Chaicopy Bridling Chaos Vol. 4 Issue 1 April 2020

An MCH Literary Journal

Bridling Chaos

Vol. IV| Issue I | April 2020

Chaicopy Vol. IV | Issue I | April 2020 Published by MCH Literary Club Manipal Centre for Humanities, Manipal, Karnataka-576104 Only the copyright for this collection is reserved with Chaicopy.

Individual copyright for artwork, prose, poetry, fiction and extracts of novels and other volumes published in this issue of the magazine rests solely with the authors. The magazine does not claim any of those for its own. No part of this publication may be copied without express written permission from the copyright holders in each case. The magazine is freely circulated on the World Wide Web. It may not be sold or hired out in its digital form to anybody by any agency whatsoever. All disputes are subject to jurisdiction of the courts of the Republic of India. Š Chaicopy, 2020 Cover Art - Jacqueline Williams Cover Design - Sre Ratha Layout and Page Setting - Sre Ratha Editorial Board Editors-in-Chief: Gauri Sawant and Elishia Vaz Fiction & Poetry Team: Jannet Johny, Laya Kumar, Madhura Kar, Sailza Kumari, Shweta Anand, Amulya Raghavan, Serene George, Sonia Sali, Francecsca Fowler Non-Fiction Team: Divya K.B., Siddharth Thakeria, Ajantha Rao Visual Art Team: Meghali Banerjee, Aditi Paul, Kalyani Nandagopal Design Team: Sre Ratha P. R. Team: Brinda Mukherjee, Sania Lekshmi, Sadhvi Hegde

Editorial Dear Reader, We address you this time keeping in mind everything that has been happening around the world lately. The world sure does find a way to conjure up a new madness just as the preceding commotion starts settling down. There seems to be no end to it. We bring you, thus, an issue that thematically meanders around this ‘chaos’ that insists on being eternal. Here’s presenting ‘Bridling Chaos.’ Through this theme, we develop the understanding that chaos is tenacious. Given the current scenario of events around us, we confer that chaos is unstoppable and relentless. This chaos is agile and quick on its feet. It refuses to be contained. It has many avatars. Some seen, some not so much. It has many voices. Some heard and some unheard. This chaos can creep out through the crevices without anybody noticing at first and then become so titaninc a force that it is impossible to not notice it. It is indeed chaotic.

Ideated by our Team Members here at Chaicopy and made possible by the contributors who we are ever so grateful for, here is an issue filled with the voices that wish nothing but to regulate through words the chaos that is constantly brewing. Expressing the internal chaos that remains unheard most of the time are pieces ‘The One Where I Name Names Without Naming Them’ by Shreya Jauhari and ‘Chaotic Questions’ by Ekasmayi Naresh. We seek solace amidst periods of chaos and the urge to remember and relive the jolly, light-hearted moments is the strongest. We have Valsala Menon’s ‘Where Rainbows End’ as a soothing consolation that the bad times may make us miserable, but there is always a rainbow at the end of the journey! ‘Fanta Scented Love’ by Niranjana H. scours to find the traces of love and tranquillity. The heart is torn and the mind is in chaos. But the former still remembers.

In our Kapi Sessions, Sonia Sali contributes a very real memoir piece titled ‘She isn’t here anymore’ that will rein in the chaos and pacify it.

We also have ‘Silk Sari,’ another memoir by one of yours truly. This

evocative piece throws the chaos at you and witnesses whether you’re able to empathize with it. This chaos is internal and different. It aims to be the opposite: outside and accepted.

The Visual Art section takes on the job of closing this issue with its heartfelt imagery. Here are some poignant artworks, illustrations, and photographs for you. We hope you’re able to catch onto the chaos that is hidden beneath layers of visual components.

When we began to put this issue together, little did we know that we’d find ourselves in the middle of a pandemic. That the theme perfectly articulates current circumstances is only indicative of the multiple ways in which society is perpetually invested in the project of bridling chaos. We are grateful to our hard-working Chaicopy team members for picking out the theme and carrying out their respective duties enthusiastically in the eye of the storm. As one can imagine, much of the team’s efforts emerge from the timely digital collaboration and work. We would also like to thank all the contributors for making this issue resonate with a variety of chaotic reality. We express our gratitude to Jacqueline Williams for the alluring cover art. A clean black and white canvas on the cover hopes to bridle the chaos that is contained within its pages.

Importantly, we would like to thank Dr. Ashokan Nambiar for guiding us through every step of the process and for nudging us to complete and publish the issue in these difficult times. We sincerely express our gratitude to Dr. Nikhil Govind, Director of MCH for buttressing the Chaicopy team in their efforts this semester.

It is now believed that the pandemic will bring difficult changes for the world in the time to come. At Chaicopy, we have been cognizant of this change, as we break with MCH tradition to publish our first exclusively digital copy. As Editors, this is our final Chaicopy issue and we assure you that our journey has indeed been chaotic. We hope that this issue brings something to the world at a time when it is charting a peculiar time in history.

Warmly, Elishia Vaz and Gauri Sawant

Ingredients Chai Expressions Where Rainbows End | Fiction | 3-11 Valsala Menon The One Where I Name Names Without Naming Them | Poetry | 12-14 Shreya Jauhari The Moral of History | Fiction | 15-18 Uma Padmasola SHADES OF NOTHINGNESS | Poetry | 19-20 Esther Shekinah I didn't come to Auroville looking for love | Fiction | 21-28 Niranjana Hariharanandanan Fields and Words | Poetry | 29 Bhargavi G Chaotic Questions | Poetry | 30-31 Ekasmayi Naresh Fanta Scented Love | Fiction | 32-41 Niranjana Hariharanandanan

Kaapi Sessions Silk Sari | 42-47 Elishia Vaz She isn't here anymore | 48-49 Sonia Sali

Visual Art Ekant | Visual Art | 51 TILKU Tamasha | Visual Art | 52 Ankita Paul Redefining the Closet | Visual Art | 53 Jacqueline Williams An Insignificant Speck | Visual Art | 54 Madhura Kar Untitled | Visual Art | 55 Indian Accent | Visual Art | 56 Krutika Patel Please don't take my sunshine away | Visual Art | 57 They made you? | Visual Art | 58 Blood on your hands | Visual Art | 59 Meghana Injeti A Tourist Warzone | Visual Art | 60 Vidya Gokhe

The Contributors | 62-65 The Teatotallers | 66-70

Chai Expressions

Where Rainbows End Valsala Menon Salomi hopped, skipped, jumped and ran down the path with her friends in tow to greet her father but he was not to be seen anywhere.

Instead, her eyes widened in visible joy when she saw who had come to pick her up from school, her favourite neighbour and Aunt Miss. Cama!

“Auntie Cama,” Salomi rushed into her arms, hugging her tightly, while Auntie Cama took hold of her and swung her merrily in glee. Dressed simply in a blue top and a knee length bouncy skirt with a scarf to match, tied around her neck, Auntie Cama was the personification of fun and frolic. Grey wisps of hair peeped out from behind the scarf but her eyes were bright, shining, and twinkling in mirth as she gazed lovingly at the child. Auntie Cama had freckles that reminded Salomi of currant buns that she so loved.

“Auntie Cama” she called out eagerly.

Auntie took the satchel from her and walked to the vintage Morris car parked below the majestic tamarind trees fringing the school compound.

“Salo bye” a fair cherubic boy with an impish grin waved at her from the school gates.

“Bye Ram” Salomi waved back cheerily, beaming at him. Auntie Cama winked at the little boy and waved at him too.

“Auntie, you know something? Sr. Lily made all the kids clap for me.

You know why? I have come first in class and Ram got the second rank.

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Later, in the afternoon, we got to play hide and seek behind the tamarind trees and then had a lovely story-telling session under the trees.”

“Wow! That’s fantastic! You deserve a little treat for that. Wait till you get home” “Auntie, are we going to your Wisteria cottage? How come you are here to pick me up?’

“Your parents had to go to your brother’s school, so we have the entire afternoon ahead of us”- Auntie Cama’s eyes twinkled merrily.

Salomi rushed out from the car as soon as she reached Auntie Cama’s Wisteria Cottage. It was just next door to her house, and had a magnificent garden with a profusion of flowers of varying hues and fragrance lined up on both sides of the cottage. Roses, petunias, chrysanthemums, dahlias, asters, zinnias all swayed and nodded their pretty heads in time with the gentle breeze blowing. Salo ran to the swing hanging from a neem tree and perched on it, looking cockily at Auntie.

“Come on, my Cherub; let’s have some milk and your favourite currant buns.”

Salo whooped in joy and ran inside to the kitchen and inhaled deeply of the delicious aroma of freshly baked currant buns. Wisteria cottage never ceased to intrigue her and it always had a lingering heavenly fragrance of cinnamon, chocolate cookies and freshly baked bread. She inhaled deeply of the lingering fragrances and closed her eyes in ecstasy with a beatific smile lingering on her lips.

Auntie Cama laughed in delight and after a lovely tea of currant buns, chocolate cookies and hot chocolate, they settled down to make a scrapbook of sorts from pictures Salo delighted in snipping from Auntie Cama’s old magazines which she had aplenty. While snipping away, Auntie Cama regaled her with stories of her own making, of the pictures Salo cut out from the magazines. If it was a picture of a ship, 4

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story of a good witch who used to live in that house.

Salomi perked up at the sound of a car coming to a halt. She spotted her Acha and Amma alighting from the car with her brother Babu.

She bid a hasty goodbye to Auntie and ran to them.

As she walked in, she sensed that something was wrong. Babu, her brother, elder to her by five years, was reclining with a book and a cup of coffee on the couch. Her Amma, who usually came to ask her how her day had panned out, was sitting staring into space with a wistful expression.

“What prank did Ram play on you today?” grinned Babu mischievously. ‘‘Anyway, very soon you will have a fresh set of friends.”

Salo glanced at him quizzically.

“Why?” “After my boards in April we are all moving back to Kochi, that’s why I am joining college there,” grinned Babu.

Salomi stood stock still “Amma, is that true?”

For the first time, her Amma realised that Salomi was back and was asking her something.

“Hmm… yes Mole, Acha is winding up his business here at Ahmednagar. We are going back to our hometown Kochi, and building our own house there. Acha will start his own business too, at our home town” Amma sounded thrilled.

The whole room revolved around Salomi and she sat down heavily at the table. This was home to her, with her friends, her favourite teacher Sr Lily, her favourite neighbour and Aunt, Cama Aunty. She did not want her world to change. This was her home, where she felt safe and secure.

Her lips quivered, she bit back her angry tears and blurted out, “You can all go, I will stay with Auntie Cama.”

She snatched her satchel and ran out of the house, back to Wisteria 5

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cottage.

Salomi pushed open the thicket gate to the Cottage and noticed Sikander watering the plants. On seeing Salomi, he perked up and said, “Arre, Memsab, how are you?” Sikander was a tall thin man and he always was well dressed in trousers and a T-shirt. Despite tending to the gardens all day long, he was always immaculately dressed. That was how Miss Cama had trained him.

Instead of her usual childish banter with Sikander, she quickly walked up the path to the door.

Aunt Cama knew something was grossly amiss. Her cherub was a smart and happy girl at all times, and very rarely did she resort to tears. She pulled up a chair and sat down next to Salomi. “Come on cherub, what’s wrong now? Your face says it all” she smiled.

Salomi tried her best to check in the tears that threatened to run down her cheeks unhindered, but finally she gave in and threw herself into Auntie Cama’s arms, she wept bitterly.

Auntie Cama stroked her hair gently and queried ‘‘What happened darling? Did your Amma scold you?”

Auntie Cama loved the little girl as her own, and had always had a soft corner for the cherub, ever since she set eyes on her eight years ago, when the Menons had moved in next door.

Mrs Menon was known for her fiery tempers and Miss Cama was worried that Cherub might have been at the receiving end this time.

Salo raised her head, and looking teary eyed, replied, “No, Auntie Cama, Babu and Amma say that after May, we will all be shifting to Kochi after my brother’s boards. I will have to study in a new school there” her words petered off amidst fresh tears.

Miss Cama’s heart missed a beat, she felt her heart sink low but she kept her smile in place for the child’s sake.

“Oh wow! You are going back to your home state! God’s own country! I have never visited Kerala. Now that Cherub is going to be staying there, I can always come down.”

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Salo perked up slightly. ‘‘Will you really come? Won’t you bring Sikander too? I won’t let you go back to Ahmednagar once you come down to Kochi. I will look after you.”

Miss Cama guffawed at this.

“For the time being, let’s listen to some music to perk you up.’’

Auntie Cama took out her guitar and started strumming softly on it, to cheer up Salo.

“Come on, sing along with me, Raindrops on roses and whiskers on kittens, bright copper kettles and warm woollen mittens….”

Salo forgot to be sad while she sang along happily to her favourite song.

Miss Cama turned around to see that Miss Menon had come looking for her.

“Hello, Miss Menon, Salomi is playing out in the garden. She told me that you are all moving back to Kochi by May? Is that true?”

Miss Menon sighed and said calmly, “Yes Miss Cama, I know Salomi is taking it very badly, you have been more of a mother to her than I have been. I am worried as to how she is going to cope with this. Salo’s dad wants to go back to his roots and build a house there and start his own venture, and the time is now just right since Babu will be finishing school here. He can enrol in a college there.”

“I will miss darling Cherub, she has been like a daughter that I never had the good fortune to have. But I am happy for you, Miss Menon,” Miss Cama spoke calmly, yet her eyes glistened with unshed tears and she felt her throat constrict.

A little later, Salomi went back home with her amma.

At dinner time, in brotherly fashion, and in teasing tones, Babu quipped “Salo, From June, a new set of friends, new school, two new languages to be learnt, Malayalam and Sanskrit, where will you find time to play?”

Salo burst into tears. She pushed back her chair and ranted, shaking her 7

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fist at Babu “I am not going. I don’t want to leave behind my Ram and Sasikala. I will stay with Auntie Cama and Sikander.”

She ran out of the room wailing.

Acha and Amma looked daggers at Babu. He smirked and fell silent.

Salo hardly slept that night. Early the next day, after a hurried breakfast of toast and a glass of milk, she scooted off to her Auntie Cama’s place.

“Hello, we have an early visitor, Sikander” auntie Cama smiled at Salo.

“Why are your eyes red, Auntie?” Salo queried.

“Maybe I have a bit of the cold’’ Auntie Cama sniffed.

Salo threw her raggedy Ann doll on to the couch and proclaimed “I have decided, that I am not leaving you and going to Kochi. I am going to stay here, study, be a big girl, and look after you and Sikander”. There was steely determination in her eyes.

Miss Cama’s eyes welled up and she felt a lump in her throat.

“So, Cherub, you don’t want me to come and visit you in God’s own country?”

Salomi was taken aback. “When I grow up, I will take you.”

“How will you know which places to take me to?’’

Salomi looked doubtful and crestfallen.

Auntie Cama sat next to her, holding her close and said “Cherub, you are going only in May. We are only in February now. We must not waste time in being sad. Do you know, every time we decide to be happy, God sends a rainbow over our heads? And colourful butterflies flutter around us?”

Salomi looked doubtful and gazed disbelievingly at her.

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Auntie Cama urged Salo to close her eyes.

“Let me show you some magic. Close your eyes, Cherub, imagine running around this garden outside, plucking your favourite flowers, playing pranks on Sikander, over the coming weeks, imagine going on long picnics and outings with Auntie and Sikander, doesn’t all that make you happy?” ‘‘Yes’’ beamed Salomi with her eyes still closed tight. ‘‘Now open your eyes.’’

Salomi opened her eyes and stared in astonishment at the sight that greeted her. Over her head loomed a spectrum of rainbow colours and colourful butterflies fluttered all around her.

“How do you do that?’’ gasped Salomi.

“A bit of magic for you, believe in it, my dear’’ Auntie Cama smiled mysteriously.

“Can you do that again please?’’

“Rainbows and butterflies will always appear over your head whenever you allow yourself to be happy. So, stay happy, my dear.”

A few days later, while Salomi was swinging on her gate, Miss Cama hailed her from the hedge.

“Salo, I have a treat for you.”

Salomi ran over to Auntie Cama’s place. On the dining table was set the most delicious chocolate treacle cake. Salo squealed in delight.

Miss Cama cleared her throat and said, “You are nearly nine years old, Cherub, Old enough to learn a bit of baking. When in Kerala, you can delight your new friends by baking some of Auntie Cama’s delightful little treats for them”.

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Salomi perked up, “Will you really teach me?”

“Of course! I have the next two months all well planned, for you to learn baking, go on picnics, sleepovers in tents, what not!”

Miss Menon was grateful to Auntie Cama for taking on Salomi. She already had her hands full with winding up, checking on her brother’s studies and packing.

The next two months whizzed past in a whirlwind of joyful and productive activities for Salomi. Her school gave her a farewell party and Salomi made plans for Ram and Sasikala to visit her in Kochi.

All too soon, it was May. In a few days’ time, Acha, Amma, Babu and Salomi would be driving down to Kerala in their car, while all their household possessions and furniture would be packed and shifted to Kochi by packers and movers. Auntie Cama hosted a grand dinner for the Menon family, and the night before they were to depart, she slept at Auntie Cama’s place. Both of them could not sleep and talked and sang late into the night, making plans to write, visit and to keep in touch.

Miss Cama tried her best to stay dry eyed for the child’s sake, even though deep in her heart she stifled sobs.

As dawn broke out over the horizon, Auntie Cama took out a big black silver edged book, specially made by her and spiral bound; “Salo, this is for you. I have replicated a copy for myself. This contains pictures of all our happy moments together. Here’s another book, I want you to promise to write in it every day, something that makes you happy each day. Compile all those happy moments and write to me every week.

Remember, you made a promise to me that you will stay happy. And you know what happens each time you feel your heart well up in happiness?

I will feel that happiness too and a rainbow will appear.” she smiled mischievously.

Hugging Auntie Cama, her face solemn, Salo promised to be happy.

After breakfast, the Menons bid a tearful farewell to Miss Cama and 10

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Sikander.

Sikander had made a huge bouquet with all of Salo’s favourite flowers and gifted it to her , with tears streaming down his face.

Salo hugged both Auntie Cama and Sikander and amidst tears streaming down all their faces , they drove off waving until the last glimpse.

Days whizzed past. And the Menons got busy in getting admissions for Salo and Babu, and in settling down in the new city. Not a day passed without Salo missing Auntie Cama sorely, and she wrote long letters to her. She still treasured the box of specially made cookies that Auntie had gifted her.

The day dawned finally, when she had to go to her new school. With a heavy heart, and thinking of her old school cronies, she walked down to her school. Her heart plummeted at the sight of the school, it was just an old building and there was no sprawling playground or trees dotting the premises. Her uniform was a pale yellow shirt and a drab brown skirt, while her uniform at Ahmednagar had been a red and white pinafore. As she ascended the wooden stairs to her class, she noticed a fat boy huffing and puffing up the stairs. He grinned at her when he noticed her. Salo couldn’t help staring, and before she could stop herself, she blurted out, “How fat you are!”

“How thin you are!” He retorted.

She noticed when the boy smiled, that he had the same kind of freckles on his face, like her Auntie Cama, and his round cheeks reminded her of her favourite currant buns. Suddenly she couldn’t help giggling.

The fat boy’s eyes twinkled and he held out his hand.

“Hi, I am Ranjit. You are Laurel and I am Hardy” he grinned.

She grinned back and shook his hand.

Suddenly, she looked up to see a rainbow over her head and butterflies, flitting around.

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“The One Where I Name Names Without Naming Them” Shreya Jauhari

“Wait a minute, let’s sit and talk,” said he, with flailing arms, body inching forward towards a gun, pointing to his face, right before he was shot through the palm between his fingers.

His words, in universities, In J A M eea, in J N you, in G A R gee, have become unsafe.

Was he outspoken?

When the man yelling about how the country wants to know, suddenly falls quiet when asked on a flight to Mumbai about one boy at the University of Hyderabad, who fell prey to a quiet noose when the lights went off.

The man who answers to the nation could not answer whether, perhaps, this boy’s fate had already been decided the day he was born.

Was he too, outspoken?

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.

I would like to know, why people marching with Bhagat Singh’s words and Gandhi’s ahimsa, keep dropping like coins being thrown all the way from the trains into the Ganga?

Is it because the pen is, after all, mightier than the sword?

Is the written word going to brand me O U T S P O K E N, talk me off and write me down, put me in the middle of a tricolored target-board that bleeds from the middle; take my hijab, my finger bones, and knees, will they crucify me because I am outspoken?

I do not know this, but I know there is a Polish village that has not seen male children in over 30 years, and they call this a miracle; a witch’s curse.

Meanwhile, in dozens of villages in North India, no girls have been born for months.

Authorities say it might be same-sex abortion.

A body, before it is even born, with one tiny pink foot in the grave.

Were they outspoken even before they could talk?

Maybe yes.

Maybe definitely.

Maybe that’s why they were shot down, nipped in the bud, chopped at the root, so that one day they could not grow up, 13

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5 feet 4, arms flailing forward to save, yelling, “Wait a minute! Listen.

Let’s sit and talk.”

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4 Bridling Chaos

The Moral of History Uma Padmosala As far as I could tell, nobody knew why we were having a war. There were stories, of course, each more convincing than the last, but no corroboration for any of them. My least favourite story was also the most gruesome. “They raped one of our princesses,” said old Agafiya.

“Their soldiers took turns until she was dead.”

“They wouldn’t do something so stupid,” I said, determined to render her story improbable. “Nobody’s that stupid.”

“They didn’t know she was a princess,” said Agafiya.

That made too much sense. Soldiers often raped girls who weren’t princesses. Belligerent, I jutted my chin out at her even though she was much older than I. “How do you know?”

“Zalika told me,” said Agafiya.

Unfortunately I couldn’t go find Zalika to question her about it, because she had gone missing. Nobody knew what had happened to her. There weren’t even many stories about it.

Normally, the reasoning behind the war wouldn’t have mattered to me.

War could always, always be avoided. Absolutely nothing was worth warring over; nothing could justify all that suffering.

At least, that is what we had been taught.

Normally, any desire I might have to know why we were at war would be limited to idle curiosity. But there was no normalcy anymore. The schools were shut. The shops were shut. Houses and people had empty 15

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faces, or parts of their face blown off. My friends were scattered, I knew not where. Some of them were lost forever. And so, uncharacteristically for me, I suddenly wanted to know- what was it all for? I had nothing else to occupy me, and living on while others around me died, staying coherent while others around me lost their minds, would be unbearable if I couldn’t give myself a reason. A reason I was spared.

If I could just figure out the meaning of the war, I wouldn’t feel so guilty all the time.

“What does it matter about the war?” said Simmi. “If you find out the reason, will anything change?”

I was stumped.

But she clapped me on the back and continued, “For philosophy, there’s no better time than wartime.” I’m sure she didn’t mean it as discouragement, but that made my quest seem so futile. I suppose it’s because I always thought of philosophy in general as futile.

I was discouraged, but I couldn’t sit still, I couldn’t make peace with myself. So in this time when nobody dared venture out of their houses, I wandered through the streets and stopped at doorsteps, asking to be let in. Asking questions. Why the war? What had they gone through? The answer to the former was always different. The answer to the latter was always the same- hell and back- but I asked anyway because everybody was bursting to speak their sorrows but too preoccupied with their own horrors and heartbreaks to hear anyone else out. So I made myself useful and listened. I imagined my guilt was abating.

I would also, invariably, ask them who they had lost. I had a vague idea that once I wrote everything down, I’d be able to make an estimate of the number of missing persons. Perhaps even draw up a list with names.

It’d come in useful once the war was over, and nobody seemed to have stepped up to the task yet.

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Often, I asked people what they feared the most. They would say that they were afraid of dying, suddenly, in an inconvenient manner, at an inconvenient time. Or they would say they were afraid the war would never end.

They would usually ask me the question in return- what my worst fear was regarding the war. I always told them the truth. I was afraid that after it was all over we’d find out that the war had happened for no reason at all. Or a reason so disproportionate that it was tantamount to no reason at all. I couldn’t quite imagine a proportionate reason, so I suppose I was already living my worst fear, in a manner of speaking.

The more you observe something, make notes, collect material, the more your data will arrange itself into a pattern and the more sensible and intelligible the world will become. At least, that is what we had been taught. Perhaps I couldn’t see the pattern because I couldn’t step back, couldn’t hover over everything like an omniscient bird. Perhaps I couldn’t see the pattern because I was inextricably part of it myself. I had never met an omniscient bird, or the likes of one, to pass on the task to.

The song of my guilt was interrupted by moments in which I desperately prayed to outlive the war. I wanted to leaf through my notebook of memories and tears, of haunted faces and haunting words, and find that it all pieced together. I wanted to sit, ageing comfortably, and watch people going shopping or walking their dogs outside my window; people stepping out of the safety of their houses into the safety of the streets. I wanted to reminisce about a war that existed only in relics- a bullet-ridden wall here, a panic attack there- and find that it all made sense. When I wrote it out in an orderly and methodical manner, it would trace a linear path on my paper, like a falling line of dominoes.

Nobody would be responsible, and everyone would be implicated. Also, everyone would agree that a war like this would never happen again, because the pain was etched into our collective consciousness, not as memory but as flesh, blood, breath.

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I would be glad I was alive, despite the permanent pain. Thanks to the reassurance that nothing like this would ever happen again, I’d be glad, only looking forward. History doesn’t repeat itself- at least, that is what we would be taught, and we would say it until it became a tired truism, and I would believe it just the way that I would believe in my line of dominoes. I had better not fall apart.

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SHADES OF NOTHINGNESS Esther Shekinah Collins Why are there only 26 letters, that I couldn’t find a fusion of words to express the feeling, of not feeling the hollowness of my soul with muffled voices?

Crouching in the corner of a wall, pulling all of me as tight as possible, Convincing myself that I have conquered my nothingness.

Trying to hide myself in a dark room and even the sight of slightest light makes me tremble as if I were gobbled up by a dragon.

Anxiety holds me hostage inside my own body.

Yes, I am not at ease, wanting to seize the day but feeling deceased, Covering up the stench of my rotten flesh in the sunken city of bones by slathering perfumed lotions, Appearing holy on the outside when there’s a constant gruesome war inside, And that’s when I started to wonder why it is called a Holy War. Pain, I am breathing, Nothingness, I am swallowing, Rooting my soul in the masquerade of rotten emotions, being transformed into a mechanized body like the wings of an airplane, though it flies in the higher heights, it still remains static.

Emotionally and physically drained in the unlimited doom of human body, hopelessly obsessed with disentangling myself from my body and evaporating into the air.

It was preposterous when I was telling myself that the shrinkage of my stomach was six packs, 19

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where I literally felt like there were snakes cramping my intestines.

The 4,800 beats of my heart pumps feel like they are stabbing my chest again and again.

People are searching for their Ideals and here I am, dealing with my malignant spirit, biting my teeth, moulding my molten deformed soul, gripping my vanished hope, tripping down the lane of emptiness, dipping my feet in the ocean of betrayals, sipping the taste of hell.

On the verge of tears, trying to capture my teardrop in the tear duct, solidifying and crystallizing it, Whispering in my ears, You still have the spark in your eyes, Go on Baby...

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I didn’t come to Auroville looking for love Niranjana Hariharanandanan I didn’t come to Auroville looking for love. I was just getting over Sam. The heartbreak had been long anticipated, but it smarted. Just a little.

I’m usually a tough cookie who uses Pranayam and protein bars to shake off a breakup. But this time, the noose had tightened. I’d watched Sam’s feed go from Friday nights at the bar to beachy vibes with the wife.

He’d wasted no time. It probably had to do with December. Nobody got married in the Delhi winters and his mom Alice must’ve got a discount at the Catholic Church. A discounted wedding and a half -priced wife with auburn highlights. The irony of it.

I’m usually not a mean soul, so I give my newly sheared head a vigorous shake. I’m here to reboot my life. I usually take to the hills when Sam breaks up with me, but this time I decided to spend two weeks in Pondicherry, a beach town in the south of the country. It would definitely look good on my Instagram feed too - turning to a Yogi post break up. Besides, the sea breeze would do me good, and it’d be good to go back to the city with a tan, in case I bumped into Sam. I don’t mean to of course. Sam, would I ever do that? I’d never come between you and your new life- and your brand-new wife. And that part about my having shown up outside your house last week was a joke! I’d never stalk a married man, would I? You know how spirited I get when I’m irate. Enough said, I’m backing off now. I’ve decided to go for a cleanse of green juices and green-blue seas. I’m just visiting Auroville, and I’m certainly not looking for love.

But it’s so different here Sam. I’ve checked myself into an artists’ colony 21

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and they work like a cult. You’d have hated their morning routine. I woke up the first morning to the sound of anklets and smarting hands on rhythmic dhol beats. I leaned out of my little window, and breathed in the air of freshly mown grass, muddy red earth, ambition and idlies steaming away. A beautiful concoction, but then I remembered you, and how you hate being woken up. That irked me, so I shut my window too.

And ended up oversleeping. In my sleep, I dreamt of you. I still remember your preferences Sam. Does she tiptoe around the room until half-past two? Well, I still do, and I’m certainly not in love with you.

So that was my state of mind when I walked into the foyer, late for an impromptu pottery session I’d signed up for to get myself some filter kaapi and that is when I bumped into you. You were lounging by the stove, in your loose linen pants, and a floral shirt, stirring sugar into your kaapi. How do you manage to down so much sweetness in your caffeine?! And the flowers on your shirt? A little pansy isn’t it? Are the 70’s back? Then you turned slowly, kaapi in hand and took a deep breath from the steel glass, your eyes closed taking in the aroma. And suddenly I didn’t need coffee to wake me up. Sam, are you listening to me?

I stand unnoticeably by the stove, heating my milk watching you sip your coffee, as you chat in a comfortable drawl with the help,Roja akka.

You have laughter lines flecking your coffee brown face, wispy curls that are brushed away from your face and eyes that shine like mulberries in the wild. There’s a zit on your forehead that looks ready to pop, but that is almost attractive too. It gives you an edge- a blemish to the perfect human you appear to be. You stand with your feet crossed over each other, as the beautifully complex language of Tamil flows through those lips. I make a mental note to download some Tamil songs tonight. It’s a pity I left my vibrator at home. I blame you Sam. Back to you.

No, you’re not a smoker. Those lips are divinely plum. I can almost imagine my tongue parting those perfect caffeine-laced lips, probing deeper into you, seeking, searching. I stand there, a flush tainting my cheeks as the coffee comes to a boil, and you suddenly turn to me. A 22

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jerk to my make-believe. “Hey, you, your coffee’s spilling over”, you state, almost conversationally, your mulberries meeting mine. He called me ‘you’, if that isn’t intimately enticing, what could be? “Oops” I say, as my greys meet your mulberries, holding on for a second longer than necessary. Your eyes are so black and honest. Sam your eyes were bottle green, I didn’t see through those murky shades. And yet, here I am in Auroville getting over you. I’m certainly not here, looking for love.

I decide to put the coffee incident behind me. Clearly, you’re not for me.

You’re too perfect to compliment my damaged self. I’m damaged- like Amma’s string of pearls that were broken when I was 8. The pearls were scattered all over our green carpet- so beautiful in their pieces, but oh, so broken. Amma picked them up, sighed deeply and put them in a bell jar. She said they were too broken to be fixed- like her marriage. That’s what I feel like. Beautifully broken. I put on my jacket and make my way to the mess for some lunch- the food here is so organic, and I’m getting into the spirit of things. I pick up a plate of rice over lentils and a side of bottle gourd, grab some cutlery and go over to the mats on the floor, propping up my plate on the low wooden tables. Out comes my iPhone. Lunch goals, top angle, snap, snap, no filter, so far so good.

And 150 likes to boot. I sigh as I shovel dry rice into my mouth. I’m so bored already Sam. This sterile setting is getting under my skin, and now I’m pining for you and your beach vibes. I’m about to get up when I see a pair of long limbs in linen unfolding themselves before me. You have just sat down to your lunch. Your protracted limbs pick up some rice, mix it in lentils, add a splotch of curd and bring it to your mouth. A nearly pink tongue licks away at the crumbs. You chew with your mouth half open- it is endearing to watch. I’m gawking at you, and I can’t look away. Your eyes crinkle in mild amusement at my gaze. You clearly enjoy your food. “Ditch the spoon, and dive in with your fingers…” you say smiling, taking my spoon to mix the different bits of color and coconut on my plate together. Hard to pull away from those inviting mulberries, I dip my fingers tentatively into the slurry mess he makes of my rice and take a tentative bite. “Oh yes, and now, lick the crumbs like this, that’s how we eat around here. I lick my ring finger that’s coated with lentils and lemon pickle, my eyes fixed on your mouth as you mimic my actions. You wipe your mouth with the back of your hand and smile 23

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at me. Allies from another world licking our wounds. If this isn’t the moment, I fall in love with you!

A few hours pass as I wield my potters’ wheel with a few other yogis in the making, reading poetry as the long sunny hours dip into nightfall all too soon, and then I’m left pacing the red earth floors of my single room, counting the rainfall and the moments before I see you again. I know you live in the artist’s colony- I garnered that much from a broken conversation of Tamil laced English with Roja akka. I know you’re a writer, who’s come from Chennai to write a book. I’m wondering if you’d remember to add me in the book. I’m in awe of writers. There’s so much going on in that head of theirs, and they have this thesis about anything under the sun and are mighty good observers too. I can already imagine myself being your muse, only if you’d give me a chance. I’m a pretty good observer too. Sam would remember, I knew everything about him. From the way he cracked his knuckles when he was angsty to his favorite vegetable at dinner. I knew everything. I get invested, and I drink in everything there is about the person. I already know your wife’s into animal prints Sam. She’s flaunting them on the beach. A little put-on, isn’t she? And what’s with the wiry crop? I don’t hate her; I just want her to look her best for you. Always your groupie Sam. In sickness and heartbreak, I only root for you. Some infinities are greater than our forever, right?

Social media is an addiction that isn’t healthy in the pristine plains of Auroville, and it is only 8 PM. I need to meditate, and let these feelings pass. I decide to ditch the phone, throw on a stole over my bathing suit and go for a swim by the saltwater pool on the premises. Salt on my wounds and a smattering over my desires. Here’s the thing about pools- I don’t like them. The fear of drowning is a thing of my nightmares, and I’m always fearful as my feet tread waters in a new pool.

I take a few tentative steps, draw in my breath and put my head underwater. I open my eyes and see long limbs floating on the other end. In my surprise, I gulp down a few warm mouthfuls of salty seawater as I emergespluttering for air. You are sitting on the farther edge of the pool, earphones in place, wearing a pair of multi -colored 24

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harem pants over bare russet skin, humming tunelessly to your limbs.

What’s with the gypsy choice in clothing? If you didn’t look like that, you’d be mocked, or worse called out for being gay. Are you gay though?

No straight man can pull off perfectly arched eyebrows that you have.

You look up as you feel my gaze, smile perfunctorily and then the smile widens as recognition crosses like a neon sign across your arched eyebrows. I try the most elegant breaststroke I can manage to slide up to your side, and push my back up against your wall, as I hoist myself up.

I’m Gayathri, I say, extending my fingers over to meet the limbs resting on harem. Surprise lights up in your eyes like new bulbs in Ma’s pooja room. You didn’t think I’d have a traditional name. I’ve heard that before. I’m more of an Alia or a Tanya - never mistaken for Gayathri with an H. Gayathri, who didn’t come to Auroville looking for love.

You call yourself Samardh. Isn’t it an irony that you both share an uncannily similar first name? but I take it as a sign. The angels of Auroville are being kind. I’ve decided you’re for me. I spend my days at sunny cafes sipping on organic lattes, reading some of your earlier work, and doing some more sketching- your blog is quirky- you write like a little man, it almost makes me laugh. But the wonder in your work makes me fall in love with you. I’ve looked you up on Instagram- you’re an editor of a magazine, a writer and a pet dad. You like pizzas, filter kaapi and post a lot of pictures with your head against colorful walls.

Yoga is in your blood. Those pants make so much sense now. There’s no girl in sight, but I can’t be too sure. Maybe you’re just awfully private. I can’t have you appearing into my stories with a wife in tow. Though, as the days pass, I’m noticing fewer posts on your wife’s feed Sam. Trouble in paradise? Or is the honeymoon over? Is she not making you burnt toast over sticky maple syrup for a snack? You think of me while you sip your coffee black? Don’t worry, I’m just hanging out in Auroville, and I’m indeed not looking for love. I pause for a moment, and then ‘follow’ you.

We’re definitely friends. I can see it in those wild mulberries that crinkle when they see me come down the stairs to the mess. I eat rice with my bare hands now. Sam you’d be mortified to see my fingernails now, gone yellow with tainted dal. But I don’t care. I’m happier with grubbier nails.

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You and I share meals discussing theatre and literature, while our hands do the sensual deed, squishing rice, rubbing flecks of ghee, licking our fingers. I cherish those moments you spend with me. You rarely talk about yourself though. It’s all about your art and I pretend I’m invested.

But I really am, not in your work, but the piece of art that you are. And one evening I couldn’t stand it. You are sitting across me, and the mess is empty except for Roja akka whose eyes are fixed to the television screen. I see a dollop of curd on the corner of your mouth, and I reach up to brush it away, my fingers lingering a second too long. Mulberries meet staid grey, and a shiver runs down my spine. My green juiced mind urges me to move forward, so I lean in and kiss you, gentle by the corner of your mouth. You’re taken aback, eyebrows arched in mild surprise, as you pause for a second, draw a deep breath and your ginger breath meets mine. Is this really happening Sam? Is it ironic that you tasted of cigarettes and coffee, and here I am, relishing the taste of ginger and curry leaves? In the distance, the dhol beats mixed with the sound of Roja akka’s ringtone of an old AR Rahman number. Definitely not the start of a south Indian love story. Sam, I don’t think I stopped loving you.

The next few moments are kaleidoscopic. I didn’t count them- the moments that turned from days to weeks and then to months. I cancelled my tickets, and took to my life here, with you. You said you wouldn’t leave until your book was finished. I guess that gave me purpose to stay too. Amma called but I didn’t answer. I had pressing things on my mind. I was falling in love.

The greens of Auroville look greener, and the oceans bluer, now that you’re a part of it. I start my day with you, as we squish idlies with manga chutney by the mess. Then you’re off to the library and I spend the day smelling the wet grass, working on some art, taking afternoon naps, and walks by the sea. Mostly, I spend my days getting over you Sam. The nights are my highlight, as you and I make our way to the salt -water pool, splashing each other and kissing under the stars and later under the sheets. It’s almost idyllic, I never want to return. And one night, a few months into my Auroville life, you told me you loved me.

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I’ve never been happier Sam. But you wouldn’t know. I appeared happy on your wedding day, didn’t I? when I stood on the groom’s side as you read out your vows in that strangely nervous voice. Raised a notch above normal. But you get the voice when you’re excited. Were you really excited about marrying her ? But I can see why. I even cried hearing your wife’s vows- I wanted to stand there saying them to you. She’s definitely a better writer. I clapped the loudest when the old priest declared you man and wife. But I was happiest when you turned around and your eyes met mine- and I saw your smile freeze into fear- that I had made it to your discounted wedding. I was my happiest then. But I’m happier now, knowing that you’re under the sheets with me, and you love me.

And one morning you were gone. You’d been aloof for a few days, but I’d put it down to writer’s block. In hindsight I wonder if that was you breaking up with me. That morning, I waited for you until the idlies went cold, and Roja akka showed me out for playing with the extra idlies I’d saved for you. I walked around the campus my eyes peeled, hoping for a sign, maybe you were busy and had gone out of the village.

Lunch rolled by and then coffee time. You weren’t there brewing your kaapi. Roja akka shrugged and went about her chores. I waited by the kaapi counter, until the coffees went cold. By nightfall I was a maniac.

Your number was switched off, and I didn’t know who else to call. I could only wait about hoping for the pair of floral pants to make their way to mine. Hours turned to days, and days to weeks, and you didn’t come back. Your social media doesn’t give anything away. I leave messages, and more messages. You don’t return them. That doesn’t bother me. You know me Sam, I’m patient. You’re worth this wait.

My routine doesn’t change, I wait by the idlies and later by the rasam and pickles. Roja akka makes new lemon pickles now. You’d love licking them off your fingers. I wait at the saltwater pool, doing a few tentative laps, and leave my door open when I go to bed. Always keeping an ear out, in case you sneak back to bed. And I shadow your profile, waiting for you to come back online even when I see you have unfriended me.

A few more days pass.

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And one day Roja akka hands it to me. A white and gold envelope with a cross etched on top, a certain Alice and Andrew inviting Roja akka and her groupies to her son’s wedding. A winter wedding at a catholic church in Delhi. A discounted wedding. She looks at me with heavy kohl laden eyes. She tells me to go back home. Let go my child, it’s been 5 years, she says. Samardh isn’t coming back here anymore. But I don’t believe her, she’s seen too many tragic Tamil movies and believes the worst. But we’re optimists aren’t we Sam? Didn’t you say you’d wait for your first love as long as it takes? Wait, wasn’t she me? You said it, not me.

So, I stay back, saving a few more idlies at breakfast. I even come for your wedding in Delhi. I dress in my Auroville florals despite the chilling cold and watch you from the pews as you watch me. I speak to your wife. She’s lovely. I understand why you’d leave me for her. I’m good that way. I decide to surprise the two of you that night. I knock at your door, and you open in fright, with a half -dressed wife in yellow light. I watched the happy mulberries turn to a sour bottle green. Your worried look. You don’t look good in green. I don’t want you to worry Sam. That’s when I knew I had to get over you.

So, I sheared my long curls, in case that’s what made you leave her for me, and I booked myself a ticket back to where it all started. And here I am in Auroville, and I’m certainly not looking for love. Just a few days of cleanse and salty air. And a few green juices to go with it. But that’s when I bumped into you…

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Field and Words Bhargavi G Blood, gunshots, barricades; Ideologies, theories, beliefsThere is constant strife.

I cut my brain in half, And there’s all the knowledge I’ve tried to consume, Now throwing up like a Person with seasickness.

Beliefs are burning, And so are brains.

Concepts are set on fireIncidents are like balloons, Theory is like water, It weighs down the Incidents as Issues.

The bandages are too tight For the wound, And there is A book being hurled at your head.

To talk about myths In times of rationale and witness.

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Chaotic Questions Ekasmayi Naresh Blood red streets awash with crimson streams matched ironically, in their brilliance, with the vermillion streaks borne proudly on the foreheads of those conducting this orchestra of harrowing screams.

It made for great copy splashed across the pages of every paper strewn everywhere from the Left to the Right with versions meant to mirror the militant reality and others silenced or disregarded as an unpleasant comic caper, their labels, not a badge of the truth they bore but ascribed by the side they chose to fight.

Wakeful hours I lose in thought burning towns make up my backdrop incessantly questioning my actions, but especially, the looming lack of it.

My last refuge, now drowning in democratic deluge the last bastion of freedom, my lot calls it.

It has my sympathies and support at least till the time the powers that be don’t forestall it.

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But overcast is this virtual space with blood boiling hate, the rage boils over as vitriol and venom vying for the jugular of the obtrusively outcast other.

Divided we stand united only by our blood lust for that erstwhile best mate.

The lines are drawn.

Some make their choice, others have their sides chosen; acerbic tongues their spurious speech spit out hands wielding guns, this theatre of the absurd plays out.

“So where do you fall?”, they angrily ask of me, my voluminous silence ill-suites either faction my idealism quickly translates into ignorant delusion “And what of this land, our nation?”the only response in my confused eyes they see. .

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Fanta Scented Love Niranjana Hariharanandanan “I know my redeemer lives...” His tombstone read.

Hardly something he’d say in the flesh but how well did I know this man, who’d been a part of the last forty years of my life?

I take a last look at him, looking carefully put together even in the afterlife- a chocolaty mound of red earth resting by a mango tree, born down with white chrysanthemums. Cue for eyeroll.

I thought I could smell Reebok. Or maybe I was finally going senile.

In hindsight I shouldn’t have come. I’m not related to the man who sleeps so soundly behind me. I didn’t even love him. I think. But something brings me to his grave. It probably had to do with a lie that started in the summer of 2009. It probably had to do with how I ruined his life.

I could smell wet red earth and fragrant flowers. A waft of fresh misplaced guilt.

I open an old can of Fanta from my purse and sit cross-legged by his side. Pop goes the can, and the orange liquor gushes out seeping into his grave.

I clink cans with him, and we drink to his redemption. ………………………………………………

Our story began in the summer of 2009.

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.

2009. The year Obama swore in for his first term of Presidency and ‘Slumdog Millionaire’ bagged the best film at the festivals, making Amma dance around our floral living room with joy I remembered it as the summer of firsts.

First drive around the block, first dress that showed off my newly waxed legs, first dates without a chaperone and the fizz of a first fickle love.

I was fifteen that summer, having survived the wrath of board exams, standing on the threshold of adulthood, armed with my newly plucked brows and new summer wardrobe. Not yet the magic year of sixteen that comes with high school. A summer of early citrussy firsts.

A summer ripe with mangoes, and tippy-toes, tall tales and hot males.

A summer flush with the scent of Fanta everywhere.

He was the older brother of this boy I was dating- our neighbor and my classmate. It started with the little things. A conceited chuckle on the phone when I called for him after bedtime, a pointed rumble in the background of a two hour long phone call and by and by- a chat buddy who took over his brother’s Messenger, nicknamed me his ‘nut’ and eventually took his place.

It began with a syrupy feel of flattery. A 25 year old being interested in a fifteen year old. He could have had anyone. Why me? I still had an 8 PM curfew, wore braces and braids to bed and had an open-door rule to my room. Why would he be into me? But he was, and he was charmed, if not indulgent about the terms and conditions that came with our ‘thing’.

We were cautious, but we weren’t. I didn’t stop to think of how my parents would react to my dating someone much older than me. They didn’t take well to him with his baggy frayed jeans that hung low on his 33

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waist and loud summery drawl that carried itself over his wall to ours.

“He’s bad for you Ammu. keep your distance from older men. God knows what he does at sea,” Amma muttered as I poured myself a glass of Fanta, having returned from an afternoon of chatting across the wall with him. I knew he was bad for me, just like the glass of soda in my hand. It didn’t matter that there was a gap of more than a decade between us. In the summer of 2009 just like the copious amounts of Fanta I was downing, it felt like the right thing to do.

But I decided to go with the flow, sneak around behind my unsuspecting Amma and ‘boyfriend’.

So, we slunk around the old mango tree between our houses for the one hour when Amma slept, our trysts turning lengthier and more zealous as the summer wound down. Nobody knew.

Two sharp rings on the home landline meant he was heading to the spot by our tree, giving me twelve minutes to spray on Amma’s Yardley perfume on my neck and wrists, brush down my frizzy hair with baby oil and head down the backstairs out into the street. A fuzzy brained Amma was perplexed and ranted about wanting to alert BSNL of these mysterious calls. But she always forgot after her afternoon nap.

We were careful to keep us a secret. “Only until the summer ended and I eventually turned sixteen” he said. We didn’t give it too much thought.

That one carbonated hour we got under the tree was crammed with desire and everything else took second place.

He always brought a bottle of Fanta with him- Not coke, not Lemonade. It was always Fanta. One slim glass bottle shared by two straws strung together by illicit want.

I gave myself to him unhindered that summer. My first time with a man would always remain Fanta scented. He was an unfussy lover and seemed to like our monkeying around, though he often spoke of the other women he’d been with, beautiful women with throaty laughs and 34

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satin lingerie. But they didn’t have my wit, he said. It didn’t bother me. I was only flattered that he’d picked me to be a part of his élite compendium. He spoke with the arrogance that came with being conventionally good-looking and I only faintly minded the boasting though it always came with a side of carefully rested, careless reassurance.

We never spoke of the real things- very much like our preferred drink, that only looked orange on the outside. I didn’t tell him of my fears or foes or my darkest worries of what high school next year held. Neither did I ask him why he really was into me- transitorily or not. Neither did he tell. He said he didn’t like talking about stuff that bothered him. He said men are like closed books. They like to internalize. It struck me as odd, but he was my first man, so I mirrored him, and bottled my perplexity into the Fanta bottle.

I tentatively told him I loved him on one of the afternoons as we lay side by side on the roots of the tree. He nodded vaguely, his hands on my shoulder as he sifted through his phone, a smile playing on the clefted lips.

You should probably get a phone. This landline business is becoming a pain.

“Well, aren’t we both relieved you only have two more of these painful weeks left then.” I replied with a careful dose of sarcasm and nonchalance. He rolled his eyes, and we shared a laugh. That was the last time I bore my vulnerability to him. Or anyone.

I didn’t know a lot about him- only that he spent most of his time on the ship sailing across the east coast, and the time off was spent playing with video games and women. I came from a sheltered world of little joys- hard bound books, Amma’s chicken curry on Sundays, dreams of straight teeth and daydreams of going to University. Middle-class dreams. We came from different worlds.

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Nerd meeting needy.

He called me naïve as he played with my hair on a late summer afternoon by the steps of my home. “One day, I’m going to turn on you, get into wedlock and that’s going to crush you…”

I smiled and nodded, slurping the last of the bubbly orange liquid off the sides of the bottle, not really giving it much thought. Indeed.

Summer ended all too fast, and so did our ‘thing’. It lost its fizz- an old bottle of unopened Fanta left out in a crate. He didn’t want to do sweet and awkward, and I didn’t want to tiptoe around the rules of a long-distance relationship so we called it quits.

So, we celebrated our last time by the mango tree and when I stood up and put on my T-shirt over my sticky neck, it only faintly smelt of Fanta. It felt over.

At least I thought we did.

He had to leave the country and I had to leave for high school.

Different borders being crossed, lines once rubbed off hastily retraced.

A few days passed, and a few more. A letter from Shanghai arrived.

He’d written on three sheets of paper. A letter that elaborately described a life out at sea and his new-found love for boxing. He hated writing, or spending time articulating his thoughts.

I hadn’t given it much thought after he’d left. Sure, I’d sat at the steps of my house a few times around, missing the distinct smell of his hair and snuggling under the crook of those broad arms. He’d always smelt of Reebok. A grown-up smell! I’d also decided to break up with his brother. It didn’t seem right, and they had the same eyes, which unnerved me, almost making me miss him. I certainly wasn’t in love, and I decided to keep it at that. A first of many fickle feelings. Though I knew I’d always have a thing for men who wore Reebok.

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The letter threw me though. And I found myself writing back, scrawling the number of my new shiny mobile phone. Part of me hoped he wouldn’t call.

Three weeks later my mobile rang. It seemed like we’d begun again.

A few more months passed peppered with several calls from so many shores around the world- some tainted with stories of women with cherry blossom mouths and thick locks, who welcomed him with warmth and wine.

But he said he missed me. Almost as an afterthought. I listened to his long lonely rants from the last step of my stairway. He had two hours of phone time. He always spent one hour on me. He didn’t ask me too many questions. So, I didn’t mention the bullies of high school or the demons in my closet. In that hour- long island between many seas, we remained exclusive.

And one day it stopped. Just like that. He’d become my bad habit.

Two summers passed, and then a few more. I grew up, left my nest and moved on (and away). I swapped my love for Fanta with coffee instead, preferring espresso shots to the sticky orange froth.

One day my phone beeped in the middle of the night and he asked me which part of the country I was in. With shaking fingers, I typed out my college location- a few thousand miles away from where we used to be us.

A few months passed.

He came for me on a summer day. I found him sitting on the steps of my hostel. An older stocky man with a chiseled jaw, cropped hair and a dark stubble on a gaunt face–a contrast to the lanky boys I hung out at college with. A misfit that reeked of Reebok. But something in my throat constricted and I found myself spending the night with him.

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A night of familiarity, yet with a gnawing feel of impermanence. He held me tight as we spent our first night together. When I’d shut my eyes, he whispered to my ears that nothing had changed for him since 2009. I kept my eyes shut, blocking out the light. “Me too”, I replied (blithely). It was easy to give myself to him in the dark. I heard the conceited chuckle again, as he pulled me closer, with a somewhat smug reassurance. In the darkness I was almost certain what we had was real.

We ordered steak and fries and a bottle of Fanta for old times’ sake and spent the night talking, plotting our future. Fickle plans of a white wedding. A family portrait by the mango tree, and a secret wedding of course for my Hindu parents. His Ma should never know though. He was going to come clean to his brother now. Could I tell my parents soon enough? He clapped his hands and strung a wound-up potato chip on my finger. It was about time. A fresh start. Pure as white. An almost white chip. White wedding. white lies. And some more. White faced me. a white bottle. Till the sky turned white.

Then we again went our separate ways. He promised he’d call soon.

When he hugged me goodbye, he stayed there holding me for a second too long. For that second, I wondered if we were really meant to be.

Soon didn’t come soon enough. He deactivated his social media so there was no digital footprint. The many digit numbers from tell-tale shores lasted only for their one hour before they stopped abruptly altogether. I assumed the worst and let the night (and the fry) slide.

I carried on with life. Graduated. Got a job with a new corporate number. Made Amma proud.

A few years passed. He floated to the back of my mind, resurfacing every once in a while - when I chanced upon the oddball ordering Fanta (not coke?) with his popcorn or when someone mentioned the color white. Which wasn’t too many times to be honest. I had changed and so had Reebok because they didn’t make that brand of perfume anymore.

No more brownie points for a man wearing Reebok.

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It was in my late twenties when he came back again! I was at the butt end of a failed relationship, my self-esteem shredded into a stir fry, and he found his way into my Instagram DM. A stockier, older, salt and pepper version of the sailor I’d been carried to the darkest depths with.

No women in sight, at least for social PDA. He called me his old nut and asked for my number. He didn’t address the ten year old elephant in the room and neither did I. I was just happy for the familiarity. He cautiously asked me if I was married and whooped at my single status.

He said he couldn’t fall in love or settle for one, and I gingerly dared to ask why. “Because of you, of course,” he said nonchalantly, pausing before asking me if I still liked fries. I paused to roll my eyes heavenwards and we spent the next couple of days smiling into our phones, promising each other a fabled future together- our real lives on a hasty pause. The white castle of make-believe keeps building, and a virtual world of white lies molded.

A few days and five thousand texts later, we were done for the season again. The goodbyes weren’t hard this time. At least for me.

He’d ping me on an odd cold night, or on a musty afternoon, a breath of fresh air to my mundane. He’d ask me if I loved him or imagined us being together. He’d always follow it up with an LOL or a smiley- a sad attempt at assuaging the blow. I daren’t tell him our ‘thing’ was as old fashioned as men using LOL. Besides, I wasn’t going to give in to him again. I was no longer fifteen and soft-soaped. His very hurt younger brother had growled as we broke up about his brother’s many maritime conquests. Of how I’d traded something real for an inland seasonal affair. I didn’t want to be just another woman of 2009’s summer. I decided to take him and his marine prophecies with a pinch of salt.

A few more salted summers passed. Sometimes I stood by the sea standing one with the beer bottles strewn from last nights’ party by the bay, a broken dialogue of bottled feelings and make-believe conversations with a Fanta scented man. A man who never/ no longer existed.

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I found uncomplicated love in a man who liked to talk over chai. He wanted a Christian wedding but this time around it was easy to say yes.

I realized it wasn’t a white wedding I minded so much. We got married that summer by the sea and I thought I heard his laughter out at bay as I was pronounced a brand-new wife. Then, a new mother. I stopped wondering about him.

And then one summer, he had to return again. My phone flashed with the unfamiliarity of an overseas number. I knew in my guts there was a message from him.

He’d asked for my address and I replied with a carefully put together witty reply. He sent me a beaten-up picture of an ageing man by a horse.

“Your prince is coming for you on a horse,” it said, followed by an LOL. It took a second for the penny to drop. That this defeated man with love handles and thinning hair was him. I wonder if the bottle was finally creaking.

I probably should’ve told him then. But I replied with my address instead almost certain he wouldn’t come.

A few months later the bell rang. He stood there, an old stout man in his late 50’s. Fine lines criss-crossing that once perfect face, but a smile that feebly reminded me of the 25-year-old boy. He said he’d had enough. He was done with the games. We’d waited long enough.

He held out a ring, a real one. The promise of the fabled white wedding from 30 years ago.

I held out my child. I saw his face turn white. White as crushed, frosty paper.

I wonder which of us is the naïve one.

That’s the last time I saw him in the flesh.

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He left me, his french fry fiancé, his inheritance.

A nest egg of all the things he didn’t say to me.

I wish we hadn’t wasted these years on something so unreal. Unreally real. Pure as white. My least favorite color.

Perhaps we’d be growing older together by now, sharing a bottle of Fanta under a mango tree.

My phone blinked with a message from his brother. The location pin of his final resting place.

Perhaps I’ll go over and see him. Or perhaps I should stop leading him on in the afterlife. Or perhaps I’ll pop some Fanta to drink to his redemption.

Perhaps.

I let myself build a castle in the summer one last time.

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Kaapi Sessions

Silk Sari Elishia Vaz Hema seated herself just at the edge of the chair placed before mine.

Her manicured fingers were placed on her knee, tapping a silent rhythm, softly pulsating the denim. She looked at me nervously and smiled a half smile.

I shuffled, self-conscious, aware of my position, my posture. I uncrossed my legs. I couldn’t look too powerful. I smiled. I believe it came out all wrong, lopsided, a flared nose. “So, Ma’am,” I said, lifting the nib of my pen off my notebook, just for a second, and letting it fall back. “Do you mind if I record this interview?”

“No, go ahead,” Hema said, sinking back into the chair just a little bit.

Perhaps, she was slightly more comfortable.

I placed my phone on my lap, clicking squarely the red button that would absorb Hema’s narrative, my curiosity, manicured fingers pulsating denim and pen nibs scratching paper surfaces. Four clear organized sounds. I asked and Hema spoke. At times she sighed and then she gasped. I could hear her smile and sink further back into her seat, back against the chair, legs crossed and fingers tapping on the arm of the wooden chair that she was seated on.

“I’ve been living two lives,” she said. I nodded.

Her fingers were now on her paunch, a white and grey striped t-shirt pulled tautly over her torso. She tapped her paunch and suddenly sprang up in her seat, attentive, excited and smiling. She produced her smart phone to me and said, “Look at this.”

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I glanced at the screen. Hema was clad in a deep pink Sari, confidently smiling at the camera, her hair arranged in waves and her large eyes thickly covered in kohl.

“I looked superb that day,” she said, smiling broader.

I laughed. By now, my pen was lying flat on the book before me and my hands were alive in the conversation between us. “You looked very pretty,” I said.

“I went to the Amam in Banshankari that night. I was there with other people from my community. Everyone said that I looked great. I spent that night with a young college boy and he thought that I looked very pretty too. I think it’s the Sari, you know? I move so nicely in it. Shee!

You should have seen me moving in it that night. I would have shown you a video if I had one.”

I laughed and nodded. “Was the boy nice to you?”

“The way he touched me, Ma’am. I cannot describe it too well. His fingers lifted the pallu off my shoulder and he placed his hand here,” she said, pointing to the area between her chest and her paunch. She put her manicured fingers on it and tapped, pulsating the fabric of her t-shirt.

As her fingers tapped, she continued. “No one had touched me there with such conviction, you know? Eh. Look at me digress. You asked if he was nice. He was very nice. He left me in a few hours and paid me very well, a little more than usual.”

Hema smiled. I smiled. For a few seconds, we were silent. My phone recorder heard no narrative, no curiosity, no tapping and no pen. White noise. She shifted ever so slightly, gathered herself in the subtlety.

“He saw me that night, though.”

“The student?” I asked, confused.

“No no, my landlord’s son Nithin. He came to the Amam with the college boy that night. I saw him, you know? But I just… you know? I should have been careful.”

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The recorder noted my curiosity.

“He recognized me.”

“Oh?” I said.

“So the college boy left. I couldn’t bear the thought of changing back into my clothes that night. I undid my Sari, slipped off my wig, my earrings and wiped off my makeup. I wore regular clothes, you know?

Like this,” she said, pointing to what she was wearing as she sat before me. There was a striped white shirt, blue denims, chappals, short hair and a stubble that was just reappearing.

I wanted to look away for a moment. Eye contact was suddenly uncomfortable and I could see the discomfort in Hema’s body as she inhabited clothes that suddenly looked alien to me. She felt pretty in her Sari.

Hema should be wearing her Sari.

“I tucked my Sari into my backpack. I took an auto home. It must have been five in the morning when I reached home. I remember climbing up the stairs to my apartment and I remember the air feeling different.

I suddenly felt conscious and ashamed and the environment felt hostile.

I was out of breath as I climbed to the third floor. I was thinking that I should get into better shape, you know? It might help me with clients. I reached my floor and my door was broken. There was no door.”

She paused. By this time, I was scribbling in my book. The recorder absorbed Hema’s narrative, my curiosity, manicured fingers pulsating denim and pen nibs scratching paper surfaces. I bid her to continue.

“I didn’t own too many things to begin with, you know? I didn’t really care about the rest. But my five Saris. They were soiled and lying on the floor, pooled with the remainder of my things close to the broken door.

Others can afford to think that it was a robbery or an earthquake even. I knew immediately, though. It had happened too many times before. But 45

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it was my fault, you know? I should have been more careful. Nithin had seen me. It was so stupid of me to think that he won’t recognize me.”

Hema looked defeated. I didn’t know what I looked like, but I was conscious, desperately trying to arrange my features, disallowing too much empathy to show through. I had to be professional, I thought. In organizing my expression, I knew I’d lost a little bit of the free flow of human emotion. Hema must have sensed it because she sat up a little straighter.

“Anyway, you know?” she said, “The landlord threw me out. Nithin had come home and told his father, I think. I don’t know the details. But I had no place to stay for a couple of weeks. I’m more careful now in my current apartment. I keep my Saris in a locker and wear only my pant-shirt outside the house. My clients never know my real name. See,” she said, pulling out her Aadhar card from her denim pockets. “Kishore.

Male,” she said.

I nodded. “You don’t want to change your sex and get the Transgender Identity card? You get benefits an-“ “Arre. I know all about that,” she said promptly. “What can I do with it though? My friend from the community went to apply for a TG card and they asked her to strip to show her genitals. Why should she strip?” she asked, suddenly angry.

I nodded. The recorder absorbed.

“I went to the hospital once Ma’am, this big private hospital. All the documents were sorted and the doctor was ready for my sex r eassignment surgery. And just a few days before the surgery, he asked me to bring a family member as witness. My family won’t even associate with me Ma’am. I asked him if I could bring someone from my community. I have a community mother, brothers and sisters. He rejected the idea. Now what do I do? How do I prove anything to anyone?”

“I’m sorry Hema.” I said. Her expression softened.

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“No no. I’m sitting in these clothes and you’re calling me Hema. What more can I ask for?”

I smiled. Hema should ask for more. Hema should be wearing a Sari, I thought.

“That’s it, I think,” I said and switched the recorder off. Hema sunk into her chair further and breathed.

“Was I alright?”

“Yes. You were great,” I said. She smiled nervously. I closed my book and watched Hema tap her knee. “Your story should come in the paper this weekend. I’ll change your name,” I said. Her smile grew warmer and she fell silent.

I placed my book and phone in my handbag and looked at Hema.

“Do you like silk Saris?” I asked. Hema’s eyes lit up as she met mine.

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She isn’t here anymore

(For Ani) Sonia Sali

Sunday, 4:30 pm I was at the woods. Lost in my thoughts. Left to myself. The vast greenery, the chirp of the birds and the silence engulfed me in a satisfaction that was unknown yet relaxing and calming. I sat on the grass, feeling the cool beneath me, feeling every detail of the air around me as if they were the only companions left in the world for me. I plunged into this endless verdure trying hard to forget the world beyond the gates of the woods. My heart danced along, flew higher and higher with the little birds, gurgled down and far with the blue waters and stayed calm and prosperous like the fresh grass. I lost myself every time I visited these woods, my heart lost itself among the tall trees and the grass growing low and green.

It was yesterday or was it just yesterday that I ran home from among a crowd of buzzing people, an environment that judged me, rejected the person that I was and demanded me to be different and behave like the “All”. Was it just yesterday or was it every day that I did flee away from people. I never knew why but deep, deep down in me I knew I fled every day. But yesterday was different.

Was it wrong that I was different, that I like being in the corner, that I was lost and that I wasn’t like the others? I will never know but my existence was challenged and they asked me to change, they asked me to laugh more often, jump up and down, buzz around, buckle up, put on fake smiles, hide the tears and act strong. I was pushed hard back and forth in the society. They expected me to change.

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Wasn’t there one kind soul who would want to accept me as Me and not as someone else? I pushed forward each day, trying hard to smile, giggle and act like an extrovert, all to be accepted. Dazed, confused and lost I put on a different version of myself to finally focus all eyes on me, for all the spotlights, for all the attention.

Devastated. Pained. Colourless. I cried each day, very often sinking down in grief and melting away with the scorching heat of the garish sun. I knew myself no more; I put on a face that I failed to recognize anymore. I was a girl who dwelt in the bodies of those who demanded the change, a new Me, I hardly even recognized.

Days into nights and nights into days, my mind suddenly turned into a battlefield. It was a war that I knew not when it erupted, why and how.

And every time I closed my eyes I saw myself battling with myself. How strange! The image flashed before my eyes over and over, promising each day elevated chaos and desolation. The tension strained down on me, weighing down on me, my legs giving me away.

The battle grew horrendous with each passing minute, filling the grounds of my mind with more blood and dolour, more of hopelessness.

Over the years I knew I was a product of extreme pressure, the out-turn of disgusting chaos that yielded out from the attitudes and minds of hundreds and hundreds of chaotic people who managed to weigh me down with the definitions of acceptance. I was cast down, trampled and lost. I was in the middle of nowhere, in the body of a person I did not know any more.

She wasn’t the girl who talked to the little creatures of the earth, she didn’t look at the skies and the stars and lose herself, she never strolled in the woods, feeling the air, the grass and the water. This girl was different. I did not meet her anymore. I went far and wide, into the woods, deep into the wilds, behind every tall tree, by the river banks and up beyond the skies but she seemed to have gone far away into an unknown land.

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Visual Art

Ekant

TILKU

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Tamasha

Ankita Paul

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Redefining the Closet

Jacqueline Williams

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An Insignificant Speck

Madhura Kar

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Indian Accent

Krutika Patel

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Untitled

Krutika Patel

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Please don’t take my sunshine away

Meghana Injeti

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They made you?

Meghana Injeti

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Blood on your hands

Meghana Injeti

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A Tourist Warzone

Vidya Gokhe

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The Contributors

Bhargavi G Bhargavi G is a student pursuing Master’s in Society and Culture at IIT Gandhinagar. I am interested in the creative process of representations, stories, photos and designs, and these are the lens I try to understand the world from. Thoughts strike me like lightning, and the aroma of coffee calms me. Can be occasionally spotted being preoccupied with nothing.

Ekasmayi Naresh Ekasmayi Naresh is a final year Masters student, pursuing Clinical Psychology. I am fascinated by the power of words to create and dispel confusion. I am also an inveterate lover of stories and poetry. I take equal pleasure in the cacophony of company as I do in cherished quietude. Apart from writing, my other interests include cricket, comedy and cats. (and like any keen observer would have noticed, alliteration).

Esther Shekinah Collins. E. Esther Shekinah Collins.E, pursuing Post- Graduate in English Language And Literature at Madras Christian College, Chennai. An Inveterate lover of poetry. Life has never been easy but that hasn’t stopped me from exploring the mystery of life. I also love to address the unheard truths through my poetry because I believe pen is mightier than sword.

Krutika Patel Krutika Patel is a final year BA student. She started taking a keen interest in visual arts about a year ago. She likes experimenting with various styles to create surreal and quirky pieces. One day she hopes to 62

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do this professionally.

Niranjana Hariharanandanan Niranjana is a writer/ documentary filmmaker and works as Executive Producer with Discovery Networks Asia Pacific. When she’s not working on a piece of fiction or on a documentary film, she’s traveling back and forth to run her heritage homestay in Cochin, Kerala.

Niranjana is a scuba diving enthusiast , a Murakami maniac and loves all things Japanese. Her work has been published by JaggerylLit, The Indulge, The Book Smugglers Den and The Punch Magazine. She is an allumnus of the Dum Pukht writers workshop and is working on her first novel.

Shreya Jauhari Shreya is unable to find neat categories to present her personality aptly in, but resonates most with reading feminist literature, taking theatre courses, and writing poetry in oxford-looking notepads. All this while in a bungalow with her two dogs alone. She is currently doing her bachelor’s in liberal arts, and hopes to have a life studying sociology, and helping India’s current dysphoria towards activism.

Uma Padmasola Uma Padmasola is a first year student of MA English at Manipal Centre for Humanities. Shestudied liberal arts at Azim Premji University. She writes fiction and fangirls over Barbara Comyns, but only when she has the time, even though that’s all she wants to do.

Elishia Vaz (Refer to Teatotallers section)

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Meghana Injeti Meghana is a student and part-time amateur freelancer.

Her love for exploring themes that are quirky, emotional, semi-political, comical, and everything in the middle made her dive into the sphere of digital art, drawing and poetry.

So far, her tiny work profile consists of publishing illustrations for ‘ Sophia’ college magazine, and a poem for ‘Delhi Poetry Slam 2019’ weekly e-Magazine. She has also worked as an Art Assistant for ‘Vitamin Stree’ for few of their art-centric video segment projects called ‘Scratching the Surface’. Fact time! She jams to overthinking, is conflicted while choosing between Netflix and Sleep and knows the whole of Bohemian Rhapsody’s lyrics.

Sonia Sali (Refer to the Teatotallers’ section) Valsala Menon Valsala Menon is a well known feature writer with several short stories and articles published in varied magazines and portals. She has worked as assistant editor for the magazines Success and Ability and Eves Times. A keen observer with enhanced sense of empathy for fellow human beings, her sensitivity translates itself into creating characters that come alive through her writing. Valsala has had her short story published in the Chicken Soup series. She spends her time between Chennai and Kochi- where she is setting up a heritage homestay.

Valsala enjoys meeting new people, a good dance workout and cooking up original South- Indian recipes in her spare time.

Madhura Kar (Refer to the Teatotallers section)

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TILKU TILKU is a self-taught artist. His works aim to imbibe the beauty and vibrancy of everyday life. He loves to use strong colours and clear experimentation with depth and time. His work is based on symbolic composition.Tilku focuses on capturing movement and bravely takes on subject matter that is in perpetual motion. His art makes one feel like they are truly living in the moment.

Ankita Paul Ankita Paul has been honing her skills in art for past several years. She believes art is an expression of one’s own self. What began as a hobby soon grew to be a source of optimism and motivation in her life. She now endeavours to capture the same optimism in all her works. She considers herself successful if her work brings her viewers even a fraction of the joy she experiences while creating it. She holds a Diploma in Fine Arts from College of Arts and Crafts, Lucknow University. She is also a Master in History and her work reflects cultures she finds herself inspired by. She dabbles in mix media, acrylic, water colour, charcoal and oil colours.

Vidhya Gokhe Vidhya is a person who gets excited about the little joys in life like cats, flowers and a pretty sky. She wants her work to reflect that even when life makes us feel down and out, we can still find beauty in simple things, and capturing these little things in photographs is just one way to hold them close to our hearts.

Jacqueline Williams Jacqueline Williams likes dogs, books, balconies and perforated notebooks.

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The Teatotallers

Editors-in-Chief Elishia Vaz Elishia Vaz is a homebody through and through. She’ll face the world if offered peanuts, South Indian food or a good trek.

Gauri Sawant For Gauri Sawant, life in general is a grueling ordeal. And so was travelling from Mumbai to Manipal where she is currently pursuing her Master’s in Arts. She is a perpetually bemused cat fanatic who chases after random animals and is needlessly enthusiastic about walking. In addition, she believes words are absolutely wondrous.

Fiction and Poetry Team Amulya Raghavan Amulya is a lover of the universe, books, music and tea (and occasionaly fancy jewellery).

Francesca Fowler Francesca says eccentricity is an understatement when it comes to her – one man’s sanity is another’s insanity. She is passionate, hopeful, and curious.

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Jannet Johny Jannet is mostly day-dreaming and has an unusual talent in bringing up random topics during conversations. She is currently pursuing her Masters in English Literature and likes exploring different authors and writing styles. She’s also a hardcore fan of chikki and most things sweet.

Laya Kumar Laya is a third year undergrad student in Manipal. She is trying to find her own voice by exploring different forms of expression.

Madhura Kar Madhura is an amalgamation of all things geeky and emotional wrapped up in an anxious bundle. She houses a special love for empathy, tea, poetry, and the universe in her heart. While she finds it terribly difficult to ascribe labels to the infinite fragments that make her up, she proudly calls herself a liberal feminist and would like to believe that she is working towards unpacking the privilege that she was born with. She writes and paints mostly for herself, but even when that is not the case, her works always carry a piece of her within them.

Sailza Kumari Sailza is a first year MA student pursuing her degree in English. She enjoys binge watching on Netflix, wearing fandom related t-shirts and drinking copious amounts of coffee.

Serene George Serene George is a BA 3rd year at the Manipal Centre for Humanities.

She is bad at writing bios.

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Shweta Anand Shweta hails from the city of Thrissur in Kerala and is currently pursuing her M.A in English at Manipal Centre for Humanities. She completed her B.A in English Literature from Wilson College, Mumbai and has written for the college magazine, ‘The Wilsonian’.

She has also interned as a content writer for a few companies in the last three years. Apart from enjoying writing and reading, she is also an avid fan of the T.V show F.R.I.E.N.D.S, and loves to occasionally daydream over a cup of coffee.

Sonia Sali Sonia is a freelancer and a student of first MA English. She is a horrible introvert who has her best friend in herself and quite often lost in the blue skies. Well, she is often lost yet a deep thinker. She likes anything deep and out of this world. Quite strange.

Non-Fiction Team Ajantha Rao Ajantha is a sarcastic Potterhead, who is perpetually sleepy.

Divya K.B. Divya is a first year MA student, pursuing her degree in Literature. She can be bribed with anything and everything horror, decadent desserts, angst heavy rock music and good company.

Siddharth Thackeria Siddharth is a third-year undergraduate student from MCH majoring in sociology.

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Visual Art Team Aditi Paul Aditi is a first year Masters student pursuing her degree in English. She enjoys spending her days either binge watching absurd shows or at art galleries. She can usually be found ranting, a steaming cup of tea by her side.

Kalyani Nandagopal Kalyani enjoys classic rock, vegan food, and 90s sitcoms. Her creative outlets include music, writing, and visual arts.

Meghali Banerjee Meghali underestimates herself on a regular basis. She listens to Korean pop, and crushes on her pet plant KOCHU. Meghali is the most non-Bengali Bengali one will ever come across. Her biggest failure till date has been to write three serious lines about herself and her so-called sunny disposition is dimming with age and assignments. Among all this, she also tries to study Sociology. Meghali talks too loudly and curses too much for her size and likes to believe she is funny as fu-oops!

Design Team Sre Ratha A raging feminist and a consummate fangirl, Sre can be found jamming out to rock music and occassionally One Direction. Or she is found making herself a strong cup of coffee. She is currently pursuing her Masters’ desgree in Sociology in MCH. She loves reading and enjoys watching rom-coms and sit-coms as well.

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PR Team Brinda Mukherjee Brinda is a Third year Undergraduate student pursuing a major in sociology. She appreciates art and creative work as well as socialising with people.

Sadhvi Hegde Sadhvi is a first year BA student who cannot find anything interesting to say about her. She can be found either watching air crash documentaries or complaining about the Manipal weather.

Sania Lekshmi Sania is currently pursuing her undergraduate in Humanities at MCH. A staunch admirer of Elizabethan poetry and theatre, she is interested in exploring the crossroads between philosophy and literature. She has been recently introduced to regional theatre and is working on it at present.

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