Chaicopy Four Leaf Clover Vol. 7 Issue 1 April 2023

Editorial

Published by MCH Literary Club Manipal Centre for Humanities, Manipal, Karnataka576104

Only the copyright for this collection is reserved with Chaicopy. Individual copyright for artwork, prose, poetry, fiction and extracts of novels and other volumes published in this issue of the magazine rests solely with the authors. The magazine does not claim any of those for its own. No part of this publication may be copied without express written permission from the copyright holders in each case. The magazine is freely circulated on the World Wide Web. It may not be sold or hired out in its digital form to anybody by any agency whatsoever. All disputes are subject to jurisdiction of the courts of the Republic of India.

© Chaicopy, 2023.

Cover Art: Devika Nair

Cover Design: Arati K Prasen

Layout and Page Setting: Nehla Salil

Team Members:

Editors-in-Chief: Arati Prasen, Aishwarya Sabarinath

Fiction: Angadh Singh, Anirudh Prabhu, Anupriya Shasheendran, Chetana Agnihotri, Dishari, Nandhitha Babuji, Raaghav Chapa, Shakti Prabhu, Tarang Mathur, Tenzin Dekyong

Non-fiction: Aatreyee Ghoshal, Anjana Sathyanarayanam, Harshita Kale, Meghna Haridas, Mrinalini Murthy, Mythily Zanjal, Nandana Joy, Sarah Hussain,Shivapriya Subramonian, Siri Lucille Chenni

Illustration and Graphic Design: Amelie Dutta, Anusha Shetty, Devika Nair, Maisah Irfan, Nehla Salil, Nethra Gopalakrishnan, Sagarika Wadiyar

PR: Akanksha Bannerjee, Amshula Ravi, Archisha Sanyal, Oishee Dasgupta, Rhea Menon, Sreya Das, Vidmahi

Dear Readers,

When the Chaicopy team collectively gathered once again to think about the upcoming issue, we recall looking at each other with hope, intrigue, and understanding. Understanding of each other’s differences, viewpoints, opinions, and more. We sat across each other in shades of green and yellow with thoughts in the form of squares and circles, all uniquely woven together to make us what we are. It was from this loving acceptance of ourselves and each other that we decided to celebrate our differences, no matter how big or small. As the current generation of youth, we have the unique opportunity to boldly and comfortably claim who we are. But what about those that cannot? Armed with a laptop, a big heart, and an even bigger imagination, we wanted to let our writers run free with their thoughts. Hence, we felt the need to hear the voices of those who don’t conform to societal constructs of what is “the norm” to create a beautiful tapestry of uniqueness.

This issue aims to celebrate all that is different and rare through the beautiful writings, artwork, and photographs we have received. We were interested in the narratives of differences to celebrate the voices of those who are othered or marginalised.

The authors of this issue have exceptionally captured in various ways what it feels like to not quite fit. We begin the issue with a piece by Muahmmed Raazi called ‘The Ordinary Oddity’, which explores questions of identity as he asks himself, “What does it mean to be Muslim?” Each writer challenged the norm in their own way. Christina Khandolkar, in her poem ‘Peter Losing Wendy’,

reimagines a story where Wendy leaves, making all question what ‘forever’ truly means in every love story.

The exquisite cover page titled ‘Perception’, designed by Devika Nair, encapsulates what it truly is to be a Four Leaf Clover - to be one that walks to their own tune and colours the world in the way they want. Look closely at this digital design work to notice small details that you might have missed at first glance.

We also got the extraordinary chance to converse with lawyer and writer Varun Thomas Mathew about his debut novel ‘The Black Dwarves of the Good Little Bay.’ He beautifully weaves in his experiences as a lawyer into his book and explores important themes of belonging, identity and citizenship through a dystopian world. Our delightful conversation exposed the absurdities that are characteristic of ‘modern’ living in India.

The constant support and help from both the staff and the students at Manipal Centre for Humanities made this publication possible. We would especially like to thank the Head of the Institution, Dr Nikhil Govind, for his encouragement and eye for detail. We are also grateful to our faculty supervisor Dr Ashokan Nambiar for his constant guidance throughout this semester. Dr Emma Dawson, with her enthusiasm for all things literature, made this issue extra special by cultivating in us an intense interest in speculative fiction, which led to the interview with Varun Thomas Mathew.

As this is our last issue before we graduate, we hope that you not only enjoy all the submissions but also that it stays with you.

Ingredients

The Ordinary Oddity | Essay | 12 Muhammed Raazi

A Muthassi Katha | Short Story | 18

Niranjana Hariharanandanan

Three Summer Poems | Poem | 31

Anushka Mehrotra

When the Vultures Swoop in | Short Story | 33

Debadrito Poddar

Peter losing Wendy | Poem | 43

Christina Khandolkar

When we were Lovers | Short Story | 45

Anushka Mehrotra

Train to Ischl | Short Story | 55

Vineet Deshpande

Warmly,

Aishwarya and Arati

Chief Editors of Chaicopy

Perfected | Short Story | 63

Gauri Nerurkar

Gift Never Recieved | Essay | 74

Saujanya Satyanarayan

Am I the Villain | Poem | 77

Christina Khandolkar

On the Absurdities of ‘Modern’ Living in India | 78

An interview with author and lawyer Varun Thomas Mathew.

Bleeding in a cup | Photography | 96

Akshaya S

Reminiscence | Photography | 97

Himanshu Rajendra Subandh

Eureka | Visual Art | 98

Raysancia D. Cunha

The Contributors | 99

The Teatotallers | 103

The Missing Piece | Essay | 87

Sonia Sali

An escape from Normal | Poem | 89

Sonia Sali

Underwater

| Essay | 91

The Exasperated Idealist

Perspective | Visual Art | 94

Devika Nair

The Unmasked | Visual Art | 95

Anupriya S

The Ordinary Oddity

Muhammed Raazi

I replied irately to every meticulous query that came my way, my tone insistent on ending the call immediately. It was one of those calls with Dad. When he crossed the customary two-minute mark of regular calls to intrudingly inquire into my plans in life. It always left me feeling like a directionless young adult scavenging in the scorching desert that my life had become.

kids who had been roaming the streets of Delhi for eons would have enough to comment on. Economic interdependence, Marxist politics, and cultural harmony – I lost track of the editor’s passionate yet casual delivery. The roads were not accommodating enough for three people to walk side by side. I dipped to the position of comfortably eavesdropping behind the two of them.

Our first stop was at an unnamed chai stall in an alley. The chaiwala, not an underestimated role considering how they harbour the potential to lead a nation someday, forgot to not add sugar to the editor’s chai even after he had asked twice. Chais at Jama scalded the roof of my mouth. Too much saccharine.

“Remove those fancy IEMs and pocket them before you get mugged,” the editor of a local Malayalam newspaper in Delhi told me. Well, he stayed with us in our dormitory at Daryaganj. A friend of mine had asked me to tag along with him and the editor. The agenda was to walk unceasingly in the by-lanes around the precincts of Jama Masjid. The ulterior motive was also to feast on chais and cheap seekh kebabs with the editor who would resolutely pay for it; broke boys. I disconnected the call and hid my IEMs away in the depths of my pocket.

“Overcompensating for the misery in your life,” I could hear my sarcastic college mate’s voice remarking in my head. We resumed walking. It was a Sunday. We could see hordes topis in a myriad of different colours bobbing up and down. “Muslims are a complex and layered minority in India,” I could hear from the untiring editor. He went on to talk about the prevalent castes within the religion in the northern parts of the country. He talked about the ruling party’s propaganda to win in their favour thanks to the immense wealth and political leverage they had. Phew! I could take a break from the extremely polarising politics of the day.

I dropped effortlessly into the conversation that was already abreast. I really am loquacious. I pitched humbly to the editor, “Why do we witness lesser communal rifts in Kerala? Why hasn’t a majoritarian regime taken its roots there?”

I had struck the sweet spot where a middle-aged man with two

He was talking about castes and sub-castes and sects and whatnot. Labels that claimed to subsume the complexity underneath. We passed by what the two of them mutually agreed to call a “sex worker” on the other side of the road.

“What?! I didn’t think they would have the guts to loiter around, alluring misguided folks here in Jama,” voiced my friend unbelievably. “She doesn’t look attractive, even with all that makeup,” he added in jest. I did not really know what she was. Or he or they, for that matter. For as long as I can remember, I have always felt attracted to transgender people. Sitting next to you on a bus or knocking at your car’s window, they ef- fortlessly endangered your definitions of ‘man’ and ‘woman.’

details of the extravagant luxury and lavishness he got to witness. He picked out one thing: they seemed alright as Muslims, almost like us back home in Kerala except that they had women sitting freely with men. The rigid segregation laws might have dried on the way here due to Delhi’s heat, I thought. This was another way to exist as Muslims, my friend. This was another way of being.

The dimly lit onion domes of Jama Masjid could put any contemporary cafe to shame. It gave the entire place an ambience that rubbed off on you regardless of who you were. A raw, rugged and unruly aesthetic ushered you into the chaos of the place. The equally af- fected editor elevated my sensory pleasures by asking aloud, “What if we had died not having walked on the streets of Jama Masjid?”

Further and further down different alleys, the roads grew thin- ner and wider. There was no paucity of people around us. Yet, it was not suffocating. We stood by at times to inspect menus of restaurants claiming to offer “authentic” Mughlai cuisine. The editor had no qualifying criteria. He scanned them and contin- ued walking as if it was an instructional manual he had just gone through. This ritual repeated several times until he went and sat inside one and ordered us seekh kebabs. Delicious. The walk was indeed rewarding, there was no greater blessing than free food.

I remember telling him a few days earlier in the bowels of the night, how I almost relinquished my faith. I had rolled my belt into a ser- pentine curl. I unfurled it slowly to demonstrate to him how the deep-seated beliefs had reeled out at university. However, I stopped when I reached the buckle. The kernel of faith latched on. I told him it was inexplicable what kept tugging at my heart, preventing me from taking the leap and proclaiming “freedom.” A pious mother’s prayer, a saint’s blessing or just sheer cognitive dissonance. I did not know.

My friend told us proudly how he was invited to the house of the am- bassador of Brunei’s embassy for a feast. He complemented it with

Earlier that same day, I had sat discussing philosophy and religion fervently with a PhD scholar in a little apartment at Hauz Khas. There was a huge pile of printed books on postmoder- nity and faith on the table. When I had vented to him about my struggles with faith after doubts that loomed within me like thundering clouds, he had called my affliction common. There were many like me– many before and after me. I never held the uniqueness of my struggles dear to my heart. Nevertheless, brushing it off as ‘common’ itched me the wrong way for some reason.I loved the way my first kiss went. Or, more biasedly, my favourite first kiss. She was a Brahmin girl from one of the poshes neighbourhoods

in Bangalore, snogging a petty rascal like me. With the choic- est songs playing in the background, she had caressed my deep- ly drunken face. “Ever felt a loving touch from someone you love?” I remembered the stinging question of an attractive friend who loved picking at the deprived. Little did she know how wom- en my age were shunned from a considerable radius back where I came from. Alas, it was the Sexual Revolution, and a few of us were lagging. No excuse was taken for our prudishness.

Anyway, why shall I embark on a sophisticated sociological surgery of our shyness when I can elaborate on the phenomenological oddity that was my first kiss? I had kissed her before, but it was the first time we properly made out. Then, what shall I make of our previous kisses? They came to be only after there were second and third kisses. I laugh at my pretentious philosophical inquisition, which lacks precision. However, these skewed thoughts did shine some light on the fundamentals of the universe.

ing at a point in my life. Now, it has become devoid of meaning. What does it mean to be a Muslim? Did I have to recite the Qur’an and follow the Sunnah? At the end of the day, whenever my name is read out from the government’s register, does it not begin with ‘Muhammed’? Would I not come to be only when I repeated acts? Isn’t the text of life read with retrospection and predictions? It seemed to me more like there were innumera- ble ways to imbue meaning into this meaningless malaise called life, and that was the beauty of it. After all, aren’t we ready to pounce like fearless lions to plunder the wealth of exotic meat?

My identity was not injected into my veins. They were an amalgamation of repeated acts. I used to pray five times a day, fast thirty days a year and eat only halal meat. At university, we used to smoke suttas over chai five times a day, eat gluttonously at any time of the day or night and indulged in whatever delighted our senses. A friend from my workplace once offered her review of me in a succinct sen- tence: “You rattle from one extreme of the spectrum to the other like a leaf in the wind.” Truly a predicament of the postmodern times.

Was I still a Muslim? Maybe the utterance carried some mean-

A Muthasshi Katha

Niranjana Hariharanandanan

Muthassi died that afternoon. No one knew the exact time. The family had Palada Pradhaman for lunch and was fast asleep over the humdrum of October showers and the afternoon matinee on television.

hadn’t bothered to show up the last ninety years, but Mandakini Amma’s death would spread like the virus that was taking over the country- or was it the world? One couldn’t trust the news these days.

It wasn’t an eventful death. A few gentle wheezes in tune with the table fan and the October winds, and a paper-thin hand that fell limp as her eyes closed and her pulse sagged. A heart that ticked for ninety years slowly came to a halt.

She wants to go into the kitchen, but her feet feel heavy. She shouldn’t have eaten the Palada. It sits heavy in her stomach –curdling away with the feeling of trepidation of what was to come. Meenakshi hated uncertainties as much as she despised a loosely tied sari or chutney spills on the kitchen counter.

4:12… 4:13… 4:14 time is ticking on. The dead have been left behind. She must get on too.

The clock on the mantelpiece ticked on. 3:54..3:55..3:56. An eyelid twitched for the last time. It’s a pity she had no audience.

By the time Meenakshi came in with her mid-afternoon rice gruel, she was long gone – leaving only wisps of white hair, muslin and sluggish afternoon dreams behind. Meenakshi had anticipated it-

She clicked her tongue and took a seat by the bed, letting the moment and rice gruel soak over her.

4:16… the kitchen light is flicked on, the long-tailed vessel filled with water and tea leaves- three extra spoonfuls of sugar to get through the evening. Her daughter Ambily would be pleased- she liked her tea sweet- the syrupier, the better. Probably helped her hallucinate more as she meditated well into the evening with that cult of hers. It was probably Prakash’s idea. Meenakshi didn’t think much of her son-in-law, but he provided well for the family and showed up for family dinners, so she’d have to excuse the meditations and Ashram visits that came with it. But there wouldn’t be meditations today. Muthassi was dead.

The clock on the mantelpiece ticked a minute. The rest of the house was still asleep. Let them sleep a few more minutes – once word got around, the entire village of Killikurishi would be flocking here to pay their respects. They wouldn’t even be able to have tea. They

This brings her to the subject of sleeping arrangements. She’d been sleeping with Muthassi for 13 years now- a practice that began ‘only for a night’ – a night lapsing into many seasonal

rationalizations- a fall in the bathroom, someone to read out the Bhagavatam, her 3 AM diabetes injection, the invisible ghost in her closet. Small asks, big adjustments – done gratefully, almost too graciously. Meenakshi had picked up her micro-fiber pillow, her copper mug and her blanket and never returned to her husband’s bed. She brought them back diligently every morning, an excuse for last night’s disappearance forming over his morning cup of tea. Not that he asked. He’d replaced her presence with a stack of his bedtime reading and a portable radio.

Now, 13 years later, she’d have no reason to respond to an imaginary call of duty and stumble out of the room. She had to face her husband of 35 years tonight. She’d also have to deal with Muthassi’s death. But not before that cup of tea. The elephants can wait a little longer.

only light up for Guruji these days, but in her palada-fueled dream, they open and see her. Not look. See – see her for who she is after 15 long year

Prakash opens his eyes, and at the same time, Ambily does and the Parijat scented dream comes to a whirring halt, in tune with their old ceiling fan.

“your tea is getting cold Ambily. Wake up.”

Her mother is setting a tray of tea by the table. In the other room, her father is taking loud sips of his tea. He sounds like he has been roused from his sleep for an impromptu tea time too.

“The palada was probably a bad idea. It has made me groggy, and I need to get ready for the virtual bhajan session this evening”.

“Muthassi

is dead”

4:41 Ambily was having an afternoon dream fueled generously by her two helpings of Palada Pradhaman at lunch and the hum of the bhajans mumbling on YouTube. She was meditating to the chants of the Rudra Mantra, but the flatling intonation had lulled her to sleep. In her dream, she’s at the ashram, walking by the lotus hall with a tray full of white Parijat flowers and saffron laddus while the other devotees look at her admiringly – even covetously. She is the best dressed of the lot- in a white ikat sari and antique gold jewellery. All eyes are on her – even Guruji’s but her eyes seek her husband’s. They’re closed in meditation, or whatever it is he thinks about when he shuts her and the world out – these shutters only

“What?”

“Finish your tea. We can talk about it later.”

“Does Achan know?”

“You need to tell Prakash. He needs to be here for the last rites.”

“But he is.”

“Call him. Nair from the funeral home will want to see him.”

A decoction of trepidation brews over the afternoon, as living family, condoles her death.

’s

or

7:23

“M-A-N-D-A-K-I-N-I, Survived by who?”

“Mandakini Amma, survived by her children, the grandchildren and their husbands.”

The house is teeming with activity, probably months since the lockdown. Nair and the team from the Funeral Home are sit- ting importantly on plastic chairs they carried down the road with them (sanitized, of course). Meenakshi is serving them cups of tea in plastic cups, and they’re sitting in a circle by the porch, careful not to set foot indoors because in the living room by the TV lay Muthassi, fast asleep, crystalizing in her box.

“And where do the grandchildren live? I can mention location here if they’re overseas.”

“Can we mention Bangalore?”

“Ammma, they call it Bengaluru now.”

“Bangalore is like Kerala only. Do we want to waste space on that? It is 2 Rupees a word for the Paper”

“Hurry up, Meenakshi; these formalities need to be finished before sundown.”

Nair is holding the fort. He’s excited, and there are beads of perspiration forming on his lips. This is probably a bet- ter evening than he’d anticipated, watching his wife while away her evenings wailing over the rising cases.

He’s in charge here, sitting in the center of his plastic circleplanning the last rites for the two women who seem to be all over the place. Death does that to the household. The women need a man to shepherd them- the old husband of Meenakshi seems to pale in his existence like a zero-watt bulb, only caring about finishing the rituals before Raahu Kaal. Lucky for them, Nair was here to be the acting man of the house.

“Ambily will you please finalize the breakfast menu for tomorrow’s service?”

“15 sets of Vada, hot from the pan served with chutney and gin- ger tea… no sambar, as an afterthought. It is a time of mourning, after all. Let the family have a hearty meal before the funeral. He’d tell his wife not to make him breakfast. His mouth waters.

The rules for the funeral and the mourning period to follow

There are three versions – the express version of three-day mourn- ing reserved for Emirate returnees, the ten-day medium version and the 16-day traditional one that old Malayali families fol- low. This is a new normal, though- there is a virus at the prowl.

He carefully nudges

them to

the medium version.

Ambily wants the express version but is too scared to bring it up. She turns to her father to bail her out. “Achan, three days sounds ideal given the times. Prakash can make it, too and then return in time for his ashram duties. Besides, there are rules for mourning. You’d go mad without tuning into your 7 PM news. No Television during mourning, remember?

Her father’s face is impassive.

pick “I can read the paper. That is allowed, isn’t it, Nair?”

Nair’s moustache twitches in importance.

“no entertainment. No family gatherings. No visitors except for Sat- urday and Thursday. No non-vegetarian, not even egg and someone needs to sleep in the departed woman’s bedroom until the mourning period passes – they say the body leaves, but the soul lingers. Visitors coming to pay respects to carry a care package of sugar, tea, dal...”

Over Nair’s rumbling monologue, suddenly rings a loud bell in

“I think amma would have preferred us doing the 16-day ritual. I vote for that. I will sleep in her room on her pillow to pay my respects. I have been doing it off and on these last years”, a pinched look in her husband’s direction. Four fingers crossed in prayer.

Meenakshi’s brain. Her husband nods before she finishes.

“Yes, I also think we need to do 16 days. It’ll keep the visitors away. I am wary about visitors who could be asymptomatic”.

“keep quiet Ambily.” – two voices chime in unison for the first time in 15 years.

Nair smiles and scrawls into his diary.

From the box in the living room indoors, sighs.

## 9:48 PM

Muthassi

Prakash is undressing in the guest room. He gingerly peels his sheer white kurta and hangs it on a hanger.

“you can wear it for the service tomorrow”. His wife comes in with a cup of tea.

A derisive glance from those peace-loving eyes.

“No… I guessed it was a long night. Nair says one cannot sleep with a dead body in the house.”

He needs to be at the ashram. They are doing a massive puja with over a lakh chants to drive the virus into hiding. He is coordinating the logistics on Zoom. Muthassi would understand, wouldn’t she? He’s okay if she joins him later. Guruji would understand too.

The eyes glaze over again. His mind is back at the ashram.

She nods along as he takes her through his plan for the Puja.

Ambily sighs and sits on the bed. She beckons to her husband to sit too. He does and holds her hand as though on autopilot. His fingers are cold, and there’s a new ring on his ring finger- it has a picture of Guruji on it. She wonders where their engage- ment ring was. She wonders whether they’re still married now.

Prakash rubs her fingers, then perks up as an afterthought.

“Do you want to engage in a fun meditation before dinner? I taught it to some foreigners yesterday, and they were so relaxed.”

She even smiles conspiringly as he opens YouTube and plays the evening Bhajans for them. They share an earphone each and sway in unison to the songs they long have byhearted now. Thank god for Guruji. Thank god for the good internet.

The elephants in the room retreat for the night. And sixteen more.

“Prakash, my Muthassi is lying dead in a freezer outside, and you want to meditate?

“I don’t know. What else do we do? I am too tired to have a conversation.”

It was the next afternoon. 12 hours after Muthas- si had left. The funeral was quick and unev out the creas- es and humming under his breath – one eye on the clock. entful. The stipulated twenty people had shown up at their doorstep, lowered their eyes in respect and left, leaving care packages by the door- step. 20 packets of tea, sugar, and semolina… enough for sixteen days.

“Will you be staying here for sixteen days? My parents have decided they want to do it the good Malayali old-fashioned way.”

Several packets of sanitiser lay at the doorstep, along with Muthassi’s shroud, her only living memory flail- ing from the porch. She’d flap here for sixteen more days.

He responds before she can finish, and she’s grateful to him.

The household is quiet. Prakash hasn’t changed out of his funer-

out the creases and humming under his breath – one eye on the clock.

“I’ve left the earphones by the bed. Meditate; know you’re blessed.”. A cold set of hands touch her head.

“Achan, is Raahu Kaal over”?

Meenakshi’s husband responds from the head of the table he’s been seated at since Muthas- si died. He’s wasted no time taking her spot in the family.

2:45…. 2:46…

Eight sets of eyes watched two hands take a turn around the clock.

A tear escapes Ambily’s carefully made-up eyes. The glassy eyes converge in a watchful smile.

“Gratitude, that’s good. See you at the ashram Ambily”.

She watches the car leave the driveway. He was a good man. He had come here to do his duties. He was probably rushing to save them all from the virus. That’d be a story to tell her family.

Their relationship could wait. She was in mourning now.

“Yes, it is over. Prakash, you should leave now. Nair says no one is allowed to leave the house after Raahu Kaal. We are in official mourning now.”

She stuffs the feeling into a corner of her milky stom- ach and lies down by the TV that’d now be shut for 16 days. She closes her eyes and waits for the dream.

Prakash jumps from the table and bows his hands in namaste to his in-laws. Ambily walks him to the door.

“Call me when you reach.”.

“Sure, the glassy eyes are hooking on his ashram access card to the kurta.”.

In the bedroom recently vacated by Muthassi, Meenakshi lies reading a book- Mills and Boons. She doesn’t have to read aloud to let the household know she was serving. The server was be- ing served. She could sleep in peace knowing that her Amma’s soul wouldn’t leave the room for another 16 days. In the room adjoining hers, her husband lay on his queen-sized bed, lis- tening to his wife’s happy sighs. He gets up and bolts the door.

She knows he wouldn’t call. She’ll see him next on the 6 PM Facebook Live. She tuned in religiously to ensure he was there.

16 days more. Then he’d keep it bolted through the night.

In the quiet of the afternoon that stretched into evening, Muthassi’s family mourned her loss in their walled wary worlds, as they continue to live on her borrowed time.

The Summer Poems

Saadia Peerzada

Days of unpaid interning, it is always late afternoon, drinking coffee out of a jam jar

As it takes on more colour in time, as if ripening, grief is a little friend that perches on my desk to keep me company, chin always raised in question

In the restaurant named after two capital cities small talk is drowned in laughs cut from the belly, once again I am outside what looks alive, once again, I tell myself, “someday.”

on the way back I wonder when worry for money will stop consuming me,

on the way back I reconsider my bourgeois friendships. On the way back the world feels altered, sadder, the hope of the afternoon consumed by the last light.

1.

2.

3. Home is a loose pile of bricks,

nothing identifiable ties me to the outside Summer insects crawl on my walls, magnified in the light, the obituaries remain the same, the names change, a void big enough to make a city of itself.

When The Vultures Swoop In Debadrito Poddar

August nights never end, truth loses another fight outside these walls, I tell my friends all empires fall, and wait for the dust to settle. Little prayer: let ruin end here.

It was a bright sunny day. The sun seemed to bestow its shine over the whole city like it always does. The birds were chirping away merrily from the branches of the trees. The whole city was waking up to yet another day in Paradise. At least, that was what they were always told by The Martinet. The Martinet always seemed to be concerned with the life of people and quite rightly so, since they were the ones running all their lives. It was the job of the members of The Martinet to oversee the type of jobs people had, the variation of the foods that they partook, the different sorts of clothes that they could wear. They never coerced the populace to follow their dictates; force was totally out of the question. They only had the capacity to advise the people into following what they thought was right. More often than not, everyone ended up following the wishes of The Martinet. After all, they always had the best interests of everyone. And it’s not as if anyone could think of going against them.

Alankrita was sitting at the table in her room, reading a magazine. With books not in existence for the last hundred years, magazines were the only form of written (or printed, as some would like to claim) representation available to the general public.

She sighed and turned the last couple of pages, finding nothing interesting enough to capture her attention. It’s not as if I will suddenly be interested in some random film star’s love life. She had never felt that she belonged here, in this city, in this country. But of course, she could not very well voice that opinion. That would be tantamount to betrayal to the seemingly benevolent Martinet, who had nothing but the best interest of people at their heart.

“Alankrita, what are you doing sitting cooped up in your room? Come out and watch this fascinating show! You don’t want to miss this drama, I am telling you,” her mother shouted from the living room, where one half of the four walls was covered by the sleek screen of the television.

Freya turned around and glided across the linoleum floor, nearly hitting the doorpost and damaging her iron-clad arm. What a klutz. Alankrita looked at her wrists. The cuts had still not healed, and that meant she had to continue wearing full-sleeved dresses. Apparently, slitting one's wrists wasn't a quick and easy way to die, contrary to popular perception. I suppose it is my fault for thinking I could end my life. Surprisingly, or maybe not, no one had shown much con- cern for Alankrita's health.

How vapid can one be? Alankrita raised her eyebrows. How selfabsorbed. Well, it’s not as if she has ever been anything but. Maybe self-absorbed was a wrong term, more like brainwashed. Alankrita smiled wryly. She didn’t give much thought to the reason behind her abrupt conclusion. It had been a long time since she had tried to think or reason. She was tired, awfully tired from this dull and monotonous existence. Ugh. That was the second time she had felt disloyal towards The Martinet.

After a while, Alankrita got up and pressed the button summoning Freya, their AI maid. After a second, Freya came whirling into the room. “You called, ma’am?” The AI squeaked. “Yes, bring me a glass of water and some aspirin. I have got a headache.” “As you wish, ma’am.”

Mother didn't even know I had cut my wrists before the paramedics were called by Freya. Even then, the only thing that mattered to her was that someone in her family had tried to dishonour the family name. Typical. Alankrita, after having some aspirin to deaden her headache, walked into the living room. How ironic that this room is called a living room. Alankrita passed her eyes over the various assortment of things cluttered in the room.

“Good afternoon” Alankrita went to sit on

a

chair.

“Good morning, dear,” her mother said, eyes glued to the screen.

The two women sat in the room, both in their own worlds. How can one be so close to someone else and yet so far? Alankrita munched on a packet of pretzels. She is my mother only in the literal sense.

"Good heavens! I hadn't seen the clock. I must dash. Alankrita, there is a fantastic reality show in the evening. You must see it. I am sure that will cheer you up." Her mother turned towards the door. "Oh, and also, we need to go to the exhibition tomorrow. So please don't forget about it," her mother exclaimed excitedly.

“An exhibition?” Alankrita asked wonderingly. Oh, of course. It’s practically the attraction of the city. They haven’t done one of those in a while.

“So…”Alankrita began, but her mother interrupted. “I must run to the temple dear. You keep a watch over the house. Also, tell Freya not to cook dinner.”

Which means dinner consists of tasteless fruits and sweets.

After her mother left, Alankrita kept on sitting in the same position. She kept on switching the lights on and off, thinking. It had been a long time since she had thought of anything. Why she was doing that, she had no idea. It was as if having been granted a new lease of life, something was stirring in the depths of her heart. She was feeling angry, but at exactly what, she could not recognize. Or maybe she did, but she was refusing to admit it. A huge procession was going through the streets below. She poked her head out briefly to gaze at the dazzling scenery. It seemed to be a religious procession.

Of course, it’s a religious procession. The whole country re- volves around that. It’s not like anyone can think of anything outside that context. Such an ingenious trick by them to use reli- gion as a distraction. That child is practically begging for food, yet no one seems bothered. Probably because they are too much

in their own delusions to even recognize something like that.

Alankrita stopped her train of thoughts in shock. How could she even think of that?! It was beyond comprehension how she can criticize The Martinet when they have been nothing but kind and thoughtful.

Have they, though? A small voice asked her inside her. If they were really that kind, then maybe they would have helped me out. Pulled me through this downward spiral to darkness. Alankrita shook her head to get rid of such thoughts. She spent the rest of the day restlessly, gliding through the unlit rooms, like a lone ghost of a human being left in this ravished world.

The next day, it was the same sun which shone over the city, the same birds chirping on the same branches of the same trees. Both Alankrita and her mother were getting dressed to attend the primal attraction of the city. After a bit of hesitation, Alank- rita picked out a black dress and wore it. She looked at her- self in the mirror.

This is not the real me. Somewhere along the line, I have lost myself. This person is a mere shell, a mere existence. I wonder if I can ever get myself back. What was even the original me? Was there even a difference from the beginning?

“Alankrita, are you done? We need to hurry.” “Coming, Mother.”

This dead way of living, what does it even mean? Every- where I look, I see dead people walking around. Why do I feel like this?

Ugh, my head hurts again.

They boarded the first coach of the monorail. Coaches were, after all, divided according to the social hierarchy of the country, which in turn, was determined by other inherent factors. Alankrita's mother immediately took out her portable television and her cell phone and started watching both of them simultaneously. Next to her, Alankrita sat observing people around her. Everywhere she looked, it was the same sight. Everyone was focused on their own portable television screen. Zombies, the whole lot of them. Any other day, Alankrita wouldn't have given this much thought. But today, she was feeling strangely contemptuous of all those around her. She again failed to understand the reason for this feeling.

The exhibition was being held in a gigantic amphitheatre named after the leader of The Martinet. There were scores of people being inter- cepted at the entrances. As Alankrita got into the waiting line, she heard someone say behind her, “ Yeah, that’s right. I was so lucky to win the Lottery.” In front of her, someone was reading a dis- cussion in a magazine on an African veldt.

people don’t

It’s as if these care at all about what’s going to happen.

At the entrance to the amphitheatre, she was stopped by the guard. He took out a measuring tape and measured the length of her skirt. “It’s 5.6 inches,” he said, consulting a list. “You should have worn a skirt at least two inches longer,” he frowned. “Come on, I didn’t have much time to measure it. Can’t you overlook this for once?”

Alankrita reasoned. She had totally forgotten that skirts were measured at public places. It was really all done in the in- terest of the delicate female population, or so The Martinet rea-

soned. The guard opened his mouth to retort, but the supervisor chided him for speaking condescendingly to someone like her.

Mother and daughter took seats in Class A-2, the penultimate row of seats from the bottom. After what seemed like ages, the chaos of the crowd seemed to die down. A stifling silence seemed to fall over the amphitheatre. Everyone was waiting with bated breath, it seemed, for the exhibition to begin. At last, a booming voice, which startled Alankrita for its suddenness, barked, “Begin.”

At once, the inner doors of the amphitheatre were opened, and two guards dragged a woman and a child out into the arena. Both of them were covered in a white fluid-like costume which seemed to slither over their bodies, perhaps to accentuate the fact that they were not all there. The child was wailing loudly, and its shrillness hurt Alankrita’s ears. In contrast, the woman was eerily silent. She looked like a wax statue that seemed to be permanently fixed there. “Do you, the accused, claim not to believe in the existence of God? That, instead, you belong to the cowardly group of followers who like to call themselves ‘The Atheists’? A voice asked. “I do,” the woman answered after staying silent for some time. “Very well. You will receive your just punishment for deriding and denying the ex- istence of The One without whom we are nothing. Bring in the la- “ “One moment, I have something to say,” the woman spoke calmly.

How can she be so calm in the face of brutal punish- ment? Isn’t she afraid of going to Hell for denying the ex- istence of God?

She’s...she’s braver than me, that’s for sure.

After having been granted permission to speak, the woman took a deep breath and turned her head up. She began speaking, “You may think I pretended to be superior to you all for think- ing God doesn’t exist. But I didn’t. I never thought that God wasn’t present. I was the same as you all. The only difference is the fact that I managed to see your farce and escape this madness that has engulfed all of you. Look at you! You are all the same. I was able to look beyond baseless fear-mongering and scare tac- tics.” Her voice began rising and it was clear how angry it was.

standing there, I wouldn’t have been able to hold myself like that. Oh God, oh God.

“Enough of this gibberish. Bring in the lasers and finish her off.”

“You think you are all modern due to your advancement in science and technology, but you are not. All of you, you are nothing but a bunch of hypocrites. I believed in the God that mattered, not the God that serves as a distraction for you people. I believed in the God which stayed with me when I needed her, not the one based upon which you pass laws deciding the statute of women and the hierar- chy.” “You,” the woman said, suddenly pointing at Alankrita, “You know what I am talking about. I see that look on your face. You know what the actual intentions of the Martinet are, don’t you? Have you seen how they are manipulating you into doing what they think is right, what they believe is correct? I may be the one being punished today, but it is you lot who are dying day by day. Can you honestly look yourself in the eye after what you do to him today?”

She said, looking tenderly at the little boy. And then finally, without missing a beat, she said, in a voice that sent shivers down Alankrita’s spine, “The mills of God grind slowly, but they grind exceedingly small.”

I...I think I can understand what she is saying. If it had been me

Two gigantic lasers were slowly brought into the arena. Then as if on cue, they sprang to life and pointed their beams on the two culprits standing in the middle. At once, the child began screaming as if on fire. It was the sound of pure hell, the sound of absolute cruelty being inflicted upon someone so pure, so in- nocent. The woman seemed to hold herself well. Maybe too well.

Alankrita couldn’t even look at the sight.

Disgusting. Absolutely repulsive.

Everyone was clapping, everyone was jeering. But she felt nauseous. “Stop clapping,” she hissed to her mother. “Huh? But why? If I don’t do it, it will look weird. Everyone will stare at me. I can’t be the only one not doing it.” Alankrita had enough of this. She got up and walked out of the amphitheatre. Her mother didn’t even seem to care as she joined in the catcall along with the others.

All of this, this is nothing but a lie. Why does it feel like the woman escaped and we are the ones who are stuck in this eternal madness? I can feel what she was saying. It might very well have been me. I am sick of this. But I am trapped. All of us are. We are all bound to this vi- cious cycle with no means of escaping. I-I don’t know what to say or do.

As she walked back, she looked up at the sky and saw the vultures swooping overhead.

Pretty soon they will have a feast, huh?

As she looked down, she saw the hungry child from yester- day. The child smiled at her. Alankrita felt a strange connec- tion with the child. “Do you want something to eat?” She asked. The child nodded happily. She bought a packet of biscuits and gave the whole bundle to the child. Seeing the smile on the child’s face, she experienced a strange tightness in her chest.

Peter Losing Wendy Christina Khandolkar

Tried to change the ending of a story we know where Peter grows old, never letting Wendy go. But what if the roles were reversed, what if Wendy flew away leaving Peter behind to face the loss each day.

Imagine the pain that Peter would bear, knowing that never again would Wendy be there.

He'd search the skies, calling out her name but all he'd hear in return is the wind's refrain.

He'd long for the days of their never- ending youth, when all they needed were fairytales and truth. But time marches on and we all must grow; even Peter, who refused to let his heart show.

To see him now, without his dearest friend is to wit- ness the beginning of the end. Without Wendy, he's lost his way and darkness claims him more each day.

So let us remember the story past and hold tight to its wonder that forever will last For Peter and Wendy are forevermore, in each other's hearts, forevermore

When We Were Lovers Anushka Mehrotra

Kaapi Sessions

The first time I saw Rumi, he was breaking the old snow globe that sat on Baba’s desk. His nimble, grime-coated fingers, traced the groove, trying to crack open the two globular halves to get to the plastic versions of Ma and Baba, floating with their arms around each other. I imagined what his fingers would feel like if they were knotted in my hair, scratching my scalp, trying to split my coconut head into two coconut bowls, revealing the pulpy flesh, to delve deep into the inner workings of my broken brain.

Rumi’s uncle, Titu bhaiya, who worked as Baba’s driver had informed me about how Rumi had replaced his baba, our old servant after he had suffered a stroke. I could tell that Rumi wasn’t particularly pleased about this development. His lips remained curled into a permanent scowl and his eyes would narrow down to slits whenever anyone dared to meet his gaze. I had been stand- ing there in the doorway, watching him tinker with all the little baubles on Baba’s desk for a few minutes then. He must have felt my gaze, for he swivelled his head around suddenly and stared straight into my eyes. My heart skipped a beat as he ambled up to me, his veined arms folding around his chest, the dirty wash- cloth slung over his shoulder. His black, bottomless eyes cool- ly appraised me. They lazily trailed down my face to the bulge in the front of my pants, and a smirk spread across his lips. My cheeks reddened as I fought the urge to put my hands down front

to hide it, as though that would not make it even more obvious.

Rumi wasn’t exactly attractive…at least not in the way that people imagine what attractive looks like. For one thing, he was painful- ly thin. His cheeks were hollow and his eyes unnaturally large for his face. His arms stuck out at odd angles and he looked comedic in my old shirt that was at least two sizes too big for him. It bal- looned out under the fan, making his torso look unevenly spheri- cal. It was his eyes that made me stare. They were black and cold and filled with contempt. However, there was also a strange kind of hunger in them as they trailed across all the little baubles and showpieces in the house. He looked at me with an odd mix of dis- gust and yearning, as though he could not decide if he wanted to skin me alive with his blackened fingernails or eat me for dinner. Or perhaps that was simply my inane imagination. Perhaps that’s what I wanted him to feel when he looked at me; I would be lying if I said that I wasn’t prone to flights of fancy. Despite my fasci- nation with him, I was intimidated. He towered over me, as did most people and he even had a light dusting of a moustache, mak- ing him seem like a proper man. I did not really know how old he was, but it was clear that he was older than my sixteen years.

‘Do you want something, sir?’ he said through clenched teeth, spitting out the last word, his voice tinged with sarcasm. I suddenly became conscious of my belly straining against my shirt, and all the fat that bulged out underneath what was sup- posed to be my chin. Sucking my stomach in, I shook my head, keeping my eyes trained on the straps of his chappals.

He raised an eyebrow, shrugged, and then walked out of the room, shoving me aside with his elbow. That was the only interaction I had with him that first week. He ignored me as best as he could, as though he could not stand to look at me. I, on the other hand, was both intimidated and shamelessly fascinated by him. I would stare at him whilst pretending to read the newspaper, or while working on an assignment for school. I spent hours studying the swan-like arch of his neck, the tensed veins in his forearms, the sharp cut of his jawline, and the curve of his lips. I walked around with an uncomfortable tightness in my crotch, both terrified and excited at the possibility of him learning of my desire. Mealtimes, however, were the only times that he paid any heed to me. I would sit right across Baba at the opposite end of the unnecessarily gigantic oak dining table. As far as I knew, Baba was a collector or a magistrate or something of that sort. He made it a point to have all meals with me in the decked-up dining hall, even though we barely spoke to each other. In the beginning, he would break the awkward silence by asking me about the school, but it did not take long for him to run out of things to ask about. Neither of us had anything substantial to say to one another after that, so we ate in silence, the clatter of spoons and forks deafening. Rumi would stand in one corner of the room after having served us, his black, contemptuous eyes on Baba. There was so much inexplicable hatred and anger in his gaze that I was afraid that Baba would one day spontaneously combust.

Sometimes I would feel him watching me and I wondered what

saw when he looked at me. Could his eyes pierce through all the empty layers of fat and flesh to make out the desire blooming und- -erneath my chest? After we had eaten, Rumi would clear the table and scrub it down clean. Titu bhaiya would join him, and they would scrape out all the food left on our plates and the serving bowls into the chipped plastic cups that were only meant for their use. Titu Bhaiya would squat on the kitchen floor and rapidly shovel the scraps down his mouth with his bare hands. However, Rumi never knelt. He would eat slowly, each bite swallowed down with a large gulp of resentment and bitterness. I would eat as little as I could to allow the leftovers to accumulate in sufficient quantity. I even sorted out a number of my old clothes, toiletry, and stationery for him, complacent in the supposedly good deed that I thought I was doing. Rumi despised me for all the pity and the charity that I was shoving down his throat. He was compelled to accept my ‘donations’ with folded hands, striped of all choices. I realized this only that one morning when I heard raised voices from the servant’s room.

Ordinarily, the house was eerily quiet, so the yelling and shouting were strange. I peeked in to see a red-faced Titu bhaiya yelling at Rumi, whilst aggressively shaking a finger at the snow globe from Baba’s mantelpiece, tossed across Rumi’s bed. Titu bhaiya’s eyes were filled with fear, and he turned pale when he saw me standing in the doorway. I do not know what got into me that day when I stepped inside the room and said calmly, “Baba was throwing it away, so I gave it to him.” I could feel Rumi’s gaze on me, as Titu bhaiya relented with a bowed head and a “yes, sir.”

Rumi’s eyes followed me out of the room, even as I refused to look back, grinning to myself. Later that day, as I was coming out of the shower with just a towel wrapped around my waist, Rumi burst through the door. My first thought went towards my pale protruding belly, and the rolls at my waist, and I gasped, trying to cover myself with my arms. Rumi’s gaze lingered on my exposed torso, even as he muttered “sorry,” not seeming to mean it, and left the room. I was still blushing when Rumi returned, once I had put on a shirt. He didn’t look at me as he swept the floor with a soiled washcloth, moving it around with his foot, rather than kneeling over to scrub the floor. ‘You should have knocked,’ I muttered, fidgeting with my towel, as I stood in the corner. He straightened up, and came closer to me, his eyes piercing mine. “Why did you tell Titu bhaiya that you gave me the snow globe?” I backed away into the wall with nowhere else to go, distinctly aware of how close he was to me. He smelt of soap and rain, and I immediately wanted to touch him. The fact that he hadn’t addressed me as ‘sir’ for the first time didn’t escape my notice. “I saved you, didn’t I?” He stepped back and scoffed. “I never asked to be saved…especially not by you.” He picked up the washcloth and reached over to me to scrub the windows. I held my breath, conscious of how close he was as I watched his old shirt stretch over his bony torso. When he stepped back, there was a glint in his eyes. “Why did you steal the snow globe?” I asked. “Because I wanted to.” “That’s not really an answer,” I frowned. “I could tell Baba, you know.” “You can, but you won’t.” He sauntered out of the room before I could think of something witty enough to say in response.

I followed him into the kitchen, watching him as he began scrubbing the plates in the sink. He worked quickly and methodically, rapidly rinsing and swiping all of them dry, and he was done in a matter of minutes. He turned around to look at of me then, leaning against the counter, the rolled-up sleeves of his shirt revealing his ripped forearms. “I neither need your help nor your charity, okay?” Perhaps it was the fire in his eyes, or maybe how he was spitting out the words. Suddenly, I felt irritated. “I helped you, and you’re angry at me?” Rumi rolled his eyes and then folded his hands together as though he were praying. “Okay, thank you for your generosity, sir.” His voice was dripping with sarcasm. I stepped forward, scowling. “What is your problem?” “My problem,” he breathed walking towards me until we are only an inch apart, “is you.” “Me?” He sighed. “The way you look at me- with all that pity written across your face.” “I don’t-.” I began “Pity you?” he completed. “I know you do. Don’t deny it. I have seen you leave all that food behind for me and set aside your old clothes for me.” I stepped back. “You need it, don’t you?” “Never said I wanted it,” he whispered. He looked away; his eyes sad. I studied him, and I saw not a man who made me go weak at the knees, but a wounded boy. “You don’t like working here.” It wasn’t a question. “I want to go home,” he whispered. I wanted to touch him then. To cup his hollow cheeks in my hand, smoothen the stress lines from his temple, and stroke his hair backwards. I reached out and took his calloused palms in my hands, tracing the lines with my finger as he looked on.

He withdrew his hands slowly, putting some distance between us. “I have seen you at the beach sometimes…”

“Yeah,” I muttered. “I go there with my friends.” He snorted. “As if! You’re always alone, with your nose stuck in some book.” I blushed self-consciously. I didn’t have a lot of friends then, and most of the time that didn’t bother me. “You don’t leave the house- how would you know?” He laughed loudly. “I have snuck out so often that even a daft like you ought to have noticed.” My ears turned red. “I have better things to do than keep track of your comings and goings.” He raised an eyebrow, his black eyes glittering. “Do you really?” Before I could form a coherent reply, he said, “I am going to the beach in the evening…join me if you want to.” I looked up and saw that he was shyly fidgeting with his shirtsleeve. That was the first time I had seen him looking even remotely uncomfortable. I spent the entire afternoon waiting for the evening to dawn upon the world. I counted the hours, wondering what evening meant anyway. Did evening begin at five, or six or seven, or when? I hated waiting. At six, he knocked on my door, a meaningful look in his eyes, his face blank. He beckoned me towards a black bicycle he had acquired at a garage sale. He climbed onto the seat and motioned me to sit. My heart was pounding when I slid behind him, feeling the warmth of his body against my chest. I tentatively placed my hands on his skinny shoulders, worrying that if I held too hard, he would break. He was all bones and muscles; there wasn’t even an inch of flesh in him. Somehow, I was relieved to get off the bicycle, relieved to put some distance between us. We walked right past the crowd of children running into the surging tides, chasing a balloon. He jogged to the far end of the beach, without waiting for me. He was fast… extraordinarily fast. I had to sprint to catch up with him. By the time, we reached the jagged lone rocks at the far end, I was

panting for my life. He began to climb the rocks, his long, lean limbs stretching and crossing over like a cat. He reached the top before I had even gotten to the base rock.

Resting his calloused palms on the surface, he eyed me leisurely with a complacent smirk on his face. He watched me struggle and gasp clumsily. I could feel my ears turning red. Finally, he extended an arm, a glimmer of amusement in his eyes. I placed my hand in his, feeling the rough surface of his palm pulsing beneath mine. His long nimble fingers brushed across my knuckles, as he pulled me up. I managed to plant myself beside him with some difficulty, letting go of his hand as soon as I could. I turned to look at the sinking sun, even as he watched me. I could feel his eyes boring into me, capturing and locking me in. “You blush,” he whispered. His expression was an odd mix of curiosity and awe. He held my chin with his long fingers, his grime-coated thumb brushing against my cheek. “You were mocking me,” I said more stiffly than I had intended. He gazed at me unblinkingly. “Admir- ing,” he corrected. “I just hide it better.” He glanced at the bulge in my pants and smirked, before returning his gaze to my face. He shifted his palm to the side of my face and smoothened the frown between my brows. Without breaking eye contact, he dropped his hand, and entwined his fingers through mine, winking triumphantly. I do not know when Rumi and I became lovers or if we were lovers. We would sit together in the kitchen during the day. While he scrubbed dish after dish, I would pretend to read whilst watching him; I could stare at him for hours and hours. We would work in long silences.

He was not much of a talker anyway, but I did not mind. In the evenings, we would scale the jagged rocks at the far end of the beach and taste each other. Rumi loved racing on the beach. It was not much of a race anyway; he would always win. Perhaps that is why he enjoyed it. Afterwards, I would rest my head on his lap, watching the rays of the sun bounce off his olive skin while his long fingers stroked my hair. His eyes seemed almost hazel brown in the light. He would smile sometimes, his long eyelashes sweeping across his cheeks. He would look down at me, tracing the shape of my lips, and jaw with a finger until I had begun to feel dizzy. We wer- en’t oblivious to our temporality. It was just easier to pretend as though we had a forever, as though we were alone, and untouched by the world. Yet, the unspoken lingered between us, weav- ing itself in each kiss and each embrace. The time we had then felt stolen, even as the inevitable dawned upon us to reclaim it.

Titu bhaiya was the first one to find out. Our sudden affinity had not gone unnoticed, so when he finally did stumble upon us embracing, Rumi quietly resigned himself to the chastisement that he was due to receive. He was forbidden from spending time with me or even as much as being caught in the same room as me unsupervised. Yet, that night, he snuck out once Titu bhaiya was out cold and knocked on my door. I had been unable to sleep, so I immediately let him in, locking the door behind us. We didn’t waste time talking, for we both knew that it was the end. He was a servant and I, master, and we could not be together. It was as simple as that, but we threw the truth out of the window as we climbed into bed, slid under the covers, and held each other through the night. When morn-

ing came we ceased to be lovers. He swept the house, dusted all the baubles, washed all the utensils, and massaged Baba’s feet, and I stayed out of his way for the most part. It was as though we had never been together. Yet, that evening when I returned to my room to find sitting atop a pile of freshly done laundry, the snow globe from Baba’s mantelpiece, I knew that I had not imagined it all. He was still there.

Train to Ischl Vineet Deshpande

"For the last time, stop trying to set me up! I do not want to meet anyone. Let me focus on my studies and please, for the love of God, delete my profile from those stupid matrimonial websites."

I hang up the phone on my mum knowing very well that none of my instructions will be followed. I will keep getting notifications from matrimonial websites and my mum will keep finding single (and sadly ready to mingle) Indian men in Europe. God knows where she finds them. I hardly see any Indians in public transport and on the rare occasion that I do, they avoid eye contact as if I’m Medusa. The only Indian stranger who did not do that and approached me pleasantly turned out to be a Jehovah’s Witness. I had to literally get off at the wrong station to escape that conversation. Maybe being Medusa is better after all.

I get on the train and notice that it’s different. It’s an overnight type of train with compartments of six. I get into the first one which has only one passenger who is reading a book. Quite shocking these days, but high chances of him leaving me alone. All I want is a quiet journey with a coffee and my book. Hopefully, that will get my mind off my mum’s meddling with my love life. I really don’t get it. How did she go from ‘stay away from boys and focus on your studies’ to ‘studies will happen, when will you find

a husband?’ I wish I could have turned on this switch in her ten years ago. Or turn it off now. That will save me the trauma of enduring one bad date after another. Yesterday night was definitely the worst. Why do all Indian men work in IT? Even if they do, how do they have nothing to talk about except for their work and Netflix? And why are all of them Elon Musk fanboys? God!

The person in front of me suddenly looks up. I realize I said ‘God’ aloud and not in my mind. Oh shit. It’s an Indian man. Of all the compartments in all the trains in the world…. wait, is this a setup by my mum? She’s certainly capable of it. I bet she told him to act as if he’s reading a book. She certainly knows me well, much as I hate to admit it. Should I change compartments? Wait, this is not possible. I haven’t told anyone about my plan to go to Bad Ischl. There’s no way my mum could have planned this. This is just the universe messing with me. Luckily, Mr India has dived back into his book. Please let it be a gripping mystery which keeps him engrossed for the next three hours. I really don’t want to hear the words ‘Blockchain’, ‘AI’ or ‘Machine Learning’ again.

I am comfortably engrossed in my own book for the next half an hour when the food and drinks trolley appears. Caf- feine at last! I smile at the young girl who will give me my fix.

“Hallo! Would anyone like anything from the trol- ley?” asks the girl clearly pegging us as tour- ists. I really hope she doesn’t think we’re together.

(I attempt to

show off my

“Would you like anything Sir?” she Mr India after giving me my favourite

local Gerasks coffee. “Erm... I want this coffee, but I can’t pronounce it in German. I think it is called ‘small brown’ in English,” says Mr India looking at me nervously. “Small brown? Ah, you mean a ‘Kleiner Brauner.’ Abso- lutely!” says the girl. I’m glad I don’t need to translate.

I take one sip of my coffee and immediately the world feels like a better place. I look outside at the wonderful greenery and feel content. But Mr India looks the exact opposite. He is staring at the small cup with a bemused expression on his face. I know that look.

“Didn’t expect it to be this small, right?”

“Not at all. Although, it says so in the name. But how do they even have such a small cup?”

“You should see the way they serve this in a cafe. They have a tiny cup along with an equally tiny saucer, a tiny spoon, a tiny milk jug thingy and a matching tiny glass of water. It’s like a toy set except it has lovely coffee.”

“This is like cutting chai in India,” says Mr India. There comes the India reference. Red Flag! Red Flag! Am I being

"Grüß Gott!" man) Ich hätte gern ein verlängerter brauner bitte."

too judgemental and unpatriotic? Judgemental, yes. I couldn’t care less about being unpatriotic.

“So, where are you headed?” I ask trying my best to suspend judgement. “Bad Ischl, what about you?”

Oh, God. Maybe my mum really has planned this. It’s too much of a coincidence. “Me too.”

stalk someone.

“So there is a very small bakery in Bad Ischl called Rührwerk which is rumoured to have the best cream rolls in the world. I want to try them.”

Psycho alert! This guy is travelling more than four hours from a different country just to eat a cream roll??? Thank God not a stalker… but so weird!

“Cool!”

Mr India has no follow-up questions. That is quite refreshing. And a bit strange. Now I’m curious even if he isn’t.

“How come you’re headed to Bad Ischl? You don’t seem to be from Austria. I didn’t know Ischl was popular outside too,” I channel my inner Miss Marple and make sweeping deductions.

“Erm .. Just like that.”

Mr India is blushing and looks embarrassed. Oh god, why did I have to move into interrogation mode?

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to pry.”

“No no, it’s nothing like that. It’s just a silly reason, that’s all.”

Now I’m even more intrigued. I just hope he’s not going there to

“You’re going to Bad Ischl to eat cream rolls?” I say this with as straight a face as I can manage.

“Yes, that’s right,” Mr India says defiantly now.

“I remember enjoying cream rolls only once in my life. I used to work in Pune and sometimes when work ended early, I used to go to this tiny but super famous bakery to have a pattice and cream roll.

“Santosh Bakery, right?”

Oh my god! Is this guy completely obsessed with cream rolls?

“I am actually from Pune so I know Santosh Bakery really well. Love it.” Oh, so Mr India is now Mr Pune? Interesting, but surprisingly quite polite.

I see Mr Pune searching for the trolley girl.

“She won’t come back for a long time. That’s why you need to have your complete order ready when she comes,” I give my two (unsolicited) cents of Austrian knowledge.

“Oh damn. I wanted more coffee. I miss the Indian train experience. Don’t get me wrong. I love the European train connectivity, cleanliness, and availability. But I just miss the whole gastronomical experience of the Indian trains.”

“I completely agree! I miss it so much. The chai, milky sweet coffee, tomato soup, vada pav, bread omelette, oh man.”

“And it’s a multi-sensory experience. The chants of “chai chai, coffee coffee”, the cold drink vendor making a symphony with his bottle opener and a crate of glass bottles... “

“I also remember waiting eagerly for the train to reach a specific station on the way so that you can have a special food item. Like getting vada pav at Karjat.”

Does a fish like water? Does Sachin Tendulkar like to bat? Does Narendra Modi like dressing up?

“Yes, I would love it. I can’t believe you’re offering me this. Thank you!”

“I wanted to have just a little bit of the Indian train experience. My mother used to make this every time. So, I decided to cook yesterday and pack it for the journey. Would you like some pickle?”

“You made puri and bhaji yourself? That’s insane. It’s so tasty! Bring on the pickle!” “That I haven’t made myself,” says Mr Pune with a smile.

“So why are YOU going to Bad Ischl?” asks Mr Pune as I continue to stuff myself with his food.

“I want to visit this villa of an Austro-Hungarian composer. He supposedly used to go there to think and create music.”

I’m feeling ravenous now. The wonderful conversation took me back to a special time and place. Suddenly the coffee is not enough. Wait, what is that gorgeous smell? Mr Pune is unpacking a whole three-tier tiffin box.

“Do you mean Franz Lehar?”

Wow! I did not expect Mr Pune to know about Lehar.

“Would you like some puri and batata bhaji?” asks Mr Pune warmly.

“Sahi jawab! I’m a music student and I’ve been reading about Franz Lehar. He used to say that it is in Ischl, that he always had his best ideas.”

“That’s cool. Well, I hope you find your inspiration at Lehar’s villa. It was nice meeting you and reminiscing about the Indian trains. I didn’t expect to be doing that on a train to Ischl.”

“You know, this pickle was quite spicy. I don’t mind going for the best cream roll in the world right now”. “Wunderbar!”

The screen ahead looked hazy, and the tutoroid’s rambling no longer made sense. Anupama had slept barely five hours the previous night. Another few minutes and she should be off to the remedial section, gathering reference books for the day’s lectures. As the lecture finally ended, Anupama left the room and trudged along the corridors, responding wearily to the mechanical smiles and hellos that she met with at every step. An hour lay ahead of her, and Anupama hoped to make good use of it that day.

The room was empty as usual. She collected a volume from the shelf and settled down at the lone table. A Complete Guide to the Circuitry of Drones. They had learnt about the propellers of a simple drone that day. The complexities of a simple drone made her head spin. Frustrated, she pushed it away and buried her face in the crook of her arm that rested on the table. Hiding from the ghastly reality didn’t help much but was comforting all the same. Everyone was happy and cheerful. They didn’t face the ordeal she went through. They would learn perfectly well, choose the careers suited to their aptitude, marry their ‘ideal’ partner and live a family life of tranquillity. Within the next two years, The Chip would have a 100% success rate. With great dread, she considered her future. It looked bleak. What would she end up as? The fury of thoughts had slowed, and soothing darkness enveloped her gently. As the hour ended, she was jerked back to conscious-

-ness by the din of the students returning to their rooms. The next lecture – Ethics – would begin shortly. Stuffing the book in her bag, she braced herself for yet another hour of turmoil.

At seventeen, Anupama had very child-like features. Small, thin and plain in frame, she looked nearly five years younger, while the girls her age had already assumed their womanly form. Some of her classmates were even dating. The rest would eventually end up with a partner by the time they entered their twenties. She, on the other hand, didn’t even have a first crush. Neither the boys understood her, nor could she relate to them. All they did was smile and greet her just as everyone else. She didn’t have high hopes either. Relationships were controlled by an algorithm specific to genetic patterns and hormonal surges. Each individual had a pre-destined ‘the one’ to lead a happy life with forever after. Her defect had rudely prevented her from accessing this benefit among others.

the OW cameras onto their face.

“Today, we will be learning about the criticisms of Animosky’s philosophy. To the OW, students!”

Ethics was rarely taught in the OW. But the tutoroid had gauged the average enthusiasm levels of the class and tailored the lecture accordingly. Perhaps the students were bored at the prospect of studying Animosky. OW stood for Other World. For Anupama, though, it was the Outlandish World. It was experienced in a spotless white hall adjacent to their classroom. Spacy and flooded with light - it was empty, barring the Environmental Improvisers at the topmost corners of the room. Everyone stood in neat rows fixing

They were in the midst of lush grassland. A veil of mist covered the noble mountains towering in the distance. The air had an earthy smell, and the sun shone softly through the fluff of clouds. Tutoroid was nowhere to be seen. Instead, a whiskery man with a beak of a nose stood before them. He kept shifting his weight from side to side like a happy bird. Mr. Animosky. They were to interact with him as a part of their lessons. Students soon got engaged in rounds of deep discussion. A few were excitedly jotting down possible criticisms they might add to the existing ones for fueling their arguments. The rest were having animated conversations with one another. Animosky talked at length with an occasional bout of giggling. As always, OW had pulled off the feat. Students were bursting with energy. The topic would have been a drag if it wasn’t for the tutoroids constantly taking into account students’ attention, concentration and retention spans. But hers hadn’t been considered. It never was. For that matter, the tutoroids didn’t even identify her as a part of the class. It was no fault of theirs. They were mere humanoid robots. The root of all her troubleS lay in the fact that she was the ‘one in a one billion’ case. In 2055, Anupama had The Chip fitted into her brain as every other newborn. The Chip was to integrate her neural signals as well as biochemical processes with the rest of humankind and the bot-kind. It would guide her through socialization, learning, entering the career suited for her and locating the ideal partner. In a nutshell, enabling her to live a perfectly fulfilling life. She would not just be able to make sense of the Utopia around her but be a part of it.

At the age of 4, however, misfortune befell. The Chip stopped working. Medicoids declared her condition as irreversible. The Chip couldn’t be brought back to life. It was the rarest of rare cases, and the useless Chip would forever remain implanted in her brain. Though it wouldn’t cause her any bodily harm, it implied a lot worse for her. A life of irrelevance. She would be akin to a primi- tive human that lived at the beginning of the twenty-first century. Her ability to connect with others meaningfully was permanently severed. As she grew older, the handicap became increasingly obvious. It was one thing to verbally communicate and another to feel the exchange. She could only do the former. No one understood her deeply, not even her own parents. Human emotions were universally managed by a set of algorithms, privy only to those with a functional chip. And not many met with a fate like hers. One in a billion was the error possibility. Perhaps, just a couple of them in the world was condemned to function solely with their brain.

In the darkness of the room, Anupama lay curled up in bed. It was Sunday, and her parents were out of station. She wouldn’t bother herself with all the travelling and had chosen to stay back. A weekend would be wasted without catching enough sleep. On weekdays, she sat studying late into the night. Thanks to The Defunct Chip, lessons couldn’t be seamlessly integrated into her by the tutoroids. She had to contend with books as a remedial measure, which lagged her behind fellow students.

Animosky didn’t seem to be tiring. Of course, he wouldn’t. They were in the OW. This was his XMplR – his OW version, very life-like and tangible as if it were Animosky incarnate. Not that she had seen him as a human being. The fellow had died long before her birth. In the realm of the Other World, all XMplRs bore a striking semblance to their human selves. So, it wasn’t a huge loss when humans died. One could always seek the XMplRs of the deceased to

Disentangling languidly from the mass of bed sheets, she stretched herself and smiled. Today was the day. With nobody in the house, all her anticipation would be put to rest. The week-long wait was finally over. The housebot had kept her meals ready and left to get itself serviced early that morning. It wouldn’t be back until night. This was the opportune moment. Half an hour later, she stood before the cupboard. Grandpa’s room had doubled up now as a storage space. A sliding panel. That’s what she had seen in the vision. Her heart was racing. The handle turned with a nasty creak, and the stubborn door noisily gave in. To her astonishment, the sliding panel did exist at the back of it. Efforts of forcing the rusty door and the unrelenting panel open had tired her. But the rush of a musty odour heightened her excitement. Shining the torch around, she descended the stairs. At the base lay in full splendour, Grandpa’s gigantic library.

For Grandpa, a Chip-less human, the prospect of a ‘normal’ grand

-child had brought tremendous joy. The Chip had lost the warmth of parenthood. As they aged, his son, Anupama’s father, felt increasingly alien to him. Naturally, Anu’s baby became the apple of his eye. She was ten when he passed away. The only human she felt comfortable with had departed from her life. It was a pity that his XMplR didn’t exist. He wasn’t a historical character with insightful musings for the student fraternity. Nor did he have his XMplR created before passing away. But he did appear in her visions as she slept. Normal humans didn’t have bizarre visions since perfect lives were destined for them. Primitive people like her Grandad used to call it ‘a dream’, which satisfied the heart’s desires in a transient moment of oblivion.

4:15 P.M.

20th November 2072

Staring blankly at the clock display, it took a while to realize it was evening. Her senses were numbed. Appetite, lost for the day. She flipped the last page open once again.

THE END

The torch illuminated the spines of books as she walked along the aisles. At the farthest corner of the room lay unnoticed a glass case upon a little table. He had asked me to look for this very case. It was to contain all that I needed to know. Inside it was a book. Carefully retracing her steps, she shut the cupboard. The tiny black cover, holding around 100 pages, was devoid of any lettering. It was certain to finish by evening. Books like the queer one she held weren’t supposed to exist anymore. Early phases of The Monthly Disposal Program had taken care of them long back. Mundane remedial material was all that she went through day in and day out. This would be a fresh respite, she thought, turning its well-preserved crisp pages.

(is much nearer than you think)

‘Chronic cases of anaesthesia awareness.’

A shudder ran through her body. Around forty years ago, human civilization reached the apex of progress. The timeless search for a Utopia had ended. Human vices stemmed from unfulfilled desires bottled up within. Frustration, aggression, corruption and crime were the outcomes of such internal suppression. Governments, with their functionaries, worked against the might of these complex forces. But in vain. The onus lay with the scientific community. Only if human brains could be interconnected and guided uniformly through a framework of ‘ideal’ behaviours ‘the bad’ would definitely end for good. Such behavioural synchronization would unmistakably direct every action towards the ‘social good’. Moreover, it would allow for communication without any language barriers. With people functioning per specific algorithms, governance and administration would formally attain redundance.

Intra-species distinctions and disagreements would forever

be erased from human memories. One unified and uniform world was all that would exist. And trials of the promising Chip finally succeeded in 2025.

Her parents are among the first Chip-Endowed generation. From perfect babies, they had matured into perfect adults. For the first time in the whole of human history, a set of good, well-mannered and utterly satisfied beings were created who peacefully coordinated to eliminate conflicts in entirety.

The Discovery of H-TRAE, the clone planet of Earth, the same year solved the population crisis. Within no time, H-TRAE was made just as hospitable and roughly 5 billion individuals were dispatched to it as a part of the Great Departure to permanently settle onto the virgin planet.

The twin abilities of intra-chip communication and ideal behaviour inducement ensured that people consumed and produced according to their needs, not in surplus. Goods were exchanged for goods of the same value, and each individual was equally satisfied to the fullest. In school, they learnt about various types of bots, gadgets and machines as well as how to communicate with them. Learning took place via the direct assimilation of data into The Chip. The perfect world order relied heavily on this education system. With time, a medicine-inclined human would end up servicing or controlling the medicoids. Those with an aptitude for mentoring would guide the tutoroids of the discipline suited to them. Basically, everyone performed similar tasks. Managing the bots.

The triumvirate of the Utopian model was complete after the revolutionary findings on Black Holes. With an insatiable capacity for spaghettification, these celestial gobblers turned out to be the ideal garbage dumping stations and ejection points for extracted pollutants. Specialized space modules could now be sent on a regular basis to empty the waste generated by either planet directly into them. This was the genesis of the Monthly Disposal Program. Forty years and the perfection still stood strong. Everything worked with undisturbed harmony. Chaos and disorder were things of the primitive past. Out of all three, The Chip had the most to its credit.

Some unsettling questions, though, were left unanswered by the book. If The Chip controlled human actions, who controlled The Chip? And who created the bots? Who came up with the concept of a perfect civilization and the Utopian Triumvirate? Were the Chip-Endowed humans truly happy from within? Or were they ‘chronic cases of anaesthesia awareness’, as The Last Author suggests? Her hands trembled as she returned to the first page.

Pursuit of Perfection - The Seppuku of Sapiens

By The Last Author

The title, which seemed weird at the outset, had become apt and clearer in meaning. The ‘primitive’ humans didn’t live a

life brimming with goodness. But at least they didn’t require external support to conduct themselves. They made genuine efforts to fulfil their dreams since nothing came easy in the harshly competitive era of theirs. Novelty, luck and the element of surprise abound in their lives. Utter unpredictability made life worth living back then. Most importantly, they had autonomy over their life and could steer it the way they chose. ‘Advanced’ beings of today could hardly be called humans. Despite living blissfully with no insecurities or fears, there was absolute uniformity in their behavioural and cognitive patterns. The Chip aligned their conduct to maintain perfection. They didn’t live for themselves. They lived merely to maintain the established order.

reader in her. And nothing could be done about it. Anupama. Unique, incomparable. It had been Grandpa’s choice.

She was a human. Perhaps imperfect. But certainly not perfected.

Since antiquity, the perfect life was always craved. Balance. Happiness. Success. The thirst had finally been quenched, but at what cost? Eternal sustenance of this Utopia had become the sole purpose of existence. A system meant to serve humans derived its life force through their servitude. Through experience, she had come to realize that one could never understand this artificial world as a mere onlooker. That’s exactly why she felt out of place while billions of others basked in this Utopian beauty. To get the best out of it, you had to be a part of this perfect world.

You had to be artificial to experience its naturalness. Two years from now, humans will completely cease being themselves. The artificial will be the new natural. The slim chance of any deviations from the order would be closed forever. The library downstairs, like The Last Author, will see the last

Gift never received

Saujanya Satyanarayan

It was 5 pm on a bleak autumn evening in September. Win- dows at the Kodaikanal Convent framed the light of the setting sun. The trees outside the classroom had shed their spring-sum- mer grandeur, reminiscent of past glory, in anticipation of the next spring to burst back to life. Life springs back. Always.

trying to say. She snapped back to reality when Githa clapped. “Let’s get started! Let the gifting begin!!” she howled excitedly.

Sakshi was wondering about what the day would be like. A 3-day workshop was conducted for her class on ‘Sensitivity, Inclusion, and Sharing’. Qualities that one is supposed to naturally possess, you ask.

Day three. The facilitator, a child psychologist by profes- sion, had asked the students to bring one or more gifts for the person/s they admired, respected, or liked the most.

There was a great deal of excitement, confetti popping in everyone’s heads as they received gifts, and beautiful faces beaming in excitement. Sakshi ran over and gave her beautifully wrapped gift to her idol, Ambika. Ambika was good at singing and academics, both of which Sakshi wished she had been good at. At the tender age of 14, don’t we all tend to be in awe of people who seem to have what we desperately look for at that phase of our lives?

Excitement rents the air. They all sat in a circle and waited for the facilitator to come, whispering and giggling excitedly.

Ms Githa Kiran walked in empty-handed with a lot of expectations, looking forward to the completion of this ‘one more workshop’ she could add to her curriculum vitae. Her loud jewellery and attire competed with how she gloated about the success of this workshop.

All this while, Sakshi wondered whether at least half of the other 14-year-olds around her understood what the facilitator was

Sakshi came back to her place and sat down empty-handed, eagerly waiting. Her big eyes glittered like stars, expectation overflowing from her heart. Three people walked towards her. “Ah! My time to shine,” she thought. They headed straight not for her. Two girls who flanked Sakshi were richer by three more gifts. “Popular girls,” she thought as they received a few more. They giggled at each other looking through Sakshi, whose practised plastic smile pasted itself on her face whenever she knew she was going to be hurt.

Her eyes searched for at least another pair to meet her. None did. Even in the room filled with 30, she felt alone. She scanned around and saw that each one of them had at least one present or even more.

In those five minutes, a mad flurry followed. Everyone was running crisscross like drunken butterflies, exchanging gifts, rushing back to

their seats, and excitedly looking at their gifts and the gifts of their neigh- bours; while, in contrast, all anticipation in Sakshi died a violent death.

Her whole internal world collapsed. Her eyes that, once spar- kled with excitement and life, looked inanimate. She saw the last of all the shine and sparkle leave her for some time to come. No one noticed Sakshi’s empty hands and longing eyes, or maybe emp- ty eyes; contrasting others’ full hands and lively eyes with her own. A standee with a loud font and piercing colours screamed the name of the workshop. Only Sakshi heard the louder scream of the irony of it all. Sitting there with light hands and a heavy heart, a girl lost her happiness and self-confidence to the Sep- tember winds that swept by her through the oak doors of that room and far away into oblivion, perhaps never to return?

Life springs back. Always. Right?!

Am I the Villain?

Make me your villain

Cast me as the devil, the monster, the foe

Christina Khandolkar

Paint my deeds in shades of black, let my heart be cold as snow

Make me the one to blame

For every wrong, every misstep, every shame

Give me horns, give me fangs, give me a wicked grin

Let me be the nightmare that keeps you awake within

Make me your villain

The one you love to hate, the one to fight and defeat

Let your hero triumph over me, let them save the day

Make me the one to curse

The reason for your pain, your losses, your woes

Let my name be the one you spit with disdain

Let me be the thorn, the obstacle, the bane

The end of her story is where a lot of ours should begin.

At least, this is where mine begins.

It begins with this question - Is being odd or unique always a good thing?

Make me your villain

But remember, dear one, that in stories all is not as it seems

For every bad has a good, for every villain has her dreams

So do not forget to listen

To the tales behind the mask, to the whispers, to the glisten

For even the darkest hearts hold a flicker of light

A chance to step back, to do what is right

Make me your villain

But do not forget to see beyond the surface, the guise

For in the end, we are all the same, just mortals with a guise.

On the Absurdities of ‘Modern’ Living in India:

An interview with author and lawyer Varun Thomas

Mathew

Interviewer: What motivated you to write this novel? Especially since you're a lawyer by profession, what drew you to writing fiction?

Varun Thomas

Mathew is a writer and lawyer by profession. His debut novel, The Black Dwarves of the Good Little Bay (2019), attempts to look back at everything humanity has lost by fictionally depicting the future of the city of Bombay. The sea has invaded the city’s boundaries, and its inhabitants reside in a towering structure called the Bombadrome, which hovers above the barren land. Theirs is an artificially equated society; they lead technologically directed lives and have no memory of the past. They don't remember that this place was once called Bombay, or Mumbai. One man, the last civil servant of the India of old, finally decides to speak up and remind the people of what happened all those years ago, of the events that unmade the city, then the nation, and finally, their lives.

On 4th April 2023, Varun T Mathew conversed with MA II English Literature students that are reading his novel as part of the course work. This interview was conducted as part of the discussion. It revolved around his motivations and apprehensions as a writer, the unique structure of the novel and the powerful dedication (‘To the Indian electorate, in hope…’) while also looking at themes of the novel such as art as protest, history, citizenship and belonging.

VTM

: The motivation to write this novel struck around 2015 when I found that many things in India were changing and changing permanently. The advantage of being a lawyer is that you actually see this change not only at the superficial level but even at institutions. I can see how the underlying bones of the coun- try are shifting every day in court. A lot of things were being lost and there were fundamental changes happening in the country, so I began to think that I could just start recording these things.

Moreover, fiction is also just an easier way to get through to people. Getting people to engage with non-fiction or standard prose is sometimes difficult. When you’re writing through fic- tion, people set aside their prejudices or biases, or sometimes even their own personal opinion, and they engage with your work without suspecting an underlying ideology from the author.

I: As your novel is politically charged, was there any appre- hension about writing the novel due to the current politi- cal environment and the increasing censorship of artists?

VTM: At the time I was writing this novel, I didn’t feel that at all. During the publication process, I got some pushback on the fact that the narrator / title character is called Godse, but that was resolved easily enough - they were fine with it at the end of the day.

I honestly don't think a lot of trolls read a lot of fic- tion, and there's never been much of a blowback. There are some issues in the book which some readers have writ- ten to me talking about some aspects of the book that they found a bit difficult to digest. One of those was the scene where sexual violence is depicted. I've had interactions with people from differ- ent castes and from different communities who have spoken to me about the depiction of the black dwarves. As it is effectively, the ap- propriation of a certain struggle/movement from a particular group of people. As a firsttime writer, I was nervous about this while writing the novel. You're trying to find your voice, and you know that you're also standing on shoulders and narrating stories of peo- ple around you, stories that you haven't necessarily grown up with yourself. There is a sort of looking in from the outside that’s always the case when you’re writing about India in all her diversity. I was nervous about that, but never really about the political dispensation. Honestly, I don't think this government cares about fiction writ- ers right now. At some point, maybe ten years down the line, once they have broken down everything, jailed everyone, and changed the Constitution, they'll come for the small fiction writers, right?

I: Bombadrome feels like a character of its own. Despite its artificially manufactured environment, it has a sense of life, much like the Mumbai of the past in the novel (the Mumbai of the present for us). What was your process like, building Bombadrome and building this new world?

city would be like, I tried to think of what kind of city the character Alas (in the novel) would want to create. And I definitely did not see this character as a negative character, who was just looking to break things down and recreate a unitary society. I saw him as someone who wanted to preserve whatever could be preserved but also follows a constitutional path, irrespective of whether he had to commit a lot of crimes to get there. And there are a lot of problems with India that don’t have simple solutions – which is where Artificial Intelligence potentially comes in, as you can use technology to create an illusory, enforced, efficiently working mirage. So, I tried to imagine what a tech-controlled constitutional democracy would look like. It turned out to be the Bombadromesomething that could protect you from climate change, and that could also ensure some semblance of laws being followed. Bombay right now is honestly a unit of 22 million people, it is an overall organism. At Bombadrome, my idea was to divide that down to just one individual because the reality experienced by that individual is not the same as the reality experienced by the person sitting next to them. Virtual reality is used to give everyone the illusion of what they want, such as preserving some parts of the city for certain types of people, while in reality nothing exists –just a blank grey colony under a domed roof with an algorithmic soul.

VTM:

Before I even got to imagine what the

I: Environmental degradation seems like a staple of the dystopian genre. Why do you think that might be the case? That is, how much does environmental degradation lend to the idea of control and policing? Does environmental degradation make it easier for a dystopian world to be created?

VTM: I think environmental degradation is the easiest segway into dystopia. Except we've come to a point where calling this a dystopia may be counterproductive, because it isn't. Just in the last two weeks, Delhi has gotten more rain in mass than it's ever received. The crops have been devastated. Insurance compa- nies are running. There may be a food shortage this year, and the government's already considering invoking the Essential Commodities Act. To that extent, you're right, I think environmental degradation and, you know, atmospheric conditions are the easi- est way to get into some sort of negative future, except that that future is no longer dystopian, it's real, and it's at our doorstep.

I: The structure of your book is unique. After every chapter, you have added ‘Exhibits’. What was the idea behind including this device?

the last 20 years, they’ve been struggling to change that, and they haven’t got any relief. To focus on these absurdities was one of the motivations for putting in a little exhibit at the end of every chapter.

I: One of the first things that struck us about the novel is the ded- ication itself - “To the Indian electorate, in hope…”. To what ex- tent does the dedication foreground the entire tone of the novel?

VTM:

VTM

: It’s just my basic training that if you write about something, you need authority to back it up. It was also the idea that a lot of things are being lost. And the idea that Godse, being this old civil servant who’s really kept all of these papers and these articles, and he’s hanging on to them. It simultaneously evoked a rather sad picture in my head while also something that was necessary. It was fitting with his character. Initially, my idea was to pick out actual published newspaper articles. If you open the newspapers today, you always find so many mind-boggling things that could find their way into any book. The other day, I was reading an article by P. Sainath, who was talking about how an entire community in central India have not received rations or any sort of public welfare because the officer who is writing their name misspelt it. He added an extra ‘K’. And for

Ever since 2014, many people in this country have expressed this idea that we’ve gone down a path from which there is no turning back. The electoral choices we made over the last decade have changed our foundation and our future so dramatically, that very soon we’ll become unrecognisable. With each passing election there’s this sense of doom hanging over me, if not this country, and this feeling that what we once were and what we could have become has been entirely lost. This sense of loss and the permanence of such loss, all on account of the votes of an electorate, was what inspired the dedication. Along with the hope that perhaps I was wrong, and that the same people, the same electorate, could undo what their previous choices had wrought.

I: While reading the novel, Aimee Bahng’s introductory chapter from Migrant Futures was discussed as Bahng talks about how this position of invisibility and marginality allows one to imagine and talk about different citizenship futures. What is your take on this?

VTM: I think in a homogeneous society, invisibility might be a clearcut advantage. But in a society such as India,

which has three to four thousand years of absolute discrimi- nation, the invisibility of certain communities is a problem. Ever since India got independence, there have been so many com- munities and people who want to be included, to be seen as equal claimants, but being invisible and living on the margins deprives them of the power to imagine or achieve a different future. The invisibility thrust upon them keeps them rooted to where they are. Of course it’s dangerous to generalise, but there’s a uniqueness about the situation in India that cannot be equated with the ex- perience of invisible and marginalised communities elsewhere.

I: The novel focuses on historical discourse, archiving and memory as vital to belonging and active citizen- ship. For you, why is it important for such historical dis- course to play a part in developing ideas of citizenship?

us together as one. But in truth, everything that happened in the past was this exposition of a violation of human rights and the denial of equality. I do think history is highly problematic. And this is what the novel focuses on, particularly in the Bombadrome, where one’s sense of their history is used to sedate and numb them.

However, there is a part of the book that also focuses on ar- chiving and memory as an act of resistance, which isn’t so much to do with citizenship as it is to do with trying to reclaim a nation / idea that has been lost and forgotten.

I: The novel talks about art as a form of protest. What do you think it is about art that lends itself to protest? Additionally, we even discussed The Black Dwarves of the Good Little Bay as a cultur- al product in itself and one that can be seen as an act of protest. Was it your intention for the novel to be considered in this way?

Honestly, I don’t believe in that at all. I think it’s the last thing that people should look to in terms of belonging. Partly because I think that the history we should be proud of is one that started when the Constituent Assembly began to imagine this Constitution. Our national imagination changed then. Every- thing before that was filled with discrimination and inequality and some of the worst crimes ever, which we still continue. But if you look at a lot of political writers and historians, they pick out little periods of history and talk about the Golden Ages and how the Sultanates were amazing and how all of these kingdoms across India were great. None of that is true. And yet, somehow, as Indians, we think that history is the only thing that can bind And in terms of this book being a form of test. It’s more of an

VTM:

VTM: There is so much in terms of art and culture that can lend itself to protest. It has the ability to move people without be- ing overt. And you don’t need to stand up and make a speech, but an artistic depiction of something can have the same impact and maybe even a longer-lasting impact. You see this through- out Indian history as well, for instance, in the Hungry Genera- tion movement around the 60s. They were also one of the influences for the black dwarves. You can’t suppress it. It always gets out. At the end of the day, you can always jail people, not art.

attempted record-keeping.

I: Thank you, Varun, for this thought-provoking conversation. It has definitely made us all think more deeply about the politics around us. We are all looking forward to your next novel and wish you the best for it.

(This interview was conducted, transcribed and edited by Sar- ah Hussain, Shivapriya Subramonian and Arati K Prasen)

When Ms. Lily straightened up to have one last look at the jigsaw puzzle she had been racking her brain all day on, she knew it was perfect and worth the long hours she spent. But there at the centre, she still had to put in that one last piece before she could declare it done and dusted. So, she stood up, unfurled the possible folds on her skirt, shook herself a good once, twice, and thrice, stepped away a little further, and frantically searched for that last piece she as- sumed might be under the rug. She searched harder at every move, widening the area of her search, quickening her pace and strew- ing things all over from their neatly positioned places, but in vain.

I am that last piece that went missing from Ms. Lily’s puzzle box, that single puzzle, if put in its place, would make sense and complete the picture. But I chose to slip between her fingers and roll down far away from her notice, reach and grip. I watched her pull up the rug, reach out under the couch, push away the curtains, and shake herself vigorously as I stood still, refusing to move towards her and let her pick me up. Instead, I stood watching from distances far, at the flawless puzzle she had worked on all day long and the little puzzle pieces that stood intact, exemplary, and well put together. Their inch-perfect positioning, glazed sur- faces and immaculateness, did not give me the slightest desire to budge; to fit in or to put in a teeny-weeny effort to amuse Ms. Lily. So, I lay there in absolute self-gratification, letting the dust lick

The missing piece- For someone I love Sonia Sali

my sides, the darkness engulfs my presence, and the cold floor accept me as its own. As I let myself sink deep into the endless verdure of my thoughts, I knew I had escaped a community I did not square with. For too long, I was told to fit in, curve myself, lean forward, submit a little, stoop very low and let the rest of the pieces take control over my sides so we could complete the picture in unison- just to arrest the beholder for a while lon- ger. Lying stock-still in the darkness, I longed to roll out into Ms. Lily’s backyard, smear my glossy surfaces with filth, break off my neat edges, fade the dazzling miniature picture on me and lose myself among the stones, pebbles, and grass.

And that’s what I did.

An escape from the ‘normal’- For KP

Sonia Sali

You wrapped me up in swaddling clothes, Kept me shut in the caskets you thought were safe and sound, Away from prying eyes, the roars, and the purrs, You kept me boxed, wrapped up, warm and gentle You lined the box with flowers- pink, blue, and lavender, Stuffing some wool here and some delicacies there Sunk in relief, that you kept me guarded, you drummed on the casket, a tune you thought was 'lovely'.

The more you wrapped me in swaddling clothes, the more I hated your casket;

When Ms. Lily broomed and mopped the house one last time in the forlorn hope of finding me, I hid under the bits of paper, dust and filth, so I could escape the sameness and the monotonous life of fitting in- edges perfect, lacquered, fine, prim and proper.

I hated your delightful flowers, their scent made me drill holes in the sides of my casket, I hated the delicacies, I fed them to rodents and ants, I hated the wool, I tore them apart, twisted it round and round, and forced it out of the holes that I drilled.

The tune you drummed, made me sick, I had to jump out the holes- Thank God I drilled them.

I see the world now, a world contrary to the one you told me about,

This one had the greens it enrapture me, pinks that ravished me, and blues that made me want to twirl and whirl in circles round and round, And whites that made me see through the blacks and browns you told me about.

I see the flowers now, dangling from the high towering trees, They caress my face with gentle kisses, I stop by the way and let them for a good long while

I am a long way from you

And while you still sing your song and drum your music- darling, I am away.’

I am here in the woods, walking down well-worn paths and whirling to the music of the wind,

I am out of your golden casket, it now has ghastly holes; You know I have feet, so I tread life the way I want, I dance to tunes I would choose from endless lists, I dance to the blaring music that drowns your drumming and your chorus in the might of my cacophony; Darling, I am going to live my way and sing my song

What does it take to be the difference?

What must it have felt like? The first time life rose from the infinite depths of its watery cradle, and dared to take its first breath of fresh air? Did they know what they had done? Did they realise how fundamentally it had changed the world?

What it must have felt to sail to the very edge of the world, only to find that the world has no end -- that the world, like our possibilities, is truly endless.

What does it mean to be different? To be the first to embark on a path no one else had seen? Trailblazer. Revolutionary. Visionary.

This meaningless cacophony, thrown around so recklessly. Who are these people, doling out these labels so generously?

These are the people who had poured hemlock down Socrates’ throat. These are the people who had set Joan of Arc aflame. Because the witch hunts were never about witchcraft at all. They were about the difference. Someone who is different, who wouldn’t conform.

These are the people who had ridiculed Marie Curie, chastised, taunted and degraded her for being a woman in science -- for being the outlier, the norm-breaker, for embodying the juxtaposition of what was acceptable and what was not.

Marie Curie dared. Rosa Parks dared. The suffragettes dared. Copernicus and Galileo, had known, only too well, the price of standing out in the crowd.

When we think of these people who broke the norm, who dared to be the outlier, the non-conformist, the four-leaved clover, we like to think they were built differently. Wrought of a different metal, built with a different constitution.

What does it mean, anyway, to be unique? What is one of a kind?

Perhaps that uniqueness burns within each of us, beneath the facsimile of sameness.

Perhaps, if we looked deep within ourselves, we would find it. The fire. To be different is to dare to burn.

Being unique isn't so much about finding your own path, or walking on a path no one has seen. Not really. It's about having the courage to walk on a path addled with the ghosts of all the people who had dreamed, but dared not.

It's the courage of going against the mould. Because no one fits the mould, truly. We just pretend we do, pretend to fit in. We don't dare break the mould but this mould is obsolete, the archaic remainder of a world that sought to squash our differences than to accept and celebrate them- an anachronism.

Because unique is lauded when it turns to glory. History reveres the norm breaker, embellishes their tale a thousandfold. They're heroes. Once they've made it.

Why else would Vincent van Gogh die penniless, half-insane, and utter- ly convinced of his own ineptitude?

We call him a genius today.

How many people must have told Darwin he was mad?

When one man thought to strike a stone against its brother, and keep at it, again and again, till a spark was born - what are the odds that every- one around him would just let him? Did no one pester him? Come and work like the rest of us. Why are you wasting your time? Genius is usually genius in retrospect.

Unique? Everyone's unique deep within, beneath the masquerade of social conformity.

Perhaps, for all its pretensions of progress, life is still underwater. Suspended in fluid fear, in liquid what-will-they-think, not daring to breathe for fear of ruffling feathers. It is daunting to step away from the line. To walk away from the waves. It is daunting to be different... but worth it. Always worth it.

Art Sessions

Perspective

Devika Nair

The Unmasked

Anupriya S

Akshaya S

Himanshu Rajendra Subandh

Raysancia D. Cunha

The Contributors

Anushka Mehrotra

Anushka Mehrotra is a first year student at Ashoka University, currently pursuing her Bachelor's in Economics and Finance. She is extremely passionate about literature, and has received several distinctions in creative writing and storytelling at the state and national level. She has also done freelance internships in content writing and translation for numerous organizations and individuals. Aside from that, Anushka enjoys pursuing the performance arts, having been trained in Kathak for over 10 years

Akshaya

Akshaya is a final year MA Sociology student at the Manipal centre of humanities. Writing has always been one of her best forms of expression. Lately, she falls back on pictures to tell the world its stories. Being in the field of Sociology for five years as a student, Akshaya aspires to create an alternate academic space which is less about rules, structure and more about exploring new ideas."

Christina Khandolkar,

Born in Goa, India, Christina has a knack for trotting all over the globe. Is a poet who is inspired by real life events and looks for the beauty and tragedy in everyday life and translates it into words that resonate with others. Poetry is a way for her to connect with the world and to understand her place in it. She likes to question reality and everything about it- curiosity killed the cat and she firmly

believes that curiosity will be the death of her

Devika

Devika is a final-year Master's student at MCH, majoring in English. She is passionate about everything that relates to art and creativity. When she isn't juggling between her several hobbies she can be found taking a stroll in the nearby park.

Debadrito Poddar

Debadrito Poddar is a first year undergraduate student at Ashoka University, intending to major in English and Creative Writing with a minor in Political Science. In his free time, he writes badly plotted plays, reads dystopic fiction and gets into political arguments on Twitter.

Himanshu Rajendra Subandh

I am an Architect and a heritage conservationist based in Pune, Maharashtra. Architecture being my mainstream profession, I am actively practicing Indian Classical music (Vocals and Sitar). I write short stories, poems and articles based on true incidents or mere fiction in Hindi, English and Marathi. Earlier in 2020, I happened to publish my first book (language: Marathi) named Naandee (meaning: the beginning of an auspicious play) which is a collection of chosen stories and poems and I feel happy to share that one of the stories has been awarded with the first prize in India by the 'Vishwa Marathi Parishad, Pune'. Apart from this, I've keen interest in calligraphy, photography, sketching and photography.

I believe that an artist is never confined to express himself only in a single medium, but a spectrum of possibilities through which he

puts himself and his thoughts out. Any tangible artform thus created comes with a strong conviction.

Muhammed Raazi

Muhammed Raazi is a sophomore at Ashoka University. He is currently pursuing a Bachelor's of Arts (Hons.) in English.

Gauri Nerurkar

With a passion for creative exploration, Gauri Nerurkar finds her Zen in reading, sketching, public-speaking and journaling. Hailing from Goa, she is currently pursuing her Bachelor of Arts from Dhempe College of Arts and Science, Miramar-Goa. Gauri vouches for cherishing one’s individuality to beautify a conformist world.

The Exasperated Idealist-

A dreamer. An idealist. A college student who would change the world... if it weren’t for all those assignments she has due. Always living in the future tense. Find her buried in tomorrowland when she isn’t being consumed by self-doubt.

Niranjana Hariharanandanan

Niranjana Hariharanandanan is a writer/documentary filmmaker from Mumbai/Kochi. Her short fiction has been published by JaggeryLit, The Punch Magazine, Soup, ChaiCopy and the Book

Smugglers Den. Her children's books have been published by Pratham Books. Dirty Sheets is her first novella. She is an alumnus of the 2019 Dum Pukht writers workshop and the 2021 Helter skelter Residency. Niranjana owns 108 pairs of shoes and hopes to beat Imelda Marcos.

Sonia Sali

Sonia Sali works as a Sub-Editor at the New Indian Express, Bangalore. She loves sunsets, starry skies and tranquillity. On most days she is lost in her little world and is sometimes spotted under trees, chattering off with friends close to the heart.

Saadia Peerzada

Saadia Peerzada is a student of English and Creative Writing. Her work has appeared in Inverse Journal, The Sunflower Collective, and Cathar- sis Magazine.

Vineet Deshpande

Vineet Deshpande is an aspiring writer and software professional cur- rently living in Vienna, Austria. He is a Computer Engineer from the University of Pune, India. After 32 years in the most livable city in India, he moved to the most livable city in the world to support his wife’s PhD.

Saujanya Satyanarayan

I am Saujanya Satyanarayan, I’m 19 and I’m from Banglore. Writing, music and rehersing Bharatnatyam interest me the most! I also like to travel, beaches are my absolute favourite! I love poetry and writ- ing in particular because they are forms of unhinged expressions of my rawest emotions without having any kind of external judgement.

The Teatotallers

Editors-in-Chief

Aishwarya Sabarinath

Aishwarya is a 3rd year BA student who likes to write for work and fun. She is currently learning about herself by exploring different career choices and will talk to you about spirituality and the universe for days. Her personal bio will change every month as new movies inspire her personality.

Arati K. Prasen

Arati is a final year MA literature student who loves libraries, beaches, baking and everything pop culture. You'll find her either reading in a quiet corner or gushing over a new obsession. If she's not dancing, she's either thinking or reading about it.

Fiction

Nandhitha (Head)

Nandhitha is a final year sociology student at MCH. She loves learning things, be it about Foucault or just discovering that there will always be a rainbow only in the OPPOSITE side of the sun. She loves reading and watching movies in her free time.

Anupriya Shasheendran

Anupriya is a second year Masters student majoring in English at MCH. You'll often find her gazing up at the sky, at the clouds, sunsets and especially the moon. She finds comfort in a perfect cup of coffee and her go-to series- Gilmore Girls/ Modern Family/ This Is Us. This moonchild also loves dancing her heart out, writing poems, and trying to catch up with her TBR list.

Tarang Mathur

Tarang is a first year Masters student at MCH. He loves to read, listen to music and watch movies, series and anime.

Anirudh Prabhu

Anirudh is a first year Bachelors student at MCH. He loves anything to do with paper- origami, books, money- and is passionate about food and photography.

Aksharaa Agarwal

Aksharaa is a BA first-year student at MCH. The friendly neighbourhood bibliophile, she’s always up for incessant discussions on film, art, philosophy and more. She has both a passion for literature and penchant for the pen- or the occasional paintbrush and pencil.

Chetana Agnihotri

Chetana is a second-year BA student at MCH who is constantly listening to music, loves food and coffee, and likes writing poetry. She enjoys watching movies (for the cinematography and script), series (including anime) and thoroughly analyses them later. Sometimes you can find her sporadically practicing boxing combinations.

Shakti Prabhu

Shakti is a third year sociology student at MCH. Who loves and misses her three cats, two dogs and is obsessed with animals and insects!

Tenzin Dekyong

Tenzin is a second year student at MCH who enjoys reading and running during her free time.

Raaghav Chapa

Raaghav is a first year at MCH - he loves photography, cars, and football. Street food and music makes him happy!

Dishari Ghosh

Angadh Singh

Angadh is a second year Bachelor’s student at MCH. He loves making music and shredding on his guitar, reading fantasy books, and MMA.

Dishari Ghosh is a first year Masters student at MCH, who believes the most in engaging with different perspectives, be it with fictional stories or with real experiences. With her two dogs, she loves road-tripping around the country, chasing sunsets and soaking in narratives.

Non-fiction

Aatreyee Ghoshal (Head)

Aatreyee is a final year undergraduate student at MCH, majoring in Sociology. When she isn’t writing assignments or working her part-time jobs, you’ll find her snuggled at home watching a Ghibli movie with a cup of tea. She enjoys writing, sunsets, cats, painting, and trying her best to learn the violin.

Siri Lucille Chenni A.K.A Riven

Riven is a second year undergraduate student at MCH. They love writing, discourse and dogs. They enjoy listening to Hozier and long scenic walks.

Nandana Joy

Nandana is a first-year BA student at MCH who finds solace in music and naps. She’s fascinated by the social sciences and is constantly trying to be the best version of herself.

Mythily Zanjal

Mythily Zanjal is a first year Master’s student at MCH who loves anything to do with Harry Potter and Zombie movies. She loves walks on the beach, reading books and webtoons, and trying out different recipes.

Creek. Sarah also enjoys penning down her thoughts in a journal with a cup of coffee while her favourite mellow songs play in the background to calm her mind.

Harshita Kale

Harshita is passionate about storytelling and wants to give a voice to untold stories and perspectives from around the world. You can usually find her reading, writing, listening to mono (by RM) on repeat and gazing at the skies. She believes kindness and empathy can change the world. You can read more of her work at

Sarah Hussain

Sarah is a final year postgraduate student at MCH, majoring in Literature. When she is not busy listening to a Taylor Swift album, she enjoys reading, gazing at the sunset and watching Schitt's

Meghna Haridas

Meghna Haridas is a first year Master's student at MCH who is happiest on a stage with a mic in her hand. Passionate about movies, music and poetry. Often find solace in writing down her thoughts that she finds hard to say.

Mrinalini Murthy

Mrinalini is in her final year at the bachelor’s programme at MCH! She loves dance, music, lifting, and nerding out about computers and social science. She loves to challenge herself by learning new skills and tries to better herself everyday.

Illustration and Graphic Design

Nehla Salil (Head)

Nehla is a third-year BA student at MCH. She once spent 40 minutes trying to make the perfect cup of masala chai.

Nethra Gopalakrishnan

Hi, I am Nethra, a final year student at MCH and I love things that are larger than life whether it's movies or fashion. I am known among my friends for my ability to paint and create exquisite works of art whenever I am stressed while listening to Ritviz. I primarily function on coffee and a tiny bit of optimism.

Devika Nair

Devika is a second year master's student at MCH who is passionate about Indian literature, classical art and music. She loves to travel, journal and create illustrations.

Maisah Irfan

Maisah is a final year postgraduate student at MCH, majoring in History. You can often find her poring over a book with a cup (or two) of coffee in her hand. Passionate about art and travelling, she hopes that someday she will be able to keep up with her ever- growing TBR.

Amelie Dutta

Amelie is a second year BA student at MCH who enjoys photography, sculpting, and painting open scapes. She is a certified scuba diver and an avid traveller who loves birding. She is also a fitness enthusiast who loves playing table tennis.

to unwind. A cat person through and through, she adores Luna, her cat and fantasises about living in a cosy home, mothering many more felines.

Anusha Shetty

Anusha Shetty is a first year MA student at MCH. She loves to doodle, sketch and listen to music at all times. She is ambivalent at times, like she was while writing this. She likes journaling and giving random facts about the latest Netflix shows.

Public Relations

Rhea Menon (Head)

Rhea Menon is a second-year MA Sociology student at MCH who owns more combination puzzles than clothes. She may have a new passion project every week, but she is never tired of good conversations.

Sreya Das

Sreya is a BA second-year student at Manipal Centre for Humanities, who loves music, nature, and writing poems. She is also interested in playing basketball and watching thriller movies/series.

Amshula Ravi

Sagarika Wadiyar

Sagarika Wadiyar is a second year BA student at MCH who visualises the world by painting her favourite things about it. She enjoys spending time with the people she loves and listens to music

Amshula Ravi is a second-year BA student from the MCH who loves to explore different avenues of reading and writing. She likes to listen to music, watch TV shows and enjoy the beauty of nature. She is always open to learning something new and is also fond of engaging with things that excite her.

Archisha Sanyal

Archisha is a 2nd year BA student who is an explorer with all her heart. She loves to do the things that seem impossible, and loves the sense of achievement that come after words. She reads and writes in her free along with all of this. She aspires to be a nomad, both in life and academics

Oishee Dasgupta

Oishee is a second year BA student at MCH who likes to venture into new food and cuisines and its associated cultural background. She’s also into exploring new music every now and then, and loves crime documentaries.

Akanksha Banerjee

Akanksha Banerjee is in her 2nd year at Manipal Centre for Humanities. She has varied interests, ranging from music, to art, to writing, and continues to nurture her skills in these fields.

Vidmahi Rao

Vidmahi is a first year BA student. She is into dance, drama and karate. She likes to read and listens to music every now and then. Chai or coffee depends on her mood.