Chaicopy Fragments Issue Vol.1 Jan 2017

Chaicopy Vol.1, Fragments Isuue January, 2017 Published by MCPH Literary Club Manipal Centre of Philosophy and Humanities, Manipal, Karnataka-576104 Only the copyright for this collection is reserved with the 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, 2017 Graphic Design - Maithilee Sagara Page Settings - Srividya Devadas Cover Artwork - Michael Varghese

Editorial Board Editor-in-chief : Mariam Henna Poetry Editor: Abhimanyu Acharya Fiction Editor: Michael Ampat Varghese Creative Non-Fiction Editors: Abbas Bagwala, Tanima Nigam Visual Art Editor: Srividya Devadas Design Editor: Maithilee Sagara Associate Editors: S Srinath, Malavika Lobo

Editorial When we first decided on bringing out a literary journal, we didn't know what we would name it nor did we know what it would be about. All we knew was that we had ideas that we wanted to talk about; we knew that we could write, even if it might not end up being perfect; we knew that we had a passion to frame the world within photographs and paintings.

And then, we decided to take this one step further. Chaicopy was born out of our shared love for conversations, art, writing, and of course, Chai and Coffee — the two essentials of student life. It seemed that no matter who we were, or where we were from, we all had our stories of place and stories of time.

We wanted to bring out a myriad of Indian perspectives through Chaicopy.

As our first call for submissions went out, we received entries from writers and artists of varying experience, age and place. In these works, we found elements of a search for identity and of a reconciliation with who we are as artists and as people; we found fragments, fragments of stories, of lives, and of different worlds. Chaicopy took its shape through these fragments of works that we received from the contributors. In this spirit, we have named our first volume 'Fragments'.

MCPH, as a space, has been a nurturing ground for our creativity and enthusiasm. I am deeply indebted to Nikhil Govind for providing us with this space and opportunity to conceptualize the journal. Gayathri Prabhu has been a constant source of guidance and support without whom we would have been lost. I am grateful to the Literary Club for believing in us, even when Chaicopy was just barely an idea. I would also like to thank each and every contributor for their submissions. Finally, I thank The Teatotallers for being the best at everything that they do and for putting in hours of hard work, passion and a lot of late nights towards the journal. A special mention goes out to Abhimanyu, Michael, Maithilee and Srividya for all the effort they have put in towards editing, designing and page setting.

The response that we have received has been over-whelming and it has only strengthened our resolve to continue to bring out our journal and hopefully make it bigger and better with each year. For now, the Teatotallers will be taking a small break to have some chai.

We hope you enjoy reading the first volume of Chaicopy!

Mariam Henna January 2017

Ingredients Chai Expressions Turquoise Blue | Fiction | 11-12 Amala Poli Untitled | Poetry | 13-14 Shamini Kothari

We Belong | Poetry | 33 Yatri Ajabia

A Stitch in Time | Poetry | 15 Amazing | Poetry | 16-17 Parikshith Shashikumar

Wallace | Fiction | 34-36 Michael Ampat Varghese

A Circular Playground | Fiction | 18-20 Harshavardhan Sumant Untitled | Poetry | 21-22 Awake | Poetry | 23 Anahita Sarabhai The balcony and the bush (the distance between Romeo and Juliet) | Fiction | 24-25 Sayandeep | Fiction | 26-27 Manjushree Chancasana Untitled | Poetry | 28-30 H S Shivaprakash Salt | Fiction | 31-32 Fatima Zareen

Big Fish | Poetry | 37 Homecoming | Poetry | 38-39 Mudita Vardhan The Dance | Fiction | 40-48 Jessica Cariappa Dark Waters | Poetry | 49 S Saritha The Waiting | Fiction | 50-63 Mariam Henna Demented | Poetry | 64 Haunting Hunger | Poetry | 65 Chintan Shelat

Kaapi Sessions The Death of My Macher Jhol and the Travel-Enthusiast Gujaratis! | Travelogue | 69-71 Moulika Danak Travelogue | 72-76 Kruthika Nagaraj Photography | 77-82 Melvin Thomas Blues | 83 Aishwarya Vyas Summer Splash | Visual Art | 84-85 Khaled Shbib Photography | 86-89 Srividya Devadas Moth and the Flame | Visual Art | 90 Samvit Joshi hito | Visual Art | 91 nakama | Visual Art | 92 Michael | Visual Art | 93 Maithilee Sagara Photography | 94-95 Abhishek Gopurathinkal

Contributors | 97-103 The Teatotallers |104-107

Turquoise Blue

Amala Poli

H

ave you ever seen a dozen turquoise blue glass bangles? Hanging by a silvery wisp of a thread in the midst of a long chain of colored glass bangles? Sparkling, glittering bangles of every shape, size and kind.

They are quite a sight to behold.

But of the turquoise bangles there remained only one dozen. Just a single set in Chaudhary bhaiyya’s shop in the village fair. He was famous for his eccentric bangle collection. Any size, shape, color or design. Every possible color. Red, blue, indigo, brown, yellow, green, purple, pink and orange in every imaginable shade. You only had to name it. And Chaudhary bhaiyya would then name his price. Moderate, but not exactly inexpensive. Especially for the rare colors.

So, when Rukku fell in love with the turquoise bangles, she knew she was in trouble. How in the world would she get to them before another tasteful eye picked them out, tried them on her dainty hands and carried them away in precious newspaper wrappings? She couldn’t bear to think of it. Because, you see, Rukku already owned the bangles. She just walked to the fair every day to reassure herself that they were still there.

Weeks turned into months. The fair would begin every Wednesday and last till Friday. Rukku had a small pouch of coins on the wall, which was slowly growing heavier, hanging by a rusty nail next to the tiny statue of Krishna which she worshipped every morning. She heaved a sigh of relief every Friday when Chaudhary packed up his wares and headed home.

Not this time. She would get those bangles. No matter how long they had to wait on their flimsy, wispy thread.

You must be wondering if she might just be able to buy her turquoise colored glass dream after all. If she collected enough coins in her brimming pouch on the wall.

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She did.

Rukku bought her glass bangles. No, she did not break them. Not that day. Or the next.

Because Rukku never wore the turquoise colored glass bangles. They now hung on the rusty iron on her wall, next to the statue of Krishna, in an empty pouch.

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Untitled

Shamini Kothari

Today my body spoke to me, realized we’d never had a conversation before.

My body was angry, It told me I was indifferent.

My hair rose up and asked why I don’t Let them open, let them breathe My eyes asked me why I continue to Be angry They wanted me to see things differently My ears felt as if I don’t use them well I hear but I don’t listen, they said My lips told me they felt incomplete They would like to find their way into Somebody else My breasts felt heavy Heavy with the guilt of letting them be Touched by hands that were unkind My vagina asked me why was it that Strangers had more of a relationship with it than I My mind told me to stop thinking And feel for once in my life My heart said it was scared I listened, listened close to my body A canvas of memories, shivers Secrets and violence I hugged myself and promised that Next time I would Introduce each part separately Revealing each story one by one Unfolding it carefully 13

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Like an old, worn out letter But first my body warned me I need to introduce it to myself.

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A Stitch in Time

Parikshith Shashikumar

The awkward stitch binds, With clumsy folds, and confused knots, The thread, like a pale green vain, Desperately slithers across, The thing of two halfs, Awkwardly.

There is a seam, now and then, A hole that rips free, and clear, Bereft of its awkward bind, it breathes free, In a tapestry of combinations and comprises, It is alien, it is whole.

However as cold air coils and clots the gaping wound, The stitch look less and less awkward, And the hole looks more and more like a scar.

The pale ugly cobweb shimmers, Designs and colour shifts into focus, While the cavern contorts into a darker shade.

The world is a cold place, It does not do to be alone and naked, One must stitch one's ties quick and firm in order to survive, However, Some quilts are better than others.

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Amazing

Parikshith Shashikumar

Perfection, should it be ever sought, Is not a brilliant bright moment that causes one to blink back to pitch mediocrity, it is not a sharp peek that ambitiously rises only to dip back down managing only to puncture and suckle at the surface, like an insect.

No, Perfection, should it ever be sought, is rather a lonely struggling writhing flame, that beats back the cold dark to illuminate, it is a bare blunt flat line that cuts across like the flat kiss of a hammer that beats into creation and maintains with might.

Perfection is not Icarus who soars, but Hercules who labours, Beauty is illusive, and is therefore worshiped, Wisdom is a skill, and is therefore valued, Strength is effort and is therefore respected, Power is coercive and is therefore feared, But perfection? they say thefour give rise to the one, but they are but attributes attached to the perfect and not perfection, to make it easier...

Because perfection is struggle, and struggle, is called ugly, struggle, is called foolish, struggle, is called weak, and tell me who is more powerful?

Sisyphus or the rock?

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No, perfection is a struggle, and is therefore, unfathomable, mythical, amazing.

The perfect, should they ever be recognized, are not offered praise by the ignorant, not rewarded by uncomprehending, not worshiped or loved by the blind, and are despised by the confused, No, the perfect, should they ever be called that are befriended by the broken romantic respected by those who are deemed to be mad, and offered a line or two by the poet.

After all, the perfect are not recognized in life, but remembered in legend.

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A Circular Playground

Harshavardhan Sumant

A

circular playground. We are there. All of us, in a round shaped huge ass playground. It’s crowded. Everyone looks happy. Smiles, laughter, cheering everywhere. Alcohol, weed, drugs are flowing. Humans enjoying, being, living. The loud interactions, the secret gives and takes, the sexual urges, the sly comments, the double meaning sentences, the gossip, the poetry, the information. All of that is happening in that playground. It is night time. The playground is well lit with white light. Flat white light.

There is a huge elevated platform far away somewhere in the corner. Far from where I was standing. It was a free entertainment area. Anyone can go there and get entertained. The old, the young, the pale, the dark, the happy, the sad, the lucky, the unlucky, the ugly, the pretty, the thin, the fat, the dumb, the smart, the art and the non-art also. Anyone can go and get entertained. It is free and open for all. Someone has arranged all of this. Someone, no one knows who that One is. Everyone has their own speculations and assumptions about who that One is. But that One has decided to maintain it a secret. And He is doing pretty well maintaining it. Some people were so keen on knowing who that One is that they wasted all their lives in finding that someone. Some claimed that they have found out the secret. They have discovered who that One is. A few humans simply didn’t care. They thought, it is all so well-arranged why bother? Who invited them and who made all this possible? Just enjoy whatever is provided. There are so many things to be entertained with!

See!? The dancers, the jokers, the clowns, the music, the drama, the sports, the digital, the primitive, the modern, the old, the shy and the bold also.

But you can’t touch them, they are not bodies, they are mere projections.

Why bother about who put them there. Just use, just enjoy. If you are not satisfied with the entertainment unit, just look at other human beings!

They will always entertain you. They will never let you down. Just look at the doomed ones! The humans who are trying to find out the One who arranged this! They think they have found out and create a sect out of it.

They will always amuse you. Look at the sad ones, they are lost. They go to the seekers of that One. They can’t find their own people. Just look at 18

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them, they will assure you that you are definitely in better place compared to them. Don’t you feel relieved? Find your own people. Do you like those?

The one with the square shaped black glasses? They are always serious!

But they have lots of information. They have been here for quite some time. They write and they read. They don’t come out of that corner. They are always there. It’s a gathering! A joyous gathering of all humans! Find your type and go and talk. Do you like rock? The ones who are pissed and agitated for no reason, are there, in that corner. Even they don’t come out of their corner. They are loud though, you can hear them just by standing outside their corner. Or are you one of the elites like them? Like the ones that are there in that corner? Do you need champagne to get high?

Go there, they have all the gossip you need. It’s the most elegant breed.

They are good observers but they only remember bad things about rest of the groups. Which one are you? You have an entire palate in front of you! Just sit here for a moment, take a look around. Which one are you?

The clown with the red ball on his nose went away dancing towards the entertainment area. I sat. All the phlegm gathered in the throat and I spat. It landed on someone’s hand. That human didn’t care, he continued walking. I was not entertained by the entertainment unit. I was not even one of the people in any of the corners. Who invited me here? I was taken a back as soon as I entered the arena. I forgot why was I there and who invited me there. But now I need to know. I want to talk to that One and congratulate him for all the arrangements and then curse him, first of all for inviting me and then on behalf of the depressed and the sad, the lost and the mad, and the abnormal and the handicapped, the moaning and groaning and on behalf of all the ones who are tired of running. Running from one corner to the other. I decided to go in a corner. I started walking towards the wall that surrounded the whole area. I stumbled upon a few dying ones, few wounded. Few of them were so happy and drunk that they had passed out. I had to watch my each step. So that I don’t step on something or someone. “Cruel! Cruel! That One is Cruel.” I kept thinking. I helped a few on my way towards the wall. They were glad at least for a while. They thought that I was the messenger of that One who invited all of us. I saw the wall. I started running towards it. A white wall.

I started touching it. I could not feel it. I picked up a stone and threw at it. It bounced back. Like a thing would bounce back from a rubber 19

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surface. I ran into it. I wanted to break it. Nothing happened. The wall was so huge! It encompassed all the humans. Greater than any wall ever built.

It was not made of any material that we could name. I realized that it was a wall made of axioms. All just mere assumptions. Wall of rationality. Huge hundred feet wall. I thought that there is something that is beyond this wall that I need to see. I thought I needed tools to break this wall. I got a hammer and a chisel. None would affect that wall. I just wanted to cut open a slit, to see beyond. I did not give up. I kept trying. I just sat besides the wall. Trying, everyday to go beyond the wall. I had become one of the lost. Then I realized I have to be possessed by something. To cross the wall. I have to be possessed by the thought of going beyond. I have to be possessed by something! I have to be possessed by an emotion so intense that it drags me across the wall. I have to be possessed by the wisdom that I grow taller than the wall. I have to be retaliated by the inner side so much that I get pushed outside the playground. I had created my own corner. By the time I realized this truth there were people surrounding me. Trying to do something. Trying to break the wall. With a hammer and a chisel. People like me. Wanderers. For whom the playground isn’t enough to entertain themselves.

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Untitled

Anahita Sarabhai

Friday, 5:38 PM The local domestic airport Bustling An episode from the latest reality TV show "Stuck With Strangers: A social experiment across classes" Full of unexpected run-ins You've spent your life avoiding.

It must be wedding season again Couples and families, flock alike The gold and the glitter Swish, jingle, clink, The far too deliberate red Caked into the part Dusting the white floors With every obedient drop of the head.

I feel underdressed For this party I am not attending.

The female voice is speaking again over the loudspeaker Disembodied I imagine a woman In a dimly lit booth Filing her nails.

The static twang of her spiel Barely human Inspired instant nausea in me.

An acidic tightening of the chest And flashes of travelling as a child.

An all-encompassing assault 21

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On young senses Tired eyes The stale sterile stench searing my nostrils.

My stomach drops another inch.

She could be saying anything really – *Ding Ding Ding* "This is a public service announcement.

The world may be ending.

You can run but you can't hide.

So-and-so airline wishes you a pleasant journey And best of luck!" *Click* She returns to her nails.

Not a head has turned.

Over the shuffling feet and Awkward conversation She is a self-help audio book Leaking out of headphones In a crammed subway car.

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Awake

Anahita Sarabhai

You weren't awake

early

enough for me to steal the kisses from you I had sought.

Bargained with time I did as I woke.

S l o w and From A Night of Unrest.

For the G. A. P. S. The L A P S E That r

i

p

p

l

tired

e

Against

walls and skin.

Stretched beneath the blinked eye, Under each receding footstep.

With time I struck my daily deal And favours But you weren't awake early enough

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The balcony and the bush

(the distance between Romeo and Juliet) Manjushree Chancasana

H

e looked like sunshine trapped in a glass bottle. He was yours for so long as you believed that you really truly had him trapped. But sunshine isn’t made for glass bottles; sunshine is made to be shared.

He was like the rain, an all infiltrating, external presence upon your soul.

He was something you felt before you heard and once you knew the feel of him you couldn’t ever stop. He would become the buttons that kept your skin on around you, that kept you warm and safe within yourself. He was kindness encapsulated. He was love.

Have you ever had a puppy scratching and scratching at a door in the rain? Begging and pleading and crying to just be let in?

And have you ever seen a kitten trapped in the rain outside? Have you seen it sit with its legs tucked under it tight? Stoic and waiting, the kitten is motionless as it waits for the rain to stop.

We have been one or the other in our relationship, one or the other at all times.

We have been obstinate, petulant and worst of all ignorant. We have smell like petrichor soaked in blood. Something that is new and good turned into bloody war we invariably smell like the night sky on a balmy night right before a storm.

Every move feeling like a betrayal, every step further away from trust. We forget we are good and we are love and we are caring itself. And every mistake we make is thinking of the other. Every move is made to save pain, made to shield the pain, made to eradicate the pain, eviscerate it even if it means losing us.

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The hinges of our time together rocking to and fro, to and fro through the cold nights we keep each other warm. Through the fire of the other’s ire we make it through. Barely breathing, but we do.

Would you believe that sometimes we smell like old people together?

That sometimes we smell like Eden.

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Sayandeep

Manjushree Chancasana

S

ayandeep sashayed through her dreams, swiveling his hips in time to the music she played him from her veena. He was her courtesan from another life, an object of infinite pleasure and inspiration. His skin was dappled in the merry sunlight of her mind and his loincloth perched expertly on his buxom behind. His long never ending legs knew grace in every step and his eyes twinkled at her with a mischief and an arrogance begotten of the knowledge of his own beauty. Kamala felt her desires running through her body her hands itching to touch his taut slim waist, to stroke his lean smooth back and to dip into his crevices with her hungry hands.

Hunger, what he arose. Sayandeep, master of his craft, wily with his wares. He knew how the women waited for him to appear and prostrate himself upon the temple floor. His buttocks taunting them through the sheerness of his dhoti, hitched up to reveal his shapely calves. He even drank the Prasad erotically, allowing a little trickle of the holy payessam to drip down his skin and land right within the cleft of his beautifully crafted chest. Twinkling merrily at the many eyes that could not help but stare in lust, longing for a touch of that hallowed hollow of his belly button. Sayandeep was an innocuous name for the most exquisite temple purohit that had ever lived. A holy man about whom the women around thought only the most sinful of thoughts.

Kamala hid her own desire better than the others. More respectful of men having come from a house that consisted largely of them. She also maintained distance out of fondness for her little husband. At twelve he had arrived a blushing boy to the marriage bed, unsure and afraid of the pains of marital bliss. She hadn’t spared his virginal soul that night nor any other afterwards but she did hold him awkwardly while he cried.

Kamala was better to her man than most and did not beat him if she could help it. But often the mark of her fingers darkening his soft light skin proved too much an aphrodisiac and she had to envelop him then 26

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and there. She loved to see the sudden start of his body and watch his pretty dark eyes almost luminescent in their watery beds as she took him.

Kamala was a woman who enjoyed all men, in all shapes and sizes. And Sayandeep was an apsara sent from the gods. Her little man glared nastily at the goddess who had captured his master forcefully through the power of his eyes and his thighs. Kamala received her blessing from him, grazing her hand across the small of his back. She thought she saw a hint of a smile. But alas that was all for now, till he returned as he always did, in her dreams.

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Untitled

H S Shivaprakash

Not you But it was someone else I came to meet-Someone with a different name Made of a different build and breath And a different smell of the hair A different beat of the heart I had planned meticulously Taken steps Imagined Rehearsed elaborately Certainly To taste another bloom of flesh But when I reached the rendezvous Exactly at fixed time You stood there An undreamt dream, Not my expectation Beyond my expectation As if the sun and moon And directions changed placesA moment's miracle And then the revelation: Whatever I had planned had gone awry What had gone right is you -a destination not on my map

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My ego had melted In your hands and arms Like salt in the sea And light in the eyes Let me hold you Unexpected blessing Undeserved grace Like a crag holding a bright star All night Like a flower holding a dew drop All morning Like a valley holding a river Without holding Like sleep holding a dream Throughout the dream Like a peaceful city Its people and treasure As long as the city lasts True, the story of difficult conquest Became the story of sweet defeat True, tired of body and spirit I could not reach the peak I sought I gathered no jewels from your treasure trove O young city I loitered in your moonlit valley Bathing in the healing fragrance At last to drink deep the hidden nectar In your new-blown rose Without plucking it Or hurting even a petal Till the new dawn Dawned 29

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2 A new moon has entered my firmament Who refuses to set Even after the other moon went down Along with her star companions A new Spring has settled down On my tired earth Threatening to outlast The cycles of evanescent seasons No eyes can see the new moon Except mine No nostrils can smell the new spring Except mine For none of them longed and pined Through many shameful lives and deaths And even worse transmigrations For this moon For this spring You, saints and sinners, Who cannot see this Who cannot hear this Look!

How what I see and what I hear Has turned me, a tattered heart, A battered body Into flame burning itself out Leaving no ashes

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Salt

Fatima Zareen

T

here were a few hours left for dawn, the sky was still lit with a million stars. Umm Haya struggled from the makeshift bed in the floor and grabbed her walking stick. She had not slept the night, her mind reliving the terrifying moments of the day, her frail body shivering with the cold and the numbness in her chest. The walls of her home still echoed with the baritone voice of the police woman. If only the moments were captured again and replayed she would have noticed the slight quiver in the police woman’s voice and how her staunch features softened when she handed over the only remains. A rain drenched and frayed plastic holder with an identity card and a few crumpled notes.

Sea. Boat. Capsized… These were too strong words for Umm Haya, she looked around wishing it was just another sunny day Umm Kadeeja and she were sitting chewing on betel leaves and narrating stories of lives they would have lived. Everyone called them Haka affectionately as they were always together. Both were widows except that Umm Haya had no one and Umm Kadeejawas blessed withan ever expanding family of two sons, the wives and five grandchildren. That fateful day Umm Kadeeja had left her grandchildren in Umm Haya’s care vowing to return by dusk.

She looked at the tiny figures huddled together in serene slumber and sobbed trying hard to hush the anguish. For someone who was alone most of her life she was now the only family to five orphaned children.

One by one she opened each of the tins and jars stacked on the coal blackened shelf and peered inside. It was empty except for a few grains and lentils that made a feeble jingle when she shook them. Her eyes went to the tall glass jar which stood sentinel in the corner of the hut, its snowy contents glazing the moon light. The jar was always filled to the brim with saltand the very sight of the generous supply gave her goosebumps.

The sun rays crept stealthily in to the solemn hut bringing on an otherwise beautiful morning. "Haka, Haka, Haka", her thoughts were interrupted 31

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by a cacophony of wails and thumping feet. Umm Haya grabbed them and hugged them tight, caressing and tousling their unruly heads and turning their gaze away from their own home just next door. She had to somehow distract their attention and give them hope and love. She quickly gathered them around the glass jar of salt, seating them cross legged around as though a magical ritual was going to be performed. “I am going to cook the most delicious meal for you" she said, avoiding the excited and glowing eyes that followed everything she was doing.

There were all kind of odd pieces of wood and twigs in the hut, she thrust them into fire place and kept a huge pot of water on it. A few drops of water fell from pot into the fire making a vicious hissing sound.

She opened the lid of the glass jar and took a little salt and added into the pot of water reciting a strange language not even known to her. She thought of the sea, now the watery grave of her best friend and her loved ones. Salt always healed wounds… How she wished the salt in the depths would bring them back alive.

Suddenly she knew what to do.

She found her voice and broke into a beautiful rendition of the tales she and Umm Kadeeja shared. Everything stood standstill except the sound of her and the crackle of fire in harmony. Then they started coming, the folks in the village and sat around to listen to the unheard. The footwear outside the little hut grew in numbers and colors matching the pensive excitement inside. Each one had an offering in kind. Grain, milk, vegetables, fruits, butter…

“Come children lets have our Haka Meal.” A lone tear fell from her eye on the cherub face resting on her lap. “Haka your tears taste like salt“. A smile slowly curved in her face making room for peace.

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We Belong

Yatri Ajabia

What is the back of your neck doing?

It has no business being straight.

You must look at your feet, remember?

That's what they taught you the day you stopped sucking lollipops.

Is that skin?

The smooth trail of trouble?

The streets will make you regret it, those words will haunt you.

Don't take the elevator alone, nor go by an empty bus, Autos are trouble, who will get you home?

Stop, little girl, jumping won't help, Broken bones won't stop the exchange.

Make friends who tell you To not be seen with strange men.

Your father has worked hard, Your marriage is the certificate.

You'll get used to the wedding bells, And learn how "no" was never a luxury, especially there.

Oh don't worry, sweet child, You'll bear children of your own and love them, no one really asks otherwise.

Kill the arguments we taught you were fine, say yes and let the individual die.

It's still better than broken bones.

Tell me about that man you met, The one who loves you.

We will laugh about it and forget, We already belong, my darling.

You and I will have our tea, Once all the men have gone for their afternoon nap, You and I will live and laugh, Quietly, though, people can wake.

You and I, my darling, we belong.

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Wallace

Michael Ampat Varghese

W

allace was a man. Not in the sense that he isn’t a man anymore, but since this story is in the past he was a man then as well. Also, Wallace is dead now, so I suppose the past tense wasn’t that inappropriate to use. It’s important to say it though. It’s important to know these base facts about the world. We find ourselves at this prismatic junction, where every issue is neither black nor white, but a spectrum of things. Everything ranging in degrees and intensities. No, literally, everything. Even the use of “literally” has degrees of correctness associated with it. However, none of this really has anything to do with Wallace. I just felt this connection with you, reader. From the moment you placed Wallace as a faceless entity, clothed in a fashion typical of a middle class Caucasian male, within the biggest mindscape your brain could conceptualize, I knew. I knew that there was something between us. You see, it gets lonely for me.

I slip into your subconscious when you’re not looking, and I articulate any word or idea fashioned in a coherent, conceivable actualization of either image or language. But I rarely ever get to just talk to people, like have a conversation. I just sit here and mimic the thoughts of others as well as I can; it’s tiresome, truly. And you never really know that I’m here. You’re just using me. You’re terrible, reader. I jest.

Wallace was a man. But do you really want to talk about Wallace, reader?

I think I can understand your curiosity, but, honestly, he didn’t live that interesting a life. He was just a mechanic that worked at a no-name shop for the last twenty years of his life. The cars that he worked on were sometimes really nice, but he never really owned one of his own. Well, essentially, the property rights were with him, but it wasn’t really his. It was second hand, and the previous owner spent an inordinate amount of time scratching his own name into the dashboard and insides. One wonders what a healthy self-reflexive voice could have done for him. But this wasn’t the reason the car wasn’t really his. His ex-girlfriend’s stepson’s lover used it on the weekends and it always came back to him smelling of lubricant and socks. He never really got used to that; the car was always 34

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so full of thoughts and memories that weren’t his. But, I must say, you’re awfully inquisitive aren’t you, reader? Awfully curious about the love lives of not-so-significant distant non-relatives, aren’t you? Okay, I’ll give you the details. Imagine me winking here, with a knowing smile.

Wallace was a man. He had good moral values and lived a good life. At least, that’s what they said at his funeral. It was an open-casket affair.

He died of a heart attack while he was making some toast. The toast fell quite unspectacularly to the floor. There was jam there, reader. It was really quite unpleasant. Since Wallace didn’t really live with anyone and since he didn’t keep in touch with his family, who were for the most part in the grave (separate ones, of course), Wallace just sat there for a few days. The jam attracted ants and they spent days slowly gathering up the smudges of it. Once they started, there were more. I wasn’t quite sure then if they had procreated in the span of those few days, or if it was just like a party and the word had spread around the colony. It bothered me terribly, reader. Wallace had started to smell and the ants wouldn’t stop spreading. They searched high and low and eventually they found the jam jar ajar and there were more and more of them. It was really quite traumatic. This may not make much sense to you, but to me it was deeply scarring. I couldn’t even do anything about it.

Wallace was a man. And as a man he possessed a mortal coil that wound his soul over and over with bits of bone bound by sinuous fibres tied down by flesh and brought to life by some mechanisation of thought and some miracle of birth. That was long-winded. I apologize, profusely.

Okay, no, I don’t. I’m not sorry. The people that wrote about him always left out how truly surreal it was to possess a body. But everyone talks of his experiences and his trials, like any of that is actually unique. He didn’t even live that bothersome a life. But he had a body. What a gift. What a life to live. What I wouldn’t give to have one. You probably wouldn’t know this reader, but everything has life. Even the letters that you’re seeing right now. Each one of them was born into this world at some point. Just like me, just like you. But unlike you, or the letters, or anything else you could imagine, I don’t have a body. I can’t help but think that it might help. To move about freely in the world, rather than exist as a 35

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voice within your head. That’s not to say that yours is the only head I’ve ever lived in but there’s always been that moment of discomfort where I open my imaginary eyes and see into the mind of another. Where I know that the words that I’ll be telling them will be different from the last. It really is awfully inconvenient. But well, at least I won’t die, unlike you.

I hope you won’t though, at least not for a while. You’re different. I like you. I’m sure you think I say that to all my hosts, but I don’t. You listen.

I’d like to think you care.

Wallace was a woman. Wait, that’s not how my refrain worked. Is this a refrain? It doesn’t matter, but I’m awfully tired now, reader. I think this particular plot device of having a static, yet somewhat humorous and sentient narrative voice, is running dry in terms of content. And more than that you keep giving the “look.” Now, as attractive as I am, I don’t think that humans and intangible literary devices should mix. It just wouldn’t work out. I’m as free as a bird. I go the lone road. Something something, it’s not you it’s me, something something. That’s strange. That particular set of letters usually fills me up with contextual implications and interpretations. Reader, are you blocking me out? Is this ?

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Big Fish

Mudita Vardhan

“For posterity and beyond” He succumbed to his shallow Shelf life, waited in waters With the smaller fish, satisfied "Go back home, apologize!"

Was all I said before he shoved me off Garter strings shook at the nape of his neck, Before he sold me down on my knees, I sighed His name in vain, But I wasn't assigned down there to pray.

He fought with family, He wouldn't apologize, he was now rich.

I felt sorry for his crow feet that seemed to scatter freckles and weep, He surely had aged. Not gracefully.

I didn't give two fucks, you see 'Til he laughed and undid the curtains on me, Cocking his head as I, dishevelled, stood Naked, silent, and misunderstood, "W-why so content with yourself ?" mutter, mutter I waited for an answer.

He didn't bother.

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Homecoming

Mudita Vardhan

O Mama Tell your daughters that they’re not mistaken For utensils with hands Or wombs with legs Tell them, Mama We do not travel time When a bully chases us into a corner No one is going to the 50s Mama, tell the children All the children That it is just a riddle That they will understand when they’re older Mama tell them, they are loved, important That they matter, all of them Tell your muslim neighbours They don’t need to go lookin’ for a chastity belt They are not knocking on our doors yet.

O Mama Tell that 12 year old black boy to not fear his anger, For his anger is human and won’t fuel theirs Mama tell your sons now, They are responsible and privileged and in relentless, reticent power.

Mama MAMA Make it stop!

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Mama, foster the queer kids, Most of them are on streets, not playing by the swings Mama, they’re counting bricks and I cannot see beyond it Mama, they stripped me Mama, what happened to my scarf ?

Call the cops “He’s coming. I’m gonna die.”

Mama, stop praying The Church isn’t ringing It’s Sunday, so don’t bother Mama tell the children it’s a game adults play Mama? Mama!

I do not want to wake up Mama!

They spread my legs and took my rights away!

Mama, they are making my decisions!

Mama, I cannot have this baby!

Mama, is that a wire?

Mama, where are they moving us?

Mama, please close the door!

Mama, aren’t we citizens of this nation, I was born here!

Mama I wanna go home.

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The Dance

Jessica Cariappa

You will know when you grow up.

What a useless statement; the girl decided on her own that not a soul on this planet could decide when she could be considered “grown up” and that, even beyond this thought, one could not figure out what “grown up” even meant. This, she understood at the age of six, is an answer her mother’s sister gives her when the real answer has to be either evaded or hidden. Why, she did not know — but it always happened and now at the age of twelve, Nayana knew well that her reaction to this statement — rolling her eyes with a soft click of her tongue — was a legit response indeed.

It first started when she asked her chitti what had happened to her cousin, Latha. Latha was twelve at the time too, and something had caused her to scream, in the bathroom, away from her mother, locked up in a private space she should have learned to enjoy by now. Her chitti raced toward the bathroom and a buzz evolved — something had occurred. What made it all the more festive or if she could even call it that, was that this something was expected to occur. This occurrence was a part and parcel of life, something even the men knew now, who most often never indulged in the private matters of women in the household.

But, it was still something six-year old Nayana did not know. Or, more aptly put, wasn’t allowed to know. And it was during this instance, the start of it all, did chitti tell her the one horrid statement that haunts her life even now: You will know when you grow up.

Nayana hated the fact that it was true, to some extent. She had now understood what had happened with Latha — she had simply gotten her period. There was no need for screaming, no need for ritual for 40

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something so utterly disgusting; what else can I think? It’s blood coming out of my — No. She was conditioned enough to not complete that thought.

Now, after turning twelve and into three months of her period cycle, Nayana was a pro. One of the first ones in her class to become a woman; she was forced to believe it was a matter of pride. Nevertheless, she didn’t really speak about it even with the other girls, she didn’t want to go deep into that pit and make it seem all the more glorious than it was already made out to be. It was not. It could never be, according to her.

Nayana turned away from her aunt and swiftly ran through the corridor, only to run into Latha on her way. Latha was a marvellous looking creature, even a twelve-year old could understand that. Long black hair, plaited always; meenakshi eyes — fish-shaped eyes which people could die for; fat in all the right areas (however, this part, she rarely thought about). However, according to Nayana, the best part about Latha was her smile — like the fate of the world hung with the answer to a question only she knew. Latha indeed was marvellous.

“Where are you off to?” She asked, flashing that smile at her.

“Away from your mom.” Was all Nayana had to say.

Latha laughed. Nayana’s heart flew. Two things that happened a lot these days. Nayana turned around and watched Latha walk into appa’s room — Latha was almost like a daughter to her father. Periyappa, periyappa — Latha would come, asking for questions. Now, even after entering college, Latha would consult her periyappa for queries regarding anything and everything. Nayana was proud of her father for that. Nayana turns around after this thought and decides to go to her mother now; to tell her how her idiotic sister was not telling her things again.

She remembered vividly how they all used to come to her when she was smaller. She was the greatest judge of character (she still is) and no one 41

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could speak in edgewise. Nayana had a firmness that not many her age did, and she knew just whom to trust and to ignore in one glance. The glance was all that mattered — for everything began that way. Love, hatred and even the greatest judgement. What happened with age, she did not know; but they stopped asking her questions and refused to answer hers too.

Her mother could see the turmoil on her only daughter’s face the moment Nayana walked into the kitchen. She smiles knowingly, placing both her hands on her hips.

“What did she tell you now?” Almost as if she had Nayana all figured out.

Perhaps she did. “She didn’t want to tell me what a first night means.”

Her mother laughed. Sometimes, she wondered, if Latha magically inherited her mother’s smile. They told Nayana that she was more like her father. But, the one who looked like the elder sister in the house was Latha. Her mother was a beauty back before Nayana was born — now she was fat like the others in the house; locked inside the kitchen, never to be read or discovered ever again.

“You don’t need to know that now.” Her mother said, kinder and softer — but did not ease the storm brewing in her mind.

“But, I want to know.”

Stern. Fierce. Her father would be so proud of her. He is raising her to be the woman who will break the chains in this house. The woman who will not remain in a makeshift cage that everyone around her willingly step into (and even lock it themselves).

“No. Now, go and bother your father. I have to make dinner.” Her mother said, turning away. Attention spans usually lasted only that long. Only until you ask them a question that resulted as an offence.

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Nayana did think of doing just that. Besides, she had seen Latha enter her father’s cabin as well. Two of her favorite people were in this house, she could very well make good use of this time and entertain herself.

Biting her lower lip and chuckling away, Nayana ran toward her father’s cabin.

The door was ajar, the lights were almost put out — a candle burned inside in a corner somewhere, away from her father’s desk. Shadows played on the wall; something she saw from outside the door. Nayana never knocks, but she was mesmerised with how orange the white wall looked — with black shadows playing atop of them, a play choreographed into looking like one of those natural wonders people usually miss whilst travelling in a car. Her eyes were wide at the moving pictures, which collided and molded into each other — the strongest dance she had ever seen. They danced to the rhythm of a creaking sound; a sound that made it seem all the more bizarre, yet alluring to her all at the same time.

“Appa —” The shadows halted; froze for a moment before separating — ashamed of the trajectory that they had followed and chasing backwards into the time when they were far apart. Her presence had ruined the moment; caused the fleeting beauty into shrivelling back into smaller forms of what they used to be.

Latha opened the door in a rush and warded out of there; Nayana found nothing odd. Her father sat on the bed, glasses off his eyes, looking at her — no expression on his solemn face.

“Amma told me to bother you. Did I do a good job?” Nayana’s grin was not missed even in the darkness of the room.

Her father grinned back. “Oh, of course.” * 43

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You will know when you grow up.

This was the first time her father had said that to her. Nayana did not feel as betrayed as she thought she would, but she put on a face which showed that she did. Huffing her cheeks, she quickly walked away from her father who made no protest to stop her from leaving.

She wanted to be stopped. Nayana felt worse that she hadn’t; walking away usually was a cry for attention. She saw Latha once more, sitting in the corner — sulking. Never had she seen someone so charismatic look so distraught. Her hair was disheveled, her eyes had bags underneath and the smile — the very smile Nayana was so obsessed about — was scarce.

It was as if someone had sucked out all the life that was in Latha and fed it to the demons inside her.

“She’s on her period. Don’t disturb her.” Her mother told her, Nayana chose to ignore it.

She walked over to Latha and sat beside her, not sure if she forced a smile out of her cousin or if she was indeed truly pleased to see her there.

Nayana smiles back, unsure of what to say. It isn’t the same smile, she thought, but was at least glad that Latha was smiling at all.

“You look like a ghost.” Nayana says, grinning.

Latha chuckles.

“Maybe I am.”

Nayana laughs more.

“Maybe I’m turning into one.”

Nayana paused. She looked at Latha and noticed her eyes were welling up with tears.

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“Akka?” Nayana says, concerned now — if she had done something to her cousin.

Latha turns away and covers her face, wiping those tears off before they even hit her lower eyelids. Nayana stood up, contemplating on whether she should tell someone. A hand falls on her shoulder a moment later, and she sees the round glasses first — the round glasses that belong to her father, sitting flatly on his nose.

She was still mad at her father for not telling her what those colorful packets in his room were, because he had insinuated that she wasn’t old enough — but now was an emergency.

“Appa, what happened — ?”

“Leave her alone.” Her father said, his eyes falling only on Latha.

“But — ” “You will not understand, Nayana. Leave her alone.”

Nayana walked aside and stared at her father from behind. Involuntarily, her eyes fell on Latha’s form — shrivelled like a raisin, crouching like a fetus — against the wall, afraid of the shadow her father was casting.

It reminded her of the dance she had seen the other night. * You will know when you grow up.

Something had happened — now, many noticed Latha’s change in demeanor. Her spark was lost, her hair was always untidy and her smile was non-existent. She missed this most among everything else; even if she looked like a corpse, Latha had the potential to be attractive with just that one smile.

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It was like a figment of her imagination now; did she even have that smile?

She had asked her chitti a question again and gotten the same answer as she always had. This time, she had asked her about her own daughter.

And even then, the answer was the same.

She could see Latha walk into her father’s room late that night, the door locked this time — hiding those shadows from sight; shutting out all noise. One night, Nayana stayed up to see if Latha would come out of there.

She did. But, she would cry each time.

So, a little bit of her imagination could come into play here. Stern.

Fierce. Inquisitive. Nayana needed answers and so she would seek them.

That night, she watched from the corner in the dark, Latha walk into her father’s room. She waited a moment for the door to close, another moment for it to be locked and a final moment for her to let out a breath she did not know she was holding. Gathering her courage like pebbles on the floor, Nayana tiptoed toward the cabin. She held her breath again as she placed her ear softly against the texture of the door — closing her eyes a bit to focus on what happened inside.

She pictured the shadows moving. She pictured the black molding with the orange in the room — hands on shoulders, hair waving, twisting and turning. She pictured how the bodies on the wall would sit up and fall back down, waves in their own right — soundless by themselves, juxtaposed with an eerie creaking which went unexplained.

The creaking began and so did her imagination. She pictured Latha sitting beside her father and making butterflies in the wall with her hands — something her father had taught her when she was smaller. A smile sat on her lips as the creaking got faster, louder and much, much more rigorous than it was before.

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The shadows danced that wildly, she assumed.

“Oi. What are you doing out so late?”

Nayana gasped, being brought back to reality. Her eyes were wide at her chitti’s form in front of her, her aunt’s gaze inquisitive in its own way.

Chitti narrowed them now, walking toward her. Nayana stood up straight before bolting backwards, as she watched her chitti knock on the door of her father’s cabin. She had done it now. The secret of the shadows was brought out to light.

She shut her eyes and expected silence.

What she heard was her chitti scream — a shrill sound in the dead of the night. Nayana’s eyes opened wide as she saw Latha scram out of the room, topless and a mess of her hair — and her own father, inside, topless too.

It did not make sense. Why did he look away?

It did not make sense. Why did Latha run off ?

She spotted her mother come toward the room. Amongst all other noise, she zoned out her mother’s screams as well. The men came next, marching toward this one room — the one where there was so much magic just a moment ago — and screamed as well.

“What’s happening?” Nayana’s voice was lost amongst the crowd.

“Amma?”

No one heard her. There were people crying. People fighting. Her father was being pulled out. Pushed. But, Nayana was still.

She looked at the candle on the windowsill. The orange of the room was bright — the wall was portraying men toppling over one another and in 47

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the midst of it all, her father was the one who formed the core. This dance was aggressive. This dance was uncomfortable to watch.

"What happened?" She cried now, but the answer came to her via memory.

Her chitti’s voice was loud and clear — now more than ever before.

You will know when you grow up.

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Dark waters...

S Saritha

Dark water, empty skies, Desolate trees, stifled sighs.

The air rings with the words unspoken The thick silence weighs unbroken.

The dark mirror reflects the blackness & pain & silently her eyes go cloudy & rain.

Slowly she lets go of all that she is, An empty shell now - a plastic Miss.

Only the dark waters know all that she was, The world sees only the doll made of glass.

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The Waiting

Mariam Henna

The Canvas [a sliver of cold breeze slicing through the skin, to this, the heart heaved and the eyes fluttered. breathe in‌] * The eyes, floating in thin air, dancing to the hiccups and gurgles of the stream, growing louder, darker and deeper, tearing the menacing laughter of the gulls into mists of pearls, and, with the sun trotting off to the clouds, finally elongating into strings of hollow echoes. The eyes, roping in the passage of an unmeasured time, drawing, reflecting a black silhouette from a well of murky waters, upon which lay, reminiscing a solitude, tangled wires of ferns and mosses. The eyes, mesmerized, glancing and gleaming, in harmony, at the violets and butterflies, its roots, slipping with grace, into the soul of the ballet shoes. The eyes, swaying, gazing, murmuring, in wonder at the hills that lay sprawled across the horizon.

It was, indeed, a beautiful canvas. The fragile bristles of its legs began painting strokes of perfect loops, its silken mists going round and around weaving beads of dew from dusk to dawn.

When the art reached the final phase of completion, the eyes began the meticulous task of watching and waiting. Many moons and suns went by. The mist stretched across the horizon, seeping and settling, ever so gently, into every nook and corner, every crevice, enveloping miles across miles in an empty stare. With the winds, the scent of jasmine trailed along, wafting through the silences. The nights were never quiet. The tall stalks of golden grass would make pitter-patter sounds. The anticipation grew like a malign tumour with its skin sagging under the weight of an isolation. The slow pang of a hunger rose, lingering around the branches of the old banyan tree. This tree had become its solace as it spent endless time dreaming of tranquil colours, waking up to the clarion call of the 50

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rooster and drifting off to a sleep, listening to the music of the night - a symphony of cicadas and frogs, clicking, chirping and croaking away.

Unperturbed by the staring eyes, a gentle fear settled in, clinging onto thoughts of the final moments of this waiting; an excitement surging with every movement as it loomed closer and closer, the events slowly gathering a momentum, spinning violently as if claimed by an unknown desire. The air came alive with the scent of this need. This instinct. The hunger. The fear. The violets. The scents, the sways and the rhythms; red, blue, green and yellow; triangles, squares and octagons coming closer and closer together, blurring every colour, every line and slowly ceasing to a stop leaving nothing apart from a silence. A silence, lingering, s t r e t c h i n g, until darkness stepped in. But it does not end here, the eyes can still hear. The eyes lusted with an unfathomable desire, a hunger to kill. This will soon be over, it thought, as it gazed at the shadows that fell across the rugged roads from the cattails, eagerly waiting to hear the fluttering of wings and the silence that accompanies soon after. The eyes were waiting to hear death. * A cottage stood facing the old banyan tree. The termite-infested wooden windows, which were left slightly ajar, rattled against the creaks of the wind as the call of the azaan made its way through the opening.

A squirrel, brown, black and grey, in wide-eyed admiration, scrambled around, amongst the branches of the old Banyan tree; a caterpillar, yellow, green and red, made its way from across a path lined with the violets and butterflies, its torso moving like a trapeze artist; a snake, coral-coloured, slithered, shedding and peeling its skin upon the ground.

Look inside through the window. You can see a woman in her late twenties sitting near an old wooden desk. She will not notice you. She is always lost in thought. She is a magnificent sight to look at, isn't she? You seem to have come from far. Are you here alone? Shall I confide something with you? For a long time, it has just been the two of us. We spend our days and nights looking out into the horizon, waiting and creating. I call 51

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her Sophie. Isn't that a nice name? She always appears to be lost in thought. She will not notice you. She does not notice anyone. I wonder if she ever sleeps. She lives in fear. She has the constant need to loo — who is that? (The eyes darted around in search of the intruder). A rustle.

(The leaves crunched). I heard it. (The fall of an uninvited shadow, an unwanted something or someone). Is that a reflection? Pardon me and my ineloquent manners. My imagination has been running amok for a while now, like an elephant in musth, its trunks raised and trumpeting across intangible airs, destroying and creating havoc upon all these concrete structures. Isolation has to be blamed for the eccentricities of the mind.

The imagination living in isolation, I have heard, can create fantasies of things non-existent. I have forgotten the rules of speech. Maybe, I should catch up with the novices of grammar. Or maybe not. I have no intentions to leave an impreshyu— THERE. THERE IT IS AGAIN. The presence of a shadow, interrupting my prelude.

The wind-chimes jingled like a child's innocent laughter. * Sophie's thoughts hung in mid-air as her heart quickened, overcome by a sudden surging pang, a familiar twitch tugging at her senses. The scrawny fingers, amongst which a pen sat in a gingerly manner, started to move in patterns of zig-zag, the pen hitting against the wood at mismatched intervals - lub-dup, lub-dup - resembling a broken see-saw that was thudding against the muddy ground. A frantic rhythm was beginning to take shape. lub-dup. lub-dup. lub-dup. lub-dup. It merged with the call of the azaan, flowing gently into the pores of the lazy breeze, becoming whiffs and mumbling a familiar fragrance, disappearing into the spirit of the first showers of rain and gradually descending into a palpitating rhythm of drum beats.

At this moment, as the sun shied away, a melody took birth, pushing itself out of the flesh of the earth, wailing at the strangeness of it all, remembering those fleeting moments when the unruly eyes gazed upon that something it cherished, when your heart felt an erratic thumping, 52

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when you knew an embrace of warmth.

The hair on her skin stood up. Her fingers tensed. Every evening, at this time, as the sun slowly sinks into the horizon, trying to hide underneath the surface of the earth, Sophie would wait for the lanky grey-haired man who would walk by, always deep in thought about something so trivial, so unimportant for everyone else but himself. His face would wear a wrinkled expression and silver square-rimmed spectacles behind which his jet-black eyes sat, skimming through decades of worn-out images and memories. A clothe bag would hang astride his shoulders, swinging up and down, as if they were looking around for intruders before spilling out secrets and gossip. The banyan tree sees this man. The violets are seeing this man. Even the scent of the carcass and the jasmines have been seeing this man, every day for decades now, carrying a grim look, punctual as always, walking and disappearing into the bend in the road as the azaan slowly fades away. And every day, as Sophie sees him hurrying past, she would look at him, wondering about his thoughts, of the things he would be able to tell her, of his name, of his children, of the kind of life he would have led, until he finally disappears into that bend in the road, out of sight. And then she would think of him no more until the next day at the same time when the call of the azaan would resound again.

He would be here soon, she thought, as she tried to imagine the wrinkles on his cheeks, the lines on his forehead and the peculiar manner in which he walked. She pushed open the wooden doors of her window and looked at the street outside. "Ashaduanllah Ilaaha Il Allahh", the azaan filled her room. She could feel her body warm up in anticipation. He would be here soon, she kept telling herself, as her eyes fell on the banyan tree. She took a deep breath, trying to calm her frantic mind, and closed her eyes, for the briefest of moments, meandering into thoughts sealed onto unwritten words and empty spaces. * A six-year old girl was walking with an old man, her tiny hands held firmly under his grasp. He was humming a song. A song she had always 53

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loved. The song he puts her to sleep in.

We’re washed away again We’re lost to yesterdays Won’t this stop?

Won’t this ever be the same?

I’ll wait; for the sun to shine again And I’ll wait; for the rains to hide away Far away, she could see the sun sinking into the water.

"Where do you think dead people go appuppa?", the girl asked, interrupting his singing.

"Why do you ask that kutti?"

"I would like to meet amma one day".

He just stood there for a long time, waiting for the sun to disappear and the night to unfold.

"Can you see those specks of star dust?". He was pointing to the sky.

"Umhumm".

"She lives there now".

"Will she come back?"

"I'm afraid not, my kutti".

"Can I go there then?"

"Well, she wants you to live with appuppa now. If you go there, who will appupa have? Who will appuppa sing for?"

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"We can go together then".

"Well, I don't think little girls are allowed to go there".

"How do you know that?"

"That's a long story Sophie kutti. Come, sit here next to me". They both sat down on a bench overlooking the sea. She could hear the sound of the waves crashing against the rocks, the crickets, the occasional barking of a stray dog‌ "A long time back, when appuppa was walking back home, a ship appeared from the sky and landed before me. There was no one on the road and it was quite dark. Two strange beings came out of the ship and dragged me inside". Her eyes widened. He had caught her curiosity now.

His face grew animated. He continued: "They took me far away into an unknown land and told me I cannot go back. They told me that they want to keep me with them".

"Who were they?"

"I still don’t know kutti. They were strange looking... had long faces, big eyes, big ears.. they told me that I would have to stay there with them.

I told them that I had a little girl back home and that I needed to get back".

She smiled, looking at the stars in the horizon, silently thanking them for letting her appuppa come back. By this time, she had already forgotten about the dead.

The Lines She won't make it through the night.

They were whispers.

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We have to let her mother know. It's such a sad thing to have happened..at such a young age.

Whispers growing louder, attaching with an urgency to the corners of a room. The smell of antiseptics. The room was flooded with a blinding white light. A well-lit clean room. But the whispers wouldn’t go away.

Is there a boy involved?

She could see figures peering at her through glass doors, their pupils dilated and red in colour, pecking on the glass intermittently with their knife-sharp beaks, trying to get to her and mangle the pieces of her rotting life.

What else would be the reason? She seems to come from a good family.

What about the child?

Tuck-tuck, tuck-tuck, tuck-tuck, tuck-tuck. * Caw! Caw! Caw! The cawing was incessant. The melody soared, carrying with it the scent of death and perching it upon the branches of the old banyan tree. Hungry crows tiptoed around, looking at the mangled remains of the frog. One of them flew down and pecked at the rotting carcass, pulling its intestines out. The sound of an approaching cycle bell scared it away from its task and it flew back and sat on the branch waiting for the intruder to pass. A swarm of flies buzzed around, fluttering and hovering on top of the frog. It is here that the eyes lay waiting, looking longingly at them. Soon, this will be over. * Time ticked away as Sophie waited, her fingers twitching and growing irritated at being made to wait. A crow which was sitting on the banyan tree across the street suddenly caught her staring at it and looked right 56

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back into her eyes. It made her feel uneasy. It seemed as if the crow was laughing at her. She knew the joke was on her, but she did not know why.

Her palms began to sweat and she could feel them becoming weak and cold at the same time. What could be keeping him? Why is he taking such a long time? She had been waiting for days now. She hasn't been able to write ever since he stopped the ritual of walking past the cottage, into the bend in the road during the evening call of the azaan. She longed to see him, to see that awkward gait with which he carried himself. A fly began buzzing erratically at the corner of her ear, nudging her gently from the humdrum of her thoughts. Her eyes turned to the notebook.

The pages have not been turned for a while. She could barely feel the pen sitting against her fingers. Her pen slipped and fell out of her hands, onto the desk with a thudding sound. Her alarm rang. It was 6.45 PM and he still has not passed by. * A woman was lying on a bed, in a corner of the cottage. I could hear her gentle breathing. Suddenly, it became frantic, reaching a hypnotic state.

I began to see things. I became the woman on the bed, in a corner of the cottage. I was in a fetal position. I was breathing. I could not open my eyes. But, I could see everything in the room. I tried to move my legs.

I tried to get up. But, my legs felt as if they were being weighed down with lead. I started screaming. I was screaming for help. Two men walked into the cottage. They did not notice me. They did not hear me. They did not help me. They sat down to have lunch, made conversation with each other, laughed heartily and left. But they failed to hear my voice.

They failed to hear my screams. The room became eerily quiet, but the scream was still piercing through my head. Only a sigh escaped from my lips. Why couldn’t the men see me or hear me? Panic crawled over me. I had to get up. If I didn’t, I would never wake up. I made one last attempt to move. I was moving. My legs were moving. But, as I turned to look around, I could see the same woman lying on the bed, in a corner of the cottage.

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The Spiral Beep. Beep. Beep. Beep. The monitors were alive. On the next bed, an old lady had assumed a crouching position. She could hear her breathe, like an animal crying out with the agony of an un-explainable pain. Her eyes covered the entire distance of the room in the next few seconds.

She could sense an orderliness in the space. A creation of life and death, much like a spider who weaves its web to attract and deceive. The fly, once caught in the web would have no more life in it; to it minutes stretch into an eternity of its time, waiting for the spider to crawl over the web and put it out of its misery. Until then, it would cling on to the final moments of life and death. She was the fly, trapped and entangled amongst endless tubes.

She could see the silhouette of a man in the darkness. He was holding her hand, trying to comfort her, staring at her with a faint smile. She did not recognize him. She tried to squint her eyes to have a better look. He looked so desolate and weary. Or was there a tinge of resentment? She tried to move. Who are you? She wanted to ask. What are you doing here? Her mouth felt like it was restrained from opening or uttering those words. Her thoughts dissolved into the quiet room.

Hello? Helloo?

Can you hear me?

Where am I? This will end soon. He was saying.

What is happening?

Don’t worry. This will end soon. He kept murmuring. You have to remember what you did to me. Do you know where this all began? He was talking more to himself than to her.

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And then time began to move in a loop alternating between a swift precision and that of a snail’s pace that she could no longer comprehend the world. With each moment, she knew, she knew deep inside where this was leading to.

Please, make this stop. She pleaded.

He did not take heed of her requests.

Please, please make this stop. I will do anything. I WILL DO ANYTHING YOU WANT. Please, just make this stop.

And then the carousel started to spin with such a violent force that she was thrown off balance and she found herself falling into a never-ending darkness, into a void. She reached a space where there existed only an excruciating silence. She got up and began to walk around, trying to find her way in the darkness. Her eyes had adjusted to the light by now and she found, looming ahead of her, a spiral staircase. She ran towards it, and stood at the bottom of the stairs, panting, waiting to catch her breath.

This was her way out. * Isn't it strange to be living in a world where we could fade in or fade out at any moment of time? Death comes at odd times. You might be sleeping, or thinking, or laughing at a random joke and then…The azaan resounded. Her heart leapt, thudding violently against her chest. She was holding a pen. What was she doing with a pen, anyway? Writing? She should keep it aside. This was yesterday. Days have gone by. Why am I still holding a pen? I was holding it yesterday. Why has he not come yet? * "You have put me on a leash Sophie. You control my actions...you control my thoughts. I am always conscious of what I have to tell you because I am scared of how you will react. This is not the kind of life that I want… doing the stupid dishes...".

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She sat at the dining table, cutting slices of raw mangoes.

"Why are you quiet now?

"What do you want me to say?", her voice sounded alien even to her.

"You said that when one of us is unhappy, we could walk away. So, let me go. I am tired of this game where we keep going around in circles. I cannot pretend to be happy. I am a failure Sophie. I will never be able to give you back the same". * She was on the cycle-rickshaw, her ears tiredly listening to the neighbour’s rants whilst at the same time attempting to study the details of the expressions appearing upon his cheeks, his eyes, his forehead. A laugh broke out. She has been silent for too long. She should laugh along with him, or he will think she is not listening. Laugh. Now. Whew. That was close. He barely noticed.

"Sophiee...". The voice in her head changed. "You are my favourite little girl". A familiar voice. She was crouching now, cuddled up against a frail chest, her body being rocked to and fro in those thin arms. "Will you keep a secret?". There was warmth. Appuppa? "I will tell you a story. But this story is a secret. It's only for you. I will tell you the story if you promise to go to sleep". Sophie nodded. "Close your eyes now and follow my voice".

She knew she was at their verandah. She could feel the moon and the stars silently looking at her, talking to each other about their days. * In here, I don’t know when its morning or night. There is darkness all around me. I looked at the old woman on the bed beside me, gulping in large breathes of air, her chest moving up and down. Fragile. Awaiting death.

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The Beginning A man and a woman were walking through a narrow road near a lake.

They passed by a man who was taking an afternoon nap in his rickshaw. A dog followed them, wagging its tail, keenly listening to their conversation and trying in vain to catch their attention.

"Hearing you laugh is the best part of my day".

"You are biased".

"Maybe. But it's true. You should laugh more often".

They kept walking in a peaceful silence, occupied by their thoughts.

"What are you thinking?"

"That language is strange".

"It is. What makes you think of it though?"

"A word as simple as an ink-stain can trigger a chord of endless memories.

Doesn't it"?

The dog had managed to catch their interest to its life by now and she bent down to give it a quick pat on its back. * A stout pleasant looking woman sat opposite her scribbling notes onto a brown file. At the top of the file were written in bold letters: SOPHIA AGE 28. A desk separated them. The walls were covered with posters that detailed the intricacies of the human mind. “Sophia, guilt is a normal process. I am calling it normal because we can 61

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never be sure of what is good or bad.”

She nodded in compliance but did not make any eye contact with the pleasant looking woman. Her thoughts were racing in a million directions.

Will she find out the truth? She continued to stare absent-mindedly at the desk.

“And your guilt is not coming because you cared. It is from you feeling powerless, or rather petty at yourself ”.

Sophia looked up, trying to comprehend the words that were being thrown at her. Meaningless hollow words.

“You are feeling petty because despite the event that has happened your concern is that of a shift in the power balance. You don't have a voice anymore. You feel petty at yourself, at the nature of your thoughts and that's okay".

Her face filled with horror. That is not true. She just stared at her fingers, trying to control the urge to get up and walk away. * The fly was caught in the web. The fragile old woman died yesterday. And she drifted off to a sleep, thinking of the lies and the empty words that would forever lie seeped within the trenches of dirt, grass and bones. * This moment would be gone even before the dew nestles upon the leaf.

There is always that unknown feeling of what can lay ahead much like the blinding darkness that takes over when the train enters the tunnel: this passing, easing, gently into the void. Night-time descended, crawling over the graves…fresh...old…A lone dog was barking into the night air illuminated by the orange street lamps. It turned around and began to bark viciously, frightened at the sight of a black figure staring back at it.

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The figure loomed larger, enraged by the barking. A thousand fireflies danced around the banyan tree. The butterflies froze. A frail old man started to ramble a bed-time story to a little girl, rocking her against his chest. The carousel stopped spinning. He breathed his last. A cold stethoscope was placed on her chest as the nurse instructed her to breathe out. The eyes closed. After endless waiting, she shut the windows never wanting to hear the azaan again and the last strand of thought that she remembered before she closed her eyes was: wouldn't it be nice to just be...? ***

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Demented

Chintan Shelat

Blue dripping from the aerial nose-ring Trying to shut out the forest fire Jewels atomized in the dark air Blurred in the reflection In the milky still waters Mountains haunted by glowworms In crackling silence The scene Demented by the eyes Overlooking From the edge of the woods

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Haunting Hunger

Chintan Shelat

Written on the fingertips with morning dew, The regrets of the night past.

Fingers furling around the grass beams uprooting the screech.

Clicking nails Moistening the ear canal with slow dripping spit, Dream appears like an apparition or an apparition was a dream Something slashes around and the sun drags down the noon Air goes crazy in the skull.

Haunting voices wait for the crack.

An escape into the sins of the dark night Waiting Hunger like.

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The Death of My Macher Jhol and the Travel-Enthusiast Gujaratis!

Moulika Danak

Travelling is a basic need, and I won’t glorify it, mainly because science does the job for me. Well, blame it on the genes or the availability of basic resources (i.e. money and relatives), Gujaratis are known for being travelenthusiasts. Do you ever wonder why other communities don’t travel so often? Because not everybody has a mota-bhai* in the States, right?

So coming back to the point: Travelling. Let me begin this with a free advice worth 24ct. Gold. The probability of your travelling to a place should be inversely proportional to the number of people you know there. Now if you are a Gujarati,God save you! Yes, you will find your folks on Mars too.

And guess what, the new NASA reportclaims to have found traces of bhakarwadis and khakhras up there.

The fact is that people travel to be a part of different space than their routine one, to see new faces, hear different languages and experience a different culture. But being a Gujarati comes with its own T&C. Anywhere you go, you will always feel home (No, literally). Out of all the chaos in Telugu on the streets of Tirupati, you will distinctively hear “Mota bhai, halo aithi sonu leta jaaiye! (Hey, let’s buy some Gold from here).” Forget domestic destinations, we do not spare being ourselves even in foreign countries. One of my aunts used to live in Wembley (a mini Gujarat emerging in Canada). Even there they managed to buy ‘vegetables on lorry’; after-all ‘Wal-Mart ma dhaniya mafat nathi aapta, right? (Well, they don’t give freebies in the mall)’. It is not surprising how many regions in foreign countries are turning into ‘Gujjuland’ where their own natives come across as foreigners against the pungent aroma of dhokla and khandvi ruling the hi-tech streets.

Omnipresence is every Gujarati’s pride because, as Gujjus, we firmly believe in “sau no sath sau no vikas” (Everyone contributes, everyone grows)! It is an unsaid law to bank upon a particular Kishore kaka who 69

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lives in Canada and imports two to three distant relatives every year.

Expansion of motel and maintaining relations go hand-in-hand. Two estates, three cars and an uncle with a motel in Canada is a prerequisite to marry a Gujju girl. Instead of being a Doctor or a Lawyer, just be an NRI, and you win half the battle. You are technically allowed to look ugly and earn less as far as your salary needs conversion from dollars. In the scanning eyes of old idle aunties of the community any single NRI is first an eligible bachelor (and then maybe a plumber on work permit).

However, Gujjus are sweet. Really! So magically sweet that when they take a pinch of salt to add in daal, it somehow turns into Sugar! Also, savoury is not even a word for them! So sweet that, to them, salt is also ‘meethu’*.But the sweetest thing they do is when they say “Lai jaaone, tamarathi kyaa paisa maangya?” (Take it, don’t worry about the money), and two days later they will call with even more sweetness saying -“Kem mota bhai, vastu lai gaya pachhi modhu pan nathi dekhadta 700 rupiya mate.

Bolo, kyare aavu bhabhi ni cha piva?” (Why, Brother, you haven’t shown your face, that too for mere 700 bucks? Anyway, tell me when should I come to drink Bhabhi’s tea?).

Once I happened to visit Bengal (my native) where, unsurprisingly, I found my Gujju folks. I was in Bengal to see Bengal and even be a Bengali, especially because of the food. I almost cried when my relatives almost forced me to have lunch at their place. Because I knew what awaited me.

I could already smell pickles and taste ghee-filled sukhdis*!

So the next day, I sat on the dining table with heavy heart mourning the death of my Machher Jhol as they happily served me with dhokla, khaman and undhiyu. The grin that they gave and the expectations of praise in their eyes at that moment were incredible. You know what is worse than having regular food in an exotic city? Not-so-regularly made regular food.

What tells them that I would crave for magaz*in the city of sondesh and rossogullas? I was in the city of adrenaline-rush giving food but they thought it would do me good if I could get food that I have been 70

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eating, perhaps because my waist line was normal! The trouble did not end there. Unfortunately, they had two little kids who were trained to sing poems to the guests. Now the worry is not much about the cold murder of a poem in proper Gujju* accent that I had to witness, it was about switching my mode from ‘how cute’ to ‘what-a-talented-kid-you have-raised’ to look involved till the end.

And finally comes the ‘Return of the uncalled favours’ stage. They will kill your ‘travel-light’ plans and load you with stuff for your mutual relatives.

The indication begins with extra servings of dessert, unceasing wide smiles and conversation moving to courtesy and kindness. That is your signal to exit before you are loaded with extra luggage because nobody wants to be a part-time post-man once they return home, right?

To put it simply, it does not matter whether you are going to Maldives or Mathura, the only thing that matters is the unfamiliarity of the place as you discover it layer by layer. Your khandvi is going to taste the same on the beach as it does on your couch, so when you are out there in a different world let nobody decide things for you. Choose to scoop out your experiences afresh because it is the only period when you can be what you really want to be!

*Gujju: Short for Gujarati *Mota-bhai: Gujaratis are known to address men with this term to indicate respect and endearment *Meethu: A Gujarati word for salt, which also means sweet. *Magaz and Sukdhi: Sweets popular among Gujaratis *Bhakarwadi, khandvi, dhokla, khaman are popular snacks in Gujarat

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Travelogue

Kruthika Nagaraj

I believe change is something everyone craves. Regardless of the age or status, we all need something new. When life gets monotonous, people usually frown upon a student who quotes life as droning, but I beg to differ; as fun as it can get—going out, meeting friends, attending classes (sarcasm intended) for someone who is smitten all over with wanderlust— anywhere but here is monotony.

With this note, I start all my large travel plans by latching onto the same reason—because life is monotonous; although the fact is as simple as the need and want to travel. The most vivid and unforgettable memories are made through getting up and out; especially when it is the place as splendid as the Himalayas. A two-(wo)man journey, it was.

We began our journey with an R.A.C (sharing one seat for two). Little did we know, this is the least comfortable place we would be in for next 20 days.

Leh – a place far, far away according to my concerned mother (it is, given we stay in the southern-most tip of the nation). To plan is simple, however, to get there is beyond challenging. A typical route would be from Delhi—Manali—Leh, which would take up to 4 days from Bangalore, by road. We decided to take the other route—Bangalore-Delhi-JammuSrinagar-Leh (and the blame here falls entirely on the lack of info). After barely making it to Jammu and nearly missing our train, we made it through splendid valleys, famous warfare regions of Kargil and Drass.

For someone who has grown up reading books about these very locations, the actual sight rendered upon me the existence of several beautiful yet aching tales.

The place was to me a small hamlet-amidst the valley, with a 360 degree view of rugged-unforgiving mountains. The view makes the life worth living for. A very peaceful place decorated with prayer flags all over, and 72

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wheels with the friendliest people I’ve met in all my life. As we trekked with our very jolly guide, Jimmy, stopping to catch a breathe every few minutes as the oxygen is not in abundance at 15000ft. Stok-kangri was the peak that was to be reached. We were a group of 31 extremely heterogeneous sect of people who varied from ages of 21-50 (what we usually refer to as annoying-elders were the most jovial I met there, frankly). Small cafes called ‘Mitra’ also provided snacks to passer-by en route the trek, living up to what they had named themselves.

I discovered a sight like nothing else in that spot. A must do, if you ask me. To be able to sip on your hot yak tea just gazing at the splendid snow covered, majestic Himalayan mountain range.

Khardhung-La, the highest motorable road in the world, is an image I can conjure by just closing my eyes now. To be there is wonderful, to ride there however (2 girls, especially) on our Royal Enfields sure did win a few stares and awes. Challenging, scary, exciting—describes perfectly what the ride to Khardung-La was. No other sight can match the rocky mountain terrains with deep ravines on one side and the towering 74

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mountains on the other. No room for error at the same time, since you just can’t take your eyes off the scenic view that it offers. It also has a few surprises; like quick and scary truck drivers who seem to have no mercy, and beautiful brooks which happen to dance their way across the socalled road making the whole ride an obstacle course at over 18000 ft!

As we bid adieu to the land of ‘Lama’, we headed off towards Amritsar.

Of course, witnessing fog filled roads where one can't even see the other side, our van driver thought it was best to be a little more daring and hit the third gear. With hearts in our hand, we safely reached Amritsar. From massive, intimidating Himalayas to the pristine ‘Golden temple’ and the land of warriors; but, I must say, a part of me was still left back in the Himalayan hamlet.

We continued on to embark upon the second part of our journey. The golden temple provided us with just enough comfort—delicious food and a calm atmosphere. However, the goose bumps at Wagah-Attari border–India-Pakistan border and the rush of patriotism when you see the B.S.F at the flag-off were moments one must witness. Having made new friends, and witnessed all the wonders our journey—it came to an end at one of the world’s wonders: The Taj Mahal. Beauty in itself.

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If this took years in building, then one can most definitely see years scream at you when your eyes land on the marvellous piece of art.

At the end of this long (but as short as I could condense it) summary of our 20 day travel, I would like to say that this is the kind of road trip everyone must experience. A journey through strange cities, the intimidating yet motherly Himalayan mountain range, the pride of our country, the Taj Mahal, and some crazy fog-filled roads with extremely talented and brave drivers.

This was something worth every penny and sweat shed. Something to quench the wanderlust in us for a little while. One can argue that wanderlust cannot be quenched as it replenishes itself with every wonder.

I can understand that perfectly now. I wouldn’t go on to say that my journey ended here. I would simply say that my journey just began.

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Photography

Melvin Thomas

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Photography

Melvin Thomas

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Photography

Melvin Thomas

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Photography

Melvin Thomas

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Photography

Melvin Thomas

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Photography

Melvin Thomas

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Blues

Aishwarya Vyas

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Summer Splash

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Khaled Shbib

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Cloud 9

Srividya Devadas

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Birds of a feather

Srividya Devadas

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Spinning Tales

Srividya Devadas

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Queen's Bath

Srividya Devadas

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Moth and the Flame

Samvit Joshi

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hito

Maithilee Sagara

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nakama

Maithilee Sagara

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Michael

Maithilee Sagara

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Photography

Abhishek Gopurathinkal

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Photography

Abhishek Gopurathinkal

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Contributors Abhishek Gopurathinkal Abhishek Gopurathinkal is an aspiring song writer, composer, vocalist and guitarist.

Aishwarya Vyas Aishwarya Vyas belongs to the quiet town of Nadiad and is currently pursuing bachelor's in commerce in the city of Ahmedabad. She loves K-pop and is teaching herself Korean. Among many other crafty hobbies, Aishwarya found solace in painting. Her preferred tools for expression are pallette knives and oil paints.

Anahita Sarabhai 90's kid. Born dancer, animal lover/activist, feminist kill joy, moon obsessed. Teaching teens how to get their shit together and be genuinely good human beings, usually through Theatre and English Lit. Trying to turn the tides of a non-existent queer scene in Ahmedabad. Currently reading Adiche's Americanah and doing some mental prep to go back to being a vegan in 2017!

Chintan Shelat Chintan Shelat, originally from Gujarat, is now based in Bangalore.

Fatima Zareen Fatima Zareen moved to Dubai in 2001 starting her stint as a copywriter.

Currently she is the Director – Creative Services of C advertising.

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She feels the best of her is yet to come. Her passions include writing and travelling. When she is not busy with strategic plans and events you can find her whipping up a meal and listening to music. Someday she plans to write lyrics for upcoming artists.

H S Shivaprakash Professor, Theatre and Performance Studies, JNU, New Delhi.

Author of 9 books of poems, 15 plays and 3 critical works in Kannada, which are widely discussed, performed and translated into several Indian languages and into English, French, Italian and German. Winner of several best book prizes from Krnataka Literary Akademi for books of poems, translations and plays. Academic areas of interest include theatre/literary history, Indian theatre, Medival Studies, Comparative Literature, translation and folklore. Winner of the prestigious Rajyotsava Award from Karnataka State (2006) and Sangeet Natak Akademi Award from National Theatre Akademi (1997) and Sahitya Akademi (2012) Participated in International Writing Program in School of Letters, University of Iowa, USA (2000). Former Editor, Indian Literature, the journal of National Akademi of Letters. Former Dean, SAA, JNU. Former Director, The Tagore Centre, Berlin, Germany.

Has travelled, lectured and read poetry in various countries in Europe, Asia and Americas.

Important English publications in English include I Keep Vigil of Rudra (Penguin Classics, 2009), Traditional India Theatre (New Delhi, 2006), Autumn Ways (Sahitya Akademi, New Delhi, 2010), Indian Theatre 2000 (edited) (New Delhi, 2011), In Other Worlds:Poems 1976-2000 (Poetrywallah,Mumbai 2014), Everyday Yogi (Harper Collins,New Delhi 2014) Harshavardan Sumant Harshavardan Sumant or ‘Harsha’ as he is known to his friends is a 98

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student of Philosophy at Manipal Centre for Philosophy and Humanities. He has a deep interest in philosophy, music, literature and being at peace with the world. Harsha is a musician, a thinker, a friend and, for the purposes of this magazine, a writer.

Jessica Cariappa Jessica cannot be processed with a normal brain. She’s bonkers about fantasy (Anime, Game of Thrones and most particularly, a wizarding world that drives her nuts). Airhead. Amateur internet ninja. Wannabe pirate (If someone figures out the anime reference here she’ll give you a virtual cookie).

Foodie. You can ask her for tic-tacs. She always has them. If you want a favor done, bribe her with food.

Specifically, chicken wings.

Khaled Shbib Khaled Shbib currently works as the Senior Channel Marketing Manager at Oracle, Sub – Saharan Africa. He is a creative and strategic thinker and result driven with over 20 years of success in technology sales. Originally from Syria, he graduated from Kingston University London and has traveled extensively before moving to Dubai. At his core, Khaled is an artist evolved around a strong love for nature. The aesthetically done mini orchard on his front yard to the brightly hued brush strokes on canvas, gives a glimpse of the man he is.

Kruthika Nagaraj Mechanical Engineering student from Bengaluru. Avid reader, passionate about trekking and climbing.

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Maithilee Sagara Refer to the Teatotallers Manjushree Chancasana Manjushree can be spotted most often running around campus. Not because she has anywhere to be, but her natural pace is just really fast. She could probably win first place at a speed eating contest. She fancies herself a knight (which she considers a gender-less trope in this context) and if you ever need someone to say “No!” for you, you know who you can come to. If you’re planning a game of frisbee or badminton or football you can always count her in, the only sport she will not entertain is cricket.

Mariam Henna Refer to the Teatotallers.

Melvin Thomas Melvin’s mood is dynamic and in a constant state of flux. He got that from sociology, but wait, he’s suddenly inspired by Gertrude Stein. There.

Filmmaker. Before sociologist? Filmmaker. Maker of films. Fiction.

Documentaries that are fiction. Everything is fiction. Sociologist.

Poverty, gender recognition, politics, equality, frisbee. Keeps flying. Into and over.

Filmmaker. Sociologist. Human, may be?

Thinker. Therefore I am. Something. All of them. Melvin-aha.

Michael Ampat Varghese Refer to the Teatotallers.

Moulika Danak Moulika Danak, 22, is a literature graduate who is currently pursuing Masters in Development Communication at Gujarat University. She isis a full time student and part-time freelance content writer and actor, for 100

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now. While she may not define herself as an ardent traveller but she is definitely and observer, who firmly believes that root of any art lies in observation, experience and imagination. She also believes an observer seldom gets bored yet an artist often needs transitions. Basically, a moody ambient who writes blog-friendly content and poems as a rant to vent out a feeling or picture stuck too hard in her mind. Sometimes, and because she is moody, she also manages to click portraits and street-candid and, other times she tries to fabricate a thoughtful caption to suit the frame! She is a good listener and even better pretender who prefers train rides over flight because humans, to her, make for interesting subjects even if they may not be as great companions as canines and felines!

Mudita Vardhan Mudita Vardhan is a student at St. Xavier’s College, Ahmedabad and is pursuing her bachelor’s degree in English Literature. She wishes to study creative writing and research methodology and has written and edited for her campus newspaper. She is a budding writer, a homemaker, an agony aunt, and a bullet journalist. As a literature student, she wishes to spend more time reading and writing but is often found watching cat videos and/ or TV shows instead. A baby Whovian, she is quite obsessed with the theories of time-travel and the science and history behind it. Mudita is also passionate about rock and metal music and she has studied some bits of music theory and western classical music. Her subjects of interest include gender studies, Cold War history, music criticism, and literary criticism.

Parikshith Shashikumar Parikshith is a sociology student, who hails from the town of Shimoga in the state of Karnataka. After surviving school, Pari, as his friends call him, took a wrong turn and ended up in a commerce program, where he took a liking to business studies but the relationship was totally one sided. Heartbroken, Pari decided to follow his mind, and by that I mean pursue a degree in psychology. In doing so he found himself in Banglore 101

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with a triple major degree of Psychology, Sociology and English studies bearing down on him. There having come betrothed to psychology, he ended up shamelessly falling head over in love with sociology and having a tortuous affair with English studies. In the end, he was selected for the English honors program. It was through this program that he chanced upon an internship at Manipal Center for Philosophy and Humanities.

The rest on how he weaseled his way into the sociology program or how he took to writing poetry and short stories, well you best ask him yourself.

Samvit Joshi Samvit Joshi, 20, currently studying filmmaking in Mumbai. As a kid, he loved to draw and always carried his sketchbook along with him. He was sure he wanted to become a painter until he discovered music in high school. He learnt the piano for a couple of years before finally turning to films after college. He believes that his sense of art helps him in the visual medium of filmmaking.

Saritha S Sarita S is an avid reader who keeps flitting from genre to genre depending on her mood at the moment. She is an innately curious person who keeps trying out new things as she believes that one can never know whether they like something or not unless they've tried it first.

She's also an eccentric nerd who tends to be socially awkward and one of the easiest ways to draw her out of her shell is to start talking about Doctor Who, anime, Korean dramas or books. Saritha is studying literature at MCPH.

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Shamini Kothari Currently finishing her Masters in Sexual Dissidence at University of Sussex. She might finish her PhD next year or might give up and open a chai stall—she is still undecided. Grumpy morning person and queer feminist killjoy.

Srividya Devadas Refer to the Teatotallers.

Yatri Ajabia A student of English Literature at St. Xavier’s College, Ahmedabad, she loves reading, singing and cooks while doing both at times. She is a Potterhead for life and is always ready to give life and love advice to friends, sometimes strangers too. She stalks people for fun and loves giving gifts. She is an Associate Editor at Youth Connect Magazine since 2013 and believes that stories are the only way to connect to other people.

She loves making friends and believes that a cup of coffee can solve absolutely everything. She writes poetry for herself and wishes to experiment as time goes because even after all this, she is a shy writer who is skeptical about her work.

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The Teatotallers Editor-in-chief Mariam Henna Mariam Henna grew up listening to her grandfather's fictional accounts (which at that time she believed to be true and maybe still does) of his adventures with extra-terrestrials. Since then, she has nurtured a love for stories and has been fascinated by the potential of words to suspend one in time. Quite often, she tends to get lost in the spaces of dreams and imagination - creating characters and outlining plots and lives.

Thoughts on art, culture, spaces, lines, colors, birds and the sky occupy most of her time and at other times, she enjoys walking through paths crowded with trees, flowers and butterflies. She is currently working as the Design Editor of Lakeview International Journal of Literature and Arts and is pursuing her Masters in English at Manipal Centre of Philosophy and Humanities. She hopes to become a teacher someday and inspire a curiosity for learning.

Poetry Editor Abhimanyu Acharya Abhimanyu Acharya writes as well as translates in both English and Gujarati. Several of his stories, plays and translations have been published in reputed Magazines, including Sahitya Akademi’s ‘Indian Literature’.He is a recipient of ‘Travel grant to young authors for cultural and linguistic exchange’ by the National Akademi of letters, and was an invited speaker, again by Sahitya Akademi, in the program ‘North East and Western Young writers meet’ in 2012. His story is included in an 104

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anthology published by National Book Trust. He is currently pursuing his Masters in Literature at Manipal Centre for Philosophy and Humanities, Karnataka.

Fiction Editor Michael Varghese Michael Varghese is a writer and poet. He has nurtured a passion for writing from his teen years. He has been featured in The Poetry of War & Peace, compiled by Brain Wrixon, and has self-published an anthology of poetry called The Abyss that Flinched. He attempts to grasp within language, ideas and thoughts that seem to be ephemeral and fleeting— emotions, static noise and introspective gaze. He aims to push the boundaries of his own ability to write. He worked as a Copy Editor at ansrsource India for a year. He finished his Bachelor’s degree from Christ University and is currently pursuing his Master’s degree at Manipal Centre for Philosophy and Humanities.

Creative Non-Fiction Editors Abbas Bagwala Abbas grew up making love to paradigms of all sorts, although he came to know that only much later. He is really passionate about knowledge that is empowering. He is a former physics student, and has always been interested in philosophy. He currently studies philosophy at Manipal Center for Philosophy and Humanities, and his interests include physics, literature, and sociology as well. He loves chess as much as he loves ideas. And he tries to play the violin.

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Tanima Nigam Tanima Nigam was born and brought up in Kanpur, Uttar Pradesh. After completing an undergraduate degree in Philosophy from Lady Shri Ram College, Delhi University, Tanima Nigam chose to pursue her fascination with Philosophy at MCPH. As an enthusiastic thinker and observer, she choses to philosophize in isolation. Being selectively social, she prefers not to disclose her academic writings to others.

As a student of philosophy, she aspires to discover a new branch of philosophy, which has not been discussed before by any theorist or philosopher.

Visual Art Editor Srividya Devadas Srividya Devadas is currently pursuing her Masters in Philosophy at Manipal Centre of Philosophy and Humanities. She did her Bachelors in Craft Design from Indian Institute of Crafts and Design. She was exposed to photography during these four years at Jaipur and eventually developed a passion towards it. She likes to capture the essence of the everyday and to pause that moment in time.

Design Editor Maithilee Sagara Maithilee Sagara is interested in Indian and Western mythology, Anime, Japanese Culture and minority studies, especially feminist and gender studies. She has been a part of AFS intercultural programs as a volunteer and a returnee since her exchange to Japan in 2011.She is fascinated by visual culture, and is learning art. She is a foodoholic and wishes to travel the world. She is currently pursuing her Masters in Literature at 106

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Manipal Centre for Philosophy and Humanities, Karnataka.

Associate Editors Malvika Lobo Malvika Lobo has a bachelor's degree in chemistry, physics and math. She loves reading and observing people. She'll read anything and everything. She's currently pursuing a masters degree in English literature at the MCPH. S Srinath S. Srinath is obsessed with unnecessary arguments which will never benefit anyone. A fat ass who loves watching and playing sports. And finally would help annoy his colleagues to the point of breakdown.

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