013

Writer of the Month

Individual contributions © Author

Meghna Pant

CC licensed pictures attribution available at www.sparkthemagazine.com Published by Viswanathan

Anupama

Prashila Naik

Concept, Editing and Design

Krishnakumar/Vani

Anupama Krishnakumar Vani Viswanathan

editors@sparkthemagazine.com Powered by Pothi.com

Spark—September 2013 Issue | Kaleidoscope

Inside this Issue POETRY One Day by M. Mohankumar Astrologically Aligned by Vinita Agrawal The Painting by Abhishek Tiwari Whoever Stole My Purse by M. Mohankumar FICTION An Embrace of Habit by Prashila Naik The Table by Ramya Sethuraman Nothing to Lose by Debleena Roy Tunnel of Love by Jaya Siva Murthy A Moment of Faith by Rrashima Swaarup Verma Bruises by Shweta Sharan NON-FICTION A Tale of Two Kiddies by Parth Pandya WRITER OF THE MONTH “Don’t Romanticise Writing” : Meghna Pant, Author—Interview by Yayaati Joshi THE LOUNGE TURN OF THE PAGE| A Review of “Narcopolis” by Kalpanaa Misra STORYBOARD | Thoughts on Magalir Mattum by Vani Viswanathan PHOTOGRAPHY Critters in Our Lives by AM Aravind

Spark—September 2013 Issue | Kaleidoscope

Poetry One Day by M.Mohankumar

From dawn to dusk, Mohankumar summarises the little details of yet another day through a poem.

The sky is shot with roseate hues. The air is crisp and fresh. A cool breeze caresses my cheeks. The birds are agog with their morning songs.

Uneasy stillness of noon. All nature is tense, holding breath. Harsh light penetrates every nook and cranny revealing dirt and ugliness. I see the shadow beneath the substance. 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 will be brought out by Authorspress, Delhi shortly. Mohankumar retired as Chief secretary to Government of Kerala.

Twilight. I face the west. And see the languid beauty of the dying day. I switch on the lights; but soon they go off, I light a candle. It burns itself out, darkness closes in.

Sparkâ&#x20AC;&#x201D;September 2013 Issue | Kaleidoscope

Fiction An Embrace of Habit by Prashila Naik Very often, complacence makes way into a relationship between two people. Prashila Naik captures a few moments in the lives of a man and a woman through a short story.

The radio in the living room blared on aimlessly. On the center table, an almost emptied glass of whiskey stood out morosely through a jungle of old bills, promotional pamphlets and a whole bunch of assorted computer printouts. A maroon colored striped handkerchief hung limply over the edge of the adjacent futon.

dried- up shower head greeted her in all its nonfunctional grandeur. She clicked her tongue, annoyed that he had not called in the plumber yet again; but the annoyance, like every other time, lasted for just a few seconds. The shower had been inoperable for so long, she hardly missed using it anymore.

She watched the dimly lit room with a quiet disinterest before walking towards the bedroom. He looked up for a second to see her come in and then promptly got back to reading another one of those Hindi paperbacks he often picked up from the railway station’s bookstall. She put her handbag on the side table and walked to the closet to pick up a fresh set of night clothes.

He had already left the bedroom by the time she got out of the washroom. The paperback, though, still lay on the bed. She picked it up and spent a good minute staring at the picture on its cover, a young woman, fairly pretty, with kohl rimmed eyes that seemed to stare blankly into her own eyes. She glanced through some of its initial pages and gently put it back on the bed. She had always found it hard to think of even one reason as to why he was so obsessed with these paperbacks. They had many a heated debates on their stories, characters, even the cover pictures and the short teasers on the back covers, in the past when they were just best friends. She looked at the cover picture once again, trying hard to come up with some potential topic for a debate, even if with her own self;

“Your mom had called,” he said suddenly. “I know. She called me on my cell phone a while back.” Not waiting for his response, simply because there wasn’t going to be any, she picked up the once bright red, but now faded-in-patches nightgown and stepped into the bathroom. The 5

Spark—September 2013 Issue | Kaleidoscope

but her mind drew a huge blank. She put the She picked up her plate, switched off the TV book down, minus all the earlier gentleness and and walked back to the kitchen a couple of walked to the kitchen. minutes later. For a few seconds, images of him stretching out those long arms, refused to get “I am making egg fried rice”, she announced to out of her head. Those arms and the rest of him no one in particular and yet loud enough for had been so much slimmer when she had seen him to hear. him for the first time. She struggled to assign a “Okay. I already had dinner,” he responded date to that day in the past but failed miserably. from the living room. She glanced in the direc- Agitated for no reason, she hurriedly washed all tion of his voice and then ignoring it complete- the soiled dishes and put them back in their ly, got busy with her own preparations. place, her aching feet, already beginning to deHe was still in the living room, watching a talk mand their resting time for the day. Switching show on a Hindi news channel, when she got the lights off with the air of an expert, she got there with a serving of her horribly turned-out back to the bedroom. fried rice.

The paperback caught her attention yet again. She picked it up and turned to its first page. The scene began with a lengthy description of a girl’s wedding preparations. She patiently read through the narration and stopped when she realised through a very obvious pointer that this wedding would never see the light of that day. The bride would be deserted by her greedy, prospective in-laws and that abandonment probably explained the sadness in the bride’s eyes. She closed the book as if she had made a startling discovery and lay down on the bed, letting the room lights stay on. He would switch them off.

“Do you want to watch that serial on Sony, what's its name... the one with those conjoined twins?” he asked, without turning to look at her. “No, carry on. I stopped watching that serial after its 3rd episode.” “Really? I thought you followed it for quite some time.” “Hmm...” They stayed silent through the rest of her dinner, even as he aimlessly flicked through all the channels.

“The image of him stretching his arms flashed in front of her eyes yet again and on an impulse, she turned to the other side. A lot of his hair strands evenly spread themselves out on his pillow. She watched them and mulled silently over the fact that he too had to deal with hair fall issues of his own. She passed her fingers over the pillow and then turned back to the other side, thinking of the conversation she had had with her sister, just that morning.

I think I will go for a walk. Had a little too much to eat today,” he said a few minutes later and stretched both his arms lazily. She watched him with a vague fascination as he stood up from the sofa and stretched his arms some more, and then picking up the house keys and not bothering to change out of the smelly pajamas and T shirt he had been wearing, left from there. 6

Spark—September 2013 Issue | Kaleidoscope

A conversation that had harmlessly begun with a short discussion on whether gray looks better with white or black, moved on to a visceral analysis of her marriage, or her 'crumbling' marriage, as her sister liked to call it. She closed her eyes, not wanting to remember the abrupt and inconclusive end to that conversation, and instead began thinking of the new Business Development Head in her office.

ment Head and his smile were pushed back to the dark corners of her mind, possibly to be rekindled sometime later. He walked in, pleasantly panting and humming an old Lata Mangeshkar, Madan Mohan classic. “Sorry,” he mumbled as if he were apologizing to himself and switched the lights off. She had no idea what exactly he had done in the five minutes that he had taken to lie down next to her.

The man was u n do u bt e d l y fine, ev en though he would be at least a decade and a half older than her. She remembered the flashy and slightly flirty smile he would cast in her direction when they both stood near the coffee vending machine at office. No one had smiled at her in that manner, ever since she had given up her tight fitting T-shirts for loosefitting kurtas and her once thick and lushly long hair was cut down to stop just a little below her shoulders. She pictured that smile again and felt a strange flutter form inside the pits of her stomach.

“Sing that song again,” she said softly. “Which one?” “Naino mein b a d r a chhaaye….” He sang a couple of lines and then stopped when he felt her reach out to him, her fingers clumsily brushing against his shoulder. He caught those fingers and pulled her into his arms. She did nothing to stop him and placing her head against his chest, let herself feel the rhythms of his beating heart, as he continued to sing the song from where he had stopped.

The door lock grumbled and unexpectedly tore through her thoughts. The Business Develop7

Spark—September 2013 Issue | Kaleidoscope

Prashila Naik dreams of retiring into the idyllic landscapes of Ladakh and longs for a day when every child in India will have two full meals to eat and a permanent school to attend to. When not dreaming or longing, she continues to extend her repertoire as a veteran IT professional who loves to dabble with words and discover new genres of music.

Sparkâ&#x20AC;&#x201D;September 2013 Issue | Kaleidoscope

Writer of the Month Don’t Romanticise Writing An Interview with Meghana Pant by Yayaati Joshi

In an interview to Yayaati Joshi, Meghna Pant, bestselling author of ‘Happy Birthday!’ and ‘One & a Half Wife’, shares her thoughts on being a literary fiction writer, her writerly journey and fiction-writing trends in India.

Meghna Pant is the award-winning author of Happy Birthday! (July 2013, Random House) and One & A Half Wife (May 2012, Westland). Jeet Thayil has described her writing as ‘deft, merciless, expertly-tuned’, Ashwin Sanghi as 'provocative and inspirational', and Chitra Banerjee Divakaruni as ‘surprising and moving’.One And A Half Wife – Meghna’s bestselling debut novel – won the national Muse India Young Writer Award and was shortlisted for other awards, including the Amazon Breakthrough Novel Award. Her short stories have been published in over a dozen global literary magazines, including Avatar Review, Wasafari, Eclectica and QLRS. To learn more, please visit http:// www.meghnapant.com/ 9

Spark—September 2013 Issue | Kaleidoscope

You have been a financial journalist. Some would say that the nature of your job (the quantitative world of finance vis a vis the fictional world of storytelling) was at odds with writing fiction. Did you face any problems in writing fiction? There was no great strife or crossover, rather a slow and steady pursuit of both business and creative writing. They seem like two disparate forms of writing; after all fiction is a subjective field, all about emotions and experiences; while finance and journalism are objective fields, based on data and facts. Yet, journalism techniques have come in handy for me while creating stories. It has taught me to write economically, within the bounds of reason, while keeping in mind what is interesting to a reader, and to pay careful attention to what’s going on in the world around me. It’s easy as a writer to shut myself from the world, so being a journalist forced me to keep seeing what’s out there. Writing’s greatest problem is writing itself. It is a soul wrenching, gutting process. It is horror. It is beauty. It makes you mad. It makes you wise. It gives you freedom. It confines you. Really, it’s wonderful. Mostly. As someone who studied Economics, Management and Finance (and not Creative Writing/English Literature), when did it occur to you that you wanted to be a fiction writer? Do you think you would have been a better writer had you studied literature?

law, history, medicine, economics, statistics, accounting; but the greatest lessons I’ve learnt are from life itself. Writing, on one hand, involves the ability to write. And writing well comes from discipline, reading and loving the roll of words in your mouth. On the other hand, you have to be able to tell a good story. For this you have to live your life: experiment, experience, fail, fall, remember every little pain and every little joy, love, love again and always keep a diary. Experiencing life does not require a degree. In the Indian writing space, mass popularity and literary merit do not often go hand in hand. Writers who have sold millions of copies are sometimes criticised for poor content and pandering to the masses, and those with serious literary aspirations often get a short shrift when it comes to sales. As a writer, what are your thoughts on this? If someone wants to spend hundred-rupees of their hard-earned money to read what a ten-year -old will be able to write better, they are doing only themselves a great injustice. Reading is meant to expand your horizons, not make you feel like you walked into juvenility. I cannot tell you how many commercial fiction writers have told me that they spend only a month or two to write their book, and then sold that book for a hundred-rupees. Their ideology is that you become famous and a bestselling author with the minimum effort.

I’ve been writing stories since I was nineteen, before I’d grasped what things adults are sup- India is a land of historically great storytelling posed to do with themselves. I’ve studied every- and this current state of affairs is abysmal. thing that institutions have to offer: business, As a literary fiction author I am and I will con10

Spark—September 2013 Issue | Kaleidoscope

tinue spending years of my life in perfecting that tion. Was this an issue for you? one story that will reveal a new truth or world to Not at all. its reader. My responsibility lies with my writing, What challenges did you my publisher and my readers. face while working on your If my story has reached its full books? How did you overpotential, if I’ve become a betcome them? ter person through my art, if my publisher is making money Any serious writer faces chalout of my book, if my readers lenges that are visceral, temsay that something in them poral and semantic. Writing is shifted while reading my novel, a perilous occupation; its sithat my characters have belence, its noise, its precision come their friends, that my and its instability can leave you epiphanies have echoed in distraught. So you recognise their hearts, I am happy. the hopelessness, the hold, the An oft-quoted grouse about Indian Writing in English is that the conversation between the characters doesn’t always ring true. For example, an autowallah talking to a passenger (in English) feels odd. The closet the writer can come to replicating the conversation—in English— is by simplifying what a non-English speaker is saying. In doing so, sometimes the effect of the conversation is marred, because even though all Indians don’t speak English, they do express complex ideas, the meanings of which can be lost in transla-

power, and you keep on writing. Does a work of non-fiction feature in your writing plans? I write non-fiction articles and I’ve been approached to write biographies, but my fiction leaves me no time to write a full-length nonfiction book. Finally, can you share some words of advice for aspiring writers? Don’t romanticise writing; it’s the toughest thing you’ll ever do.

Yayaati Joshi is a man with simple tastes and intense beliefs. Contrary to the bling associated with the capital city, he prefers the company of close friends, an engaging book or an Alfred Hitchcock movie. His placid demeanour is often mistaken for reticence; Yayaati is a self-proclaimed loner, whose recent pursuits include his foray as a budding writer. Yayaati blogs at http://rantingsofadelusionalmind.wordpress.com.

Spark—September 2013 Issue | Kaleidoscope

Poetry Astrologically Aligned by Vinita Agrawal

A couple in love, and yearning to be together, are unfortunately unable to do so due to worldly constraints. Vinita Agrawal pens a poem on the â&#x20AC;&#x2DC;astrologically alignedâ&#x20AC;&#x2122; pair. Fan folds of the cosmos ridged like crested straits of shining light

Split the moon into twins like celestial earphones amplifying the symphony of the night Negativity dries up, yawning compulsions and choices go missing These are earth-bound retrievals of stories drowsing in history's hissing A cloud of divine sound breathes softly in my palpitating valves Shuddering in fascination at this momentous joining of long forgotten halves A sonnet sung, a parchment rolled in blue-black mezzanine desires A scent of seeds splitting in the embers of resplendent leaping fires A scroll of truths handed down to hands that don't know how to hold it Insert it into our veins, desperately plucked blood will know how to unfold it Scalpels have not yet unravelled the debonair morse code of love Why earth becomes heaven and heaven a piece of firmament grounded from above The prickly pineapple thorns don't hurt any more, in fact they delight Punctuating our endearing laughter with the pain of our plight You should try this epoch foolhardiness with me all over again Just to take another ride down this staggering roller-coaster pain And it will be another perfection to smoothly land at last In the scent of our belonging, cotton wrapped for the future but silken from the past. 12

Sparkâ&#x20AC;&#x201D;September 2013 Issue | Kaleidoscope

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

Sparkâ&#x20AC;&#x201D;September 2013 Issue | Kaleidoscope

Fiction The Table by Ramya Sethuraman A table, a man and a woman and the special relationship that exists between the three – Ramya Sethuraman’s story reveals more.

That was our table. All shiny and red and exciting but if you looked closely, you would see the cheap plastic falling apart in the corners, one of the legs was wobbly and it was placed close to the door. I remember feeling annoyed at the blast of cold air that would hit our face when someone walked into the café. Come to think of it, the table was much like you and me. But, it was our table and that was all that mattered to me in those days. I can’t really remember why we picked that particular table on our first date. We just did and after that, that drafty old corner became ours. Do you remember that you touched me first sitting at that very table? You sort of sneaked your hand to pick up the plate and when your fingers grazed mine, you let them remain there for a moment before drawing them away. I remember the silent blush that rose up your cheeks when that happened. But, we were just sixteen then. What did we know of love really?

you should have heard my heart pound. My fingers shook as I took the box and glanced upon the tiniest but prettiest diamond ring I had ever seen. I said yes and at that moment, the table sort of wobbled and we had laughed. Oh! How we had laughed! You had tears in your eyes and for a few seconds there I couldn’t tell if you were laughing or crying with joy.

I remember coming there alone just once. Two days before Charlie was born. We had had a huge row over something – it had seemed so important then but I can’t even remember what it was about now. The waiter had looked at me questioningly – how come I was alone? I ignored him and ordered for two by mistake and then corrected myself. I did not touch my food that day. Every time the cold air hit my face, I would look up to see if you had followed me to our table to say you are sorry. But, you didn’t come. Finally, I rose to leave and opened the door and there you stood with a huge bouquet When two years later, you produced a tiny vel- of daisies. The waiter grinned at me and showed vet box and placed it quietly on the red table, me a thumbs-up sign. How could I not forgive 14

Spark—September 2013 Issue | Kaleidoscope

you? You never gave me a chance to stay angry at you long enough. And now, I can’t even recall those arguments so that I can make myself miss you a little bit less. I hate you for that. If you offered me a bouquet of daisies today, I would refuse. I want you, not those damned daisies, don’t you understand? I want you with me so I can live.

have accepted that tiny diamond ring. Or the daisies.

Why does it feel like this all the time? As if time had stood still but I am still waiting at this table expecting you to appear any time and make a silly face at me, make me laugh. Cry. Live again? I have not come here since you left. But today, I am here. I close my eyes and let the tears trickle Nobody told me death would be like this. You down and in the cold wind that kisses my didn’t tell me you were planning to die on me cheeks, I feel your touch for just a moment. and take my life with you. Or I wouldn’t have And then, you are gone again. sat there with you on that first date. I wouldn’t

Ramya Sethuraman is a software engineer with a penchant for telling tales. Her first novel, The Last Laugh, a collection of romantic short stories was recently published by Createspace and is available on amazon.com. Her stories have also appeared in DNA, Me magazine in Mumbai, India, India Abroad newspaper in the U.S and has received special mention in the 76th annual writer’s digest competition in the U.S. 15

Spark—September 2013 Issue | Kaleidoscope

Non-fiction The Tale of Two Kiddies by Parth Pandya Bringing up a child is fun as well as daunting for parents. And when you are handling two children, many new equations come into play. Parth Pandya shares his experience of parenting two kids. Here’s something that many parents are sure to relate to. Read on. Parenting is not a perfect science. However, if you survive raising an infant (and the measure of the success is that the infant survives you to become a boy or a girl), you’d say to yourself: what is one more thrown into the mix? My wife and I are blessed with two young boys. Let’s call them A and N. This article is to talk about the joy of handling two young kids. There is no prerequisite that you need to have two kids in order to read and enjoy this piece, but those with two young ones will hopefully relate and learn from this. Since I claimed that parenting is not a science, nothing in here has to be empirically proven for more than one family. I will claim to be an expert parent. So is the chap next door. Here is a little back-story to set the stage. Our first-born, A, arrived into this world in the last legs of the year 2008. They say the birth of a child is a life-altering moment. You know it’s coming, but you can’t gauge how it will shake up your world. Imagine yourself driving around the freeway on a cold morning in Chelyabinsk and you see this flash of light across the sky.

You know that something huge is happening, but it is only when the shock wave blasts the glass off windows and knocks you off your socks that you know it has hit you. Baby. Meteor. Same thing. A is a fantastic son. He has to be. He has our genes in good abundance. Through his initial years, he was a guinea pig and a teacher for his parents, helping them find their way to through the maze of parenting choices. And then, just as life with A settled into a steady manageable rhythm, N arrived. That was completely antithetical the arrival of the first born. Everything was well prepared, everything was in order. The first might have been as tense as landing a spaceship on an asteroid. The second was as smooth as landing an airplane at Dubai. A year has passed since we moved on to this fourperson dynamic in the family. It has had an interesting effect on all concerned. Here are some learnings for parents who choose to go through this experience.

Spark—September 2013 Issue | Kaleidoscope

Welcome to single parenting

quite independent. Is it a matter of survival for the second ones? Unlike their older siblings, While once you were two parents doting on one they never will get the 1:1 attention of their parchild, you now have the distinct pleasure and ents. When left to fend for yourself, you tend to privilege of managing two kids, turning you into grow your skills faster. a single parent for large stretches of time. While as a husband, you might have pampered your Get the whistle out wife to no end in the first pregnancy, during the The younger one might spend the first year in second stretch, the pampering you might manabsolute adoration of their role model. At some age and be valued for is taking extensive care of stage, adoration will be replaced by imitation. the first child. While as a wife you might have What the older one does, the younger one atworried during your first pregnancy about the tempts. And soon, what the older one has, the shape and state of the life in your belly before it younger one wants. Thus it begins, leading to pops out, you now partition that stress into acthe parents spending a lot of time in resolving counting for how your older one will cope when conflicts. There is a saying that with one child, the baby arrives. you become a parent and that with two kids, It will all come back … you become a referee. We have our whistles firmly in our lips, ready to call foul at the earli…, like a splash of cold water on your face. Alest. most everything that you knew about handling a baby comes rushing back to you the moment they hand you the baby at the hospital and wish you good luck. The chaos, the twenty-four hour routine, the nights, oh yes, the nights where sleep is hostage to a seven pound bundle of unpredictable behaviours. When it does come back and you are back to your own familiar and ‘experienced’ ways, you’ll reach the conclusion that with two kids, the stress levels aren’t as high as it was when you had one child, but the amount of work to manage two will shoot The seven stages of adjustment through the roof. The presence of a younger sibling can incite The second one is anything but the first! As the younger one grew to an observant young fellow, we started realizing that all milestones were being hit with a lot of alacrity. Walking, talking, eating seemed to come to N more naturally than they did to A. N also turned out to be

jealousy and can incite protectiveness. Different kids take it to different levels. At the beginning though, there is little for them to be peeved about. Everyone is calling them a ‘big brother’ or a ‘big sister’ and even though they may not understand the privileges and the challenges that

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come with that title, it ‘feels’ and ‘sounds’ good. Not to mention the various gifts that they get at the birth of their sibling, either out of guilt or nicety or parity. Since the number of hours in the day don’t go up from twenty-four to fortyeight, it is a reality that the time available for them with their parents has reduced and so is the focus that they need to contend with. Some act out, some act in, some simply ignore it. If you have got the timing right and they are at the age when they are marching towards independence, they cope much better. Obi-wan Can-I-Be? “You should eat your food. It is good for you”. The moment I heard A pass on this excellent piece of wisdom to his younger brother, I was convinced that you have certain privileges as an older child that can’t be denied. That piece of wisdom came from a boy who has never eaten food unless he is constantly hounded by his parents. But that clearly did not stop him from taking on the role of the elder. The protector. The entertainer. It is a metamorphosis worth treasuring. The curious case of the little ones What must it feel like to arrive in a world where three people dote on you? What must it feel like to be in a world where you’ll never get to be the only one your parents focus their energies on? Young ones arrive in this world with this dichotomous conundrum to solve. The young ones get half the attention, half the paranoia, half the pressure and half the experimentation that the

older ones were subjected to. You can’t possibly follow their milestones with equal microscopic focus, you don’t fuss about their eating or sleeping to the same degree, you let them cry a bit longer than you did your first born until you are certain they are crying because they mean it and you certainly won’t let your hands singe away to ensure that their things are sterilized to the nth degree. The second ones aren’t the same as the first, and they benefit and lose something by that measure. The answered prayers When you have gone through the experience of one child and have had your share of the struggles, you intuitively wish for it to be easier the second time round. If your first one did not eat food easily, you wish the second one will comply. If the first one gave you sleepless nights, you wish the second one will sleep better. Rest assured, your prayers will be answered by the second one. Of course, there is no guarantee whether they will do the things that the first one did well. Never challenge nature’s sense of balance. The story of parenting two kids will have its own shape and form as time evolves and the two kids grow up from being infants, toddlers, kindergarteners, make their way to school and college. Each episode will bear its own stamp and re-forge each equation. Until then, here’s hoping that your adventure with a pair of kiddies is an equally fun ride.

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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.

Do you own a copy of our anthology, ‘Sparkling Thoughts’?

Order it now at http://pothi.com/pothi/book/anupamakrishnakumar-sparkling-thoughts 19

Spark—September 2013 Issue | Kaleidoscope

Poetry The Painting A tree within a painting on the wall of a bar sparks a question inside the narratorâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s mind. Abhishek Tiwari writes a poem.

by Abhishek Tiwari

That day was first eve And also for the tree In the wild bar at the centre Of civilised city The tree was in a painting Standing alone With many depictions From love to moan For few days it grabbed Attention of all It looked all nice Hung on the wall Then days passed by From cold to summer Few were there still to remember One day that painting Fell from the wall It waited on the floor For some bier to fall 20

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It went all blurry Like everyone does It was just a paining Why so much fuss? The wall is empty Still, in the dark The carving of the painting Had some spark When all look happy I still recall and question myself Does it matter to exist? If I shall be gone Will something persist? Will someone say cheers For that freaky guy Who went with the wind and bid me goodbye?

Abhishek Tiwari, born and brought up in the city of Kolkata, in a lower middle class family, is a PhD Scholar at Bhabha Atomic Research Centre, Mumbai. He is a Master of Technology from IIT Kharagpur. As for his literary pursuits, he has been awarded certificate of excellence by Epic Literary Council in poetry.

Sparkâ&#x20AC;&#x201D;September 2013 Issue | Kaleidoscope

Fiction Nothing to Lose by Debleena Roy Sujata leads a rather uninteresting life as the rich-man’s wife until things take a turn at one of those ‘yet another’ social gatherings. Debleena Roy’s work of fiction tells Sujata’s story. Sujata helped herself to three apple and oyster canapés before the plate moved just out of her reach. The tangy lemon flavour in the oyster blended really well with the warm and sweet apple jelly, she felt.

“Perfect party,” Sujata said aloud. “Great menu, as usual.”

But she just couldn’t tear her eyes away from the buffet table; the fresh orange, fennel and apple salad with the grilled prawns, the juicy red watermelon and feta cheese canapé topped with sesame seeds seemed to be calling out to her. Interesting …”Interesting,” thought Sujata,. “I must try out the crumbly cheese combination with the toasted sesame seeds.”

“What do you think, Amol, about investing in Alternatives?” Deven Mehta was asking.

She turned awa,y her eyes searching for Amol.

There he was, standing in the large open terrace amongst the men who were discussing their She knew she should be joining Veena, Ronita favourite topic – money. and Archana who were sitting together, perched at the end of the large beige sofa like three exot- Whiskey and advice seemed to be flowing ic birds in a row; their slender necks weighed freely, she noticed, as she made her way to the group and stood at the edge, listening. down by their diamond necklaces.

Amol rubbed his nose thoughtfully and pushed back his glasses before replying, “Well no doubt there is money to be made, Deven.” “Aha, the expert’s verdict was out,” thought Sujata. Deven and Sanjeev were nodding dutifully as Amol spoke.

“Lovely saree, Sujata”, Veena called out to her. “But Alternatives might be a little risky, don’t “Sabyasachi, as usual!” you think?” said Sujata animatedly. “Hmm.. a compliment for the designer, not for “I think Index funds make sense now; returns me,” Sujata mused. 22

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are steadier,” she added. Silence greeted her suggestion.

She went closer to the table. She must try one out. Or maybe two.

She helped herself to pork chops and some herb “Yes sure,” Amol waved his hand as if he were rice. Picking up her plate, she finally headed waving away her inputs. back to join Veena, Archana and Ronita. “So, as I was saying” he continued, turning away Snatches of conversation floated up to her. from Sujata, “Alternatives are the way to go now.” “Broccoli with spiced yogurt, couldn’t believe how tasty it was,” Veena was saying. Sujata was put out. “Simply caramelize broccoli and toss it with He looked drunk she thought. He was drunk on lime juice and Parmesan cheese, it’s quite good his success; the rich Successful Entrepreneur too,” Archana piped in. whose start-up was the latest talk of the town. They all looked drunk. Why waste her advice on “That sounds really delectable,” Sujata thought. their drunken ears? The trio were talking about food, which surShe moved away. She was no longer expected to prised her. That was strange, for, they hardly have any opinions; rich man’s wife was now her ate! Food was not a source of enjoyment for job description. them, to be savoured and relished; it was just a mathematical count of calories. One extra count Heading back to the dining room, she passed meant another new diet or a rush to the gym as the large French windows and caught a glimpse they huffed and puffed their way to glorious of herself in the glass: black, kohl lined eyes, fitness. long, black hair that shone in the soft light. Of course, it was not doing them any harm; Black; that was the only colour she wore these look how their toned muscles were glowing days, but today even black didn’t seem to hide smoothly in their designer sheaths. how stretched and bloated her body looked with the 20 kg of extra weight she had piled on over “But I tell you Veena,” Archana was insisting. the last five years. “It’s not a fad. I tried it, and I lost 3 kg in two weeks. It really works.” She looked away. As usual, her eyes went back to the table. There were a few more dishes laid Sujata’s ears perked up. out now. She saw some pork chops. Pink and “What are you all taking about?” Sujata asked. juicy, on a bed of creamy mushroom sauce with Nobody answered her. a spicy asparagus dip. “Ya, Dukan diet may give results, I agree” said I am not a glutton, but an explorer of food… Veena sounding sceptical. the line came to her mind. She couldn’t remember where she had read it but it sounded perfect “But I just swear by Pilates. Great for lower abs,” Veena continued, her voice dropping, her to her now. 23

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red sari showing off her own perfect abs.

“But there are very few good Indian books in the market, I must say,” Veena interrupted.

“By the way, have you the heard the latest, the Morning Banana Diet?” asked Ronita. “Maybe. I heard Rujuta Diwekar’s latest book is doing really well. More than two lakh copies “You know, it’s super simple, bananas and sold!” Ronita showed off her knowledge. warm water for breakfast and rest of day you can eat what you want.” Youngest of the lot, “Well, I still believe some of these diets are just Ronita was the thinnest and also the most well- fads,” Veena said airily. “They come and go. I informed. have my regime, I go by my gym trainer’s advice you know - he says, the classic rule is you can Sujata leaned forward. eat anything you want as long as you eat no “Hey guys, just tell me something. Where do carbs after 6 p.m.” you get all this information about these different Veena stopped talking. There was a sudden sidiets?” Sujata found herself asking even as she lence in the conversation. Sujata looked up and bit into the pork - well done, just the way she saw them staring at her plate, their expressions liked it, as it melted like butter in her mouth. as empty as their own plates. There were several They looked surprised both at her interest and spoons of herb rice and one last pork chop left her question. on her plate. She calmly finished off as the oth“Well,” said Ronita slowly. “There’s tons of ers moved on to discussing the African Mango information on the Internet. And if you are real- diet. ly interested, there are some really good books, *** you know, on weight loss and diets.” The subsequent morning, Sujata had just waved “So what are these books about?” Sujata persist- goodbye to Amol who left early for an Investor ed. meeting. Raj, their fourteen-year-old son, had “Do they give diet plans or do they speak about also rushed off to school, his IPod wired to his exercise routines? Do they include low fat reci- ears. pes and all?” Sujata wanted to know.

The whole day stretched out in front of her. Her “They are all different,” Ronita explained as if to servants Rajesh and Kamal hovered around her asking “Anything else, Madam?” a child. “Some of the books like Burn the Fat, Feed the Muscle and the Truth about Abs are bestsellers. Personally I like books like the Hungry Girl. That’s more like a diet cookbook, you know. Some really smart recipes there,” Ronita continued.

“Nothing, till lunch” Sujata sighed, looking at her empty breakfast plate .She had just finished her meal as recommended by the Big Breakfast Diet; it was all of two measly pieces of brown bread, a kid-sized bowl of oatmeal, a plate of scrambled eggs and a tiny muffin. Wasn’t all that big was it?

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Sujata thought longingly of hot alu parathas and a glass of sweet lassi. Now that was a big breakfast - an immensely satisfying one. She looked away from her plate. Lunch was still hours away. In the meantime, she had work to do.

“But it would be interesting to catch up again on the diet tips,” she told herself.

Weight loss, the article informed her, was a $390 Billion industry. Diet books, fitness equipment, diet CDs all contributed to the growing market. Double dip recession seemed to have had little impact on the industry which appeared to be growing steadily despite it being based on the fundamental fact that even children knew: eat healthy and exercise.

“Who said crunches are the way to flat belly?”

“Give me ten minutes,” Sujata said. “I’ll meet you at Cunningham Road.”

At the mall, while the others went to a designer She switched her laptop on, and typed in… saree shop, Sujata saw a Crossword bookstore “Weight loss+ diet” and went in and The search headed straight to the engine diet books section generously From XL to XS, threw up Women and the 500 billion Weight Loss Tamaresults! sha, Don’t lose your S t um pe d , mind, lose your S u j a t a weight, Flat Belly scanned Diet, Hungry Girl through a the glossy covers and few links bold titles stared at a n d her. opened “Lose 10 kg in 3 months” one of them. “Eat more, lose weight.” Sujata flipped through the books one by one. 45 minutes later, she joined her friends. Their hands were laden with designer dresses; she had paperbacks in bulging Crossword packets.

It struck her as amazing. Out of curiosity, she *** started reading some more articles and recipes, The next day, Amol found Sujata poring over when Ronita called. the books. “Hey, joining us for shopping, Sujata?” she “What’s up with all these books, you look asked. busy?” he asked as he finished his breakfast and “One more black saree!” Sujata sighed. logged into his iPad. 25

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“Yeah, you know, I was just thinking about all Her friends looked at her in surprise. these diet fads and all,” Sujata looked up from “So, someone is trying to lose weight,” Ronita the pile of books. said. “Diet and you, forget it Suja,” Amol cut in. Veena looked her over and said “Well, you seem “You love food too much. You can’t stay away to have taken our advice.” from your gourmet recipes,” Amol laughed as Sujata smiled demurely and bit into her fresh he checked his tie in the sun-shaped foyer mirfruit salad. As she expected, the discussion ror and picked up his Blackberry. soon steered towards diets. What was it that someone had said at the party “You know the main problem is…” Archana the other day? It was not about what you eat but was saying, always ready to share her wealth of when you eat, Sujata wanted to tell that to Amol knowledge and experience. but he had already left. “We just don’t respect our stomachs. We don’t Sujata went back to her new books. After readrealise when we should start eating and when we ing them, she put the next step of her plan in should stop. We should treat our stomachs betaction. ter.” Soon a set of scales, packets of broccoli, spinSujata nodded in agreement. Well, didn’t that ach, beans and avocado, and boxes of green tea sound like the philosophy of Rujuta Diwekar’s were neatly laid out on her kitchen counter. new book? But of course, she didn’t say that She was all set to start, and what better way to aloud. start than a cup of green tea, the panacea all her “And don’t forget the exercise,” Veena, the self friends swore by? As she sat sipping the tea, an -confessed gym rat added. idea struck her and she began writing. “Diet is just 70% of the weight loss story. You I sit and sip my cup of green tea, won’t lose the remaining 30% unless you exerThey who know say it’s good for me, cise five days a week,” Veena warned. Trying to lose weight; It will be such a long wait,

Sujata looked up. So there was a 30 % too that she was ignoring!

The next day she visited the gym. She had never exercised before and her muscles protested at *** their sudden remembrance. When she returned Two months later, Sujata was getting ready for home, she opened up her laptop and began typRonita’s cards and gossip party. She looked at ing. “Did you know there is a machine for eveher reflection. Today for the first time, she was ry body part? As you stand in the gym and wonder just where to start, wearing a size 10 dress and it fit her perfectly! Till then, let me sip my cup of green tea.

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You stare at them and they stare back at you ment. “When did you do it? Why didn’t I nocold and grey, tice? Why didn’t you tell me? I am so proud of you.” Who said losing weight was easy anyway? She eavesdropped into a few people discussing The treadmill starts; you can hear your loud, her book. scared heart. “Entertaining read, don’t you agree, with the Her laptop folder was now full of typed notes, gourmet recipes and personal weight loss stoexercise plans, weight loss anecdotes, recipes ries….?” and diet charts. “Love the funny limericks at the beginning of *** each chapter….” 12 months later, 15 kg lighter….. “Not just boring advice, you know, like the Sujata was at a book launch. The bookstore was books written by experts…” crowded. Almost all the chairs were taken. The “So sympathetic, as if the author really went event was about to begin. The host was introthrough the journey herself….” ducing the book. Sujata spotted the trio – Ronita, Archana and “Nothing to lose has sold 20,000 copies. It is a Veena making their way towards her, smiles revolutionary book in the world of weight loss pasted on their faces. and diets. And now, allow me to introduce you to the author.” Compliments poured from their mouth – for her new figure, her new dress, her new book. Sujata stood up. This was her cue. Sujata heard them all. Wasn’t it all things she She picked up her book and started reading. Her had heard before? voice was calm and steady. But they had got the order of the compliments “Two years ago, I weighed 75 kg, and wore quite wrong. Her new dress - she wasn’t sure if only black.” that would fit her after six months. Her new From the word go, the audience was riveted. figure – well she didn’t really care how long that Within half an hour, it was all over. would remain. “How does it feel to be the husband of the ce- But her new book, now that was what mattered. lebrity? She is the one bringing in the moolah She drummed her fingers on her book as she now!” Deven asked Amol. thought of a new business plan. Amol looked at her. She could sense his amaze-

Debleeena blogs at debleena-roy.blogspot.in and has had articles published in Chillibreeze and eZinearticles. 27

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Poetry Whoever Stole My Purse Losing your wallet isn’t a very pleasant experience, especially when it’s loaded with money and other important things. Mohankumar’s poem describes how he imagines someone would lift a purse off an unsuspecting person.

by M Mohankumar

The bard may say so, but whoever stole my purse didn’t steal trash. He got away with a lot: three thousand- rupee notes and some of lower denomination. ATM card. Credit cards. Driving licence. Scraps of verse I’d scribbled in a hurry. And the purse itself, a mascot, money flowing into it every time money flowed out of it.

This is how I figure it out: I’m walking along the corridors of a busy mall, stopping here and there to window-shop. The purse is in my hip-pocket, bulging out, swaying to my every step. He tails 28

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me, walking as I walk, stopping as I stop. And as I stand distracted his nimble fingers go to work.

Not a difficult job. It doesn’t take an Artful Dodger to lift a purse, sticking out prominently.

I remember reading an article in Reader’s Digest, giving tips to outwit pickpockets. Written by a pickpocket turned gentleman. If only I had kept those tips in mind!

These days my purse is rather light. And I don’t keep it in my hip-pocket.

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 will be brought out by Authorspress, Delhi shortly. Mohankumar retired as Chief secretary to Government of Kerala.

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Fiction Tunnel of Love by Jaya Siva Murthy What marks love between two people? Is there love present between two people whose lives seem to be filled with anger and bitterness directed at the other? Jaya Siva Murty tells us the story of one such couple. When Prabhakar and Kantiratnam first got married in the 1960s, it did not look like that they had been made for each other. In fact, for the limited crowd of relatives who attended and stayed back after the wedding brouhaha was over, it seemed to be a wrestling match from hell. Kantiratnam was the only daughter of TV Sastry, a lawyer by profession, and she was the youngest in a family with six brothers. As a result of being brought up in a family where rights were as important as values, she had learnt to fight tooth and nail for herself rather early in life. Prabhakar, on the other hand, belonged to a traditional family with orthodox views and opinions. He had been brought up to believe that men were around whom the household revolved, that it was men who set the ground rules and women who followed them. So when he saw that Kantiratnam did not share the same values as him and preferred to fight over the

smallest of instances, all peace instantly evaporated. You may say that physical attraction would play a part and bring the two together. But what with Prabhakar being aged 18 and Kantiratnam 12, this was hardly the case. Sending Kanti back to her mother’s place for ‘grooming’ into ladylike roles was out of the question, as her father, already annoyed at the societal pressure that had made him marry off his daughter at 12, would have given Prabhakar a piece of his mind. And Prabhakar’s mother felt too overwhelmed by her daughter–in-law to help. So this was how Chandrasekhar, nicknamed Chandu and 10 years old at that time, got caught in the crossfire. The fights between Prabhakar and Kantiratnam had been getting worse as the days passed by. And worried that the two may kill each other, Ravanamma, Chandu’s mother and Prabhakar’s cousin, started to live there with her son, in order to maintain the peace between the two. It was her job to placate

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them when volatile fights erupted, and to prevent major mishaps from happening. Though she was rather good at keeping peace at home, nothing could have prepared her for that night. She had to hurry to the neighbouring town to meet an ailing cousin, and with no better option had left Chandu to keep an eye on the two.

and glasses started getting thrown about, Chandu decided to intervene.

“And who do you think will clear the plate, Kantiratnam?” he asked. The attitude of Kanti simply grated on his nerves, irking him and shaking the orthodox lessons his mother had brought him up with. “Kanti, come back!” Prabhakar reprimanded. “Don’t you know that it is a wife’s duty to clear the plate once the husband has finished food? Did your father not even teach you this?” he continued.

“Those stupid, worthless, idiotic people,” his mother was muttering, “let them kill each other. I’m never ever going there.” And so it was decided that all efforts were worthless and that Prabhakar and Kantiratnam be left to their own devices, while everyone else lived their lives as usual.

“Stop, stop atta” he said, stepping between the two, while looking at Kantiratnam and trying to smoothen the ruffled feathers. But he should have looked left and right, for in that very minute a silver plate came flying from Prabhakar’s Things were peaceful for an hour, and soon it direction, and though aimed at Kantiratnam, hit was dinnertime. Kantiratnam had served the Chandu squarely on his head. The world for food to her husband and Chandu. After serving him was a blur after that and Chandu could only the curry and remember it turning rasam, she had just black in colour and ladled the curds the feel of thick fluid into her husband’s oozing down his face. plate of food beIt was a couple of fore turning hours later that he around to walk woke up, in the comaway. fort of his bedroom, “I’m going for a with a bandage bath,” she told around his head and him, without even his muttering worried looking in his direction. mother beside him.

All those who are married and versant with what happens when fathers are brought into such conversation, can only guess what happened here, especially with a couple as volatile as these two. So when a minute later, the plates

Chandu soon left for Madras. His uncle lived there, and suggested that Chandu live with him for his schooling. It was a peaceful life from then on. Chandu completed his college, and after a few years, even got a job there at the oil refinery, a post that further led to his marriage and two children. Visiting his family at the vil-

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lage from time to time, he learnt that that the volatile couple were still fighting like wild cats and yet without children. This was a couple that was definitely headed down towards the path of killing each other, Chandu thought. The two had nothing in common, no children and obviously no love. Over the years, as his family in the village passed on, he fell out of touch with the happenings at the Prabhakar-Kantiratnam family.

each other. Perhaps it was Kantiratnam’s upbringing to blame. He shook his head, maybe he was just being judgemental because Prabhakar had died. Kantiratnam had suffered too, but then not getting him even a plate of food... Reaching home, he found a few relatives sat around Kantiratnam, who still looked strong despite everything. “That man still can’t handle a pin prick, delicate fellow. They’ll get fed up with him soon.”

So when some years down the line, Chandu A silent Chandu hung his head. “They already heard that Prabhakar was in the hospital after a are. They’re sending the body home now. He’s heart attack, he decided to take a bus down to no more.” visit him. Kantiratnam was suddenly silent. She took in ”Chandu,” Prabhakar recognized him. “How is the news of her husband’s death rather quietly. your family, little boy?” Not a tear, Chandu noted, before adding “His last words were about you. He said that you He looked weak, as if he were counting his last hadn’t given him food.” Chandu paused. “At days. least now you can have a few peaceful days.” A “Yes, fine” said Chandu “And yours? How is tiny smile seemed to flicker on Kanti’s face. atta?” “The doctors told me not to get him food, and Prabhakar sighed. “It’s the same, in fact worse your mother told me to stay away from the hosat times. Now she fights like an old hag. She pital.” hasn’t yet brought me food.” And then a fit of Chandu couldn’t handle it anymore. “Why, you coughing overcame him. must be glad he’s gone! You won’t have to fight Chandu hung around the hospital for a few it out for everything. You wouldn’t even need to hours, making enquiries about Prabhakar’s clear his plate.” health. At the end of another long coughing fit, Kantiratnam smiled again. “Ah, you remember Prabhakar was no more. that fight? Yes, it will really be peaceful without It was time to give the news to his wife at home. him. Now no one will nit-pick on how soft the As he reached their house, Chandu couldn’t rice needs to be. Or on how I should clear the help but reflect on the old times. The way the plate after food. There won’t be that plate to two had always fought with each other, and to clear. Or on how he had the option of marrying think of how Prabhakar had talked of his wife the doctor’s daughter. Oh God, Chandu, who during his last living hours. If only the two of am I going to match my wits with? Who am I them had reciprocated, loved and respected going to pick fights with?” 32

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Chandu couldn’t believe what he was hearing. She passed away that same night, peacefully, in ”What are you saying? I thought you hated her sleep. Chandu was present at their joint fuhim.” neral, and someone said, pointing to the sky, “Now they’ll fight there too!” Another added, “I don’t know about love or hate. We’ve been “They went away together, there must have hard on each other all our lives. We’ve even been a lot of love in the relationship.” Chandu been hard on you. Now, I really don’t know couldn’t help but smile at this, as he touched the how to live a quiet life, I can’t live like that.” scar on his head. Love manifests itself in strange Saying so, she walked away towards the door of forms and this relationship was one of those her room as a confused Chandu stood at the strange platforms. Was it not true, that the mark entrance. Kantiratnam stopped by the doorway of love between two people was not always conof her bedroom. “Do you know what the real genial? He had just seen a new kind of light in reason was for not clearing his plate?” she said, the tunnel of love. her voice cracking up slightly. “It was just so that I could hear him call my name.” She walked away, with a smile as weak as her heavy heart.

Jaya Siva Murty has been working as a business and creative writer for the past twelve years now. She has authored a novella titled ‘Canvas of Dreams’ with Indireads Publishing. She lives in Visakhapatnam, where she divides her time between her two children and her passions for writing, training and volunteering for social causes.

Spark—September 2013 Issue | Kaleidoscope

Fiction A Moment of Faith by Rrashima Swaarup Verma Ragi simply can’t understand her mother’s spontaneous “Thank God!” for anything and everything. A summer morning in Delhi might perhaps give her a chance to consider her mother’s point of view. It was the month of June in 1985. Delhi was as hot as a furnace. The electricity had been playing hide and seek in Ragi Kashinathan’s house for the last 45 minutes. The Kashinathan family however, seemed oblivious to the oppressive heat as they ate breakfast together in the dining room. Mr. Kashinathan was, as usual, lost in his morning newspaper, the family dog was sprawled on the floor in anticipation of a stray piece of food that might come his way and Ragi’s younger brother sighed heavily as he ate his porridge with a pained expression. It was the same scene every morning and Ragi smiled contentedly to herself as her mother poured them all big cups of tea. She was just reaching out for the slightly overdone toast when the peaceful silence in the room was suddenly interrupted by the noisy jangling of the doorbell. Her mother went to answer it. It was the postman. “There’s a letter for you,” said her mother as she sorted through the pile and handed an impressive looking, business envelope to Ragi. Ragi tore it open and a delighted smile spread

across her face as she read the letter. “Mom, Dad, I’ve got an offer letter from that multinational!” she squealed. “I went for the interview last week, remember?” Her father immediately came around the table to envelop her in a tight hug and her mother kissed the top of her head while murmuring “Thank God, Thank God!” all the time. “Oh, come on Mom,” laughed Ragi “This has nothing to do with God. I’m the one who slogged for it.” “Don’t tease your mother,” chided her father. “She’s just happy for you.” “Oh, by the way, I almost forgot! Did you get your reports?” Mrs. Kashinathan looked questioningly at her husband as they finished breakfast. “You were supposed to get them collected yesterday.” “Ah yes, I did,” smiled Mr. Kashinathan “Everything’s fine. Cholesterol, triglycerides, sugar level all good! So you have no reason to worry.” “Thank God,” murmured Mrs. Kashinathan then as Ragi rolled her eyes and her younger brother laughed. She was just so predictable! “Mom! What is this Thank God, Thank God you keep saying? Who is this God

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you’re always thanking? Have you ever even Mom,” said Ragi distractedly, as she picked up met God? Or seen him? her bag and files. She was running late and didn’t have the time to stand around, making small Anyway, Dad’s cholesterol and triglycerides are talk. She had an important meeting that day and a direct result of what he eats. Where does God the traffic was sure to be as chaotic as it always come in?” She raised her eyebrows and spread was on Monday mornings. “I’d better get going. her hands out, as though stating the obvious, It’s going to be bedlam on the roads this mornbut Mrs. Kashinathan was not amused. “Some ing after last night’s rain.” “Well, call me if you things are better accepted than questioned.” She think of somelooked at her thing,” called out daughter gravely her mother as Ragi over her spectagrabbed her lunch cles. “And it box and headed for might do you the door. “And good to be a make sure you eat little more acyour lunch on cepting. Anyone time.” would think you were an agnosThe traffic was tic!” “No thank terrible. In fact, you, Mom,” there was total Ragi smiled mayhem on the good naturedly highway after last at her mother and gulped down her juice. night’s spell of rain and Ragi groaned as she “You’re religious enough for all four of us. realized that she was going to be late for work. Speaking for myself, I’d rather vicariously enjoy “And this is what happens after one bout of the goodness of religion and spirituality through rain,” she muttered to herself as her auto you.” They all laughed except Mrs. Kashina- honked uselessly at the car in front of her. “I than. She personally believed that there was a can’t even begin to imagine what will happen sanctity to certain things and didn’t approve of when the monsoon arrives.” She sighed and making fun of them. But since nobody seemed glanced out of the window. The scene outside to be agreeing with her, she pursed her lips and was as dismal as ever. The already dilapidated said no more. roads had broken down further so that considerable parts had almost completely disappeared; “Ragi, I’m going to Kailash Market this mornthere were poor, homeless people scurrying ing. Do you need anything?” Mrs. Kashinathan about despairingly and little beggar children glanced at her daughter as she got ready to leave running around everywhere. One of them saw for work. It was almost 8.30 and her father had her watching them and ran up to her auto. already left to drop her brother to school. “No 35

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He held out his hand for some money. Ragi, who firmly believed that all beggary was a huge scam and never encouraged it, resolutely looked the other way.

cafeteria. As she walked towards the crowd of people huddling around the blaring radio, Ragi suddenly got the strangest feeling. Her mother would have called it premonition.

The child was persistent and tried a few more times and then finally gave up. He scowled at Ragi’s back and went back to join his friends. “Not a lot there to thank God for,” muttered Ragi to herself as the car in front finally moved a few inches. “I should discuss with Mom again in the evening…”

“The first bomb exploded exactly fifteen minutes back followed by two more in quick succession,” announced a loud voice. Nobody even noticed Ragi as she made her way closer to the radio and drew in a sharp intake of breath at the reporter’s next words. “Kailash Market was reduced to a sight of blood and terrified screams in a matter of seconds. Thirty people have already been reported dead.”

She was still muttering to herself when she finally strode into her office at 10. She was half an hour late and her boss was sure to notice and…Ragi was just about to enter her name in the attendance register when she suddenly noticed that the reception area was empty. Even the peon and security guard, who usually hung around when the receptionist wasn’t there, were nowhere to be seen. Strange! As she walked towards her cabin, she realized that the entire office seemed to be empty! The usually chaotic corridors were in fact, silent. That was odd! It was certainly not a holiday. Where was everyone? It didn’t take her long to figure out that everyone, including the receptionist and all the peons were huddled in front of the television in the

Ragi felt the room spin around her and she felt she would faint. Her hands were shaking uncontrollably as she rushed to the nearest phone. She could hardly dial the number and she felt beads of sweat break out on her forehead. She clutched her chest and bit her bottom lip till it bled. It couldn’t happen! It wouldn’t happen! She could still hear the reporter’s grim voice in the background and all kinds of dreadful thoughts raced through her mind but she resolutely pushed them away as the phone continued to ring. At last, she heard the familiar voice. “Hi Ragi! Have you reached office? Everything fine?”

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“Mom, are you all right?” Her voice was shaking as her mind tried to decipher the fact that her mother was indeed alive and sounded okay. “Of course! Why do you ask dear?” “You mean you didn’t go to Kailash Market?” whispered Ragi. “Oh no,” said her mother cheerfully “Actually, your Granny dropped in half an hour back. We were just having a cup of tea together. Are you all right darling? You sound a little strange.” “I’m fine, Mom. I’ll call you in a minute,” said Ragi, weak with relief. She disconnected the call and tried to steady her breathing.

Her mother was safe! Miraculously untouched by the terrible bolt of lightning that had struck and taken so many innocent lives. Tears streamed down her face as she cried for what had happened as well as what could have. Her hands were still trembling as she sat down, closed her eyes and murmured the inevitable words to herself: “Thank God, Thank God!”

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.

Spark—September 2013 Issue | Kaleidoscope

Photography Critters in Our Lives by AM Aravind

Sparkâ&#x20AC;&#x201D;September 2013 Issue | Kaleidoscope

AM Aravind, who was a marketeer and a product manager in a Telecom company, quit the job and became an entrepreneur. He loves music and photography. An ardent AR Rahman fan, he has also composed music for short films. Bird photography really excites him as does baking. AM Aravind blogs at http://arrahmaniac.blogspot.com

Sparkâ&#x20AC;&#x201D;September 2013 Issue | Kaleidoscope

Fiction Bruises by Shweta Sharan Shweta Sharan’s story is about a woman who is particularly intriguing because of the bruises she carries. Read on. She came to our hangouts with bruises, one are too close to the bone to joke about or invesbruise each visit. tigate, especially if they turned out to be selfinflicted. Molshree and Peter, who were usually I started to like them more than her, although the hosts, always made the right sounds -- the we never talked or even exchanged glances. It exclamations, the sibilants against the husband was a monthly ritual. We, the dozen or so litor boyfriend, I did not know whom, the rushing terateurs -- writers, singers, journalists, poets, of her hushed form into the kitchen to apply dramatists, and long-breathed hangers-on --cold compress, her pulsating silence making the would share coffee, scotch and kheema samosas kitchen the silent epicentre of all the action. and the doorbell would ring. It was like her en"Pleasure with pain for leaven." Was that Swintry ticket to these soirees. They wouldn't have burne? The bruises gave our meetings malleabiltolerated her much anyway, these urban literary ity, a core. For me, they also gave her face certypes, although their own partisan group was a tain sensuality, although that was the last kind motley bunch in its own sense. She loved and of attention that she seemed to be going for, effused over authors too much for them to exand as for me, I was not prone to infatuation, pect intellect. She agreed too much, disagreed except in a humorous, observant Alpha of the too simplistically. She was too intense, too jePlough way. I was just happy to be there. And june. This was clearly not the mind of a thinker. so was the girl with the bruises. I thought it was much superior. It was the mind The ones near her eyes caught everyone's attenof a creator. Forget literary purists. This was a tion, maybe because they were dramatic and purist creator. straight out of films—woman walks in with I didn’t know if anyone suspected foul play glasses that hide all to tell all. There were the from her, if indeed it was foul play and if her ones on her back, which she unveiled with so bruises really were fake, and even then, bruises much flinching that they forced her to take off 41

Spark—September 2013 Issue | Kaleidoscope

her sweater. The ones on her legs appeared very young and romantic to me. They were mottled, scarred and suggested death, unlike the rest of us manicured, sophisticated, immortal lot. Their owner wasn't particularly striking. She had a very angle-dependant face that could probably be brought into startling focus with a bindi. What wouldn't Vermeer have done with a bindi as a focal point? The bruises brought her into shape, into life, much the same way. But the one that caught my attention the most was the one in her left hand, on her wrist, which was inward and barely noticeable, her fist drawn in and clenched most of the time. It didn't look recent, but faded and time-worn, like a pentimento, triangular, hieroglyphic, glowing in its age-old congealment, criss-crossing with her veins like some secret wiring. I noticed it when I was told to hand round charcoal tablets for digestion and I caught her unawares because she didn't know what charcoal tablets were and was curious. Too much would go on with me, and I am sure with everyone, between those bruises. I grappled oddly with the teaching job, trying to retain my lodgings and fending off my mother's furious matchmaking attempts, laughing genially in the face of all the admonishments about finding my roots or myself and having just enough curi-

osity about the city to keep me going, the old school nostalgia that somehow drew me to Bangalore. The litterateurs jokingly called me a fiendishly cheerful fop who collected experiences like artefacts and instead of journeying onwards with them, lodged them deep in my memory, like a strange collector of dreams. I called them litterateurs but they were artists of all kinds and excellent raconteurs â&#x20AC;&#x201C; writers of awardwinning literary novels, journalists who were capable of wondrous prose constructions, publishers, activists, editors, bloggers, food critics, sports writers and even a musicologist who would occasionally enthral us with talks of capricious caprices and architectonic orders. Even the people who hosted these shindigs, and the duties fell upon them in a circular fashion, were brilliant specimen, ushers of food and culture. Of course, they came with their bitchery and absolutisms masked in humour, wit and sudden transcendence, but that was what attracted me -- no one took anything or anyone seriously, even though the work we gravitated towards was serious as hell. Or so we consoled ourselves, even as we slept around, bitched uproariously, read Hamlet with a passion and laughed in the face of the first lunatic we met on the street.

Sparkâ&#x20AC;&#x201D;September 2013 Issue | Kaleidoscope

Neelam, a fifty-year-old English professor, was my confidante in these gatherings. She was capable of wit in short rations and was interested in pinning down the bruise girl's intentions in coming to our parties.

the works of a mind that was idealistic in its pessimism -- alleged love affairs with many men and women, eating disorders, being expelled from school due to an unexplained illness, an accident on a horse that rumours attributed to wanting to escape consequences, a tyrannical "She seems to have crushes on them, the way father, and stories of abuse, suicide attempts and she hangs upon every word they say," she said. the most romantic notion of them all -- running "Women are in love with love itself," I said. away from home. If anything, her carefully cultivated reputation was unclouded by words as "Maybe she has a crush on Anupam." mundane as drugs and alcohol, when there was "That could explain why she has those bruises." so much more rhythm and anticipation in violations of nature, particularly in bruises. "He is sexy." I was keen to talk to the bruise girl. I chose the moment, or should I say the moment chose me? "No. But at least he is not ugly or disfigured." It was a night-time gathering. The bark of a tree "Neither am I," I said. "As for disfigurement, it served as a table at the shindig, and was hoarded is only a car crash away." with liquors and meats. "Does he have good features?"

"You are such a tease, J." "Nonsense, I was only being mean."

I was surprised to find myself touching her wrist.

"Are you attracted to her?"

"Where is that from?"

"She is accident-prone, to put it mildly."

She looked startled but recovered immediately.

But even I had to admit that I was curious. I asked around about the bruise girl, casually enough, and found out that she lived with her lover, occasionally moving to a paying guest accommodation whenever they had their fights.

"From childhood."

She always came alone.

"I do remember. But I don't know how."

She had dropped out of college and had worked in a string of jobs, managing a bookstore in her neighbourhood, photographing musicians in concerts, and allegedly assisting a physicist in editing his book.

"Come on. How is that possible?"

I suspected, hell I knew, that most of them were

"How did it happen?” "I don't know." "You don't remember?"

“I was in my aunt's house. I remember being asleep in the living room. I was carried up to the bedroom. The next day, I noticed this.” "Who carried you?" "I don't know."

Spark—September 2013 Issue | Kaleidoscope

"Did you ask your aunt?" "No."

even as raindrops would glisten on the electric wires outside, and then go home and go to bed where I would discover her bruises, one by one, torched by remembrances. Her bruises then would shine like rubies, amidst childhood memories of lost and found objects, and this then would be the place I would come to, again and again, sometimes in dreams.

She leaned against a bookshelf that for some reason, I had not given a damn about before, the books weighing it down with a groan, set against the incessant hum of conversations, and I found that this was what I was interested to interpolate, not the future, or what happened to She might set me up for disappointment. The her or us but this stillness of discovery, collectbruises could not. ing memories like this and lodging them in a glass-fronted Joseph Cornell box. Tomorrow, if I decided to seduce the bruise girl, we might go to an art gallery or a coffee shop. We would talk,

Shweta Sharan lives in Bangalore with her husband, daughter and books. She is currently obsessed with Joseph Cornell boxes. She is from the Yaks batch of the Bangalore Writers Workshop. Shweta has an MA in English from Stella Maris College and used to be a full-time journalist, before realising that she enjoyed reading 'Llama Llama Red Pajama' with her daughter more than writing on automation and drives.

Sparkâ&#x20AC;&#x201D;September 2013 Issue | Kaleidoscope

The Lounge

September 2013 45

Sparkâ&#x20AC;&#x201D;September 2013 Issue | Kaleidoscope

Storyboard

Thoughts on ‘Magalir Mattum’ by Vani Viswanathan

Vani Viswanathan discusses some thoughts on what she considers a fairly feminist movie, ‘Magalir Mattum’.

As a child, when I watched Magalir Mattum, I do distinctly remember being awed. A movie that was funny and led by women, each kick-ass in their own way. How clever these women were! When I watched it again recently, the one sentence that struck me as among the most wonderful, was Sathya telling her friends that she yelled at her manager for giving her a saree, just because she “didn’t like it.” There! The simplest, most straightforward things which if the world understood, would make it a wonderful place – the concept of consent, and the right of a woman to refuse. All wasn’t great with that particular sequence I’m talking about, though, and I’ll tell you why shortly. Magalir Mattum (Only for Women) is a Tamil film that was released in 1994. Adapted heavily from an English comedy titled 9 to 5, Magalir…is the story of three women who

‘tame’ a sexist, womaniser boss who leaves no stone unturned when it comes to harassing a woman. The three women are as different as they can be, both in terms of character and background: one, Pappamma, is a cleaner, whose savings are being squandered by a drunk husband; Janaki would apparently be happier at home, if only she didn’t have to work after her husband lost his job; Sathya has studied ‘computers’ and smartly asks a potential groom whose family makes unreasonable dowry demands if they would mind if she tied the mangalsutra around his neck than the other way around. Sathya is clearly the leader of the pack, goading the other two into action; Janaki needs a push to be firm with her menacing colleagues, and Pappamma, bold as she is, needs to be brought into shape for their ‘revenge’ against the boss. The film really quickens pace when the three women ‘kidnap’ the boss when he asks

Spark—September 2013 Issue | Kaleidoscope

them to spend a night with him. They tie him up sion of whether women are more naturally suitto the ceiling, only ed to motherhood, etc.) leaving him enough There’s the question of rope to manoeuvre ‘women’s only’ buses around like a cow. In that pops up too the meantime, running (reflecting the movie’s the office in his abtitle) – why should we sence, they make pit ‘women’s only’ sersweeping changes to vices as the way to the office, which precounter sexism and hardominantly employs assment women face in women, bringing in the regular services? daycare facilities, for I agree that buses and instance. At the end of train coaches reserved the movie, these only for women go a changes are applauded long way in enabling by the MD, and the many women, who three women are apmight have otherwise pointed to take care of been dissuaded, to acthe establishment. cess a wide variety of For a young girl only spaces. But is that the beginning to understand how sexism works, in solution we should push for, given we’re only whatever small portions it might have been, I doing a band-aid treatment of the issue? And can see why the movie appealed to me so then. most annoyingly, why did the movie have to end After two years at an institute discussing varying with Sathya finding the elusive man whose face aspects of feminist thought, though, there are a she has been building all along based on her few things I wish the movie had addressed dif- ideas of beautiful eyes, nose, ears and lips? Is it ferently. When her boss gifts her a saree, Sathya that marriage is still the one key feature every tells him only a father or husband can gift a woman craves for? Granted, Sathya doesn’t woman a saree, and since he’s neither, what he technically hate the concept of marriage, it’s the did was downright cheap. Watching it now, I men she’s met who annoy her, but the fact that cringe at the converse of the sister-mother argu- the movie ends on that note makes it seem like ment at work here. Why couldn’t she simply everything else she did was by-the-by! have said it was none of his business, or better Nevertheless, one thing that surprised and sadstill, as she tells her friends later, that she simply dened me was that in the nearly 20 years since, I didn’t like it? Why do daycare centres have to be don’t think such a movie has really hit the only in the woman’s office, never the man’s? screens. One that doesn’t focus on the woman (No, I don’t want to get into the illogical discus47

Spark—September 2013 Issue | Kaleidoscope

as someone’s wife or girlfriend or mother, one where the woman doesn’t have to depend on a man to keep her job, one that celebrates the true spirit of a healthy friendship between women (yes, it’s possible!) For all the independent moviemaking and new talents that we are celebrating, the roles that women portray on screen are hardly representative of the wide variety of roles women play in life. And for that reason, even for the things I pointed out in the previous paragraph – and realising that such attitudes have still hardly changed – I still love the movie, and feel a thrill when I see Pappamma tackle the escaping boss to the ground, innocent Janaki delighting in taunting her boss, and Revathi pressing as if it were natural instinct a remote control button that pulls him off the ground and makes him hang from the ceiling. Oh, give me one more like this, Tamil cinema!

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—September 2013 Issue | Kaleidoscope

Turn of the Page

Review of Jeet Thayil’s ‘Narcopolis’ by Kalpanaa Misra

Jeet Thayil’s Narcopolis is certainly illuminating as well as luminous with the power of its magnificent prose, says Kalpanaa Misra, in her review of the book and adds that it is a must-read.

Any fleeting desires I may have had to be an opium addict have been fulfilled after reading Jeet Thayil's Narcopolis. This isn’t a joke. The author’s in-depth portrayal of drug dens in the dark underbelly of Bombay makes the book worth a read if only to get into the life and mind of an opium junkie. After all, there is no experience that is without benefit. And not many of us can take time out of our lives to get addicted to opium and heroin and then de-addict ourselves. That isn’t the only reason why I recommend reading Narcopolis . Google books calls it “Jeet Thayil's luminous debut novel” and it certainly is illuminating as well as luminous with the power of its magnificent prose. Thayil was the first Indian writer to win the DSC prize for South

Asian Literature. The chair of judges for the 2013 prize, the poet K Satchidandan, said the winning novel dealt with the complexities of globalisation and the modern world "with extreme verbal artistry and lyrical intensity". Beautiful prose is the least you would expect from a poet, you might say. But not all poets make the transition from poetry to prose well. Thayil does. While reading the book, I often lost myself in the sheer pleasure of his words. One tends to miss some important revelations because one was admiring the author’s artistry – his marvelous way with words. The plot is wistful and wispy - one that floats away like a puff of opium-flavoured smoke only to return with the hard crack of a cocaine hit.

Spark—September 2013 Issue | Kaleidoscope

The first sentence of the book is four pages long. It’s necessary to read the first sentence in one sitting. You can’t really come back to it later without starting again from the beginning. I didn’t read the book at a stretch. I’d take breaks from it – breaks dictated by the structure of the book. It’s difficult to read it like a novel - with its juxtaposition of obscure details of the character’s lives, with very important points. You don’t know which is which and sometimes you forget things that have been written down - things that are vital to the plot. Perhaps that’s what an opium high is like – unnecessary attention to pointless detail while the larger picture passes you by. Well in any case, life is like that. And here is a quote from the book that will make you think deeply and in the process distract you from the story. “Dreams leak from head to head, they travel between those who share the dreams of intoxication and death.”

Rashid for sure – you learn to suspend judgment. Towards the end of the book you realise why there was one character whom you just couldn’t understand or forgive, and you knew you had drawn the line between terrible crime and petty crime. You will enjoy the conjuring up of an India of 40 years ago. Look out for the references to the Hindi film industry and small news items that shocked the country and were the stuff of our nightmares at the time - the random stone killer who targeted people who slept on the streets, among others. Do read Jeet Thayil’s Narcopolis, for it has been called, “A fabulous story, incredibly told.” And it is.

The coolness of death, drugs and the seamier side of the Bombay of the 70’s is very real and probably still a part of the Mumbai of the second decade of the 21st century. Tales of pimps and whores and the exploitation of hijras by everyone. The spark of hope kept alive and the lack of a despair you would expect in a story about addicts are fascinating. There’s hardly any sense of fate or depression because the addicts are happy with their choice, the characters enjoy the kick of the drug and have no regrets or desire to be anything other than addicts - admirable single-mindedness if it weren’t so destructive. In the midst of days of hardened criminal activity, you’re surprised by a character’s appreciation of the simpler pleasures of life – whether it’s a milkshake or a walk along the beach. And so the characters grow on you – Dimple and 50

Spark—September 2013 Issue | Kaleidoscope

Kalpanaa Misra is a writer. She blogs at http://kalpanawrites.blogspot.in. Her twitter handle is @kalpanapster.

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Sparkâ&#x20AC;&#x201D;September 2013 Issue | Kaleidoscope