TheMindCreative MAY 2015
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Editors’sNote
There are many imageries that come to mind at the mention of ‘satirical art’. Satire has been a weapon for the creative mind for many centuries now and has been used very effectively in literature and in theatre. However the use of satire in paintings has always been a great source of intrigue to me. To be a satirical painter, one needs to be much more than than just a painter; one needs to be an astute observer and beyond that, a thinker. There have been many satirical artists that come to mind William Hogarth (16971942), Grant Wood (1881-1942), George Grosz and Jheronymous Bosch (145-1516) - to name a few. contemporary among However, painters, Pawel Kuczynski remains one of the most influential ones. In has Kuczynski opinion, my transcended from being a painter to a point where I would even attribute the word ‘philosopher’ to him. His style is unique to say the least, where he is able to combine satire with dark of doses small and humour surrealism. I have been studying his works with great interest for sometime now and if you are a painter or interested in this form of art, please head over immediately to the Painter’s Corner section in this issue!
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I am indeed very thankful to Pawel Kuczynski for allowing some of his works to be printed in The Mind Creative. I am quite happy to admit that I have always harboured a great liking for stories that are often categorised as mysteries or even those that border on the brink of inducing fear and terror in the heart. There have been countless writers in this genre, but I have always, from to time, gone back to the works of Edgar Allan Poe. His life has been nearly as dark as his tales and the cover story in this issue is dedicated to the rather unfortunate life of this great writer and poet. This issue also has the other regular sections and I am pleased to introduce Aparna Pallavi who has written a piece of clever fiction that is “nearly a fairy tale”. Also, I would like to specially mention a book of poems by Swati Singh Sambyal that is worth reading for its unique style and content. A review of this book can be found in the Reviewer’s Corner. Happy reading!!
In This Issue 6 EDGAR ALLAN POE A life, dark and tragic
14 The Essayist’s Corner
24 The Foodie’s
Zero
Corner
By Sukumar Nayar
A Spicy Tale
Duality in Us
34 The Musician’s
By Shailja Chandra
Corner The Melodica
39 The Traveller’s
47 The Fiction
Corner
Writer’s Corner
The Onion Domes Of Russia
Politics and Long, Beautiful Hair
By Avijit Sarkar
By Aparna Pallavi
64 The Poet’s The Tell-Tale Heart
Corner
By Edgar Allan Poe
Poems by Swati Singh Sambyal
70 The Reviewer’s Corner
78 The Artist’s
Review of “PAINTED”
Corner
A Book By Swati Singh Sambyal
The Amazing Satirical Art of Pawel Kuczynski
86 The News and Events Corner 3
Contributors Sukumar Nayar is originally from Kerala, India. He is a retired professor of theatre having trained at Royal Academy of Dramatic Art (RADA) and New York University (NYU). He had been involved with theatre for over seven decades in India, Uganda, England, Papua New Guinea, the United States and Canada. He has directed, produced or otherwise been involved in over 100 stage productions. For his contribution to theatre he was awarded the Millennium Theatre 100, “awarded to 100 theatre practitioners in Alberta for outstanding contribution to the development of theatre in the last 100 years.” After taking early retirement, he joined the United Nations as a consultant. He lives in Toronto with his wife who is also a retired professor. Sukumar writes a weekly blog called Subtext: www.sukumarnayar.wordpress.com.
Swati Singh Sambyal is an environmental researcher, poet, blogger and a freelance writer. She is a published author of "Painted", a book of 43 contemporary poems. She is passionate about life, people, music, words and places and is trying hard to bridge the gap between the life’s chores and the unusuality that resides in her. In her own words, “this is a journey.”
Aparna Pallavi is a short story writer and environment journalist. Currently she is working with the Indian environment magazine Down to Earth. Aparna dreams to travel independently in the near future, researching her favourite subjects of tribal food wisdom and ecologically and emotionally sustainable communities in India and elsewhere.
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Edgar Allan Poe (January 19, 1809 – October 7, 1849) was an American author, poet, editor, and literary critic, considered part of the American Romantic Movement. Best known for his tales of mystery and the macabre, Poe was one of the earliest American practitioners of the short story, and is generally considered the inventor of the detective fiction genre. He is further credited with contributing to the emerging genre of science fiction. He was the first well-known American writer to try to earn a living through writing alone, resulting in a financially difficult life and career.
Pawel Kuczynski is a Polish artist who specialises in satirical paintings filled with thought-provoking messages about the world today. From politics and war to society and social media, Pawel’s work covers a wide range of issues. He is widely considered to be one of the most influential contemporary artists in his genre and has received more than 100 awards and distinctions. Some of his works, might be hard to decode, which makes them even more compelling.
Shailja Chandra is an author and radio commentator. An observer and scholar of life, she has keen interest in music, literature, philosophy and art. She is also a radio broadcaster and content-producer for the Indian radio segment of East Side Radio FM89.7 (called Voice of India-Monika Geetmala). She is an architect and sustainability practitioner by qualification with a PhD degree in the area of green buildings. Shailja actively engages with the community through volunteering and her passion for music. Shailja is currently writing her first book. 5
Edgar Allan Poe A life, dark and tragic 6
The name of Edgar Allan Poe immediately conjures up images of murderers, madmen, premature burials, and mysterious women. He is widely acknowledged as the inventor of the modern detective story and a pioneer of the science fiction genre; although he tried to make a living as America’s first great literary critic and theoretician. Today, Poe’s reputation is based on his tales of terror and horror as well as on his haunting poetry. Poe’s own life has often been portrayed as being remarkably similar to his mysterious and sometimes morbid stories and poems. However, much of what has been written about him, has often been misinterpreted. Childhood Edgar Poe was born in Boston on January 19, 1809 to David and Elizabeth Poe. Elizabeth Poe died in 1811, when Edgar was 2 years old after having separated from her husband and living on her with her three kids. After her death, Edgar was adopted by Mr. and Mrs. John Allan. John Allan was a successful merchant and Edgar grew up in comfortable surroundings and was sent to good schools in England where learned Latin and French, as well as math and history. He later continued his schooling in America. By the age of thirteen, Poe had compiled enough poetry to publish a book, but his headmaster advised John Allan against allowing this. In 1826, at the age of 17, Edgar Allan attended the University of Virginia. Even though John Allan had plenty of money, he only gave Edgar about a third of what he needed. Driven by poverty and need, Edgar started to drink heavily and was soon immersed in debt. A year later, he had to quit school. During these years, it is said that he was so poor that he had to burn his furniture to keep warm. Stint in the army Humiliated by his poverty, Poe returned to Richmond and visited the home of his fiancée Elmira Royster, only to discover that she had become engaged to another man in Poe’s absence. This drove Poe out of home in a quixotic quest to become a great poet 7
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and to find adventure. He published his first book Tamerlane at the age of eighteen, and for adventure he enlisted in the United States Army. Two years later he heard that Frances Allan, the only mother he had ever known, was dying of tuberculosis and wanted to see him before she died. By the time Poe returned to Richmond she had already been buried. He didn't stay long in the army because John Allan refused to send him any money and it is conjectured that Edgar purposely broke the rules and ignored his duties so that he would be dismissed. The Struggling Writer In 1831, Edgar Allan Poe went to New York City where he had some of his poetry published but he was inundated with rejections from every magazine. Without any money, friends and in dire crisis, he wrote to John Allan for some help and received no reply. In 1834, John Allan died. There was no mention of Edgar in his will. Fortunately, Edgar won a literary contest in 1835 (with his story “The Manuscript Found in a Bottle”) and was offered the job of the editor at a newspaper. In 1836, Edgar married his cousin, Virginia. He was 27 and she was 13. Poe achieved a lot of success managing the newspaper (the Southern Literary Messenger) but resigned complaining about his poor salary. From 1837 onward, Poe wrote a few books including his first volume of short stories titled "Tales of the Grotesque and Arabesque". For this collection, he received the copyright for 20 copies off the book but no money. Sometime in 1840, while working as the editor for Graham’s Magazine, Poe published his first detective story, "The Murders in the Rue Morgue", considered today, to be one of the classics of detective fiction. In spite of his success at the magazine, he quit in order to start his own magazine (The Stylus) which proved to be a miserable failure. The only money he earned at this time was $100 for his story “The Gold Bug” (which sold 300,000 copies!) but barely managed to support his family. 9
In 1845, Poe completely ran out of money and moved with his family to a small cottage near what is now East 192nd Street. His wife’s health faded away from here on and she died in 1847, 10 days after Edgar's birthday. After losing his wife, Poe collapsed from stress for nearly a year.
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The Final Mysterious Days In June of 1849, Poe left New York and went to Philadelphia, where he visited his friend John Sartain. Poe left Philadelphia in July and came to Richmond. He stayed at the Swan Tavern Hotel but joined "The Sons of Temperance" in an effort to stop drinking. He renewed a boyhood romance with Sarah Royster Shelton and planned to marry her in October. On September 27, Poe left Richmond for New York. He went to Philadelphia and stayed with a friend named James P. Moss. On September 30, he meant to go to New York but supposedly took the wrong train to Baltimore. On October 3, Poe was found at Gunner's Hall, a public house at 44 East Lombard Street, and was taken to the hospital. He lapsed in and out of consciousness but was never able to explain exactly what happened to him. Edgar Allan Poe died in the hospital on Sunday, October 7, 1849. The mystery surrounding Poe's death has led to many myths and urban legends. The cause of his death still remains a mystery. Certain facts (described on the next page) have since come to light and, to an extent, do shed some light on the unfortunate and mysterious end of an extraordinary literary mind.
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Mathew Brady
On October 3, 1849, Dr. Joseph E. Snodgrass received the following note: Baltimore City, Oct. 3, 1849 Dear Sir, There is a gentleman, rather the worse for wear, at Ryan's 4th ward polls, who goes under the cognomen of Edgar A. Poe, and who appears in great distress, & he says he is acquainted with you, he is in need of immediate assistance. Yours, in haste, JOS. W. WALKER To Dr. J.E. Snodgrass. Dr. Snodgrass found Poe semiconscious and dressed in cheap, ill-fitting clothes very different from Poe’s usual mode of dressing. Many believe that Poe's own clothing had been stolen. Poe was taken to Washington College Hospital on the afternoon of October 3 and did not regain consciousness until the next morning. For days he passed from delirium to unconsciousness, but never recovered well enough to tell how he had arrived in such a condition. On the fourth night, for no known reason he started calling loudly for “Reynolds”. In the early morning hours of October 7, Poe calmly breathed a simple prayer, said "Lord, help my poor soul," and died. The cause of his death was ascribed to "congestion of the brain." No autopsy was performed, and the author was buried two days later. In dying under such mysterious circumstances, the father of the detective story has left us with a real-life mystery which Poe scholars, medical professionals, and others have been trying to solve for over 150 years.
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“I became insane, with long intervals of horrible sanity� - Edgar Allan Poe -
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By Sukumar Nayar 15
(I have always been fascinated by the concept of numbers and how they influence and identify language. I believe the romance started after reading a book, the exact title of which I forget. From what I recall it was “Language, Numbers and the Mind” or something like that. Over the coming months I intend to indulge in a flight of fancy about the numbers 0 to 10.)
No matter what you call it: goose egg, duck (as in cricket), love (as in tennis) Ciphra (Latin), Babu (Hausa), Nula(Czech), Sifr (Pushto), Meithen(Greek), Noll (Swedish), Shunya (Sanskrit) or Zero , it means the same thing—nada,zilch, zip,naught. Nothing. You put a cardinal number after it, zero spurns it with the hauteur of a dowager. But you put it behind and it is an entirely different matter. It gains importance and strength as though through some osmotic process. More zeros mean more power, which increases exponentially. A lowly number one with just five zeroes after it takes on an entirely different character with the addition of one more shunya, babu, ciphra or whatever. For some people adding another zero is not all that difficult. There is a Spanish guy called Nadal, who instead of bull fighting plays with a ball, which he hits with a paddle called a racket. This is the only thing he does. Two weeks ago he spent seven days hitting the ball and earned over 3 million dollars. That is 3 followed by 6 zeros. His total worth is reported to be 80 million. You take one zero out, and he instantly becomes poorer. Take out six more and he becomes destitute. Such is the power of zero! Computer programmers are virtually impotent without zero. Computers are full of zillions of numbers—lots and lots of ones and zeros. When you type the letter ”A”, the computer representation is 0100001. I don’t understand this. I wonder how many zeros and ones are required to represent this article!
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Guys who have scant respect for zero are the astronomers. For them a few dozen zeros more or less make no difference. They deal with astronomical figures (the pun was not intended). For instance they claim that the Andromeda Galaxy is 23,000,000,000,000,000,000 km away. Give or take a few zeros! Since it is humanly impossible to deal with so many zeros in commonparlance, the astrologers, to make our life easier, say that the same Galaxy is 2.3 million light years away. And a light year is the distance light can travel in one year. And light moves at a velocity of about 300,000 km each second. Just wondering how long it will take before I get to see the galaxy without the aid of a giant telescope. Of all the mathematical symbols the zero is the most elegant and sensual. The triangle has sharp points, and the square is, well, square. The zero represents the perfect circle. (I know, I know, people are known to make them oval shaped. Sacrilege, if you ask me). It has a cosmic beauty. Consider the shape of a full moon or a setting sun. It is the epitome of perfection. Like eternity, it has no beginning, no end. One would think that with all the glamor surrounding it, all people would like it. Not the cricketer. Nothing scares the batsman more than scoring zero and leaving the field in ignominy. In technical lingo it is called a ‘duck’. Many batsmen who had scored a duck in both innings are known to have contemplated suicide. While on the theme of sports, in tennis the zero score is called ‘love’. In other words at the beginning of the match, the umpire calls “love all”, which suggestion is promptly dismissed, especially when players 17
like Djokovich and Nadal turn the tennis court into an arena reminiscent of the glory days of Caligula and his gladiators. They fight until ‘death do us part’. “Love” is soon forgotten. Going for the jugular becomes the call of the day. It is irritating to see that people use the term for less than noble purposes. For instance, I don’t like the word ‘Zero tolerance’. ‘No tolerance’ would have been sufficient. ‘Absolutely no tolerance’ has even more potency. It is hilarious that some sour grammarian, probably suffering from dyspepsia, coined the term ‘Zero article’ to refer to the absence of a definite article (a, an, the) before a noun. And the ultimate obscenity? Zero balancing! I could have accepted it, with reluctance, if it had anything to do with accounting. No. It is “a manual therapy in which the practitioner applies finger pressure or traction to tense tissue to enable relaxation and reorganization. It has been described as “a bodyworkmodality that claims to balance energy and structure within the body”.Really??!! In an article for Quack watch, entitled “Questionable Organizations: An Overview”, Stephen Barrett lists Zero Balancing Association as an organization which he views with “considerable distrust”.
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There are many other aberrations. Space limitations do not permit me to elaborate on them all. But I have to mention Absolute zero! What balderdash! Zero IS absolute, my physicist friend! You don’t say ‘sweet sugar’, do you? To conclude. Ideally, I should have dealt with the origin of the concept of zero. But I did not want to aggravate the people of Mesopotamia (parts of present day Turkey, Iran, Kuwait and Iran) India and the Mayans (if there are still any left) who all claim to have invented the concept of zero at some time or the other in ancient history.)
ILLUSTRATION AND REFERENCES: AVIJIT SARKAR http://funny-picks.com/funny-demotivational/divided-by-zero-funny-pics/ http://www.tennisplanet.me/ http://www.andykidd.org/zero-balancing/ 19
Duality In Us By Shailja Chandra ILLUSTRATIONS/IMAGES: http://thespiritscience.net/tags/duality/ d3rkangel via: https://www.pinterest.com/gabbystrange/dualityyinyang/ 20
The shrapnel of words was in free fall by now. I had limited choices. Get buried under them or make a dart. In the nanosecond that seemed like a lifetime, I quickly made two calculations. One, that words hold enormous power to scar us - I will be judicial with selection of words in future if I survive this befalling of serrated words. But the second one was deliciously exhilarating and liberating. That people (relatives, our dearest friends, our boss) hold unduly emotional powers over us only because we believe WE are all virtuous and good. That they have the power to hurt us only because we believe THEY are all virtuous and good. Both hypotheses are incomplete. On that momentous eve of Diwali, amidst the heady scent of marigolds and spicy whiff from the monumental deep-frying, as we gathered around the ‘parliamentary’ dining table, when I was a nano second away from getting scarred by her words, a magical 'mithrill' shield insulated me. Of the acceptance of ‘duality in us’ and of the realisation... …that we remain blind to all personalities being a mean of ‘mean and nice’, ‘yin and yang’, ‘goodness and evil’, ‘noble and devil’….that we don’t want to ‘mine’ the truth that we all are alloys of mettle of 'heroes' and mental of 'villains'….that, we are not Ram, nor are they, and that they are not from Ravan lineage either. ….that an exquisite duality exists in all of us. ‘Ek myan me do talwarein kaise rahti hain’ perhaps Gulzar is referring to the duality in us in this Nazm? Gaining sight of this instantly widened my private screening of reality. The B&W reality, where I was constantly in the centre of the screen as the sole beneficiary of the experience, turned into an Eastman Color, Dolby surround, 3D reality of a multistarrer. Where I could be as Gabbar as Thakur (with those garish, spiky shoes). It’s just a matter of circumstances - the roles swap and the ‘climax’ changes.
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Why we are always narrowly concerned with ourselves? Why we forget our ‘darker’ dimensions, the more complex aspects of our personality, the evil in us? This is a discussion for an unending day, but I do believe that we are hardly to be blamed for this myopic view. The multi-layers of our social conditioning render us shortsighted to the subtle colour gradations of personalities. Barring good literature, most things we read, hear, watch including TV and print media - are designed to either instantaneously crucify ‘dark’ shades and shoot them as ‘bad guys’, or applaud ‘the hero’ and pin them on pedestals. Which is a perfectly fine practice, only if it wasn’t all about propagating polarisation, and only if the elegant mutuality of 'hero' and 'villain' in the subject wasn't left uncelebrated.
The turmoil that most audience are feeling about how to feel for Haider or Ghazala in a recently released Hindi movie called ‘Haider’ (based on Shakespeare’s Hamlet), is a sign of an all pervading mind-set that finds it difficult to ‘root’ for protagonists having shades of grey. Our minds are designed to seek lovely patterns, certainty and heart-warming messages. We want to root for something. Someone. We are eager to use the million shiny labels we carry in our pockets of ‘Hero’ and ‘Villain’. Our minds lose plot when we see flaws in our favourite characters, aunty, dad, brother, friend, politician, sports idol.
Only good literature and art offer us some respite from this fragmented experience. Writers and artists are honest to acknowledge that people have many dimensions. “To harmonize the whole is the task of art” said Russian painter and art theorist Wassily Kandinsky. 22
David DeSteno, co-author of ‘Out of Character’ wrote - “The analogy of colour is an interesting way to think about [character]….Ultimately, what determines what colours we see are the frequencies of light waves entering our eyes, so it’s along a continuum. It’s kind of the same with character. Things blend. We assume that if someone is good, that we’ve characterized them as good, that’s a discrete category, they can’t be bad. And when they are, our categories shatter. That’s because we have this illusory, arbitrary idea of what vice and virtue mean”. Without sounding like an all-virtuous all-chakra energy healer, I am sharing what I experienced. The moment we recognise and celebrate the panorama of colours in us and others, a sense of buoyancy is experienced – buoyancy of lifting of tonnes of weight of expectations that we have from others, and from our 'self'. Bringing us in more harmony with the moment and endowing us with a new, vibrant colour pallet — to be able to paint a moment that is more full, whole, complete and a shade more real. So, on that eve of Diwali, in that nano second of infinity, in the auspicious presence of marigolds, I will smile with a quiet and calm witnessing of a 'light' moment and the glorious panorama of colours in us. * Based on a true story Reference: Gulzar Nazm: Raat Pashmine Ki, pp193
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The use of spices in culinary experiments are on the rise across cuisines of the world. This is true for both professional and amateur chefs. Food lovers are diversifying their tastes and are very keen to expose taste buds to new flavours and aromas. Most of this is of course driven by the seasoning, the herbs and the spices that are added to food ingredients. There is some historical evidence to suggest that in the days of the ‘hunters and gatherers’, the flavour from leaves and barks was accidentally discovered when food was wrapped in these. Many herbs and spices were originally used for medicinal purposes and their ability to enhance the taste of food was possibly an incidental corollary to the original theorem. It might have also been the case that certain herbs, leaves and other seasonings might have been added to certain foods to help mask their unpleasant odour or taste. So, where did all this start? Where did spices come from and who were the early users of spices? Here’s the spicy trail.
In 1555 BC, Papyri documented that coriander, juniper, fennel, cumin, garlic and thyme were widely used both as preservative agents and for their medicinal values. In fact, there is ancient documentation that prove that the workers who built the great Pyramids ate garlic and onion for enhancing physical strength. The inhabitants of ancient Egypt were aware of saffron and often flavoured their foods with seasalt, thyme and marjoram.
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There is a prevalent myth which states that the first treatise on spices was documented in 2700 BC when Shen Nung wrote “Pen Ts’ao Ching” or “The Classic Herbal”. This ancient book dwells on nearly one hundred ‘medicinal’ spices and describes the use of the cinnamon-like spice cassia. In 1596, a comprehensive guide to spices ‘Pen Ts’ao Kang Mu’ was penned by Li Shih Chen and there is evidence to suggest that based on the popularity of the spice cassia, the province ‘Kweilin’ (meaning Cassia Forest) was established in 216 BC. Nutmeg and cloves were brought to ancient China and there is anecdotal evidence suggesting that during 3rd century BC, Chinese courtiers carried cloves in their mouths when speaking to the king, in order to have a sweet aroma in their breaths.
The inhabitants of ancient Mesopotamia were very well acquainted with herbs and spices. Cuneiform tablets and ancient scrolls, dating back to 3rd century BC, provide ample proof about the use of aromatic and odoriferous plants in food and for medicinal purposes. In fact King Ashurbanipal of Assyria (668633 BC) wrote a long scroll that listed aromatic plants like thyme, sesame,cardamom, saffron, poppy, garlic, cumin, anise, coriander and dill. 27
The Babylonian king MerodachBaladan (721-710 BC) personally grew 64 different species of plants including cardamom, coriander, thyme, saffron and turmeric. Interestingly, for religious reasons, some of the plants were only harvested by moonlight.
By 6th century BC, condiments like onion, garlic and shallots were extremely popular in Persia.
Indians have been using various forms of spices (like black pepper, turmeric and cardamom) for thousands of years. These condiments were used, like in many ancient civilisations, both for flavour and for medicinal purposes. There is anecdotal proof of this cultivation as early as 8th century BC. Around 4th century BC, Sashruta, an ancient surgeon, made use of white mustard for religious purposes and applied sesame extract on post-operative wounds. The latter might have possibly acted as an anti-septic ointment. 28
There is documentation from 1st and 2nd centuries that have references to a wide range of spices. Ayurvedic medicine during that period, also promoted the use of spices like cloves and cardamom wrapped in betel-leaves to be chewed after meals to increase salivation and to help digestion. Today, a derivative of this particular form is known as “paan” in India.
Many spices were imported to ancient Greece from neighbouring countries. Many of these ingredients were used for cooking. Caraway and poppy seeds for bread, fennel for vinegar sauces, coriander as a condiment in food and wine, and mint as a flavouring in meat sauces. Hippocrates (460-377 BC) wrote a book about 400 herbs that were used for medicinal purposes – many of which are used to this day in herbal medicines. Theophrastus (often referred to as the ‘father of botany’), nearly 500 years later, wrote 2 books describing 600 spices and herbs. De Materia Medica, an exhaustive and systematic treatise on remedies based on herbs and spices, was written by Discorides, a Greek physician, in the 1st century. The book was used, both in the East and West, for over 1500 years. 29
The Romans were extravagant is all facets of life including the use of herbs and spices. Spice-flavoured wines, spice-scented balms and oils and spice laced poultices and healing plasters, were extremely popular. The Romans, during their conquests, also successfully introduced Eastern spices like pepper to the Goths, Vandals and the Huns.
During the period of the ancient Roman Empire, most of the spice trading was done with the nations of Arabia. The Arabs however maintained secrecy about the source of the spices; instead spinning tales about their methods of procurement of the spices. This allowed a level of monopoly over the trade and helped to keep the prices high. This ploy was discovered only in the 1st century BC by the Roman scholar Pliny. Prophet Muhammad, the founder of Islam, originally owned a spice shop that stocked Asian spices. His followers later established flourishing Islamic nations, mastering the craft of extraction and distillation processes that were used on herbs.
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Asian spices in Europe during the early part of the middle ages were extremely expensive and only used by the very wealthy sector of the community. According to the McCormick Science Institute, “a pound of saffron cost the same as a horse; a pound of ginger, as much as a sheep; 2 pounds of mace as much as a cow. A German price table of 1393 lists a pound of nutmeg as worth 7 fat oxen.� Pepper and peppercorn were widely used as monetary source and were accepted forms of currency. In fact there were instances of wealthy brides receiving peppercorns as dowry! Asian spices like ginger, cardamom, pepper, nutmeg, saffron and cinnamon, became easily available and affordable only after the Crusades during 1096. After that, these spices and herbs used for food, medicine and in the preparation of flavoured wines. 31
King Charlemagne (742-814) was instrumental in getting farmers to plant and produce culinary herbs like anise, fennel, fenugreek, sage, thyme and parsley. It is also an interesting fact that churches had a commanding control over the cultivation of spices and herbs in Europe guided by religious and spiritual beliefs. A “pepperer’s” guild of wholesale merchants was established in 1180 by King Henry II which was a forerunner of the modern grocery store.
Age of Spice Discovery (1300–1500 AD) This era was the period of ‘spice discovery’. The great Italian merchant traveller Marco Polo brought back reports about the flavour of sesame oil from Afghanistan, the ginger and cassia of Peking, the pickled spiced meat of Karazan, the huge plantings of pepper, nutmeg and cloves in the islands of the China Sea and the abundant proliferation of cinnamon, pepper and ginger along the Malabar coast of India. During 1493, on his second trip, Christopher Columbus brought the Spanish physician Diego Chanca with him. In later years, Chanca discovered the spice capsaicin (red pepper). During 1501, a spice route was established between Portugal and India which resulted in many Indian spices being brought to Portugal under the reign of King Manual. Later he transformed this alliance into big trading business for his country with large European syndicates. 32
It was only towards the end of 18th century that America started participating in the international spice trade. However, before that, from 1620 to 1930, America primarily used plants as the main source of medicine. Spices and herbs came into their own once traditional tea became ‘unpatriotic’. Salem, Massachusetts enjoyed big profits in the period 1797–1846 through pepper trade, when huge amounts of pepper was transported and shipped to other states in the US and to European ports.
REFERENCE, EXTRACTS and IMAGES: http://www.mccormickscienceinstitute.com/Spice-Landing/History-ofSpices.aspx http://www.silkroadgourmet.com/ http://www.chennaiayurveda.com/ http://www.skinsheen.com/ http://www.greekboston.com/culture https://www.saudiaramcoworld.com http://library.thinkquest.org/25983/ISLAMIC%20INFLUENCES.HTM http://asiawelcome.com/Spices_History.html http://images.recitus.qc.ca/main.php?g2_itemId=624
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The Musician’s Corner 34
The Melodica 35
The Melodica still remains a rather unique musical instrument. It is the only contemporary instrument that is wind blown and yet has piano-like keys. The modern melodica was invented in the 1950's by the music company Hohner, although other forms of the instrument have been around as early as the 19th century in Italy. Hohner breifly attempted to produce an electric melodica but production was stopped due to design problems and cost. Today several companies make melodicas, with Hohner still one of the largest producers. A melodica is a free-reed instrument that is played by blowing air through a mouthpiece on the side of the instrument or through an air tube. A keyboard on top allows notes to be played by opening a hole for air to flow over the reeds and thus producing notes. Most melodicas have a keyboard that is 2 or 3 octaves long, although there are one octave range melodicas available.
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The majority of melodicas are made of plastic, although there are some made of wood or metal. The melodica's light weight and portablility is one of it's key attributes, making it the ideal instrument for both youngsters and stage use. The melodica can be played standing while blowing through a mouthpiece or sitting with the melodica horizontal and the use of an air tube. Melodicas are a great instrument to learn music on, and are often used for instructions to young students of music. This instrument has other interesting features that makes it very verstile. Being a polyphonic instrument (the ability to produce multiple notes simutaenously), it allows the musician to easily play chords and accidentals that would be much harder or even impossible on a traditional woodwind instrument. Also, the use of the blowing tube can allow the musicaian to play the melodica with both hands or even combine it with multiple instruments.
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The melodica has a unique sound, with a tone resembling like a combination of the harmonica and an accordion. The sound can be manipulated by blowing techniques that the player uses. Techniques such as using the tongue for short, staccato notes or using a light breath to create softer legato notes are very common. In general, playing single notes will sound louder with more attack, while playing several notes together (chords) will sound softer with less attack. Other playing techniques include varing your breathing for a tremolo effect and pressing on the keys only halfway to ‘bend’ the notes.
Augustus Pablo
Melodicas began to be used as a serious instrument in the 1960's by composer Steve Reich and Jazz musician Phil Moore Jr. The melodica is now used by musicians worldwide in many different genres of music. Jamaican Dub and Reggae musician Augustus Pablo used the melodica extensively in the 1970's. The band New Order used melodicas prominently in the 1980's. In fact, melodicas have become very popular in indie folk and indie rock music. There are three types of melodicas: Soprano & Alto: Higher pitched, thinner sounding tone. Tenor: Lower pitched tone. Bass: Lowest pitched, least common melodica. These tend to be the largest and most expensive melodicas.
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Photographs: Avijit Sarkar Cover image: via http://middleearthhome.com/ 40
The Russian onion dome is a dome whose shape resembles that of an onion. More often than not, these domes are often larger in diameter than the drum upon which they sit and their height usually exceeds their width, with the bulbous structure tapering off to a point. It is the predominant form for church domes in Russia (mostly in Russian Orthodox churches). There is a bit of disagreement among historians about the origins of these domes. By the end of the nineteenth century, most Russian churches from before the Petrine period had bulbous domes and the largest ones were erected in the seventeenth century in the area around Yaroslavl. There is one view that states that onion domes first appeared during the reign of Ivan the Terrible while others believe that onion domes were borrowed by Russians from Muslim countries. Some of the foremost modern-day authorities postulate that that onion domes existed in Russia as early as the thirteenth century, although they did not spread widely. Prior to the eighteenth century, the Russian Orthodox Church did not assign any particular symbolism to the exterior shape of a church. However, it is widely believed that onion domes symbolise burning candles. Another explanation has it that the onion dome was originally regarded as a form reminiscent of the edicula (cubiculum) in the Church of the Holy Sepulchre in Jerusalem. There is also a popular belief that onion domes that often appear in groups of three represent the Holy Trinity and a group of five represent Jesus Christ and the Four Evangelists; while domes standing alone represent Jesus. The domes are often brightly painted: their colours may informally symbolise different aspects of religion. Green, blue, and gold domes are sometimes held to represent the Holy Trinity, the Holy Spirit, and Jesus, respectively. The use of golden domes in conjunction with other colours is a remarkable feature of these structures and the photographs in the ensuing pages more than adequately depict the extraordinary effect of the colour combinations. 41
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Politics and long, beautiful hair: An ‘almost’ fairy-tale
By Aparna Pallavi 48
So there was this Princess and she had long, silky, dark hair. So what’s special? All princesses have long, silky, dark hair. That is part of the princess package, isn’t it – you get to have everything beautiful, hair included. And for good reason too – the great era of the princesses, you see, was not like our vulgar, democratic era. They were really refined days, you see, when beauty treatments were given their due respect as the state-secrets they are – or deserve to be. Only the really special ones had access to those, and the special ones, of course, were princesses. It was not like now – when everything is shamefully in the open and advertisements are crying out that any vulgar Tina, Dickie or Harriet can have great hair by shelling out just half their year’s income for a bottle or jar of something or the other. It is a different affair that the great hair never happens – and no doubt that has something to do with having no proper respect for what is special. Sorry, back to the Princess. No, there certainly was something special about her hair. And by the time the princess was ten, the Queen found out what it was. The princess’s hair could grow to unusual lengths and thickness – the only thing needed was proper care (Note : Those days such stuff was whispered in the strictest confidence. It was certainly not ad-slogan material). The Queen sat on this fact and considered its pros and cons, and one day a gleam appeared in her eyes. From that day on, the princess’s hair grew and grew under the careful ministrations of the Queen and the barber woman Panchafula. Barber women, as you know, not only knew beauty secrets, but they also knew how to keep secrets – to not let them spread all over the harem. Initially His Majesty paid no attention –it was a princess after all, not a prince. But later, when, thanks to the queen’s skilful string-pulling, the minister himself rang the bell in his ears, His Majesty’s eyes gleamed too, and he sanctioned a respectable royal grant to the Queen’s project. And the whole thing reached its culmination on the Princess’s 14th birthday, when his Majesty organized a gala lunch for a lot of kings and princes from nearby kingdoms. And just as the lunch 49
was starting in the royal gardens, the princess was brought onto the upper floor balcony opposite, and the mass of her hair, decorated with dazzling jewels, was released. All the royal envoys (which king was to be bothered to personally attend a lunch at this puny kingdom?) forgot the meal and stared open-mouthed as a cascade of dark, bejewelled hair tumbled down all the way to the ground. His Majesty’s calculations were a resounding success. At the next gala, the place was crawling with kings and princes, come to witness the princess’s extraordinarily luxuriant hair with their own eyes. That was followed by a spate of invitations for His Majesty from big and small states. Even Delhi Durbar began to invite him over for really flimsy reasons – the real stamp of success if there ever was one. The ‘hair festival’ was established as a national event country-wide. Within three years the kingdom (not its people) had a spanking new identity of its own. Obviously, no one had the time to ask the Princess how she felt about what was happening. His Majesty’s task, of course, was the least enviable. On his shoulders rested the most delicate task – he had to organize the displays of the princess’s hair at just the right times, coordinate the propagation of its legend, and rouse the curiosity and competition around it to just the right pitch – too little, and everyone would lose interest, and too much, and some mad prince could attack his pea-sized kingdom and finish the game then and there. And he had to draw it on till just the right time, and finally engineer a deal with a really strong ally who could stand by him in his old age. And you know of course, how little shelf life these virgin princesses have. Pulling off such a delicate diplomatic feat in such a short time is walking on a sword’s edge, no less. And you expect him to talk, of all the people, to a daughter? And the Queen? Her life has been a hard one, poor thing. All these years she has had to live with the stigma of bearing a daughter. And what a battle the brave lady has waged against His Majesty’s mother and all those cheap concubines of his to come into this little spot in the limelight. And who was all this effort for, after all?
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For herself? Of course not. It was all for her daughter, wasn’t it? Whose hair had become the talk of the whole country? Whose chances of landing a really powerful match are up a hundred times? Who is going to be the most talked about bride in a year or two? The princess, or (giggle giggle) she herself? But the Queen knows her little pet. She is sure her dear daughter understands her mother’s pain and her mother’s concern for her. After all, this daughter is all that she has, and how can she ever do anything that will harm her only little pigeon-widgeon? So where did the Princess get the idea that she did not like her long hair? Who was poisoning her brain with ideas? Obviously there had to be someone. Otherwise, how could a perfectly good little girl suddenly start believing she did not like the gorgeous silver hand-cart that followed her everywhere, carrying her hair? Where did she get the idea that she wanted to run around like common servants’ children? No, wait, what was it she said? Run around ‘freely’ – just imagine, she believes she wants to run around, and ‘freely’ on top of that! Princesses don’t run around freely. That is for common people – a servant thing. Worse, a street-scum thing. Princesses enjoy the fuss around them – that’s what makes them special. That’s what makes them princesses, didn’t she know? No, turns out she didn’t. She had her heart fixed on this absolutely stupid and dangerous idea of running around freely. It was just sheer luck she did not mention this to the Queen, or God forbid, to His Majesty. Just think what kind of disasters could have happened. She talked only to Panchafula, the barber woman, and Panchafula shushed her up at once. Nipped the whole thing in the bud, phew! But evidently the Princess was a clever little bitch. The scrawny git acted all shushed up till the hair-festival was over, and then, on the night after the last guest left, she left the palace. Just like that. No one noticed. Everyone was exhausted and asleep – His Majesty, the Queen, Panchafula the barber woman, the slave women, the guards, everyone. No one saw the thin little Princess, followed by the heavy silver cart (It was actually a wooden cart 51
with silver plating, but who tells such things to princesses?) cross the back gates of the palace and shuffle over to the slums beyond. And mind you, she knew what she was doing. She took along a pair of scissors. (What a cunning one! Where did she ever find them? Panchafula had warned the slave women to hide all the scissors!) And boy, how heartlessly she gave away the fruits of her mother’s labour. Need a blanket? Here, take two arm-lengths of hair. Need a roof? Have some hair. No food? Sell some royal hair. Take it, take it, take it all – take all the hair, take the silver cart, take everything. Just rid me of it. By morning, the Princess was all light. When there was nothing more to give away, the crowds dispersed (Perhaps it was not customary to grab at human flesh in those days). Only she remained, covered in dust and grit like a dirty chick. Smiling away like an idiot, sitting splayed out under a tree. Phew! From here on it is easy. All that remains is for the Handsome Prince to come, hear all the talk of her generosity, be suitably impressed, and take her away to his palace for a life of ease and love. Happy Ending. Simple, isn’t it? But wait a minute, we are not exactly in fairy-tale mode here, are we? Suppose we change things a bit, try to do a real-life ending for a real life story? So what are the possibilities? Suppose the Handsome Prince does come. Or suppose he doesn’t? Or someone else comes before him ? Hey, wait. This is going to be interesting. Quick, get a piece of paper and write down. Or better still, draw a diagram – a flow chart I think. Write ‘Princess’ at the top of the page. Then draw a downward pointing arrow, and draw two lines to the left and right. Right. Now we can think. See, there are two concrete possibilities. First, the Prince comes and takes the Princess with him . Second, the Princess gets cold feet and goes back home. Quite possible, isn’t it? After all, a princess is a princess in her palace. Outside, it is a different story, don’t we know? 52
Ok, so, to the right, we write ‘Prince’ and to the left, we write ‘Back home’. Now what? Hmm, if the Prince takes her away, there are again two possibilities. Wait, wait! First draw an arrow under Prince and draw two lines. Now, where was I? Yes, the two possibilities. First, the Prince will respect and understand the princess, appreciate and love her. Well, yes, I know what you mean – not known to happen very often, but still a possibility, isn’t it? So to the left, write – ‘Prince understanding’ . Draw an arrow under it and write, “Result, Princess happy”. The second possibility – actually you all know this is what mostly happens, but no one ever tells princesses. The Prince spots an opportunity in the Princess’s predicament. A short honeymoon, then Panchafula the barber woman enters quietly through the back door, and a year later, hair festival shifts base from father’s kingdom to husband’s kingdom. What say? A good possibility, isn’t it? So put down at the right, “Hair festival – result, Princess unhappy.” Now for the ‘back home’ alternative – same two outcomes, right, either parents will understand their mistake, or they won’t. Results, Princes happy or unhappy. OK then, put it down. 53
Wait. Suppose His Majesty’s soldiers come looking for the Princess? Suppose they capture her before the Prince comes? Or suppose the Prince and His Majesty’s soldiers get into a scuffle? Or wait, what if the Prince is cunning? What if he tricks the Princess and takes her back to His Majesty? Or maybe the Handsome Prince and His Majesty go to war over the princess? Whoa! Hold on brother! This is getting complicated, don’t you see? Look at the diagram – it is a mess! No no! Wipe it out, wipe it out. We can’t go into so many details. Just keep the broad alternatives, OK? wipe out all the rest. Now, look how tidy the diagram is looking. Cool, isn’t it?
But something is lacking. Look again – the chart is well balanced on both sides, but the centre is kind-of empty, isn’t it? Needs a little something in the centre, doesn’t it? Oh God! Here comes the big one. What to put in the centre? Wait, you sure we need something in the centre? I mean, just look, it is still all right, isn’t it? And our job is over anyway, we are getting late! You don’t think so? Well, so do you have a suggestion? Anyone? 54
Wait! AHA! We never thought about the hottest possibility ever! Look at this. If the Princess refuses both the options? What if she chooses to just go off by herself? See, didn’t I tell you it was hot? Just so with it! OK guys, let’s do it! First, draw a lo-oong vertical line under ‘Princess’ – like this, see? Now. OK, so what the options here? Hmm….mm…. now, this is a little difficult…. Um hmm – you see, this one doesn’t seem to have clear cut options….anything can happen, right? She might stand on her own feet and get herself an identity, or she may get sold at a brothel. Or… become a manual labour, go hungry, wash utensils in people’s houses? Become the wife of a rickshaw puller and get battered every day for the rest of her life. Or who knows, she might just make a packet by selling her hair secret? Become a hair festival consultant for other kingdoms? Or maybe become a hobo? Or a witch? Be proud of her desperate step, or regret it? It can happen, can’t it? All of it? Anything can happen – who is there to stop her now? That’s the problem with getting uprooted from your context – tidy endings become impossible. Look, now I have had just enough of it. Let’s finish this quick. Just draw a horizontal line at the bottom of the vertical line, and start writing the options. 55
But oh no! This paper is too small! And who knows how many possibilities are there? Will we ever get them all finished? No, no. This won’t do at all. Let us see. Just, just wipe out all the possibilities, will you? And just draw a tidy little question-mark at the end of the vertical line. Looks good? OK guys, got to go. There’s lots more to do!
ILLUSTRATIONS: APARNA PALLAVI http://www.wallpaperhere.com/
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The Tel l Tal e Heart By Edgar Allan Poe ILLUSTRATIONS: By Harry Clarke – http://en.wikipedia.org/ http://that-lurid-glow.wikispaces.com/ http://schoolworkhelper.net/ http://alda-rana.deviantart.com/ https://sites.google.com/site/jgeenglishviiihonorseap/ 57
TRUE! --nervous --very, very dreadfully nervous I had been and am; but why will you say that I am mad? The disease had sharpened my senses --not destroyed --not dulled them. Above all was the sense of hearing acute. I heard all things in the heaven and in the earth. I heard many things in hell. How, then, am I mad? Hearken! and observe how healthily --how calmly I can tell you the whole story. It is impossible to say how first the idea entered my brain; but once conceived, it haunted me day and night. Object there was none. Passion there was none. I loved the old man. He had never wronged me. He had never given me insult. For his gold I had no desire. I think it was his eye! Yes, it was this! He had the eye of a vulture -a pale blue eye, with a film over it. Whenever it fell upon me, my blood ran cold; and so by degrees -very gradually -I made up my mind to take the life of the old man, and thus rid myself of the eye forever. Now this is the point. You fancy me mad. Madmen know nothing. But you should have seen me. You should have seen how wisely I proceeded -with what caution -with what foresight -with what dissimulation I went to work! I was never kinder to the old man than during the whole week before I killed him. And every night, about midnight, I turned the latch of his door and opened it -oh so gently! And then, when I had made an opening sufficient for my head, I put in a dark lantern, all closed, closed, that no light shone out, and then I thrust in my head. Oh, you would have laughed to see how cunningly I thrust it in! I moved it slowly -very, very slowly, so that I might not disturb the old man's sleep. It took me an hour to place my whole head within the opening so far that I could see him as he lay upon his bed. Ha! Would a madman have been so wise as this? And then, when my head was well in the room, I undid the lantern cautiously-oh, so cautiously --cautiously (for the hinges creaked) --I undid it just so much that a single thin ray fell upon the vulture eye. And this I did for seven long nights --every night just at midnight --but I found the eye always closed; and so it was impossible to do the work; for it was not the old man who vexed me, but his Evil Eye. 58
And every morning, when the day broke, I went boldly into the chamber, and spoke courageously to him, calling him by name in a hearty tone, and inquiring how he has passed the night. So you see he would have been a very profound old man, indeed, to suspect that every night, just at twelve, I looked in upon him while he slept. Upon the eighth night I was more than usually cautious in opening the door. A watch's minute hand moves more quickly than did mine. Never before that night had I felt the extent of my own powers --of my sagacity. I could scarcely contain my feelings of triumph. To think that there I was, opening the door, little by little, and he not even to dream of my secret deeds or thoughts. I fairly chuckled at the idea; and perhaps he heard me; for he moved on the bed suddenly, as if startled. Now you may think that I drew back --but no. His room was as black as pitch with the thick darkness, (for the shutters were close fastened, through fear of robbers,) and so I knew that he could not see the opening of the door, and I kept pushing it on steadily, steadily. I had my head in, and was about to open the lantern, when my thumb slipped upon the tin fastening, and the old man sprang up in bed, crying out --"Who's there?" I kept quite still and said nothing. For a whole hour I did not move a muscle, and in the meantime I did not hear him lie down. He was still sitting up in the bed listening; --just as I have done, night after night, hearkening to the death watches in the wall. Presently I heard a slight groan, and I knew it was the groan of mortal terror. It was not a groan of pain or of grief --oh, no! --it was the low stifled sound that arises from the bottom of the soul 59
when overcharged with awe. I knew the sound well. Many a night, just at midnight, when all the world slept, it has welled up from my own bosom, deepening, with its dreadful echo, the terrors that distracted me. I say I knew it well. I knew what the old man felt, and pitied him, although I chuckled at heart. I knew that he had been lying awake ever since the first slight noise, when he had turned in the bed. His fears had been ever since growing upon him. He had been trying to fancy them causeless, but could not. He had been saying to himself --"It is nothing but the wind in the chimney --it is only a mouse crossing the floor," or "It is merely a cricket which has made a single chirp." Yes, he had been trying to comfort himself with these suppositions: but he had found all in vain. All in vain; because Death, in approaching him had stalked with his black shadow before him, and enveloped the victim. And it was the mournful influence of the unperceived shadow that caused him to feel --although he neither saw nor heard --to feel the presence of my head within the room. When I had waited a long time, very patiently, without hearing him lie down, I resolved to open a little --a very, very little crevice in the lantern. So I opened it --you cannot imagine how stealthily, stealthily --until, at length a simple dim ray, like the thread of the spider, shot from out the crevice and fell full upon the vulture eye. It was open --wide, wide open --and I grew furious as I gazed upon it. I saw it with perfect distinctness --all a dull blue, with a hideous veil over it that chilled the very marrow in my bones; but I could see nothing else of the old man's face or person: for I had directed the ray as if by instinct, precisely upon the damned spot. And have I not told you that what you mistake 60
for madness is but over-acuteness of the sense? --now, I say, there came to my ears a low, dull, quick sound, such as a watch makes when enveloped in cotton. I knew that sound well, too. It was the beating of the old man's heart. It increased my fury, as the beating of a drum stimulates the soldier into courage. But even yet I refrained and kept still. I scarcely breathed. I held the lantern motionless. I tried how steadily I could maintain the ray upon the eve. Meantime the hellish tattoo of the heart increased. It grew quicker and quicker, and louder and louder every instant. The old man's terror must have been extreme! It grew louder, I say, louder every moment! --do you mark me well I have told you that I am nervous: so I am. And now at the dead hour of the night, amid the dreadful silence of that old house, so strange a noise as this excited me to uncontrollable terror. Yet, for some minutes longer I refrained and stood still. But the beating grew louder, louder! I thought the heart must burst. And now a new anxiety seized me --the sound would be heard by a neighbour! The old man's hour had come! With a loud yell, I threw open the lantern and leaped into the room. He shrieked once --once only. In an instant I dragged him to the floor, and pulled the heavy bed over him. I then smiled gaily, to find the deed so far done. But, for many minutes, the heart beat on with a muffled sound. This, however, did not vex me; it would not be heard through the wall. At length it ceased. The old man was dead. I removed the bed and examined the corpse. Yes, he was stone, stone dead. I placed my hand upon the heart and held it there many minutes. There was no pulsation. He was stone dead. His eve would trouble me no more.
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If still you think me mad, you will think so no longer when I describe the wise precautions I took for the concealment of the body. The night waned, and I worked hastily, but in silence. First of all I dismembered the corpse. I cut off the head and the arms and the legs. I then took up three planks from the flooring of the chamber, and deposited all between the scantlings. I then replaced the boards so cleverly, so cunningly, that no human eye --not even his --could have detected any thing wrong. There was nothing to wash out --no stain of any kind --no blood-spot whatever. I had been too wary for that. A tub had caught all --ha! Ha! When I had made an end of these labours, it was four o'clock --still dark as midnight. As the bell sounded the hour, there came a knocking at the street door. I went down to open it with a light heart, --for what had I now to fear? There entered three men, who introduced themselves, with perfect suavity, as officers of the police. A shriek had been heard by a neighbour during the night; suspicion of foul play had been aroused; information had been lodged at the police office, and they (the officers) had been deputed to search the premises. I smiled, --for what had I to fear? I bade the gentlemen welcome. The shriek, I said, was my own in a dream. The old man, I mentioned, was absent in the country. I took my visitors all over the house. I bade them search --search well. I led them, at length, to his chamber. I showed them his treasures, secure, undisturbed. In the enthusiasm of my confidence, I brought chairs into the room, and desired them here to rest from their fatigues, while I myself, in the wild audacity of my perfect triumph, placed my own seat upon the very spot beneath which reposed the corpse of the victim. The officers were satisfied. My manner had convinced them. I was singularly at ease. They sat, and while I answered cheerily, they chatted of familiar things. But, ere long, I felt myself getting pale and wished them gone. My head ached, and I fancied a ringing in my ears: but still they sat and still chatted. The ringing became 62
more distinct: --It continued and became more distinct: I talked more freely to get rid of the feeling: but it continued and gained definiteness --until, at length, I found that the noise was not within my ears. No doubt I now grew very pale; --but I talked more fluently, and with a heightened voice. Yet the sound increased --and what could I do? It was a low, dull, quick sound --much such a sound as a watch makes when enveloped in cotton. I gasped for breath I talked more quickly --more vehemently; but the noise steadily increased. I arose and argued about trifles, in a high key and with violent gesticulations; but the noise steadily increased. Why would they not be gone? I paced the floor to and fro with heavy strides, as if excited to fury by the observations of the men --but the noise steadily increased. Oh God! what could I do? I foamed --I raved --I swore! I swung the chair upon which I had been sitting, and grated it upon the boards, but the noise arose over all and continually increased. It grew louder --louder --louder! And still the men chatted pleasantly, and smiled. Was it possible they heard not? Almighty God! --no, no! They heard! --they suspected! --they knew! --they were making a mockery of my horror!-this I thought, and this I think. But anything was better than this agony! Anything was more tolerable than this derision! I could bear those hypocritical smiles no longer! I felt that I must scream or die! and now --again! --hark! louder! louder! louder! Louder! "Villains!" I shrieked, "dissemble no more! I admit the deed! --tear up the planks! here, here! --It is the beating of his hideous heart!" 63
Poems By Swati Singh Sambyal From her book “Painted” 64
The Birth and Death of the Day Life born— Heartbeats! Sun shines... Reading between the lines! Night sky-Stars high; Faces lit--When hearts meet. Bloomingdales day... Fears gone away— Birds flock, Work adhoc! Breath … Until no air left— Sleep— Death! 65
With Eyes Closed I see black, I see lines— I see darkness with the peace of mind! I wish to see the rainbow, But I find it hard to locate the colors. I meet silence…. I am calm— I hope to find you--But your shadow walks away… I breathe… I let you go--I hear voices, inviting me— I resist— And walk on by. I hear sounds— Slowly amalgamating into music… I follow the tune— I feel chasing infinity— It’s a tunnel with abundant channels. I advance… Knowing I have to meet the end. And then…
I see white!! 66
Painted Like some hundred steps... Never counted, Leading to, A terrace! I see--Yellow... Red... Pink... Green... I see Faces... People, The next moment... I am painted--We all are! Painted‌ With colours of-Hope... Jubilance... Love!
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I sit... In one corner. Feeling high, On colours! I see the terrace... It’s beautiful, It’s painted--It’s like a rainbow; That has come down... In the form of individuals! And I take the steps down... Packing my bag... And the memories!
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I am in London Small talk, Birds and the bees~ Songs and the drums! People, Habits-Cross culture... WorkYou and Me. And snow, Falling outside… In your backyard— Night— Moonlit… But it looks like a perfect day!! With snowflakes, Falling like cotton balls~ Wishes to see them, Falling on my head--Descriptions— Brief but vivid, And then I almost feel, I am in London! 69
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A foreword by the poet Acknowledgement I wanted to be alone, In the woods of wilderness! I desired to be lost all the time, But then, somehow, I always returned back home! This assortment of poems would not have been possible without my father who has been the whole and sole inspiration behind everything that I do in life. He has always encouraged me to follow my instincts and proceed in life. There is family and then there are people, who inspire, motivate and correct you. I am grateful to have Sonal, Ishank, Vaibhav, Sunayna and Deepak in my life for being there for me as friends and for always encouraging me to take this passion for writing forward. I am also thankful to Dr. Satyajit Ghosh, my mentor and guide for making me see through his eyes a life from a wider perspective. His influence has always inspired me to write what I feel. I am extremely grateful to Dr. Brijesh Nair for always motivating me and taking efforts in reading all my works. I would also like to extend my gratitude to Dr. Karunesh Kumar Agrawal for accepting my manuscript and giving wings to my lifelong dream. Every writer draws an inspiration from his/her surroundings. I would like to thank all those faces, chance encounters, strangers and people I meet in my day to day life for letting me paint life with words.
The book can be purchased at: http://www.flipkart.com/painted/p/itmd9mcxh2amy3ba?pid= 9788182533080 72
Review of Swati Singh Sambyal's book of poetry
PAINTED Published by Cuberwit.Net Allahabad.
Reviewer- K. K. Srivastava Painted is Swati Singh Sambyal' s first book of verse. It has 43 poems. I had an occasion to go through these pearls encapsulating the elements that make life worth living and worth examining. I have a fad for serious poetry, for through serious stream of words one gets to know the interwoven threads of poetry and philosophy. Sometimes moments of tranquil need be visited upon with a view to take a lighter view of various aspects of life. Painted has both elements sewn together. There are definite questions in this collection that keep resonating; in search of answers which readers might either seek in the verses or seek within. Her poems touch on varied facets of life and necessarily carry experiences of different hues. Revelations through these poems reflect on throbbing fullness that life is but that fullness has it’s own scheme of dispersal that is left to every individual to decipher, understand, grapple with and finally to go with or without these dispersals with subsequent consequences. Swati, aware of such a scheme of things that exists in the cosmos and not baffled by conflicts of existence of an individual, tries through her poems to weave together contradictions and paradoxes contained in such a scheme. Some of her poems seem to be elliptical memoir poems mixing pleasure with pain. One of the striking qualities of these poems is intense imagery. A few examples follow:
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'A broken heart that refuses to mend now; Life isn't like an ecstatic moment, like a pure vow. They come and go, never last for long; My past is not jubilant and lyrical like a song.' (Darkness) Another Year is a wonderful poem where her imagery tackles all demands normally placed on a poet and still she emerges unscathed. 'The moonlit skies that would pass... And I wish I could keep a count of all the stars!' And later in the same poem: 'There are times when some happy moments sing--‌. And dream and read endlessly...forever.' In another touching poem Blindsided, we are transcended to vividly realized scene where the poet talks of 'The unforgotten love' which 'like a ripe memory' 'never goes.' When the poet laments ' So what happens when one knows she has found him/ But the other stays clueless...'the eternity of single moment is important. Between past/present/future lie arrays of suffocating moments that test the lover incisively. In Human Qualities, she thinks of human qualities and writes intensely exploring human beings. ' Lost! In the crowd in search of a hand; That would take me out And show The other side!'
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In the poem Brewing the Storm, she confesses 'I know of the feelings that reside deep down' and while walking 'on a path of self analysis' she seeks 'a mask/ which no one sees but I see on the other side'. She is wise enough to understand the blankness of space the overwhelming of which is to be seen against what she writes: 'In the end, I know... I have to deal with the corner! The corner of life, That would bring you back; Again and Again.' (Corners) At the very core of her work is sensitivity to human suffering and the meditation on the value of life in quietness, quietness so distilled that it requires emotional stillness. Movement of change and flexibility bring with them spontaneity in life. This is true of her poems too-delightfully exposed to surprises life brings with itself. Her poems, a few examples as cited above reveal restlessness of life as it comes to the denizens of the world. To a discerning reader, these poems—lyrical, musical and thought-provoking will seem to be repositories of ancient wisdom-throwing light on what ail humanity and human beings. The relationship between questions and pain that these entail is amplified in a few words in one of her poems given below: 'The agony that would not want to give up! Questions that are screaming to find an answer.' (Glittering blackness)
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In the same poem there is 'the window' that 'shows you the view....of littering darkness...Inside out' Something like Joseph Brodsky poem I Sit by the Window,' Which is worse; The dark inside or the darkness out.' Swati' poems reveal skills, are careful and unforgettable. Poems are original, exhibiting artistic excellence. Past for her is not the past that is vanished. Past raises a variety of concerns. Past gives her a pause. And that pause causes her reflect on larger concerns of life and it’s movements. Use of rhyme to give a shape to poems is unique. Her poetry is sensitive, all-inclusive, caring and passionate. Poems like 'Darkness', 'Pearls' and 'Questions' leave lingering impressions on readers mind. The insight in the paradox of life is delightful. Swati' vision goes beyond the boundaries of the nation and touch humanity in all it’s vitality. With language simple and style lucid, the social message given is that of Universal brotherhood and love for all. Life’s successes and failures are looked at and taken care of in poetic advice. There is something like “psychic chaos” in some of her poems like 'Rebel' where her life 'has become like a dense cloud' calling 'storms because it loves pain.' The cover of the book is alluring and the publisher Cybernet has done an excellent job in bringing forth this upcoming poetess who holds a lot of promise for future. I personally find Swati' poems firmly grounded in the mastery of craft. You take one poem by itself or as a body of work, these open a plethora of possibilities and asymmetries in which readers are allowed the freedom to open their doors of perception, indulge in imaginative speculations and finally explore the roots of literary imagination. It is the vision and not mere circumstance that shapes her poems.
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About the Reviewer: K.K. Srivastava is an poems - Ineluctable (2008) and second Shadows of the Real August 2012. He can be reached at
Indian poet who has written three books of Stillness (2005), An Armless Hand Writes reprint (2012). His third book of poems was published by Rupa & Co New Delhi in
kksrivastava_ran@yahoo.com
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About The Artist Pawel Kuczynski’s art is extremely evocative. His art always confronts the viewer with specific current problems know from the media but presented in altogether different form. Kuczynski as an artist is deeply involved and uncompromising in his political judgements and social diagnosis. He explots the aesthetics of surrealism, makes skilful use of visual metaphors and black humour is definitely his element. Technical mastery and the nearly photographic realism of his scenes enhance the effect of astonishment in the viewer who faces the artistic world for the first time. In Kuczynski’s works, the sad truth about human condition, about social, political and environmental threats takes definite shape and is no longer abstract. However, the grotesque perspective allows him to tame fear and make unpleasant facts bearable. The aim is clear - to learn to see seemingly obvious things in a satirical fashion, that is ‘À rebours’. Among Kuczynski’s works, there are also purely humorous drawings and others based on playing with form, subtle, even poetic in their expression. These act as interesting interludes in his art. Karolina Prymlewicz Curator Museum of Caricature and Cartoon Art in Warsaw
WEBSITE http://pawelkuczynski.com/
Pawel Kuczynski’s works can be purchased from http://www.pictorem.com/collectioncat.html?auth or=Pawel+Kuczynski 80
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Media Release April, 2015 Bedtime Story by Kiran Nagarkar from 4th June - 6th June 2015 at Riverside Theatre, Parramatta An engaging plot based on ancient epic mixed with humour and a parallel storyline Bedtime Story is based on the Indian Epic, the Mahabharata. Set in ancient India the Mahabharata tells a story about the deadly enmity between two royal families, the Kauravas and the Pandavas who were cousins. While the Pandavas were India’s greatest warrior heroes, their side was favoured and supported by Lord Krishna; the presiding deity of the Mahabharata and India’s most human and beloved God. Each of the acts of Bedtime Story is based on well-known episodes from the Mahabharata. Kiran Nagarkar wrote Bedtime Story in the late 70s. When some Hindu fundamentalist parties boycotted Nagarkar’s play, a legal censorship was imposed forcing the prevention of any shows of Bedtime Story for almost two decades. When Nagarkar visited Byron Bay’s literary festival a few years ago Neel Banerjee of Nautanki Theatre approached him to discuss Bedtime Story. Nagarkar kindly gave Banerjee a copy of the play to read. Since then it has been a steady journey that Nautanki Theatre has embarked on to bring Bedtime Story to Sydney audiences. Joyraj Bhattacharjee, an acclaimed theatre and film director and actor is based in Calcutta. He has extensive experience working both in India and overseas. Bhattacharjee directed Tagore’s play Sacrifice in 2012 which was staged in Sydney. His expertise as a director will bring passion and life to Nagarkar’s play Bedtime Story. Nautanki Theatre focuses on producing plays with a cross-cultural plot that has connections to the Indian subcontinent. While the Mahabharata is an ancient epic, the parallel storyline forces the audience to consider the relevance of the ancient episodes of the 88
Mahabharata juxtaposed with the more modern turbulent events around the world. Bedtime Story draws parallels to the Cuban crisis, the Vietnam War, the state of emergency in India and various other politically motivated actions camouflaged as nationalism.
Bedtime Story by Kiran Nagarkar Directed by Joyraj Bhattacharjee Produced by Nautanki Theatre Riverside Theatre, Parramatta 3rd – 6th June 2015 WED (Invite only), THU & FRI 8 PM SAT 3 PM Tickets $35 / $30 conc & student Bookings: 02-8839 3399 or online at www.riversideparramatta.com.au
For more information, interviews, artist details, great great images or whatever your heart desires, please contact: Rasa Arts Marketing E-mail: rasaartsmarketing@gmail.com Ph. 02-9809 4792
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