Chaicopy Imba/ance Issue Vol.1 Sept 2017

Chaicopy Vol.1, Imba/ance Isuue September, 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 - Nikhil Ravishanker Cover Artwork - Prem Jyothis

Editorial Board Editor-in-chief : Mariam Henna Poetry Editor: Abhimanyu Acharya Assistant Poetry Editors: Tanvi Deshmukh, Krutika Patel, Amulya Raghavan Fiction Editor: Michael Ampat Varghese Assistant Fiction Editors: Tanushree Baijal, Dipto Roop Banerjee Creative Non-Fiction Editors: Abbas Bagwala, Tanima Nigam Visual Art Editor: Srividya Devadas Assistant Visual Art Editor: Pavithra S Kumar Design Editor: Maithilee Sagara Assistant Design Editor: Nikhil Ravishanker Associate Editors: S Srinath, Malavika Lobo, Arush Kalra, Ashwini Hegde, Tanya Agrawal

Editorial In the small university town of Manipal where Chaicopy began, where there are so many students and so many different departments, our team of editors inhabit the beautiful space of MCPH, a space that is a constant flux of disembodied thoughts, discussing and arguing over everything under the sun. In our first issue, we approached the idea of fragmentation, an idea that was embraced by our contributors. As individuals, we often experience this fragmentation, a crisis of identity, a crisis of place and a crisis of being. It is along this vein of thought that we began our discussion to decide what our next issue will represent.

One of the factors that has been weighing down on us over the past year has been the prevalence of a need to talk about mental health and the stigma surrounding it. During the same time, Manipal University set up our very own Student Support Centre where students can talk to mental health professionals, to have a space to figure out aspects of themselves. With this, came the idea of what it means in our time to be a ‘balanced individual’ and therefore, for our second issue, we chose the theme ‘Imba/ance’.

The call for submissions was sent out with the theme ‘Imba/ance’ to gain some perspective on the kinds of narratives that can be built on this idea. While we had initially opened it with the thought of mental health narratives, it soon became clear that the idea of imbalance resonates through many different aspects of our individual lives. We had invited four special features: an interview with Jnanpith Awardee Dr. Chandrashekhara Kambara, an interview with world renowned travel writer Amy Gigi Alexander, poetry by David Ishaya Osu and photo-poetry by Swastika Jajoo. I would like to thank each of them for enriching our journal. The cover art for this issue is by Prem Jyothis and it truly captures the essence of the theme.

I am grateful to Dr. Nikhil Govind, head of MCPH, for the constant

support extended to Chaicopy and to Dr. Gayathri Prabhu for her expert suggestions with regard to the journal. This issue has also significantly benefitted from the continued support of faculty, students and alumni of MCPH. I would like to thank each and every contributor for their submissions without which this issue would not have been possible.

I would also like to thank Kiran Nagarkar, who is currently writerin-residence at Manipal University, for honouring us by agreeing to release this issue of the journal.

I welcome to the team our new batch of editors: Tanvi Deshmukh, Tanushree Baijal, Arush Kalra, Ashwini Hedge, Tanya Agrawal, Diptoroop Banerjee, Krutika Patel, Nikhil Ravishanker, Pavithra S Kumar and Amulya Raghavan. I thank them for their patience, their willingness to learn and also the valuable insights that they provided in the process of making this issue. I would like to thank each and every one of the Teatotallers for the immense amount of work that they continue to put towards the journal.

The response to our call for submissions has been tremendous and has instilled hope in us that the journal will continue to be an open space where art and literature can be seen and heard. I hope that with each issue we can continue to bring out better work and to also be able to collaborate with writers and artists. For now, the team will take a small break until the next issue.

We hope you enjoy reading the 'Imba/ance' issue of Chaicopy!

Mariam Henna September 2017

Ingredients Chai Expressions Lipstick | Poetry | 11 Cover | Poetry | 12 Reaching | Poetry | 13 David Ishaya Osu Breathe, Odile | Fiction | 14-20 Megha Solanki six times | Poetry | 21 Tanvi Deshmukh Myth, Language and Translation: An Interview with Dr. Chandrashekhara Kambara | Interview | 22-25 Abhimanyu Acharya The House that Jill Builds | Poetry | 26-28 Avy Varghese Lecter and I | Fiction | 29-30 Malvika Lobo

Research in my Mouth | Poetry | 31-32 Varsha Parkala Maslow, you suck | Poetry | 33-36 Ghar | Poetry | 37 Y S K Prerana

Kaapi Sessions Travel, Experience and Being Lost: In Conversation with Amy Gigi Alexander | Interview | 41-46 Michael Varghese Spectacle | Non-Fiction | 47-50 For What the Bell Tolls | Non-Fiction | 51-56 Parikshith Shashikumar Diamond in the rough | Non-Fiction | 57-58 Anitha Varghese Photo-Story | 59-67 Anubhav Sengupta

Visual Art | 83-86 Khaled Shbib Visual Art | 87-88 Anupa Mathews Photography | 89-93 Melvin Thomas Sky Seas | Visual Art | 94 Diti Pujara Photography | 95 Kanika Gupta

Photo-Poetry | 68-77 Swastika Jajoo A Glimpse Back | Photography | 78 Srividya Devadas When the light hits the eye | Visual Art | 79 Kinnari Acharya Dose of an Injection | Visual Art | 80 'Python' | Visual Art | 81 Under the Scanner | Visual Art | 82 Kurang Mehta

Contributors | 97-102 The Teatotallers |103-108

Lipstick

David Ishaya Osu

for the freedom of speech / for movement / this lifetime was seen yesterday in a flower close to no feedback—i am a movie for the blind, she said to a mirror given to voice & slow motion & double-lens reflex —only the body is a refrain of rain

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Cover

David Ishaya Osu

such is the greeting: i am half-pink: a voice is what is holding the flower: all her silences can enter a saxophone: friends, i will not hide my back from sunshine nor give an ear to the door bell — there had been rumours that the sky will break into whydahs, full and able to call times

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Reaching

David Ishaya Osu

i may just run wild into the sky —every mirror says open & open the house / the clones are coming

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Breathe, Odile

Megha Solanki

Breathe. Breathe. Breathe.

He found himself in a bathroom stall, his chest clenching, lungs heavy, making it so much harder to breathe.

It’s okay. No one will see you here. Breathe.

He could still feel it. The crawl on his skin. The shivers down his spine.

The sweaty fingers which refused to hold on to anything.

He rubbed his eyes, trying to clear away the tears. His breath came out in short pants.

Why did I do this? Why did I have to stand there?

The eyes had refused to leave him. They had followed his every movement.

‘Don’t look up. Don’t look into their eyes.’

How hard is it to follow simple directions?

He had looked up. He saw them looking back at him.

Commenting. Judging. Laughing?

His fingers dug into his palms. The pain made him flinch. It was getting easier to breathe.

They were simply looking. You were up there and they had to look.

But he couldn’t get rid of the whispers of derision rising in the back of 14

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his head. Unfamiliar voices that belonged to unfamiliar faces that sat in those seats staring back at him.

It’s okay. Breathe. It’ll be fine. You can do this. * “Your interpretation of Odile was beautiful. I never thought of the pain that she felt.”

Odile, the Black Swan. The fake image that could never be the beauty that was Odette.

They were still talking. The people surrounding him. He couldn’t escape from here.

“This is a Swan Lake as never seen before. Choosing a man to play both Odette and Odile? I had my reservations… but it was simply exquisite.”

A pause in conversation. They were waiting for an answer.

Say something!

“Thank you. It is all because of our director. It was difficult to portray characters so different from each other. But I’m glad that you all accepted my Odette and Odile.”

Wear a mask. Meet their fleeting gazes. They won’t remember you anyways. * His reflection stared back at him.

Leg on the barre, face set in a tiny smile, hair pulled back with a hairtie, hands lifted up in the air.

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An image devoid of the pain that was screaming through his muscles.

He stared at his reflection, refusing to look away.

Watch me. Watch me as I move in this empty space. Watch me as I claim it as my own.

But it’s just you. What happens when you see all of them, waiting to peck on you as vultures after prey?

I give up.

Breathe. * The Black Swan.

Was it wrong to say that he identified with Odile? In his mind, Odile was sad, lonely, in love with a man who would never love her back.

Bested by a woman who was far better than her. Defeated by a love that conquered even after death.

His Odile could never meet the eyes of people.

Just like him.

Strangers they were to the thoughts that strangled her. Yet every time she looked into their eyes, it felt as if each and every one of them knew her secrets.

So, she never looked into their eyes. Remained hidden in the darkness that kept her soul safe from prying eyes.

His Odile was safe as long she didn’t look up.

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Don’t look up. * But Odette revelled in the spotlight, didn’t she? Brightened in the lights, the gaze of her lover on her.

Looking into the eyes of the one you love.

It became harder and harder to look into the eyes of Siegfried.

You are Odette now. Bask in the eyes of your love.

And he did that.

Move as Odette. Always look at Siegfried. Make your love for him known. Make your pain known. Be sure to keep every eye on you. Be conscious of every eye on you and make your presence known.

Being Odette was exhausting. * “Are you alright?”

It was getting harder to breathe.

Breathe! Breathe! Breathe!

He had looked into each and every eye. Seen them staring back at him.

It wasn’t you. It was Odette.

But it was me they were judging.

Breathe!

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Fingers on his shoulder. He could feel somebody shaking him. Words spoken. It was hard to understand, the roar of those loud eyes drowning him.

“Look at me.” A firm voice through the roar.

I don’t want to. Don’t make me look.

“Can you see me?”

No “Breathe.” The voice commanded. “Listen to me.”

He could feel his lungs choking. His eyes that refused to close, stared into nothingness.

“Close your eyes. Can you do that for me? Close your eyes and just breathe.”

You can do that. Don’t try to look anywhere.

“That’s right. It’s okay.”

The rope around his chest loosened. His lungs filled with air.

“Did anyone…?” The words lodged in his throat.

“It’s just me” That’s good.

No one to see your humiliation.

Can you look at me now?”

He looked up to the warm brown eyes gazing at him.

Was I okay up there?

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“You were beautiful.”

Did he say that aloud?

“Your Odette is beautiful…”

Oh. “But your Odile shines.”

“Even in the darkness?” He couldn’t help but ask.

Even without meeting people’s eyes?

“Even in the darkness.”

“Your Odile tells me that it’s okay to not look up every time. That it is okay to not let my eyes meet others.”

“But my Odile’s broken because of that.”

“Your Odile is strong.”

He scoffed at that.

She is strong because she lives despite her brokenness.”

“You are strong.”

There were a lot more words said after that. Most of which he didn’t agree with. But something stuck.

‘You may not meet their eye, but you still stand and perform. You convey each emotion and we feel it.’ * 19

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The Black Swan stood alone on the stage. One sole light lighting the space.

Every eye remained focused on the lone figure that breathed heavily, never looking at them.

And that was fine.

Odile felt those eyes.

It’s okay to not look.

Odile, just breathe.

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six times

Tanvi Deshmukh

(Six times we tried to mend this and six times it broke again) Sometimes I wonder what a broken relationship would look like. i. television sets that have been beaten into submission one too many times, sorry screens that have given up on themselves, with blue flickering lights. constant and unchanging. static. a billion gray ants trapped behind the glassy remains of what was once soft. gentle. real. ii. an empty house i used to know. crumbling and forgotten, with a rickety doorframe and grimy windows that have gone too long without an anxious handprint, warm and insistent, pressing into them. paint peeling off the walls the way things come undone one layer at a time. iii. an abandoned postbox, hammered into a tree, that sits gathering dust little by little every day. full of old postcards and undelivered promises that exist trapped in ink and paper.

(Six times we try to mend this and six times it breaks again) But a momentary distraction, even risibly mundane, is enough to shuttle me back into reality.

A sunset. A sandwich. Heartache, like a rubber band stretched too far, that must either snap or snap back.

(I never snap back) And so it goes.

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Myth, Language and Translation: An Interview with Dr. Chandrashekhara Kambara

Abhimanyu Acharya

This interview was conducted on 14th July, 2017 in the morning at ‘Siri Sampige’- a beautiful house of Dr. Chandrashekhara Kambara, Jnanpith recipient, eminent Kannada poet and playwright. Kambara wore a sky blue shirt and a mundu, and looked enthusiastic about the interview. He talked with zeal and force about many things- his latest play, his beliefs about village and city life, and the threat posed by English to other Indian languages in an honest, graceful manner. The interview was conducted by Abhimanyu Acharya. Edited excerpts are as follows: AA. Are you currently working on something?

CK. Yes, I am writing another play.

AA. Would you please share what it is about? What are its major themes and concerns? What is it called?

CK. It is a historical play called ‘Bullakayajji’, which is the name of a local deity of the village called Shravanabelagola in Karnataka. It is set in 11th Century, and captures the life of Chamundaraya, who made the famous statue of Bahubali, the deity of Jains. It is about how Bullakayajji, the local deity, breaks Chamundaraya’s arrogance that was acquired after he made the statue of Bahubali. It addresses the themes of politics and religiosity, and considering the political scenario today, it is an extremely relevant play.

AA. Do you write regularly? Do you follow a routine?

CK. No. I write whenever I feel like writing. I have always been like this.

AA. Since your house is called ‘Siri Sampige’, and since it is also one 22

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of your major plays, let us talk about that. Is it named after your play?

What is the place this play holds for you?

CK. It is the name of a flower with a beautiful smell- Sampige. Siri means rich. The tree next to my house is Sampige tree. So, I named the house Sampige. As far as the play is concerned, it is certainly one of my better plays. But once I am done with my work, I distance myself from it. Each of my play has different techniques, themes and so on, and they all held a special place for me while I was writing them.

AA. Most of your plays, like many other post-independence playwrights, are based on folktales and myths. Do you think that folktales and myths are still relevant? Perhaps it’s time that theatre found its new idiom to grapple with contemporary questions.

CK. It depends on the playwright if he or she is able to make it relevant. One has to create one’s own language and idiom suitable for the drama and the themes. I personally think that myth will always be relevant.

AA. Many of your works feature this imaginary, ideal village called Shivapura. What led you to create a village of your own? It reminds one of Marquez’s Macondo.

CK. I come from a village, and I am not very fond of city life. I personally would like to stay in an ideal village- a village devoid of differences, discrimination and war. A village where everyone is helpful to each other. To fulfill my own need of an ideal village, I imagined and created Shivapura.

AA. ‘Shivana Dangura’, your novel published two years ago, was the last when we saw Shivapura. Are you writing more works with this village as the locale?

CK. I don’t really have anything in mind currently. But let’s see.

Perhaps I might.

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AA. O.L. Nagabhushan Swamy, who has translated your anthology of poetry into English entitled ‘Rocks of Hampi’, writes in the preface that to translate Kambara is extremely difficult because his influences are very local and folk. Are you satisfied with the translations of your works?

CK. Swamy did a fabulous job, and I really appreciate his translation.

I also agree with him that it is difficult to translate my works, because the rhythm of the language of my village is very difficult to capture in translation. My essence lies in the rhythm of language.

AA. What is your take on literary translation in India in general?

CK. I think we should translate from vernacular to vernacular, without the mediation of English. Since vernaculars in India share more or less similar history and common cultural memory, the quality of translation will be better. It will open up possibilities for new dialogues.

AA. Do you have any concerns about Kannada language? What are your thoughts about the influence of English on Kannada?

CK. I have great concern about every Indian language. They are following English. All the vernaculars should be compulsorily taught in schools. Our languages feel inferiority complex for no reason. I strongly believe that English is not at all, and can never be our mother tongue.

AA. How do you see your older works now? Do you think you would have done a better job of it if you wrote them today?

CK. Certainly. But then again, for me, a work is never complete. Even today, I rewrite some of my very old works.

AA. Have you changed as a writer over years? How? CK. Yes. I have been consciously changing myself with the times. I 24

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I feel that with each passing day, my vision is getting larger and larger.

AA. Are you happy with the current literary scenario in Kannada?

Who are the new voices in Kannada literature you admire and enjoy?

CK. I am particularly happy with new, emerging women’s writing.

They are writing poems and plays which are bold and subversive.

Many of them are re-interpreting myths. I recently read a play which was a re-interpretation of Shakuntala. It was starkly different from the original and presented a very subversive image of Shakuntala.

AA. Can you name some of these young writers?

CK. Yes. After Vaidehi, many new voices have emerged. Jayshree, Tarini, Chandrika are some of the names that comes to my mind right now. They are doing a great job in both plays and poetry.

AA. Thank you so much for sparing time for this conversation.

CK. It was my pleasure.

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The House that Jill Builds

Avy Varghese

This is the house that Jill builds This is the grass That grows on the lawn that Jill mows This is the snake That stirs in the grass That grows in the lawn That’s outside the house that Jill builds This is the hand That strokes the snake That stirs in the grass That grows in the lawn that Jill mows That's outside the house that Jill builds This is the maw That swallows the hand That strokes the snake That stirs in the grass That grows in the lawn that Jill mows That’s outside the house that Jill builds This is the moon with its singular eye That winks at the maw That swallows the hand That strokes the snake That stirs in the lawn That’s outside the house that Jill builds This is the cow that jumps over the moon That widens its eye And winks at the maw 26

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That swallows the hand That strokes the snake That stirs in the grass That grows in the lawn that Jill mows This is the maiden all forlorn The cow that jumps o’er the moon That widens its wet singular eye And winks at the maw That swallows the hand That strokes the snake That stirs in the grass That grows in the lawn that Jill mows This is the man all tattered and torn That jills off the maiden all forlorn The cow that jumps over the moon That widens its eye And winks at the maw That swallows the hand That strokes the snake That stirs in the grass That grows in the lawn that Jill mows That’s outside the house that Jill builds This is the priestess all shaven and shorn That raises the man all tattered and torn That jills off the maiden all forlorn That is the cow with crumpled horns That is the moon with its singular eye That winks at the maw That swallows the hand That strokes the snake That stirs in the grass That grows in in the lawn that Jill mows 27

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This is the cock that crows in the morn That wakes the priestess all shaven and shorn That raises the man all tattered and torn That jills off the maiden all forlorn That is the cow that crumples the horn That widens its singular wet eye That swallows the hand That strokes the snake That stirs in the grass That greens the house that Jill builds This is the Jill who sows her corn That jacks the cock that crows in the morn That wakes the priestess all shaven and shorn That raises the man all tattered and torn That jills off the maiden all forlorn That is the cow that crushes the horn That widens its wet singular eye And winks at the maw That swallows the hand That strokes the snake That stirs in the grass That grows in the lawn that Jill mows That’s without the house that Jill builds

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Lecter and I

Malvika Lobo

I sometimes think about Lecter. Lecter, with his straight black hair, his theories on self-interest and his spells of silence, was my favourite lab rat. He was an object of desire, the experimental host of all my fantasies. Sweet little Lecter, I used to call him. His silence was so morose. It never ceased to pique my curiosity. It made my melancholy bow its head down in disgrace. I tried in vain to ignore it, to pretend its existence did not bother me. But it did. Often, it still does. His austere silence. Surrounded by a desolate aura. Lingering like a foreign shadow on my inquisitive questions. Ensuring they remained unanswered, and my mind and body, unsatisfied.

I still remember the first time I saw him. Dressed in shades of black and red, he looked like the perfect palette to paint a memory with.

He was demanding. He told me all the things I wanted to hear but refused to soothe my ears with what I wanted to know. My questions were rapid, laced with all the curiosity I possessed. He tendered me more silence. The same morose silence. He imposed his fantasies and desires on me through it. I could not indulge in it for it was tedious.

It was irritating, his prosaic silence, broken only by a twitch of his neck or a wink of his eye, leading to an even more dreary silence, more bothersome calm. I could not look past it.

This immense calm spied on me incessantly. I tried to admire his red lips and those high cheekbones in order to disregard it in vain. His silence drowned all the hubbub of the shady bar we were sitting in. It brought out in me a hopeless longing that I assumed was long gone. I was sitting with an illusion of him, a paradoxical illusion that wasted words and treasured silence. Still, I nurtured hope.

This silence, I realised, was not a part of our existence at that moment.

It negated our encounter. I dived in too deep and delved solely on this illusion which I thought will fade away. I thought about his theories 29

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on self-interest and his skull. They failed to describe this facet of his personality.

I cast a mournful proprietary glance at him and choked on a silent involuntary curse. Once the suppression of the curse was accomplished, I tried to engage in the little delightful moments. I looked at him as he talked, ignoring his words. I looked for answers in his eyes. Black. They reflected the dim light rather exquisitely. He was still uttering what he thought I wanted to hear. The silence erasing away the meaning and sound of his words. I sipped my drink slowly. It was larger than his. His words compensated the lack of his drink. As the drink amalgamated with my thoughts, I could finally reduce the silence to a mere essence that accompanied his soul.

After saying what he thought I wanted to hear, he placed his lips on mine. I acknowledged his gesture with only the desire in my eyes. I got up and we went to the bathroom. Together.

The encounter in the bathroom killed my high. The baggage of curiosity was too great a burden. I used my words freely, attacking him with a barrage of questions. The tiny room was vibrating from all the pent up fury.

He looked at me with those big black eyes offering me fleeting consolation. Soothing me. He opened his mouth as I waited breathlessly.

He offered me the gift of a sigh and perpetual silence.

And then I knew, for that one moment as my heart skipped a beat, that he did not possess me. The silence did.

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Research in my Mouth

Varsha Parkala

Words remain as burnt ulcers on my lips Jagged teeth bite into the pain; Constant. Agonizing.

A moist new yearning soothes the laceration: Salty comfort in sporadic intervals.

I despise the taste of my mouth.

It has eaten words, Stories of skin, blood and flesh Bodies, lives and communities Held together by delicate bones of forbidden warriors That lie cluttered underneath my vexing tongue.

This crime shows no blood.

Only a foul smell of knowledge: Critical.Perceptive.Rational.

Someone called it “Super serious ineptitude in things not yours.�

A red, rotten tongue, heavy with words Is the first observable symptom.

It is vehemently vicious, full of intent and packs a punch.

It can touch and taste at will, Write and report, read and decipher, derive and direct.

Conversation, of course Is derided, denied and desisted.

The sweet sureness of my language Can only be passionate progressive discourse To be taught, learnt and published.

The tongue kills like no other Until it finds resistance in mouths it never wished to address.

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I haven’t shown you my gums, have I? Cans and cans of pickled privilege Preserved through consumption “And what happened to these?”, you ask.

They turned too sour when exposed.

Bad, swollen gums.

Bittersweet sores now settle on the shore of my lips.

Wounds need healing And healing requires learning.

Today, I am busy gathering seeds.

Little plants of earnest inquiry: Prodding the ulcer, puncturing my gums.

I have begun digging the smooth levelling Of the roof of my mouth.

Remember, it has taken me a while To taste my mouth; so sure it never existed.

Far more time To despise this taste That I had always, effortlessly digested.

So most Sundays I scan the meat of my mouth For gathering dust. And the rest of the week We meet to build canals For lessons to learn and those to let go Learning to ally, Allying to converge, converging to kiss.

To kiss is to sing, to sing is to speak: For, with, against.

Boats set sail to write and recite Words that otherwise set sail to be lost.

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Maslow, you suck

Y S K Prerana

a sense of belonging it’s on your tri ang le that I learnt about in my high school back home but after changing countries to study further I am not sure if 33

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“back home” is spelled the same anymore like Plath I inhabit extremities and yet don’t belong in any of those worlds ‘oscillating’ is my favorite white word but this white tongue never knew how to say ‘mother’ in its own After 21 years of being 34

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I met someone who gasped , said ‘I like the color of your skin; it’s coffee’ I bet they only drink filter I waited – (impassioned) – and wondered how only two letters could mean +more+ than passionate ; until I realised the white 35

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tongue holds more value than my body I do not belong in ( ) or { } but here I amasking: paint me in your tongue before I forget the color of my skin

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Ghar

Y S K Prerana

Make home in my flaws in the cracks between my teeth come slide in your anxiety let it rot with someone to call its own in the swollen cheeks that I call mine drag your pride along and let it stay there alone in the blood clot on my chest suture in your joys for what does a lonely soul want more than to seep into someone else’s happiness? in the bridge of my nose where sits the wound from your anger bandage upon it everything that makes you frown at 8:00 am tell me, is it my breath or is it my eyes is it the way I wear my dupatta or is it the fact that I don’t wear any in reality is it the upper middle class fragrance or the nose ring I stole from your history tell me, why do you not have a key to this home, only a nameplate to call it yours 37

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Travel, Experience and Being Lost: In Conversation with Amy Gigi Alexander

Michael Varghese

Amy Gigi Alexander is a seasoned traveler and world-renowned writer.

She is currently the editor-in-chief of Panorama: The Journal of Intelligent Travel. Panorama is a collective effort of over 70 creatives, writers and editors worldwide. The following interview was possible through email communication with Amy through the months of July and August.

From the Panorama masthead: “Panorama has a dual purpose: to reconstruct literary travel writing and travel photography, one story and image at a time; and to be a publication that represents a modern, complex world.”

MAV: You mention in one of your articles that an item on your bucket list is to “See everything”. Could you tell me a bit more about what that means to you? The other items seem more specific and tangible, but what does it mean, or what did it mean, to see everything?

AGA: I think the term 'bucket list' has a bad name: it's become a series of things one does quickly to cross them off a 'list'. The reality for me is that my bucket list is rather endless, and organically shifts a great deal. So, a bucket list, for me, very much includes 'everything'. I still wish to see 'everything', to do 'everything', but the reality of this is that of course, 'everything' changes as I change.

For me, a 'bucket list'; of 'everything' means being present to the world, to moving outside of oneself and the boxes one puts oneself in, to move beyond limits and see opportunities, over and over.

MAV: Your writing has this almost tangible ebb and flow to it. No piece of yours that I have read allows any singular view, and yet you manage make clear your personal stance on any given situation. How do you see your writing and the experience of it?

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AGA: My work is a curious thing: it took me many years of writing just for myself to develop a 'voice'. I'm careful to not copy what I see being written out in the world, and to focus on creating an almost touchable feeling in my stories.

Stories simply happen. I am walking down the street thinking of nothing, and suddenly I remember a scene or idea, and by the time the walk has finished, I have a sense of what the story to be will be shaped like. I fall into my stories when I write them, and my hope is that when others read them, that is what happens to them, too.

MAV: You had written a piece in STIR a few years back on your experience with the Missionaries of Charity. In it, you talk about the call to service, the contrast between the idea of it and the deep, inner feeling of it. How would you describe your own calling? (with respect to writing, to travel, and to service of humanity) AGA: My time with the Missionaries of Charity was extremely complex. It made many things in life less black and white, and other things extremely clear. That said: it's taken me years to articulate what a call to service means to me: perhaps this is the human journey.

Currently my call to service is about working on the inequities within specific genres, such as the wealth of travel literature we read, which is predominantly marketed and published by the West and written with a great deal of exoticism and misunderstanding. A call to service is no easy thing: it requires a leap of faith, a big one, and that faith in whatever it is must be very strong.

In my day-to-day personal life, I aspire to Franciscan values, although I do not identify myself with any one religion or belief. Certainly there is much work to be done in the literary world with a social justice perspective, and this can be very individualized.

I do not think there is any one way to experience a calling, but I do think there is a devotion required which goes beyond what might be easy or instantly supported.

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MAV: Your (life’s) story has undoubtedly been one of the most inspiring ones that I’ve ever had the fortune of being introduced to.

Do you ever think about the lives that you’ve inevitably changed?

(And about how writing manages to tug at the insides of readers) AGA: I think everyone has an inspiring life. I'm constantly changed by the people I meet, whether it be a fleeting online interaction or a person I meet on a real-life journey. I think more about the people who inspire me than seeing myself as personally inspiring.

In literature, I think much of being inspiring is simply luck; being read at the right time by the person who needs to read it. It's not that one story is any more inspiring than the next: it's that the human family is constantly seeking commonality and a glimpse into the suffering or celebrations of others, so that they might also discover where their own gifts are, and how to make them useful.

We all want useful, beautiful lives: good stories make us feel like we can not only achieve this, but keep doing so.

MAV: Given that you’ve travelled extensively all over the world, where would you say your heart always goes back to?

AGA: I used to say my soul inhabited India, particularly the Bihar region, where I have spent a significant amount of time. But now I'm not sure. I live in Mexico; I just returned from a journey that took me to Kenya, Uganda, Tanzania, Rwanda--and then to the country of Georgia, only recently having pulled itself from the Russians--and I feel attached to all these places.

I think I'm more attached to landscapes, than I am to countries.

Mountains, flat plains, salt deserts, little towns of clay mud brick: these are all the places I dream of at night, and return to over and over.

MAV: You’ve written quite a lot about your travels in India and your stays in the country’s many, many different spaces. But how would 43

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you describe your very first impression of India? How has it changed over the years?

AGA: My first impression of India was influenced by the dearth of poverty narratives I had read about it and also, the alarming number of go to India and transform yourself ' narratives I had seen, particularly in the West. I had no idea this was not India, as I had never been.

Watching the Western media news channels, reading a good number of 'savior' narratives, I admit I bought into that and arrived there thinking that, too, would be my story.

But I was lucky in the sense that it was not, and that I was immediately befriended by regular, everyday people, and witnessed their lives, which were very much like mine at home. And on the occasions they were not like my life, I learned to sit back and observe, to understand I was watching a culture centuries old, and that it would take a lifetime of understanding to interpret my experience.

In some sense, I 'arrived' in India: meaning, I was not on my way to anywhere in particular, but instead, got comfortable with not knowing the answers to anything and simply being. This was not because of any revelatory experience, but more over time: you accept the monsoon, because you know it is coming. I have experienced this 'arrival' sensation in most places in the world I have spent any time in, but I think India was important because it was such a refreshing take on place. Previously the language I had used to describe the parts of the country I had been were in the context of what I had read about it; but after 'arrival', it became almost anthropomorphic in nature, a living creature, the land itself; its cities, its urban wildness, its lakes and palaces and green; its stumbling stone steps and charpoy flames. It still remains this way for me today.

These days I look at India from two perspectives: a literary one [it does have some of the best writers on the planet]; and a landscape one. In fact, I'm very interested in flat landscapes at the moment, and partnering with an Indian photographer, Amit Kagra, this Spring, to 44

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do a collaborative work on the Great Rann of Kutch salt desert--away from the crowds, we are interested in the view and the mapping of place. The living landscape that is India is one of my great inspirations-India is too vast to explore in a single lifetime, but I can enjoy it in parts. I still see India in most Western travel writing severely exoticized, romanticized, fetishized, appropriated, 'discovered', owned, belonging to-- the narrator. While this is frustrating, the good news is that Indian travel writers are actively dismissing this sort of thing, and this is forcing the rest of the world to simply view it as a place, like any other place. A favorite travel writer of mine is Bishwanath Ghosh, whose narratives show real India, not an imagined one. We in the West need to read more Indian literature to help us get a modern context of place.

MAV: Could you tell me about Panorama? And about what such a gathering of experiences means, both as literature and as collective experience, of travelers and of writers?

AGA: Travel writing is facing an interesting precipice. It has the tradition behind it of being colonial and featuring predominantly exoticizing narratives, or storytelling that suited the time it was written for a particular audience.

But the truth is that is not precisely what it is; its history actually is non-Western; the oldest travel narratives come from China, Japan, the African continent, the area we now call the Middle East, Polynesia, and the Indian subcontinent. The narratives of the West are relatively new, but quickly took over, creating a perspective that is not really representative of this genre, although it has its place. It's not the central place, however. Panorama is addressing this, and also, what is seen as travel.

Is travel walking down your street?

Does travel require one to be transformed or changed?

Must places only be traveled by people who are not from those places?

Must something happen?

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Where does travel poetry, travel fiction, imaginary place based writing, psychogeography, and so forth fit into the travel genre?

Who travels, what happens when one travels, what is travel?

Our goal is to invite both readers and writers to consider this genre anew, and push the boundaries of what it is, has been, and can become.

MAV: Also, and finally, what does the idea of imbalance mean to you?

AGA: The word 'balance' comes from an interesting set of words: the Latin word, bi- meaning, twice; the late Latin word, lanx- meaning, scalepan [a tool of measurement], the late Latin word, libra bilanxmeaning, to have two scalepans and the French word, balance, which moved into full use in Middle English.

I think of balance, and imbalance, then, in a very visual kind of way: two scales, and a constant movement to create equal parts in each, or not. I don't think of imbalance as being a negative or a positive [that phrase: 'He led an unbalanced life.']

Harmony comes in different forms, and it does not always require equal parts on both sides of the scale. Imbalance can be harmonious, too. Like all things in life, it altogether depends.

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Spectacle

Parikshith Shashikumar

I have won awards, you know? For acting, that is. My specialty is the mime. My teacher and I realized that on the first day of my dramatics class, as I desperately fought to hold my ground as a tight rope, fat and imaginary, was yanked out of my scrawny grip, inch by humiliating inch. “The tug of war” they called that bit; performed it all around my hometown of Shimoga. My personal favourite is the Weightlifting bit, sure not very different from The Tug of War, but there’s something infinitely more funny in posture. Rear end jutting out, face up for display right up against the black mass of the crowd, highlighting every hideous contortion. Spindly arms, glossy sweat, straining muscles, all connected to ladened fingers and knuckles. Hands that refused to move no matter how much I struggled. The only thing more gratifying than a spectacle is a failing one. Maybe it was the fact that my body was so used to feeling tired and out of breath, so used to running on fumes that it knew exactly which vein to pop, what muscle should spasm eccentrically, while the rest stuck to the routine. The queue to grunt with exhaustion, the best moment to let out a frustrated fart. No, I’m not kidding, my body was built for the stage. Don’t think my voice was ever welcome though. Its insistence on making that wheezing noise—chopped up dialogue delivery that meant that I was to be seen and not heard.

It would all work out though, because I would make them laugh. What the stage lacked with my voice it would gain tenfold with laughter.

Not a murmur of giggles, or a cluster of chuckles, but roaring rich laughter. See, for a good laugh, not a giggle or a smirk, but a laugh, the audience needs to feel in on the joke. A laugh is richest when it feels like it's chosen its moment, its victim, the proverbial “butt”. If the audience feels like they were induced, like they had to be convinced of an idea, outside of themselves, and shown that it’s a funny one, that’s a giggle, an indulgent guffaw maybe, when if the idea amuses them.

But rich unalloyed laughter has a cruel twang of self-adoration to it.

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I look for that twang, I manufacture it. And I’m rewarded with a wash of claps for it, maybe a modest award or two, here and there. I have won a few, you know.

However, acting soon seemed unappealing to me. Not that I turned rusty or like some snot-nosed newcomer outshined me or anything.

Like I said, I was really good. Too good. So good that the stain of the stage followed me around like a stench. See, I had defeated that black mass, taught it tricks like laughing, crying, clapping, I could even make it hold its breath. But in light, the cacophony of random laughs and claps grew arms, mouths, and bodies. Each with a distinct pair of eyes that watched me. Conditioned, no, trained, to do one thing and one thing only, laugh. My monsters, they had learned well. Every time I gasped for air, as I traversed those flight of stairs, they recognized the same contorted expression, the same spasm, and the same ladened limbs. There he was again, the absurdly scrawny boy, lifting the absurdly heavy weights, which absurdly, weren’t there. And absurdity always makes them feel good, it’s easy to laugh at. But no, it wasn’t that, they were my audience, I knew their laugh and I could always turn a laugh around. Like I said it was the stench of the stage.

See, this one time, in the fourth grade, I was caught by the P.E teacher for not cutting my nails. It was a fairly common spectacle in my regimental institution, which passed itself off as a school. Anyway, on that day I was one of the damned and sent straight to Satan himself.

No, not the principal. My school taught me that Satan would not waste his eternity on the bureaucracy of hell, not if he was all that bad, he would like to get his hands dirty, and he would be the god damned P.E teacher. But my damnation was unjust, as my right hand had been trimmed as per regulations. Fittingly, it was my left which was the deviant, the abomination. But it, like I, was innocent, both of us suffering because of the dexterously challenged, yet well-trimmed right hand. My much bespectacled right hand, being a finger short, was quite famous. Everyone knew that my makeshift Frankensteinian opposable thumb could not perform certain duties. Such as, say, the positioning of a compound lever so as to place the load’s linkage gap 48

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perfectly above and below, say, a distal edge of a nail, making sure not to venture too deep, crossing anterior margin of the nail plate, and minding not to include the hyponychium within the grasp of the load, all the while simultaneously using the same fingers to place pressure on the handle end compound lever so as to complete the linkage, thereby clipping the nail. Well, not at the time at least.

As I tried to explain to Satan my sinister position, supported by other sinners there, the lord of Punishment Education cut me to the quick.

I received no scolding, or beating, not even a lap to run. No, Satan called me an actor. He proceeded to make fun of how blatant my call for pity was, how he had seen people with less do far more and I just wanted to be a spectacle. Worse yet, he made them laugh, convincing the others that I was in on the joke, like that was all I wanted, to make them laugh. I could not turn this one around, not because there was nothing I could say, which there wasn’t. Not because I ran the risk of angering him, which was very possible. No, it was because of what he said, what he suggested. Was I pretending? Had I used my body’s idiosyncrasies as tools to convince them of the act? It worked, all they were convinced of was the act. That I could act. That I would act. For laughs, for applause, for an award. To be a spectacle, even if it meant looking for an audience in a punishment line-up. But the most frightening thought of all was what I had convinced myself of. They had all bought the act, had I bought the tools? Was I just as convinced of the absurd scrawny boy as they were?

I went home to the nail cutter that day. I placed the capable tool in my incapable hand and prayed. First, I prayed for protection from pain.

Then as the deed went on, I prayed for blood, I prayed for nipped skin, for a crooked cut that would result in a cruel snap, rewarding me with a wash of pain. Nothing of the kind happened. Sure, I had to use my palm and fingers rather than my makeshift thumb and index, but they got the job done. One nail at a time. I should’ve have been happy, I wasn’t dependent anymore. I should’ve been thankful to Satan, for challenging me into improvement. And you know what? I was. I was all that and more. The “more”, being humiliated, and I’m used to that.

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However, I didn’t manufacture this. But somehow, I had.

Till date, I'm acutely wary of self-diagnoses, of claiming the title of illness or any difference. I even extend my right hand out when I greet people, as a declaration of normalcy. Through it I say: “Hey I’m different, but I act normal. No need to stop and stare, no need for concern. No need for a spectacle”. I’m very convincing you know. Did I mention I’ve won awards?

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For What the Bell Tolls

Parikshith Shashikumar

It’s painful sometimes. To think of how classes are taught to us. Each of us constantly pitted against the other. You know what I mean? How self-worth is something to receive at the end of a marks card. Each class a competition, every period a race.

“Rrriiinnnggg!” There goes the bell! Who’s in the lead? Is it math?

Then it's Abhishree! Look at her go! Two sums down, perfect, seven more to go. Watch out, Mithraya’s on the move and he’s gaining!

“Rrriiinnggg!”

Bred like horses, fed, trained, groomed, petted, stroked and then whacked! Whacked by the same hand that fed you. Whacked by the same hand that guided you. Whacked by the same hand that combed, stroked and petted your head. WHACK! WHACK WHACK! By a caddie called a parent. Some of us are race hounds. Hungry, horny and manic, locked up in a cage, cocked like a bullet with teeth. Waiting for that bunny, that contraption, that totally fake, totally made up, totally full of shit bunny, which is the sum total of all our frustrations, aspirations, anger, dreams, contempt, obsession, GOD! We want it so much, the feeling is something more basal than love, something more romantic than an itch. Something in-between caged bars of rationality that the beast looks through.

“Rrriiinngggg” Look at her go! I tell you, she could balance chemical reactions in her sleep! What an inspiring show of talent! I tell you everyone’s going to have to work real hard to keep in the competition” “RRrrrrriiinnnggg” What’s wrong with competition? Nothing, it's good. Hell, it's natural law. But that’s the problem, if it’s built into nature, isn’t it on us to rise above it? Shouldn’t education systems that are built on the idea of manufacturing human social citizens be the first place that does away 51

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with “the natural order”. The school began with an assembly where we wore uniforms and said prayers, proclaim our mutual insignificance.

All for what? To walk in a line, short to tall, back to class and…

“RRRrrrriiiinnnggg" Here we go, folks! Another day another Kannada class! Oh here comes the teacher now! Wonder who’s gonna read out this time? “RRRRrrrrriiinnnggg” It all seems a bit too easy, a bit too cruel. Math, literature, the sciences, the social sciences, all of it. Each and every one of the streams of human thought and knowledge become the very tools, the very signs, and symbols of basal natural law. A step back. It's lazy to recreate the natural order within the classroom. Like using the guiding light, only to cast shadows that resemble the watching dark.

“RRRRRrrrriiinnnggg” She’s sick? Well to bad for her, cause Varun’s getting the gold star today! “RRRRRrrrrrriiiinnnggg” I would want to believe that we as a species don’t know any better. Like we are and will always be something of this world. Our knowledge will still be something of this world. A Darwinian natural world, not different from the Parasitoid wasp. But I can't because I remember Floppy.

“Rrrrriiiinnnnggg” Time! “Rrrrriiiinnnggg” Floppy was a character that appeared in these simple story books that were designed to promote the habit of reading. The stories would follow this particular generic family of four, mom, dad, son and daughter, as they did pretty generic things. For instance, a whole story would be their trip to the beach, or one would be their trip to the supermarket, or them taking a picnic. Pretty mundane. These books were used to teach the second-grade class of Futcher school, children with special needs. The school that I went to in Portsmouth. Oh, and Floppy was the family’s pet dog.

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Floppy was often the main character. In fact the series, began with the family going to the pound to pick a dog. What ensued was a Goldilocks like series of trial and errors, resulting in the family realizing that the shaggy-haired, enthusiastic golden retriever was just right. (I see what they did there.) I remember we all sat around, to see if everyone listened and understood the teacher's reading out of the story. We were asked, if whether we agreed with the family, or what other dogs in the story we found appealing. Andrew, sitting in his wheelchair with his rugged sleeve-less "Street Sharks" t-shirt picked the bulldog, typical. Natasha, the dazed and silent, but occasionally violent tall girl, mumbled "gray hound" a dog that was conspicuous by its absence from the story. Daniel picked the dachshund, repeatedly.

Dale nodded yes to the chihuahua, and I very unimaginatively picked Floppy. Then each of us was coaxed into explaining why each of us picked what we did. The teachers pushed to see to it that each one of us understood the personal reasoning of each other’s choice and whether we sympathize with the reasoning or not. A discussion that comprised of guiding a room full of six-year-olds each with idiosyncrasies that raging from various sensorial inabilities, challenged mental faculties and general bad behavior, this was a herculean task to pull off by the teachers. The point of the exercise and of the story wasn't a preliminary introduction to consumerism and product differentiation, but to the social workings of a community. See, we all learned why the other person picked what they did, which meant understanding and coming to a mutual decision. Like the family did with Floppy.

Different kids had different conditions. I’m not going to pretend like I know what they were, I was around five, but the point was we all had different skill sets. Some of us could handle reading and writing better than others. I heard that in the later grades, kids would be given training to better do whatever their condition allowed them. But in my grade, the foundation of social skills, creative thinking, absorption and manipulation of one's surroundings were far more important than the multiplications tables. Constant class excursions, constant discussion groups, constant random pair-ups with different classmates, were all done just to train us to be acutely aware of ourselves, our situation 53

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and the emotional and physical condition of the people around us.

These kids were being trained to survive and make use of the physical and social surroundings to be as comfortable as possible.

All of this meant me lacking a sound foundation in spelling, the multiplications tables, and the other features that come built into a mainstream Indian student. What this meant was I was all talk and nothing to show for. And boy was it a show! When the overly enthusiastic English teacher found out that she had a student straight from the mothership. When she singled me out, took me to center stage, and asked me to introduce myself, while everyone else had to stay in their seats. While everyone had to merely state their name and former school, like a military hazing, I had to give a speech. How I had so many problems, how I went to a “specialized school”. How I was all really sick, but it was all okay cause the English people saved me. And that’s why everyone, even you little village boy!! Just had to learn English!

“RRRRRRRRRIIIIIINNNNGGGGG” Holy Shit! We’ve got a live one! And it looks promising! “RRRRRRIIIIIIIINNNNNNGGGGG” Everyone in the school found out about the boy who lived (in England).

Kids from the sixth and seventh grade would come to the second-grade classroom, just to say hello. They, hearing the rasp of reconstructed throat in my voice, and the English lilt of my speech, would nod approvingly, not a snot-nosed second grader, but at the rumor, which was no longer a rumor. I was a sight, built up, by held breath and disbelieving stares, like a house of cards, Always a spectacle. What to know the soft breeze that knocked my world down? “Everyone”, a simple enough word to spell on the board. Everyone knew how to spell it. Even the little village boy. Yes, even him. Well, not me. Not the kid from England. Like Blanche, all too suddenly I learned that the present is always in contempt of the past, and will try its best to turn it into something ugly. Unlike Blanche, I wasn't used to the kindness of strangers.

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“RRRRRRRRRIIIIIINNNNGGGGG” FRAUD! I’m trying.

FAKER! They didn’t teach me these things.

PHONEY! I just don’t know, I’m learning.

ACTOR! Nooooooo!!!!!!

“RRRRRRRRRIIIIIINNNNGGGGG” In the nature-nurture divide, sickness falls on the natural side. Then again, somehow all faults do. Try to imagine what it feels like, being convicted on the ousted that you're a failure to the education system.

On the inside feeling like you were failed by an education system.

These systems would never understand each other, never meet. Only you stand there, connecting the two functioning systems, embodying the flaws of both.

It was later, when I saw a boy, absolutely loathsome in every way possible. Mean to weaker kids, lecherous towards girls, arrogant and even violent. It was when I saw him being awarded by the whole school, in front of the former a head of state, only then did I forgive my older school. Only then did I realize that it was trying to something entirely different, from what was going on here. As I saw a whole school applaud a rich and powerful hedonistic alpha prick, for “academic achievements”, I finally realized that I was in a race.

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So, I did what I was taught. To survive, and make use of the physical and social surroundings to be as comfortable as possible. And I got better. Sure, I was in the race, but I stopped playing by their rules. My spellings, math and almost everything else was still bad. But that was my “disability”, I made peace with it. I worked rather hard at making friends, and showing teachers that I wasn’t so dumb, just needed a little help. Little did I know that after a certain Amir Khan movie, that my mature labeling of my “disability” would only be too true.

But this story does not change. My batch along with so many others, came out thinking that education was a matter of survival of the fittest.

For that matter, they saw the world in the same light. They all abhor weakness, worse they’re apathetic to it. And it’s not even their fault.

They don’t know any better.

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Diamond in the Rough

Anitha Varghese

That day started out as a strange one as many things were out of the ordinary. A big day, one of total change to the backdrop of her life, to the things, the places, the people, to her home, that is, a shift in everything around her.

She was afraid, unsure, unsettled, and many more things one could add to a list of negative thoughts stemming from things that were happening around, comments, discussions which did not help settle her nerves.

She went through the motions of the ceremony. People around her were excited, exhausted, tensed, depending on their proximity to the family, event, etc. She had only one prominent instinct, fear. Yet, there was a little hope shimmering deep inside her, because she had a connection that was from deep within, something that was special with this man who was beside her. She had surrendered herself to the Lord and said “Lord, I have no strength in myself to act in appropriate ways or handle things gracefully, so do with me as you please, there is only one thing I ask, that is for the grace to go through every situation in this new phase of life.�

The ceremony was over, he took her hand in his and she was confident in that little gesture, she was sure he reciprocated the deep bond within. Her fears, the feeling of being unsettled, all of it vanished. She was so thankful for this man, who was willing to accept her as she is.

She didn’t have to fit into any expectations; just as she was, that was good enough for him. She appreciated that. That one thing has held her up in many situations.

The year that followed was particularly tough, but he was always by her side even willing to give up things that he held dear just so that she could be happy. He was not used to the standard, acceptable ways 57

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of showing his love, but he had his own ways, he would cook, he would take their baby with him to work when she was tired. Sometimes, it took her years to understand things as he saw them.

There were difficult times, emotionally, financially, etc., but this knowledge and understanding that they had, this bond from deep within between them, saw them through all those times.

Almost three decades down the road, he still makes her giggle and smile like no one else can. Others may see so many things wrong in the way he does things. But to her the Lord has shown her something different. A real diamond in the rough, which she holds closest to her heart.

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Photo-Story

Anubhav Sengupta

There are two men One says hello The other walks past With rose in his feet !

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Photo-Story

Anubhav Sengupta

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Photo-Story

Anubhav Sengupta

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Photo-Story

Anubhav Sengupta

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Photo-Story

Anubhav Sengupta

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Photo-Story

Anubhav Sengupta

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Anubhav Sengupta

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Photo-Story

Anubhav Sengupta

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Photo-Poetry

Swastika Jajoo

Observations on reading Em and the Big Hoom by Jerry Pinto while nursing Dadu through his illness(es) * For starters, the book itself felt like a coffin—a flick of purple that first chars and then consumes.

You cannot stifle colour, but you can drown it out.

This refuses to drown out. * I am flinging the word ‘mad’ across a hospital room, overlooking a tree of pink flowers with yellow centres, that look like they are concealing the sun.

I would like to think that this madness also conceals the sun, like a dollop of butter under a tired tongue and that my grandfather finally remembers what he ate for lunch.

For the last two days, he has been humming to the tune of jaane woh kaise log the jinke pyaar ko pyaar mila.

He curses loudly when the neurophysician asks him about his brain haemorrhage and looks away.

(I was young then. I remember holding the TV remote out to him and watching him beat himself up with it.

Is this how one changes channels?)

Once the doctor leaves, he goes back to singing.

I tell him I love you.

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he says I know or thank you or isn’t it hard to make friends?

We crib about the colour of the potassium-enriched syrup.

It is an almost orange with the promise of an almost cure. * He picks up the book and runs his thumb across the purple edges.

I try telling him about Em and he asks if my mother has reached London. (she is just driving back from office and London does not figure anywhere) He puts the book down.

Humne toh kaliyan maangi thi, humko to kaato ka haar mila.

I want to hug him and I do.

I am the only one who does.

He cannot find his supari box and breaks into a row of wide-ranging expletives. haraami.

I put on namak halal and he thinks it is namak haram.

I correct him and he says there is no difference really. * There is a kind of twilight in his eyes that I see dwindling.

I want to say stop, stay, smile but today evening will not be a photograph.

He asks me to go back to my book.

I do. it is my only way of truly going (coming?) back.

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Photo-Poetry

Swastika Jajoo

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Swastika Jajoo

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Photo-Poetry

Swastika Jajoo

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Swastika Jajoo

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Swastika Jajoo

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Swastika Jajoo

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Photo-Poetry

Swastika Jajoo

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Swastika Jajoo

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A Glimpse Back

Srividya Devadas

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When the light hits the eye

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Kinnari Acharya

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Dose of an Injection

Kurang Mehta

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'Python'

Kurang Mehta

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Under the Scanner

Kurang Mehta

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Visual Art

Khaled Shbib

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Visual Art

Khaled Shbib

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Visual Art

Khaled Shbib

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Visual Art

Khaled Shbib

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Visual Art

Anupa Mathews

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Visual Art

Anupa Mathews

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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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Sky Seas

Diti Pujara

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Photography

Kanika Gupta

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Contributors Abhimanyu Acharya Refer to the Teatotallers.

Amy Gigi Alexander Amy is a writer, editor, publisher, and geocultural explorer with an emphasis on travel writing, landscapes imagined and real, memoir, and lyrical magical realism paired with psychogeography. She is the Editor-in-Chief of the British literary journal with a modern approach to travel literature, Panorama: The Journal of Intelligent Travel, and has taught travel and landscape writing around the world, most recently in Rwanda, Uganda, Tanzania, and Kenya. Her award-winning travel writing has appeared in many publications and anthologies, from National Geographic Traveler to BBC Travel, from Lonely Planet to multiple editions of Best Travel Writing, as well as many literary journals.

Anitha Varghese Anitha Johns Varghese, an occasional dabbler in writing.

Anubhav Sengupta Anubhav is trained in the discipline of Sociology and currently teaches at MCPH, MU. He firmly believes that every individual has a story to tell and is in search for a medium. Sociology has given 97

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him the intution to feel gaps and sense silences in his story; however not the expertise or confidence, as yet, to express those as thought. In between his belief and his inability, his interest in photography is very shyly balanced.

Anupa Mathews Anupa is an artist and healthy lifestyle blogger based in Dubai. She is a nature lover, gospel singer and loves an adventurous travel in search of new cuisines. While juggling life as a busy mum of two, she also enjoys her stints as a free-lance Model, an Emcee and an advocate of special needs kids.

Avy Varghese Ampat Varghese Varghese teaches Mass Communication and Journalism at St Joseph's College, Bangalore. He was a professional journalist with leading Indian newspapers for 20 years before he turned to teaching Art and Design at at the prestigious Institute of Art Design and Technology, Bangalore. He taught there for 12 years and then was a Design Education Consultant with India's leading design firm Idiom Design & Consulting, Bangalore. He writes poetry and short stories.

Chandrashekhara Kambara Chandrashekhara Kambara is an Indian poet, playwright and novelist writing in Kannada language. He has received many prestigious awards including the Jnanpith Award, the Sahitya Akademi award, Padma Shri, Kalidas Samman, Pampa award amongst others. He has written over twenty five plays; most famous amongst them are Siri Sampige, Jokumaraswamy and Narcissus. He has also published twelve collection of poetry. He is known for his reinterpretation of mythology and folktales in 98

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his plays, and is particularly keen on capturing the rhythm of North Karnataka dialect.

David Ishaya Osu David Ishaya Osu was born in Nigeria in 1991. His poetry has appeared in Transition, Vinyl, Pittsburgh Poetry Review, Poetry Wales, The Bombay Review, among others. He is a board member of Babishai Niwe Poetry Foundation, and he has received a Pushcart Prize nomination. David is currently the poetry editor of Panorama: The Journal of Intelligent Travel and is at work on his debut poetry book.

Diti Pujara Diti is interested in reading, travelling and exploring new realms and spaces. She came to Bangalore to experience a different region and culture. While she writes only for pleasure, she does hope that someday she will be able to publish her poetry and write columns on cultural encounters in travel magazines. Since experiencing a new culture is most accessible through literature, reading became Diti’s window to the world. In pursuing her dream of writing and moving around, reading and tea, become her companions along with everybody around who automatically become a little family. Diti enjoys cooking, craftwork, being entertained by anyone humourous (owing to the lack of humour in the self ) and conversations.

Kanika Gupta An architect by profession and a photographer at heart, that's how Kanika Gupta loves to describe herself. She personally believes that everything around us is worth appreciation.

She tries to do justice to it by capturing it into her camera.

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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.

Kinnari Acharya Kinnari Acharya has completed her Masters in English from the Manipal Centre for Philosophy and Humanities. She has been trained under artist Mrs. Nanda Devi from a very young age. Apart from her professional internships, she has also taught children art and craft through a start-up called Chhotu Painters.

Kurang Mehta Kurang Mehta is a painter and a Gujarati poet based out of Ahmedabad.

He is a lover of arts, literature and Cinema.

Malvika Lobo Refer to the Teatotallers.

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Megha Solanki Megha is fandom-flitting but fandom-loyal being that writes when inspiration strikes. She prefers sleeping to writing. She loves reading fanfiction but is currently invested in reading The Glass Palace. Megha studies Literature at MCPH. 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 Varghese Refer to the Teatotallers.

Parikshith Shashikumar Parikshith is a sociology student, who hails from the town of Shimoga in the state of Karnataka.

Through a chance encounter with psychology, sociology and literature, he happened 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.

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Prem Jyothis Prem Jyothis is a cinematography student at FTII, Pune. He loves to make films and tell stories through them. He loves to travel and occasionally dabbles with drawing.

Srividya Devadas Refer to the Teatotallers.

Varsha Parkala Food, Football and Art I would like to think I am passionate about working with Political Science and Culture. Mostly in pursuit of ways to practice care.

Y S K Prerana My parents named me Yelamanchili Satya Krishna Prerana so I stuck with it. I write poems because I know not how else to say even the simplest thing like ‘bye’ in real life. I recently fell in love with the word ‘Hastmaithun’. On the side, I study Gender.

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The Teatotallers Editor-in-chief Mariam Henna Mariam Henna is pursuing her Masters in English at Manipal Centre of Philosophy and Humanities. Her works of fiction and travel have been published in Lakeview International Journal of Literature and Arts, Children’s Magazine and Trip Designers. She is currently working as the Design Editor of Lakeview International Journal of Literature and Arts, an Associate and Design Editor at Strands Publishers and Design Editor at Panorama: The Journal of Intelligent Travel. 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 anthology published by National Book Trust. He is currently pursuing his Masters in Literature at Manipal Centre for Philosophy and Humanities, Karnataka.

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Assistant Poetry Editors Tanvi Deshmukh Tanvi Mona Deshmukh is a part time writer and full time cat. She always has a book (or two) in her bag, and never says no to tea, puns, and fighting the patriarchy. Her work has been published

by Berlin ArtParasites and Thought Catalog. She also worked as a journalist with the Times Group while pursuing her undergraduate degree in Pune.

She currently studies English at the Manipal Centre for Philosophy and Humanities.

Amulya Raghavan Amulya is an avid reader of books, and reads anything she can lay her hands on. She spends most of her time contemplating ways to twist characters into her own world of fantasies and more often than not, pondering over life while wolfing down a jar of Nutella.

Krutika Patel Krutika exists on coffee and books. Ironically writing sad poetry makes her happy. She loves watching drama films and sitcoms.

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 self104

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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.

Assistant Fiction Editors Tanushree Baijal

Tanushree lives for poetry, books, peach tea, sunsets and Frank Ocean's music. Someday she would like to own Studio Ghibli socks.

Dipto Roop Banerjee Dipto Roop Banerjee is a BA Humanities Student, he hails from Patna and has a keen interest in Literature. A big time movie buff and also has a love for debating.

Creative Non-Fiction Editors Abbas Bagwala Abbas grew up in a small town. As he grew, the town grew. After growing up, he meddled with physics for a bit.

Now he says he loves philosophy (and that he always has). Therefore, he is currently a philosophy student at Manipal Centre for Philosophy and Humanities. He also loves chess, and big ideas, and the ukulele.

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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.

Assistant Visual Art Editor Pavithra S Kumar Huge dance enthusiast, and a lover of all things pretty. She usually spends away her time watching slam poetries and movie trailers.

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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 Manipal Centre for Philosophy and Humanities, Karnataka.

Assistant Design Editor Nikhil Ravishanker Nikhil Ravishanker is equally drawn towards music, art and literature. He enjoys talking obsessively about the anthropocene, and the current state of domestic cricket in India. He hopes to someday tie up all of his interests into a funny novel.

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 107

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benefit anyone. A fat ass who loves watching and playing sports. And finally would help annoy his colleagues to the point of breakdown.

Arush Kalra Arush studied Psychology, Philosophy and Anthropology at Symbiosis School for Liberal Arts, Pune, and graduated in 2016. He took a year to backpack across the Himalayas and worked temporary jobs, and is currently pursuing a Masters in Philosophy from Manipal Center for Philosophy and Humanities. Other than traveling, his passions include thinking, reading and writing, trekking, Buddhism and very recently, Hindustani poetry. Having moved around a lot, he likes to call himself a "Cosmopolitan Punjabi." He believes he will be a good teacher, and hopes to become one soon. Finally, Arush deeply wishes that one day, he can fulfill his secret dream of opening a bookstore cafe somewhere in the Himalayas, and retiring to a quiet, peaceful, small town life, The Good Life.

Ashwini Hegde Ashwini’s dreams were stolen by the enchanting beauty of the tides on the sea shore beside her house in childhood days. Her glee towards meeting new people and learning new things has always kept her refreshing and alive.

Tanya Agrawal Tanya is a dreamer. She has been born and brought up in Kathmandu and she believes that the hills, good stories and a cup of coffee can make everything alright. Tanya has worked as a feature journalist. She is currently pursuing M.A in Sociology at Manipal Centre of Philosophy and Humanities. She dreams of making a difference in Nepal through adult education, someday.

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