Spring Tides by swarnamanjaric

SPRING TIDES

A person is a reflection of the experiences that surround them. These reflections are expressed more in artistic ventures than anything else.We are enslaved and set free by these same thoughts that are reflected in our minds. As a creative person, each flutter of the butterflyâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s wing opens up a typhoon of ideas and stories within. We are constantly governed by the rising and ebbing tides within ourselves that happen due to the force that life exerts us to.This book contains work that depict the tidal journey that the author underwent during the course of its writing. May you also experience the rise and fall of the tide.

Print publication of a student document For private circulation only. Fashion Communication Department 2017-21 National Institute of Fashion Technology Bengaluru, India All rights are reserved. No part of this book, either text or illustration, may be reproduced in any form without the prior written permission of the publisher.

Guided by Mrs. Deepa Kumar Written by Swarna Manjari C

SPRING TIDES

Swarna Manjari C

ABOUT

Swarna Manjari is a communication design student at NIFT Bengaluru. She is from Madurai, Tamil Nadu. She seeks inspiration from nature and those around her. She enjoys dancing, playing sports and and painting. She wants to stay close to her roots: her home. One can witness influence of traditional philosophy in her work.

THANKS

I thank my parents for their constant support and motivation. They have inspired me to try my hand at various things and see the bigger picture. My teacher, Mrs.Deepa Kumar without whom, this book wouldnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t have been brought to fruition. Her invaluable feedback and guidance throughout the process has helped me on the learning curve. I am grateful to all family and friends whose love and affection has brought me the long way.

PREFACE

This book is a collection of all my work done during the course of semester 3[ July- December 2018]. Much of it has been inspired by true life experiences and personal opinions. This might even reflect in my work of non-fiction too. We handled a variety of writing styles and formats during the course of the few months. Each piece is individual and is in no way connected to the other.The work has been segregated into categories for the ease of reading. Thus, it is hard to seek a connection between the stories. Reading this book will give you an insight into my perspective as a person and also my individual style of writing. Each work is original and ressemblances to any other written material is purely coincidental. I hope you enjoy this little anthology that I have compiled. If you follow the common thread it will help you understand the work in its entirety. I hope you enjoy the read.

CONTENTS

Creative writing

1. Non-Fiction A Rendezvous with Wildlife Fifteen minutes of silence A letter to Sadhguru

02 04 06 07

2. Fiction Serendipity The Mystery Box A Twist in the Tale Three Little Foxes

08 09 15 17 18

3. Poetry Mother I Have a Dream Me, Myself and I A Story of Pink Hundred Little Birds The Grandfather

20 21 22 23 24 25 26

Content writing

1. Reviews Costume review - Bajirao Mastani Movie review - Spotlight Story review - The Stench of Kerosene

28 29 30 31

2. Festive season The Making of Sweets in a South Indian household

3. Website content How to keep your sneakers squeaky clean!

CREATIVE WRITING

NON - FICTION

A Rendezvous with Wildlife

Situated at the foothills of the Velliangiri Mountains, my school was an epitome of natureâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s abode. Enveloped with misty clouds, lush greenery and the mountains on the south, it was a haven, situated outside the hustle and bustle of the city. Trekking was an activity that we loved most in school, since we got to live many adventurous experiences through the daring trails in the forest. Out in the dense nature, one felt so vulnerable, with oneâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s survival instincts turned on. We had to come in face with nature, and were pitted against anything that came our way. During one such trek in the eighth grade, we had gone to Second Stream, one of our favorite spots in the range. It was the monsoon season and the atmosphere was humid, filled with many dragonflies hovering above our heads. As we started about on the route, we were welcomed by the iconic tamarind tree that stood at the edge of the stream that led to the ascent. After the ritual of picking up the ripe tamarinds, we started off, sucking onto the seeds and walking the path.We walked in a single file on the mushy path. The smell of wet mud and tree bark accompanied us throughout. We had to hop across the giant tree trunks that had fallen due to the heavy winds. In order to mark the pathway, the guide - one of our most favorite teachers, was breaking the smaller branches in the direction we took. I loved walking the trodden narrow trail of the jungle.The air within refreshed my lungs and the sunlight filtering through the canopy soothed my skin. I was in awe of the rhythm created by the million insects in the jungle. We observed plenty of things on the way; scratch marks of a tiger on bark, footprints of a deer, freshly dropped elephant dung and ripened cocoa seeds. We were awestruck by theses small nuances that were every day happenings in the forest. While I was walking through, suddenly I heard a rumbling noise. I immediately stopped to look around, trying to figure out the source. I gazed overhead but

could not find anything. Tugging the arm of the person next to me, I tried to bring everyone in attention to the sound. My teacher then came by and assured that it was an airplane passing by. Relieved, we continued on the journey. He told us not to stop on false alarms anywhere after and told us to resume the journey. In a while, we again heard a sound. This time we were sure that it wasnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t an airplane. Sensing something dangerous, our guide asked us to stop. Within seconds, a herd of mountain elephants started coming toward where we were standing. We froze on the spot, and turned around to find our teacher transfixed too. This was the first time we had encountered animals in the wild. The entire pulse of the group rose as panic reflected in each of our eyes. We were sure we would be trampled any moment then. The couple of villagers who had accompanied us were the first to react to the situation. As they knew the local terrain better, they gave us instructions to run back in a direction. One of them said that they would meet us at the foothill. We did just as he told and started running for our lives. We expected him to come running behind, but when we turned back, we were stunned by what he was doing. He had a flame in his hand and was diverting the attention of the herd towards him. He started running in the opposite direction. We jumped across fallen tree trunks, struggled through the marshy sand, braved the violently grown bushes and ran. Those moments of my life, when I feared death, were one of my most unforgettable ones. We waited till evening but the villager never returned again. I understood the meaning of sacrifice and rational thinking in such dire situations only then. I realized the power of nature and have respected everything around me since then; be it a leaf, an insect or even the bark of a tree.

Fifteen minutes of Silence

I walked across the main road, without speaking a word. I got onto the pavement and strolled till the CPWD quarters. The usual chitter chatter of my friends and the sound of my high pitched and naturally excited voice were all shut down to bring alive the sounds around me. Horns blared on the street as it was during the peak traffic hours. I noticed that every five meters I walked, the ambience around me changed. The smell of badam trees, transitioned into the smell of stationery. Further down, I was able to smell the mixing of sand and concrete. As I stepped up to the pavement, it was the smell of cigarettes. Bougainvillea continued after. I realized that as soon as my voice silenced out, I was open to other aspects of powerful observation. My auditory and olfactory senses were stepped up more than my visual senses. I felt humbler and as a smaller part to the atmosphere around me. The power of individuality was diminished and the perception was sharpened. After all, I was a part of the larger drama that life included.

A Letter to Sadhguru

I remember walking into Isha Home School the first time, an innocent and enthusiastic kid, mouth gaping wide open at the beauty around me. My eyes were lit up with the quest to know and my mind was abounding with a world of confusion. Four years later, I walked out as the same kid, with the same amount of confusion, but, with much more clarity. As much as I thank my parents, teachers and friends for helping me evolve as the person whom I am now, I thank you for introducing yoga into our lives as a powerful tool of self-transformation. The practice of yoga has helped us feel and see things around the way it is.Though I still have my misgivings and weaknesses, a fire has been ignited within me: the wanting to know. Thank you for creating the consecrated atmosphere that we were blessed to live in. The energy rich space enabled growth to happen without any teaching or ideology; it was a conducive ambience for us to sprout and branch into our lives. I donâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t remember how the years at the ashram went; I couldnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t feel the time passing by because of the absolute involvement in our activities. Now, it has been a few years of living outside in metro cities. I try to do my yoga regularly but it seems a task. As you say, this machine has become a little rusty and is creaking a lot! My head is filled with a million questions that tear me up because I cannot find the answers. They are so overwhelming that it is hard for me to articulate. Although I have the same confusion that plagued as an eightyear-old kid, it is the new-found clarity that helps me. It indeed adds to more confusion since I can see the questions more clearly! I will keep asking the questions until I find answers. I wish you can guide me through this. I ask nothing more. A humble seeker, Swarna.

FICTION

Serendipity

Many years later, Maya had returned back to India in search of something called home. She had left three decades ago, when she was a sprightly, young woman brimming with passion, in search of the vast opportunities in the Western world. Amidst all the failed attempts of persuasion by the parents, she had defied all the uncles and aunts to sail to the New World. Primarily, the reason she had left was for an exciting job offer; however, deep within, she had wanted to escape the past and the people who surrounded her then. Moving away had proved to be more difficult than she thought it would be. Having to live off on a meager income had made her miss the luxuries of home; especially her mother’s tamarind rice and her father’s constant pampering. She even missed the endless bantering by her 90-year-old grandmother. Quietly, but slowly Maya had become to adapt to the place more than the natives. Now, looking back, America seemed more like home. However, lately, a feeling to return back had started to plague her; growing upon her as a ghost less presence. She never found the reason, yet by sheer happenstance booked the tickets to India. She had taken a cab to the house that stood the same as it had all the years ago. The only difference was that the people, whom she had left it with, weren’t there. Ramu anna and Lakshmi akka stood by the entrance to greet her. They were the ones taking care of the ancestral house since her parents had left. As they led her into her old room, she smelled the old teak wood cot and the flower patterned bed sheets that lay untouched, waiting for her. Settling down, she lay on her back trying to sleep, listening to the whirring of the dusty ceiling fan above. The next morning, having woken up from a disturbed sleep, Maya walked up to the old mirror with the engraved butterflies, framed with aluminum metal. The coating had started to peel off, exposing the metal on the sides. There were a few of her mother’s maroon bindis stuck on the corners of the mirror. . She brushed aside her disheveled graying hairs to reveal her wrinkled face; it had the worn out look of the years of rigorous monotony in her life. She then stood side wards; neck

slightly drooped down, gauging how her body looked. She had put on a few kilos, and her skin had become limp, losing its tautness over the years. She wished that her body were toned again, for she badly wanted to wear the skinny jeans and crop top that lay buried in her closet. She also thought of the unused red lipstick that she had bought recently. She was unsure if the narcissist in her remained alive. Freshening up a bit, she got geared up to take a walk outside. As a child she had known the best paths to take around the estate. The surroundings had changed, however she found herself walking her own path, confident of every turn and slope on the way. She found the altitude overbearing. Wheezing slightly as she took the trodden path, she walked past the old government school, past the tribal huts, occasionally gaping at the rows of concrete lifeless buildings that had not existed in her childhood. After sometime, she felt things around her starting to get similar, as if an old memory were brushed upon. She climbed across the entangled steps formed by the roots of the trees. Slowly coming in terms with what was around her, she realized that she was stepping into the remains of her past; the only one that she wanted to remember at the moment, yet could not grapple within her memory, which she had forgotten. It was hard for her to grasp the place around in its entirety, but she only felt the magnitude of the meaning of the place she had stumbled upon. Tripping on a stone, she immediately regretted for wearing her flip flops. She ambled along the curved road that slowly transitioned into flat grassland. As she moved further, the grass seemed taller and she had to move away the sharp blades from her face, when she spotted the blue lake. Each time she cleared the path, she could see the lake getting closer.With a few sharp cuts on her fingertips, she reached the edge that led to the clearing. The huge kannimara tree stood by, guarding the lake. She walked across, sat by the tree and stared across the mountain ranges beyond, that faded gradually into the sky. Leaning against the tree, she saw two children by the lake playing something.They were skittling stones across the water and arguing about the number of times they had achieved a hatrick. She picked up a pebble and flung one across; sadly, it touched the surface of the water, and went â&#x20AC;&#x2DC;plopâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;, sinking into the depths. Relentlessly, she picked up more pebbles from around and threw it across; a few make it one more step and then sink, while the others drown in the first shot. She searched around for all kinds of pebbles, that she hoped will make it; round, slippery ones, sharp and rough ones, jagged ones, flat ones and differently sized ones.

With each throw, she tries remembering the faces of her ever loving parents. When did she last see them? Did her mother have black or brown eyes? She didn’t remember. All she remembered was the million kisses she had gotten before bedtime, the strength of her father’s muscular arms when she swung on them and the laughter that had filled the house during summer vacation. She remembered her grandfather; who used to cycle her back and forth from school, but she couldn’t remember the shape of his face. Her tone deaf grandmother, the strongest woman in the household, whose voice boomed across the hallway asking for something, always wore the same colored sari; but, she couldn’t remember the color. Maya felt like her entire memory, the roots of her upbringing had been completely wiped out, by a single effortless stroke of time. She tried to think of Kavya, her best friend at school;“Maya, come fast!” she used to scream in her high pitched voice, as they prepared for school. As she let this stream of memory run through her like water, she felt drenched yet fails to catch hold of it, letting it slip through the details. In the steady stream, a name keeps popping up like a rock obstructing the flow. “Anand, Anand, An…” the name repeats endlessly, but the image of the face gets swallowed by the whirling memory within her. She was suddenly brought back to her surroundings when she felt a finger tapping her back. “Hello, I haven’t seen you here before. Who are you?” asked a childish voice. She turned back to see a boy, the age of about seven or eight, wearing a Batman T-shirt and checkered shorts. His feet were slightly wet and muddy, and his hand restlessly fidgeted with a couple of pebbles in his hand. A few overgrown fringes partly covered the tiny forehead and the bright big eyes highlighted his innocent face. Awakening from her dreamy state, she stammered before replying. “I, I... used to live here. This used to be my favorite spot on the estate.”” How do you know about our secret spot?” asked the girl from behind. She wore a green frock with lilies on it, her eyes shying away from Maya’s face. “It was years ago. I used to hide away from my parents after school. My friend and I used to play here.You see this tree here? We used to climb its branches to get a better view of the lake. It was ‘our’ secret spot then.” The boy’s eyes grew bigger as he listened intently to Maya with a hint of scrutiny. Meanwhile, the girl started bombarding her with more questions. While answering, Maya made up most of the answers, exaggerating the slightest details that she remembered. She enjoyed the interest with which the children were listening. Once comfortable with the conversation, the children settled down to listen to her. Maya asked them their names; “I’m Deepak,and she is Shivani”

replied the boy.”And you are…” asked Maya. “He is my brother.” replied Shivani. “Where do you live now?” asked the boy. “I live in America. It must be night now there.””Oh the US! We went for a trip last vacation. I loved Disneyland. I also loved the food there. Burgers! Yumm…” exclaimed Deepak again. Shivani chuckled and told Maya about how he had been crying for curd rice and longing to go back home. As Maya tried to settle the slight verbal banter between the two, she was reminded of the need to go back to America. “How long are you staying here for?” asked Deepak. Maya replied that she didn’t know.” Maybe for a month,” she added on. “You should come home someday” invited Shivani with a smile. She was fiddling with something in his hand as she tried to muffle a laugh. Deepak shushed her to stay quiet as they exchanged glances. “What is it?” asked Maya. It seemed like Shivani was hiding something within the small fist of her hand. “Show it to me” urged Maya. Slowly, with a lot of hesitation, the small girl took her hand out and opened it. Inside was nestled a beautiful glass ballerina that had a broken limb. The tiny feet were pointed toward the ground and the curve of her calf muscles prominently outlined her figure.The toy looked Russian in origin. Her dress was coated with colored glass. Maya immediately reached out for it, but the girl retreated back. She caressed her head with a coaxing smile and gently said “Let me see it.” She slipped the doll into her withered hand. “Where did you find this?” asked Maya with a glint of excitement in her eye. Behind the lake, nearby the felled logs there stands the tallest kannimara tree. We find these under it. “Does that mean there are more?” asked Maya. “Not just dolls, but items of every kind. This ballerina is by far our best find.” “This looks beautiful” exclaimed Maya tracing the curve of the tender glass figurine. “Can you take me there? Please….” Maya requested. The children stared at each other doubtfully. Deepak lent out his hand. “You shouldn’t tell anyone else about it. Mother promise?” he said. “Whom do I have whom I can tell?” said Maya to herself. “Okay, Mother promise.” They lead her to the huge tree. They bent down to see a small mound nearby. This is where we have to get to work. We start digging around till we find something interesting.“Do you have all the items you had found before?” asked Maya with interest.They dragged her towards their hiding place. Behind a rock outcrop, they retrieved the plastic tote bag that they that they had kept before. The bag seemed quite heavy, for Deepak struggled quite a bit to lift it. Emptying the contents of the bag, the children proudly laid the contents of the bag underneath the shadow of the tree.

As Maya’s eyes panned over the array of items kept, they settled on an ink pen with its nib shining above the rest. Out of curiosity, she picked up the pen and examined it closely. Parker, an expensive brand. Her father used to own one. She remembered that her school teacher also used to own one. She had always wanted to own one as a kid. In spite of the many pens she owned now, this old pen felt special in a way. Moving her hand around, she reached out next for the golden broken dial of an old Titan watch. She remembered that her grandfather and her mother used to wear a pair. As she flipped the watch to see the behind, a husky voice boomed, “Hey there! What are you doing?” Maya looked up, stunned. She could see a hunk of a man standing before her. He wore a pair of leather chappals and a long kurta and pyjama. She couldn’t clearly see his features because of the sun shining behind him. She squinted her eyes to make out a thick moustache, a slighted scarred face and big ears. “This is private property. Didn’t you see the sign outside?” asked the man in an authoritative voice. Glancing far ahead, Maya could hardly see the creaky looking wooden board that had overgrown creepers covering the sign. “Sorry, I didn’t know it was private.” Maya said, a little apologetically. The two kids blinked innocently, chins down. “That is okay, the sun is setting alright. Make sure you kids get home before it turns dark.You too.” He said, adding a look at Maya. “I haven’t seen you around. Are you new to this place?” he asked. “She is from America!” jumped in Deepak. A sudden stroke of surprise crossed the man’s face for a moment before the frown took its place again. “Okay, you get going, now.” As Maya slowly rose up with some difficulty, she could feel the man’s eyes on her. “What are these on the floor?” he asked. “Let me see it.” He ordered. With a hesitant nod, Deepak slowly bent down and pointed towards the items sprawled across the ground.” That one.” he pointed toward the watch. That was when Maya saw it. As Deepak bent down to pick up the watch, the man outstretched the palm of his hand. The last three fingers on his right hand were stuck together and looked alien to his long thumb and index finger. Maya covered her mouth in shock and words tried to escape through but were stopped by the choking sensation in her throat. Gathering up all her energy, with great force, she gently uttered the word,”Anand.” Anand’s face turned white at the sight of Maya. The following seconds, they stared at each other intently at a loss of words. “Who…. Where.. Are—“struggled Anand with his tongue. Taking a deep breath, Maya asked “Hello Anand. How have you been?” “I am fine.You?” As the kids confusedly looked

at these two old people dazed at the presence of one another, they stood restlessly, fidgeting about. Quickly, to ease the situation, Anand again reminded the kids to go home. Reluctantly, they dragged their tiny feet away from the tree. “Don’t worry, you can come again tomorrow” reassured Anand. Slowly, both of them settled down on the ground. Maya leaned on the huge tree while Anand sat cross- legged. He still seemed to be fit and healthy. The hair had reduced and become wiry, but the partition was still slightly visible. The deep furrow that he had over his upper lip was hidden behind the moustache. For a moment they just looked into each other’s eyes trying to answer the million questions within them. The sun had begun setting and the lake was turning purple. Anand hummed a tune to ease the silence between them. He handed her the watch. As she turned the watch, she could see the unruly engraving that now had the letters MA A. Chuckling; she took a small pebble by her side and tried throwing it into the lake. It bounces twice. “No bad”, he says. He takes another pebble and whizzes it across the surface of the lake. “One, two, three…..Seven.””Ughh, how do you manage to do that?” she whines. “Let me see if you can beat me this time!” he taunts her as she picks up another pebble.

The Mystery Box

Awakened by the persistent sound of the doorbell, he walks up to the door. Rubbing his groggy eyes, he fiddles with the latch. After a few attempts, the door clicks open and he finds a carton box, laid down by the doormat. Puzzled, he steps out to look if anyone is there; he turns either side only to find the dim lit corridor completely empty. Anxious, he picks up the parcel; â&#x20AC;&#x2DC;No name, address or number.â&#x20AC;&#x2122;Wondering that it might be another prank by the boys in the apartment, he takes the parcel inside. He drops the box on his study table, and walks to his messy bed. His eyes scream for sleep and he feels the gravity of the bed pulling him towards it. He strains his eyes to see the old Quartz alarm clock on the table; its hands show the time as four in the morning. Having worked till late the night before, he succumbs to the tiredness of his body and goes back to sleep. Though his eyes droop immediately, his mind struggles to shut down. Turning about restlessly, he tries to catch a glimpse of the parcel by the table. He feels it calling out to him, like a siren at the sea. His body reluctant, his mind forces him to sit up straight. Reaching out to the table, he drags the parcel across, and places it in front of him. Sitting cross-legged, slightly shivering due to both the cold and anxiety that has now overcome him, he lifts up the parcel. He tries shaking it; the room remains as silent. Not able to contain his curiosity anymore, he rips open the brown duct tape covering the cardboard parcel.The tape protests a bit, sticks to his fingers, but eventually comes off. He lifts the flaps of the box, and peers inside. Dark space stares back at him. He lets his hands in, quite cautiously to feel the inside. He traces the neatly folded corners, the downward flaps and the jagged edges of the cardboard. As he moves around, he finds a strangely folded piece of paper at one of the corners. He picks up the paper, unfolds it to find something

written in scribbled handwriting. He isn’t able to read out the few blurry lines on the paper. He gropes around the table and finds his spectacles lying inside the book that he was working on, the previous night. He peers through his rim framed glasses, and tries reading it; however, the writing appears the same. In fact, there aren’t any words at all. ‘Dot, dot, dash, dot, dot…..’ a series of dots and dashes continue. When was the last time he had seen something like this? It seemed eerily similar to the recent science fiction movie he had watched. Immediately recognizing that the message is written in Morse code, he quickly opens up his laptop to search for the translation. His curses his slow wifi, as he waits for the website to load. International Morse code Translator, it reads at the corner. Carefully, he types down the sequence of dots and dashes and clicks submit, impatiently staring at the rotating symbol, waiting for the translated message. “I have finally come for you. Let’s meet.”The immensity of the words throws him off for a couple of minutes before he comes back to reality. On the back of the paper he notices some ruled lines and the name of a school. It must be a prank, he thinks. Remember Mr. Prakash’s son, who is a science geek? The boys in the apartment must’ve gotten his help this time. They’re surely getting more creative by the day. Frustrated by the disturbed sleep from the night, he vows to teach a lesson to the pranksters once and for all the next day.

A Twist in the Tale

Sakshi, a chirpy young girl was walking by the corridors in the school building. She was feeling bright that particular day, and was eager about writing a short story after getting an idea for a plot that had popped up in her head. As she was walking towards her writing class, a person hurrying past, accidentally collides due to which Sakshi falls down. The books in her hand lay scattered on the floor. As she bends down to pick up the books, she notices that the person is none other than Natasha who seems to be in a grumpy mood. She refuses to apologise, which angers Sakshi. She goes up to Natasha and reprimands her. The slight banter turns a bit aggressive and there is a show of brazen behavior. Contrary to their nature, Sakshi manages to beat up Natasha. She dusts off her hand in pride and continues her way to her class.â&#x20AC;?Oh, what a rather interesting plot to write about!â&#x20AC;? she exclaims.

Three Little Foxes

Once upon a time, there lived Mr.Fox with Mrs.Fox and three little foxes. They lived far off into the woods under the dense canopy of the Amaravati jungle. There was an abundance of resources in the jungle, so the family was always content. Mr.Fox held a high post at the Animal council and was a well respected person in the animal community. He saw to it that none of his little ones were denied whatever they asked. The youngest fox was Monu, the middle one was Rodo and the eldest one was Doret. Mrs.Fox was a teacher at the local kindergarten school and was a kind-hearted soul who was loved by everyone. Every year, the “Great Jungle Circus” came through their jungle. It was summer vacation for all the kids and the air was filled with fun and frolic. Along with the circus, came a variety of animals from far and beyond to set up stalls and other shows that enthralled the Amaravati jungle community.The youngest fox was the mischievous of the lot. He would sneak into the backstage of the circus shows and meet up with the foreign animals. On one such venture, he went into the tent and saw Neetu the elephant sitting across on a three legged stool and sobbing. Carefully, he approached the massive animal and paused nearby. He gently kept his tiny hand on the animal’s shoulder and asked what had happened. Crying uncontrollably, he said that he wanted to be free and live in the jungle. He had lost his way as a kid and the cunning leopard Leroy had fooled him to join the circus. He was being troubled a lot and not fed properly. He knew no one from outside the circus to even approach. He then started wailing away. Saddened by this, Monu thought of a plan. He called his brother Rodo and sister Doret to help poor Neetu. They gathered together and discussed each person’s part in the escapade. Just before the show started, Doret went to the ticket counter and started talking to Leroy to distract him from going back stage. She then

took him inside the circus to watch the show sitting on the front seats. Rodo, the strong one went backstage and opened up the huge screen cloth covering the exit. Along with the help of Neetu, they broke open the last gate and Neetu was set free. Riding home jubilantly on the back of Neetu, they invited him to live near them in the Amaravati jungle. Once they reached home, they came to know that Doret had enjoyed the show sitting on the front row seats. She said that Leroy seemed to be a fun guy. “Wait till he finds out about Neetu’s escapade!” exclaimed Monu, with a barrel of laughter.

POETRY

Mother Tugging at her sari, I hide behind She smiles, reassuring Telling me to go into my second shrine I enter clueless, blinking amidst the unknown She holds my hand, encouraging Teaching me every verb and noun I spill milk over my clothes She drags me, gives a good scolding Wiping my tear, she washes off those I leave my class, to go back home He calls my name, smiling Riding his bike the colour of chrome I enter home, I plunge into her lap She pats my back, loving Singing a song as I take a short nap Though I found a mother In every one of them There is nothing greater than being my momâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s greatest gem

A Story of Pink

I went outside, and what did I find A box to open. I hope no one will mind It was tied on top with a bow of pink Saw a label, it said something â&#x20AC;&#x153;We want you no more. Here are your thingsâ&#x20AC;?. One wrong answer in a teen pop quiz. Girl society disowns me. My heart sinks.

Me, Myself and I

Swarna Manjari Is contemplative, Ambivalent and observant Is good at dancing, speaking and playing sport Feels happy, responsible and small Needs love, motivation and criticism Wants adventure, escape and power Fears loss, regrets and heights Likes to eat fish fry, dal rice and gulab jamun Watches good movies, bopics and The Big Bang Theory Is a resident of Madurai, Tamil Nadu Chellapandi

I Have a Dream

Invisible to humanity, visible by colour Hidden figures American dreams, all in Vain, vain. Elusive rights Abandoned justice Deprived of freedom Redeemed. Everything changed, the moment, A man, in the name of Martin Luther King said, â&#x20AC;&#x153;I have a dream.â&#x20AC;?

Hundred Little Birds

Hundred little birds wrestle for one Hustling and bustling away in the sun Worms, worms out she calls Beaks throng as there isnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t enough for all Relishes a worm as she watches them give it a run.

My Grandfather

Fire in the mountain run, run, run Fire in the mountain run, run run Opening his half toothed mouth He laughed and bellowed about Running in circles around him He fancied to my every whim Hysterical laughter without a pause â&#x20AC;&#x153;Black!â&#x20AC;? he said with no cause Coloured black tiles and white I hopped on it with all my might Now, how much I wish I could see But he is with thee Fire in the mountain run, run, run Fire in the mountain run, run run

CONTENT WRITING

REVIEWS

COSTUME REVIEW Bajirao Mastani

This splendid periodic drama by Sanjay Leela Bhansali manages to deliver, capturing the hearts of both connoisseurs and laymen alike. With its grandiose sets, gorgeous costumes and artistic frames, the movie is set to enthrall the range of diverse audience by providing them a tasty visual treat, that makes the viewer crave for more. From the beginning of the movie, the costumes shine above the rest of the aspects in this huge budget and exceptionally worthy film. Whether it is Kashibaiâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s silk brocades and Maratha styled saree or Mastaniâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s layered five piece suits that shimmer along every dance, the grandeur never fails to awe the person watching. The religious connotations with respect to colour and material have been seen to detail, in order to fit in with every sequence. The same can be said to the costumes given to the other characters in the story with respect to their ranks, jobs and other belief systems which has been well looked into.The headgear and jewellery were also on point, and for a person slightly unaware of the history behind, nothing looked out of place. Thus, with its incredible cinematography and interesting art direction, the director has pulled it off once again making it a well appreciated film of recent times.

MOVIE REVIEW Spotlight

The Oscar award winning newspaper drama is one of my personal favorites.With more action and suspense than any usual Hollywood thriller, Spotlight sets the bar high in this genre. Based on true events, the film has done apt justice to the people and incidents behind the real story.Venturing into a rather sensitive topic, the acting and dialogue have been right on point, with not too many or too less words. What needed to be said was said and that to be done was done. The wonderful ensemble cast has made the movie a huge success. With the likes of Michael Keaton, Mark Ruffalo, Rachel McAdams, and Stanley Tucci, this engaging film has indeed played out a huge part on the social factor as well. The cinematography actually gave the feel of a mundane yet active newsroom office, more real than ever. Mark Ruffaloâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s strong performance has to be noted, for it gives the ensemble its highlight when he hits off that incredibly power packed monologue that gives the audience goose bumps. The story manages to keep the audience glued to their seats and leaves something to take home after. All along, Spotlight shows the outright power of investigative journalism with its absolutely real characters that gives this particular drama a place in the history of journalism school films.

STORY REVIEW The Stench of Kerosene

“A Stench of Kerosene” is a short story written by the prominent Indian author and poet, Amrita Pritam. The story, translated into English by Sardar Khushwant Singh, deals with the life of people in traditional rural India. This story highlights the hardships undergone by women in the face of marriage due to a strong belief in superstitions and rituals prevalent among communities around the area. Strong characterization, effective use of literary devices and the style of narration have helped the author deftly handle the themes of love and marriage, loyalty, and loss. The protagonists, Manak and Guleri form the pivotal points for the plot of the story. Manak is a loyal and loving husband to Guleri, the docile wife with an ardent nature. Here, Guleri can be seen as the more dominant one in the relationship. Both the characters carry forward their traits throughout the story even at the face of conflict, which helps the reader course through the plot without any doubt. Manak is a man of unwavering loyalty; as much as his love for Guleri, he feels the same loyalty towards his mother. His melancholy state in the beginning of the story shows that he knows his mother’s plan of marrying him to some other woman, since Guleri hadn’t borne him a child. He tries persuading Guleri to not go to the fair. However when she insists, he lets her go. Even though his body yields to the new woman, his heart never does. When Guleri comes to know of this, she sets herself to fire. Till the end, their love for one another is never diminished. The author has used similes and symbols to make the story more profound for the audience. At the beginning, the mare standing outside represents her father’s house. The flute that she takes for Manak to play stands as a symbol of joy between them before they part. Later in the story, Manak remembers that Guleri was like an “unripe corn full of milk”. ”Words pierced his heart like a needle” is another good example. In the end, when the new woman gives birth to a child,

Manak’s mother places the child on his lap. Hoping that Manak will come out from depression if he sees the child, his mother eagerly waits. Manak just replies, “Take him away, he stinks of kerosene.” Here, kerosene symbolizes the guilt that Manak feels for Guleri’s loss. Kerosene also relates to how Guleri killed herself and that Manak will never be free from this guilt ever. The story is narrated in third person in a dispassionate way. The author states the events in a matter- of- fact tone that helps the reader interpret the story in his/ her own way. She doesn’t give in to what she feels about the tough life of married women in rural India. Her words act as a transparent medium to the reader.Thus, the story has a lasting effect on whoever reads it. It’s simple yet deeply meaningful. The last sentence hits hard and one can feel the anguish that Manak must have felt after, letting the person reading the story have the stench of kerosene haunting their mind forever.

The Making of Sweets in a South Indian household

Every year Diwali was welcomed with joy into everyoneâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s houses. The whole town indulged in buying new clothes, sweets and gifts for friends and family. While everyone spent time cleaning their houses and buying new things, our house was abuzz with making sweets and savouries for those around. My grandmother used to make sweets based on huge orders and the sales were particularly high during Diwali. The action would start the week before Diwali, where the whole family came together to help my grandparents. Amidst the feeling of celebration, the entire house was transformed into a mega kitchen where the air smelt of oil, the floors layered with soot and the walls covered with stains. The devotion with which my grandmother did the cooking amazed not only us, but whoever bought them from her too. She went about religiously doing the work, from the buying to the making till the cleaning. The fact that she suffered from diabetes, yet knew the correct amount of sugar that had to go in each sweet was astonishing to her customers. Not did everyone know that I was the official taster in the family! Sometimes I even cleaned the vessels by secretly scraping off the sweet dough from them before they went for washing. She slept at times after us and woke up before us working her magic into making each sweet with the same amount of dedication. On an average working day before Diwali, her routine went like this; each sweet had a particular time when it would be made. The first one was the halwa at 5 AM. HALWA- To me, it was magic. The previous night, wheat along with its husk would be ground and filtered to obtain a liquid. The next morning, sugar and cashew nuts would be constantly added to it and stirred in a huge pot with a long iron ladle constantly for hours before the halwa was made.

The halwa would be left to dry and weighed by my father into containers. MURUKKU – The next would be the murukku, a traditional crispy savoury shaped like a spiral. The dough would be made to a perfect consistency, and put in an instrument when applied pressure with both hands yielded a tube of the dough. It was made into a spiral and fried in oil. The dry murukkus would be counted and weighed in packets for sale. POLI- This was my grandmother’s specialty, for which people placed the most orders. The components were sweet dal and maida. A sphere of round dal was wrapped in maida, flattened with equal pressure to create circular discs. It was cooked on a hot pan and enough of ghee was poured to make the authentic Poli. ADHIRASAM – The sweet dough was made perfect using melted jaggery and flour. Then, it was fried in oil to get smaller discs of crispy reddish brown sweet which tasted of sweet warm dough when bitten into. LADDOO – The flour was poured on top of a flat ladle full of holes into the oil to get small drops of boondi. The boondi was then soaked in melted jaggery and left to dry. Then my parents sat along to make the round laddoos by hand. The laddoos were arranged on a platter to dry and counted later to be sold.

This routine continued every day. It gave life and spirit to the house we lived in. I hope that I sincerely take this forward and bring it to a larger scale.

How to keep your sneakers squeaky clean!

An insane fan of old school sneakers? Spilled your sweat and blood to acquire those pair of white Converse stars? A victim to a smelly collection of gorgeous looking shoes? Youâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;ve come to the right place where you get the right advice. So, forget the wasteful methods of throwing your Bata shoes into the washing machine and learn some cool and easy ways to maintain your proud collectibles. There is more to keeping your shoes stain free and spotless than just washing them. Your shoes are valuable. They give you confidence and clarity. Also it just hikes up your style statement. So do not ignore them. They need a good storing place, a regular wash and of course, also some love. Do not store your shoes in damp or dark places. It tends to get a lot smellier and dull. Give it a bit of sunlight and to make things easier get yourself an indoor footwear organizer with a few holes.(Yes, the holes manage to keep in the air!) If you are extra concerned, you could use silicates to keep it dry. If you are a regular user, wash it atleast every two weeks in warm water. Take an old toothbrush and wash the sides using colgate or baking soda for harder stains. Dry it up in sunlight before you store them. The last of all, show some love! Make sure you donâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t take your most treasured ones on rainy days.Your crocs are made for that, not your lovely nikes and diesels! Follow these extremely easy tricks and we bet you will have an insanely beautiful collection of shoes that will make everyone awe at you!

THE END