Chaicopy In the Postbox Vol 7 Issue 2 January 2024

Chaicopy Vol. VII | Issue II | January 2024 Editorial Published by MCH Literary Club Manipal Centre for Humanities, Manipal, Karnataka- 576104 Only the copyright for this collection is reserved with Chaicopy. Individual copyright for artwork, prose, poetry, fiction and extracts of novels and other volumes published in this issue of the magazine rests solely with the authors.

The magazine does not claim any of those for its own. No part of this publication may be copied without express written permission from the copyright holders in each case. The magazine is freely circulated on the World Wide Web. It may not be sold or hired out in its digital form to anybody by any agency whatsoever. All disputes are subject to the jurisdiction of the courts of the Republic of India. © Chaicopy, 2024.

Cover Art: Anosha Rishi, Sagarika Wadiyar Cover Design: Sagarika Wadiyar Layout and Page Setting: Sagarika Wadiyar, Mythily Zanjal Team Members: Editors-in-Chief: Mythily Zanjal, Chetana Agnihotri.

Fiction: Dishari Ghosh, Abirami, Angadh Singh, Anirudh Prabhu, Gayathri, Manya Kapoor, Raaghav Chapa, Saujanya Satyanarayan, Tenzin Dekyong.

Non-fiction: Nandana Joy, Charvi Bhatnagar, Meghna Haridas, Siri Lucille Chenni.

Visual Art and Graphic Design: Sagarika Wadiyar, Amelie Dutta, Anosha Rishi, Anusha Shetty, Manasi Chattopadhyay.

Social Media and PR: Sreya Das, Akanksha Bannerjee, Amshula Ravi, Thrishaana, Varsha Dev, Vidmahi.

From the Editor’s Desk Dear Readers, In the warmth of September, the Chaicopy team reunited after a long hiatus, welcoming both familiar and new faces. The room buzzed with creative discussion where ideas flowed freely, ranging from the unconventional to the tried-and-true. A common thread in these discussions led to our theme ‘In the Postbox’ which can be interpreted both literally as the realm of letters and messages as well as metaphorically as a capsule of memories. As we ruffled through the many unique pieces that we received, we are incredibly grateful to all the submissions for this issue and the range of themes that it brings to the edition that matched the very intention of the edition.

The theme ‘In the Postbox’ engages with emotions, memories, moments of everydayness, and personal journeys through prose, poetry and art. The cover of the issue, created specially for this edition by Anosha and Sagarika, with the red postbox, stands as a time machine— an object so distant yet so familiar. In this digital age where a message can be relayed instantly and photographs are shared instantly, the simple joys of waiting for a letter and sharing a postcard from a new city are forgotten. This simple moment as seen in the cover, takes us back to that simple moment where the people addressed each other as ‘dear’ and ‘yours lovingly’. Along with these simple moments comes the lost art of conveying one’s feelings with the gravitas of the yesteryears, be it vibrant emotions or regretful memories. The cat sleeping on it is just a cherry on the cake, basking in the same zone of comfort as the readers.

The postbox in our edition brought back memories of the lost art of letter writing. The joy of writing and receiving letters and postcards, the old stamp collections, and the familiar arrival of the postman underlie these very emotions of nostalgia and craving for the past. Memories are evoked in a familiar manner bringing with them a broad spectrum of emotions- happiness, sadness, regret, and excitement. The authors and artists transported us to their memories through works such as ‘A Rendezvous with Memory’, ‘Dear Friend, we’ll meet where the sky meets the sea’, ‘Photo Carousel Ride’, and ‘A Dreamers Trip to Ruskin Land’. These writings are just a glimpse of the many stories that can transport the reader to a unique moment in time, a place filled with memories and nostalgia.

As a team, we could not have been more grateful for the submissions that have come our way and we invite you readers to enter the postbox and travel to the beautiful world of stories crafted with love and care. We are also very thankful for each other in the team, standing by fellow editors and making sure that we compile this edition to the best of our capabilities. We hope these stories evoke memories for you that will transport you to a memory in your life as well. In the meantime, let us enter through the postbox, shall we?

With love, Mythily Zanjal and Chetana Agnihotri (and all of Team Chaicopy)

Ingredients A Rendezvous with Memory | Digital Art | 1 Bhavana D

Chai Expressions Time Notes | Poetry | 3 Saujanya Satyanarayan Maybe Sima Aunty Didn't Get It All Wrong | Short Story | 5 Illahi Monsoon Memories | Poetry | 12 Dr. Madhumita Roy A Letter From the Chest of Subconsciousness | Poetry | 13 Joyeeta Das Untitled | Digital Art | 15-16 Indrakshi Banerjee The University Without Her. | Poetry | 17 Sagar Mal Gupta The Art of Deception | Short Story | 18 Aarni Banerjee Rolling Greens | Visual Art | 23 Amelie Dutta Walk Through and See Kolkata Yourself! | Visual Art | 23 Manasi Chattopadhyay

Back to the 80's | Poetry | 24 Saujanya Satyanarayan

My Highlights from Maas | 74 Dishari Ghosh

In Search of a Soulmate | Short Story | 26 Neeta Doshi

Kaapi Sessions

Photo Carousel Ride | Poetry | 32 Neeta Doshi

27th May, 1:14p.m | Creative Non-fiction | 77 Sagarika and Akanksha

Untitled | Visual Art | 34-36 Raysancia D. Cunha Tranforming Beauty into Beast | Short Story | 37 Albina Arjuman (कtha)

Terms and Conditions Apply | Poetry | 83 Megan Fernandes

unravelled mails, fractured tales | Poetry | 44 Dishari Ghosh

Democratising Grief: The Despair (1954) by Satish Gujral | Creative Non-fiction | 84 Anusha Prakash

Untitled | Visual Art | 45-46 Suhana Rodrigues

Seascape From Murudeshwar | Visual Art | 89 Amelie Dutta

A Past Life | Poetry | 46-47 Arya Sarkar The Last Letter | Poetry | 48 Isha Luthra Arthur Cottage | Short Story | 49 Riddhima Basiya The Editorial | 63

Passage To The Land of Pharaohs | Visual Art | 89 Amelie Dutta A Letter to Neuroscience | Poetry | 90 Miss Richa Vishwanath Hinde Postcards: An Epitome of Vulnerability, Uncertain Hope, and Loss | Creative Non-fiction | 91 Aruvi Ravana Karthik

Dear Friend, We'll meet where the sky meets the sea. | Visual Art | 95 Manasi Chattopadhyay

A Rendezvous with Memory Bhavana D

My House in Memory | Poetry | 96 Vishakha Mandrawadkar A Central Indian Chronicle | Creative Non-fiction | 98 Shreeamay Phadnis Wish you were here | Postcards from the sea | Visual Art | 106 Aparna Adiyoli Comfort Me Like a Child | Poetry | 109 Vishakha Mandrawadkar A Dreamer’s Trip to Ruskin Land | Creative Non-fiction | 111 Mitali Chakraborty The Contributors | 123 The Teatotallers | 129

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The postbox has always been a reminder of love, warmth, and happiness to me. The letters that it brings with the messages that has been handwritten by the sender is almost like having an extension of the sender themselves and their lives in your hands.

It also serves as a hope that someone dear either far or near always remembers you and considers you special enough to share the precious moments of their life with you.

The theme ‘In the Postbox’brings one such fond memory from my childhood associated with letters back to life. It is the memory of the time I spent with my grandfather and the sweet exchange of messages with him through letters and the photographs-turnedpostcards that he would send me. The sound of the postman arriving with a letter would invoke a bunch of emotions in me as a child, which ranged from happiness, anticipation, surprise, and love.

Happiness – for the arrival of the letter which I eagerly waited for; Anticipation – of what things would’ve my grandpa written in the letter; Surprise – waiting for the pictures or little greeting cards he would have posted along with the letter and the love with which the letter was carefully crafted and sent to me.

Through my illustration which I would like to call ‘A rendezvous with memory’, I have tried to capture one such moment from my childhood memory which I yearn to go back to often. The handwritten letters from my grandpa which often had photographs of him and me together or greetings with wishes attached always remind me of the love and fondness we shared for each other. His gesture of sending the letters would oftenspeak more than the words in the letters themselves. And the postbox would be a bearer and witness to all these things.

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CHAI EXPRESSIONS

Time Notes Saujanya Satyanarayan Out of my mind and into yours.

To the woman I will be in my 40s, I hope you are happy.

I hope you’ve slowed down.

Remember when you didn’t know if time was rugged and unbridled, was it really going too fast and too wild, or were you too slow, Pacing up and down like the beats of a terrified heart.

February. March. April. August. Spring.

Amber light. Green light.

How there was a rhythm, a tempo, throb and swing, And you were dawdling behind in their acoustics.

How you felt you were sitting in a stationed train with reams of existence blurring away.

I just want you to know that, you were meant to feel that way.

To the woman I will be in my 40s, I hope you’ve found the love you were looking for: Replete and sated, undisguised.

I hope you are home.

Remember how you dreaded the idea of your mind working like a to-do-list; how you thought you will always be better at loving than living.

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but I am afraid you are still scuffling, trying to shift the weight between the head, The hand and the heart.

Don’t try too hard, I want to say but try.

I just want you to know that you are more of a verb, and less of a noun, you always have been, You were meant to feel that way.

To the woman I will be in my 40s, I hope you’re happy.

I hope you have found the world you would write about, one in which we would travel to give more than we take.

Remember when you couldn’t articulate your heart, remember when you stuttered, faltered and wrote a thousand useless words.

I hope you read this and you laugh, just because, I hope and oh I pray, that you have learned to be everything you wanted to be when you were me.

You will now know my name, but I hope you feel at home in the way I have sculpted you, and our world.

I hope you’re happy.

I just want you to know that, You were meant to feel that way.

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Maybe Sima Aunty Didn’t Get It All Wrong Illahi

My dearest kid, Letters have always been something that I adore. They are intimate, handwritten, and store the smell and a part of the person in the pages. You can see the person with their strokes and how much they edited. It just flows. So naturally, when I wanted to leave something behind - I sit here, my child, writing this for you from your beloved Mother. I want you to know that you are so loved. Even if no one told you today, know that I care for you a lot, and I will always be around. This kind of forever doesn’t go away. You can always find me on these pages, though it might not seem like it. Sometimes things might just seem so wacky and out of control, you might seek to people to ground you, maybe your family, maybe friends or your partner(s) - to tether you and hold space for you – I wish I am around to be that person for you, but if I am not - I hope this letter does it for you.

I wanted to share some experiences that may help you know me better and tell you that you, my dear, are not alone. There is life on the other side. This was something that I wanted to see around me more than anything,to know that the elders are there, that I can cross over the situation. Despite the society trying to squeeze the abnormalities out of me, with power and intention.

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On May 5, 2015, I heard this question for the first time. “What do you look for in your future husband ?’”,I smiled. What could I want in the person I am going to spend the rest of my life with?

I pondered. “Kind, compassionate, and hold a conversation with me, and must have nice eyes.”, I grinned. My mother gave me a piercing gaze and my father fixed his stare on me. It was not enough I gathered, so I persisted, “Um, I need time to get to know him. And oh yes, I want him to be religious. And perhaps not drink and smoke.”, I concluded.

With no help from me, they started filling up criteria – Abroad: Yes | With PG degree: Yes | Car, House: Yes | Well-respected Family: Yes (whatever that means!), all the material things. I shrugged. “I am sure you will take care of it all. “ The naïve 23-year-old me wanted to see the smile on their faces. I wonder if I had told them he needs to know how to fuck properly. Would they have been as pleased? I bet not.

The ‘forever’ part kept ringing in my head - I felt a twinge. You see, in my 23 years, I have been this child who never creates troubles, who is obliging, who can be mended into their ways. I had never gone on a date till then, to the extent that boys touching even my shoulder was not okay. ‘You need to be pure for your husband’, my mother told me one day – the sacred sex-ed, so that the guy gets my ‘pure and unblemished love’. I loved her too much then; disappointing her meant not loving her enough and being disrespectful.

I was the weirdo nobody wanted to associate with at school romantically speaking. For exams and homework, they would seek me. When it came to dating, and as an awkward, shy girl who wears baggy clothes with untrimmed eyebrows, unwaxed legs, and glasses that were in no maeasure stylish of any kind, I was the studious one.

It was not just because of my upbringing. I did not enjoy talking 6

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about how the guys looked in their shorts, all sweaty after a game a. What caught my attention were conversations, ability to manage a situation, and of course the comebacks, both the witty and the thoughtful ones.

How I presented myself changed over the years as I went to college.

My mother, aunt and everyone encouraged me when the time was right. It was their version of what makes a girl appealing to the men, but these were subtle - they encouraged me to take up yoga because ‘it would help me later’. However, the fact that I was shy and never dated people remained, something that they took so much pride in.

On May 5, 2015, it all had to change. I had to think about talking to guys romantically, being flirty, being the fantastic person who wanted to take care of the home and take responsibility and be the best fuck they ever had so that they would want to stick around.

The tropes of a rigid mother-in-law made me worry I had to show up and cook and feed a family. I wasn’t particularly fascinated by it, but there was an expectation that i had to fulfil. I was nowhere close to them, and at 23, I wasn’t aware of what I wanted. All I knew was this template of marriage, kids, and growing old within this set-up.

Everything I was, was that I was groomed for this.

First, marriage proposals came through as referrals and its baggage of bruised egos. Saying no is harder and involves many questions.

So many questions. Then, the onslaught of matrimony websites started – my photos and bios had to be curated and edited and mellowed down.

We registered on one site, then on another site because it had more people from my community in it. When even that didn’t give any results, my parents started giving my horoscope to temples. Many matrimonial sites created sub-caste-based sites – so my reach 7

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increased. They reassured us.

So, matrimony websites were not all bad. Once, very early in the journey, I found a tall, lanky guy with almost minimal details in his bio. He looked cute with curly hair, and then I saw he liked jigsaw puzzles, and he comes from money. Yes, a matrimonial site will tell you that too. I picked up my laptop and, jumping like a bunny across the hallway, went up to my mother to show her the profile.

My first shortlist. That is when I saw her conflicted yet happy face.

She disapproved, nevertheless called his parents. It was a bust.

The deal with the sites is that it’s a lot like most dating apps, but you do it with your parents.Often, they do it for you; and unlike a hook-up, this is for life. So long story short – photos matter. And often, my father and I get into endless debates about not dismissing people based on their photos. I was really picky – trying to get rid of maximum profiles this way. I remember this one profile. My father liked him, but to me, he looked like a villain from old movies.We fought all night.

Then there was a guy. My parents had arranged a phone call, no I cannot call it a date. He was so chatty but unwittingly put down Harry Potter. In all fairness, this was pre-JKR’s transphobia was out on display, so pardon me. I do cringe at this. But hey, being truthful comes with the package!

By this time, frustrations started to creep in.

My mother would start crying at a moment’s notice, and my father, well, was concerned, but he knew it would all be well. The crying cop – understanding cop was at play. In all this, while, say mid-way, I did like one person in about 30 plus arranged dates meetups. It didn’t work out.

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Then, one fine day, my parents shortlisted a profile. The horoscope had a 90% match. Our kids would have been gorgeous, apparently!

There were plenty of prayers and deals that were struck with God, the Almighty, the one who knew what would happen.

I saw his picture and his bio. (Oh yes, I am that person who reads and dissects the bios.) The ‘cool’ guy was giving off major ‘Ohdear-Lord-No’ vibes. It fell on deaf ears because his mother was so persistent. His picture of blue jeans, a black polo and bold black sunglasses was just screaming at me. I had to agree to meet him in person or over the phone. The latter, always!

It was a Sunday morning around 11 am. I picked up my colouring book, arranging my crayons and pencils on either side so that I can see them. The order before chaos – I flipped through to pick a good mandala design from the unfinished pages. The phone rang.

Whichever design it was, I started to fill it with colours. A pang of nervousness squeezed through my hands. I knew the regime by then. It always starts with the niceties. But this time, it got over quickly, much to my surprise. The pressure on my crayons and colours was increasing. I had to level up other areas to make up for the extra-bright colours. Every time he said he was a cool guy, I winced. Physically winced. It was ten long minutes into the call when, “I am looking at your picture, and I wanted to ask you. From the looks of it I you seem to have scars on your face. Do you still have your pimple scars on your face?”

Fun, isn’t it? To be put up for an auction.

Five years passed. With every encounter (read: arranged date meetups, either on the phone or in real life, or simply interacting with his parents), my expectations of what I wanted from my husband changed.

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2015: ‘Kind, compassionate and be able to hold a conversation with me. Have kind eyes, bereligious, a non-smoker and non-drinker.

In-between: ‘Kind, compassionate, have beautiful eyes and be able to hold a conversation with me. Being religious and a non-smoker and non-drinker, respect women, respect me, have an idea about what women want, don’t be a snob, don’t be cocky, make time, have a good sense of humour, don’t be crass, be a Harry Potter Fan, don’t try to be someone you aren’t, don’t have an argument because you want to – especially on the first date trying to flex your muscle, be a reader, don’t be jealous of everything others have, don’t have issues with the queer community, don’t order green tea at Starbucks, don’t be a Vijay movie fan, don’t be a Salman khan fan, know how to cook, don’t be a mama’s boy, don’t try to tell me how to live my life after knowing me for 5 minutes, don’t ogle at other women as if they are meat – checking out is one thing…

Eventually, nothing mattered, yet everything mattered.

In the next 5 years, I had evolved to become someone that theperson-who-was-okay-with-marriage would hardly recognize.

Someone who was more comfortable with oneself, secure and more deliberate and certain about my choices. With this, the misunderstanding with my parents became frequent and unending.

I understood I was not marriage material (cliché, yes, I know), that explained a lot. My mother thinks, even now, t that my aversion to marriage is because I see only the faults with all the failing marriages around me. She does not tell me things that go on in the family that reaffirms this narrative. She fails to see that I could not come to terms with marriage as a concept.

Later I realized I was queer. At the time of writing this letter, my 10

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identity is that of a grey-asexual, attracted to the person irrespective of their gender. This realization is a journey of its own that I will talk in another letter, but just coming to this point has been liberating. Through living, everything has been making more sense, day-by-day. It has always been non-linear, including how I relate with others, with desire, what community means to me, so on and so forth. Oh! It has been wonderfully radically different from the normative. The narratives and community saving my life continuously and in ways more than one. I stopped swaying with the compulsory heterosexuality or compulsory sexuality and stumbled in lifestyles that made sense to me.The templates that I knew and taught shattered just like that.Marriage and kids were not an endall. Itdidn’t assure me happiness in a way a woman is supposed to experience.

In 2020, I told my parents I won’t get married, ‘Why?’ they asked me.

I told them: I do not want to get married because I choose not to. I don’t want to have children or raise a family.

That changed a lot of things between us. Some days I felt it might have been easier to walk out on them. But then, time is really the healer.

They took their time to undo their conditioning and readjust their hope and dreams that they had for me. Eventually, in 2023 it happened too. They told me they did not understand my choices, but that didn’t mean they loved me any less.

Monsoon Memories Dr. Madhumita Roy When monsoon was over, my mother used to bring out all the jars of pickled mangoes under the sun, Raw mangoes left to ferment for days, Like an unripe relationship.

When monsoon was over, my father unlocked the hidden trunk and lay bare its possessions, Old photographs followed old stamps, negatives, someone’s journal, a broken spoon, pebbles from the sea shore, spare parts of his camera, All eager to meet us, Like long-lost friends.

When monsoon was over, you and l were busy counting sunbeams, Our lazy days became more listless, We strained our eyes to extract colours from the rainbow, We strove to map the horizon, Only to realise that, All our efforts would go in vain, Like an unfinished poem.

And that brings me to the end of this letter.

More next time, Love Momma!

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A Letter from the Chest of Subconsciousness Joyeeta Das I was 15 when I received this letter from my grandma in West Bengal.

Our Durga puja tradition.

At least one letter to and from our family back in India, WB Grandma’s letter contained a reply to my previous mail in which I expressed my eagerness to study The Frosty Road Not Taken

Have you come across the fabled thirsty crow dropping pebbles into a dilapidated pot holding the last hopes of water?

If not... it’s time you do cause The Road Not Taken is supposed to be experienced and not merely read.”

-Every time I read this letter, a teary-eyed me imagines my 15-yearold-self running through the paddy fields of Bengal as the loose end of my saree drags the tilled soil and my unkempt hair brushes against the welcoming sway of the pregnant crops. ~

I will read out the letter to you...

“Have you been up on the cawing mornings of Spring to sniff the air loaded with the incense of the floral offering made to Saraswati?

Have you witnessed the anxiety of a parent crow as winter strips off the leafy roof from their nests?

Have you observed the opaque silhoutte of the crow as it lands on the paddy fields of Bengal to gather the harvested gold as the scarecrow snoozes in the conjugal dusk of the late fall and early winter?

Have you seen the envious glance of the crow?... as Autumn introduces the fairest Catkins to the world, eventually outshining its charred radiance.

Have you glimpsed a despairing crow as it shakes off the rain water, 13

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Indrakshi Banerjee

Walking through the lively lanes of Kolkata during Durga Puja, my heart embraced the warmth of laughter and the vibrant colors of pandals. In the midst of it all, there she stood, Durga Maa, a beacon of joy and unity. Those moments of pandal hopping echo in my mind, weaving a tapestry of cherished memories, where every step felt like a dance and every sight a story of celebration.

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The University without Her

The Art of Deception Sagar Mal Gupta

Aarni Banerjee I plopped down on the dinner table and stared blankly at the bland piece of bread that sat on the plate in front of me. My dad looked at me, expecting me to dig in as I gulped down the last bit of my true emotions and plastered a fake smile. I took a bite readily and said, “Yum!” That was all needed for a smile to tug at the corner of his lips. I soon find myself on the bus, moving steadily towards school as the breeze cut through my hair. I realised it was just the first day after summer break, nothing special, but ‘special’ would hardly be what I called the days I had recently spent.

The cuckoo flies to the garden She finds the trees desolate Flowers sapless, wilted She feels sad and morose All her hopes are shattered into pieces.

Spring had not come the unexpected inclement weather had disabled her to arrive in time.

Cuckoo was in no mood to stay in the garden emotionally injured she left in a huff.

*ONE MONTH AGO* As soon as the bell rang, screams of pure joy echoed in the school halls, marking the day as the last day of school before the summer break. The atmosphere was still a bit glum as it had been since the disappearance of Heidi Schwann. I wanted to be sad for her and her friends, but she had been gone for two weeks, and no foul play had been suspected.“She could have run away with that long-distance boyfriend of hers”, I thought out loud to Janice. Janice replied coldly,” Those might just have been empty rumours. Wedidn’t even know her.Let’s not make any assumptions.” Ersula just nodded along while sipping on her drink.“Want to sleepover at my place today?” I asked them. They simply nodded and continued to walk away from the school.

The sleepover that was supposed to be every girl group’s dream just ended up being a casual gathering of friends as they all lay on the bed and scrolled through their phones.“Hey Zuri, let’s cut up paper and make crowns for ourselves. I just saw it on TikTok!” Ersula

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exclaimed. I ended up searching for an hour for scraps of newspapers but was unsuccessful. I sighed deeply as I somehow found myself trying to attain junk mail from the post box in front of our house.

Ersula jumped out of pure anticipation as I separated the junk from the rest and carried it back tomy room.

We had just started shredding most of the letters when I saw Janice closely inspecting a plain white envelope.” It doesn’t even have any stamp, address or receiver’s name written on it! Dude, this guy must have never sent a letter before”, she said. Ersula suggested we read it, although initially, I was against the idea, curiosity got the best of this 15-year-old. As we read it, we hoped that whoever it was had written it as a joke, a very sick one.

I was startled as Ersula tapped on my shoulder.” Any leads?”She said with a smirk.” Nope, I guess I am a failed detective”, I lied. I realised how easily lying came to me. After that night, everything had taken a turn for the worse, but my friends did not have to know…

I sat in class, trying hard to pay attention, to be alert, but failing to do so, I realised I needed a moment; I excused myself from class to visit the washroom. My hands rested on bothsides of the sink.I calmed myself down, took deep breaths, and looked in front. My hair was a dishevelled mess. My eyes sunk into my face. They looked pale and eerie. “I look the part” I thought to myself as I recalled the contents of the letter.

1. Thursday- 2:49 p.m All the girls were leaving school. Icouldn’t help myself when I saw her again. I tried to keep the urge locked behind the bars of my conscience, but they were weak. I picked her up. She trusted me.

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2. Friday- 12:30 am She knows what I think of her. She has accepted that no one will help her.

3. Sunday- 1:00 pm I thought I had fed her and kept her well, but when I came to check on her, I found her covered in blood, lying there motionless, she had cut her wrists. I tried to give her CPR, but it seemed she was long gone.

4. Tuesday- 3:00 am I disposed of her body quickly; no one at home has figured it out either, but I feel too guilty. I might confess to the police. But I can’t, my family…

5. Friday- 6:00 pm I have started to find my path back to insanity. I cannot stop reminiscing when she was with me in my basement. I need to get a grip, but how can I...

6. Monday- 9:00 am I saw a girl today. She was the prettiest one I have ever seen. This time, I promise it won’t end like the last. It will last forever.

No one will understand how I feel, they will call me a pervert, but I truly love girls, and that iswhy I connect them to God and the goodness of life. I must save these angels from deflecting off of God’s path.

But the most horrifying part of the letter was not the content. It was the all too familiar watermark, which I recognised almost immediately, a truth I was unwilling to accept.

Before I knew it, darkness devoured me as I felt myself falling onto 20

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the cold, stiff bathroom floor. To be honest, I hoped it was the end until I felt a hand holding mine. I opened my eyes and found myself in the ever-so depressing nurse’s room.“You are not taking your medications regularly, are you? In that case, fainting frequently should be the least important one of your issues.”, a voice echoed.

I shut my eyes forcefully till my eyelids started hurting.“I know you can hear me and thatyou are awake”, the voice continued. I hummed as a response to the nurse’s continuous nagging.“What doesshe know?”I thought. Making my way out of the office, I headed straight for home. I wondered if ‘home’ was something I deserved to be calling it. Nevertheless, it is better than my real family home.

I slipped into my not-so-sweet memories once again.

I knew the watermark could just be a coincidence, but why do I feel uncomfortable? If I truly believed he was innocent, wouldn’t I have spoken to him about it? Should I check the basement? Questions flooded my brain, and that’s exactly when my dad called me down for dinner.

it?”my father asked innocently.

I entered the hospital and went to Mrs. Shetty’s office.“Hi, nice to meet you! Zuri, is it?”she asked in a sickly sweet voice once I entered the room.“Yes,ma’am.”, I replied in a serious tone.

“I suggest you take a seat. Don’t worry, I will keep it short. The police insisted that special therapy sessions be given to you and your dad, and considering you both were the last to see Ms Heidi, I rendered it a good idea. Can you please describe your last meeting?”she asked.

“We picked her up after school on Thursday, May 19th and dropped her off at a bus station. That was the last time I saw her.”I narrated the story confidently. I was a good orator after all.

“Well, since there seems to be no factual loss of memory, I would suggest you write a letter to yourself”, she continued, but I had already zoned out. ~

I pulled myself up and made my way downstairs, rethinking my decision and that is when I decided to enter Dad’s room instead.

I grabbed the house keys, which he always kept under the indoor plant pot, and rushed to the basement, I have to know. The basement door creaked open, and I saw exactly what I had feared.

The wall in front of me had a big emblem drawn in blood, and the floor was covered with straw, and heads of dead rats were collected in a corner. My mother’s picture hung on the centre of the biggest wall, and in front of her, on a desk, the bloodied belongings of much too familiar a friend.

Tears streamed down my cheeks as I felt two hands grip the side of my arms.“I made it exactly like you wanted it to be. Do you like 21

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Back to the 80’s Saujanya Satyanarayan Daydreaming about the 80s during a chemistry class where the professor talks about vinegar and soda, and how they repel each other so much, and yet they crystallise into a prodigy of possibilities.

That tells me everything I need to know. what we’re all composed of? and what we’re all capable of?

Walk through and see Kolkata yourself!

Manasi Chattopadhyay

I see your achromatic irises gawking at the children of the sun once more, tears forming from the prickling sensation of the golden sphere of heat, poking your skin like it’s got the faintest touch of sulphuric acid.

Two translucent children chasing each other around your figure, amidst the heat of the Virginia in our hearts.

Amelie Dutta

Rolling Greens

It’s the 90s all of a sudden, the desert of our brains is found contorting into a place surrounded by dusty TVs, and music CDs. I realise I’m in a music shop.

You’re there too, music reverberating through the course of our veins, and we giggle like the oblivious souls that we are.

Kudremukha- A visual treat.

Experiences include 18 kilometers of walking, innumerable leech bites, and incessant rains.

But wasn’t the pain worth it?

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In Search of a Soulmate

We then come back to 2021, and the joy is gone, melancholy residing in our souls yet again, countless messages of irrelevance appear on the screens of our phones, and I wonder; how would life have been if we were born in 80s?

Neeta Doshi Sara, an educated girl, is the epitome of sophistication and elegance.

With an excellent academic background, keen intellect, and excellent problem-solving abilities, she has gained a lot of respect in the law firm she works at.

You ask me why the 80s?

I look outside the window, and start explaining the wraith of my foolish childhood illusions, the one where we move to the 80s wear flowers in our hair, and eat leftover peach mango pie that mom made for us, and you laugh, and tell me, that I’m not foolish, for everyone is allowed to dream and I internally caterwaul upon the dream of timidly knitting a cardigan for you, in a summer palace, lost in eternity.

Despite her education, corporate success, and modern outlook, Sara is wuite fascinated by the mystical world. All logical reasoning goes for a toss as she seeks seers, tarot readers, and astrologers to get guidance on life’s purpose based on past life.

To add to this, she is a hopeless romantic and fancies the idea of chance encounters, eternal love stories, and finding a soulmate.

Sara’s belief in the unseen, and her romantic ideals add charm to her otherwise simple personality.

All of twenty-nine now, she is eagerly awaiting her Mr. Right, her soulmate. She wonders, “Are couples truly blessed to be together for seven lives? If so, is this going to be my first life with my soulmate, my last, or somewhere in between? When and where will I find him? How will I know who it is? How was my past life a hundred years back? Who was my partner and was our love, true love?”

~

Sighing aloud as her cheeks turn blush pink, she tries to push these thoughts away and opens her laptop and begins the day’s work.

She always secretly wished for a time machine to take her back in time and see if her soulmate existed in her past life. As the laptop is starting, she checks her mail tray. A bright and colourful pamphlet catches her eye.

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She picks it up with curiosity and begins reading, “All questions of your past, present, and future will be answered here. Change is guaranteed. Come for a session and we guarantee that you’ll be surprised at the big change in your life!”

flew in the crisp early winter breeze as soon as she stepped out, invigorating her further. It was like she was going on a date with her soulmate.

Eyes wide open and lips turned outwards, Sara was agog with curiosity. Her general routine was rather monotonous and this seemed like an interesting proposition. To connect with her old self had been on her mind for quite some time anyway. This pamphlet piqued her interest and excited her so much that she resolved to give it a try.

The dilapidated house was not very easy to locate. Sara circled the lane a few times before eventually coming upon the house. Its facade was worn and covered in moss, the paint was peeling off, and everything seemed to be covered in dust. It looked abandoned and haunted. A big door knocker shaped like a lion with bright red eyes glared at Sara.

“At most, it might just turn out to be a fraud or a joke and I’ll be none the wiser but at least I would’ve tried”, thought Sara to herself as she typed in her password. She noted the visiting hours and address, and quickly folded the pamphlet and slid it in her purse.

She decided to take a leave the next day and visit the seer. This would be her birthday gift to herself. A sheepish grin broke out on her face as she started making the report that was due in one hour; after having sent an appointment request at the given number.

Sara was in two minds about her decision. She tried to calm her trembling fingers as she felt a cold chill run down her spine. She looked all around with shifty eyes and then thought, “You are a grown-up woman, Sara. You can do this!” Hesitatingly, she knocked on the door but then decided to turn back and run. Just as she was about to run, the bead curtain jingled and a hand pulled her inside.

Purple curtains were drawn over broken windows; red lamps made the room glow with an ethereal aura. Sara took a deep breath, and an intoxicating mix of sandalwood, exotic herbs, and incense, wafted through the air into her nose.

Come next morning, as the sun peeked through the lacy curtains, Sara jumped out of bed and walked with determination. The hot coffee cleared the fuzzy cobwebs, making sure she was up and alert. Her phone started ringing incessantly even as messages, flowers, and gifts from her friends and family continued to pour in. However, none of this mattered. She only looked forward to the much-awaited appointment at noon.

The lemon-yellow sun dress was Sara’s favourite, and she beamed with happiness as she put it on, spraying some perfume, and applying makeup. Humming a peppy tune, she collected her purse, house keys, etc., and closed the door behind her. Her hair and dress 27

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Startled beyond words, Sara’s teeth started chattering and she fidgeted with her dress and purse. She took small, unsure steps as she scanned the room. The walls were adorned with frayed tapestries. A crystal orb was placed on the central table with a set of tarot cards beside it.

There was a dull buzz in the room as the wind chimes rang through the still air occasionally and soft trance music played continuously from one corner.

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Just as Sara was getting her bearings, she found herself plopped on a bean bag near the central table, opposite the seer. Dressed in a royal blue robe and multiple layers of gemstone jewellery, the seer looked up. With deep blue kohl-lined eyes, the seer stared straight into Sara’s eyes. She waved her long black-painted nails and suddenly began chanting and took Sara’s hands and placed them on the crystal orb.

Though shaken, Sara realized this was her golden chance to seek insight and guidance from the mysteries of the past. The seer started chanting in a rhythmic tone. It had a special magical pull and soon Sara was completely drawn in, feeling safe and reassured. Sara, revealed her deepest concerns, her aspirations, her desires, and all her personal details, unashamedly and uninhibitedly. The seer listened with the patience of a person with great knowledge.

The seer continued chanting in low tones. She then gave Sara a pouch of an exotic potion to help her relax and visit her past. The seer guided her onto a divan beside the table and laid her down.

Sara took a few whiffs of the potion and prayed to be enlightened as the boundaries of the real and unknown blurred and merged into one and she slipped into a deep sleep.

Lightheaded and dizzy, Sara slowly opened her eyes and looked around. Everything looked different. “Looks like the seer’s time travel really did work”, she thought. She believed she was in her past. She got up hastily to explore.

“Wait a minute!” she hesitated for a moment. Strangely enough, the place did not seem a hundred years old. “Maybe it is a new building”, she shrugged and moved on. She reminded herself to enjoy the experience and not overthink.

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Without letting scepticism play spoilsport, she continued exploring the house to see if her soulmate was there. Alas! All she saw was empty rooms. The wardrobe looked somewhat familiar,; maybe she had seen it in her dreams. She then ran to the window to see if she could gather some clues to her past life. “What?” The view from the window was very familiar too.

Gosh! She really must have lived here in the past; how else would she be able to recognise everything? She was amazed at the psychic powers of the seer. With an ear-to-ear grin, resulting from great satisfaction, she sat down on the marble floor. She was sure that this was the day she would finally get to meet her soulmate. She buried her head between her knees and began waiting for her soulmate to make an appearance.

The harsh trill of a doorbell-like noise; broke her reverie and she stood up, utterly disoriented and confused. The doorbell kept ringing. Sara walked up to the door, still in a daze. She wasn’t sure if she was sleepwalking or actually present in the moment.

She opened the door and her house help, Sheela, rushed in, profusely apologizing for being late. “What? how can she barge in like this?”, thought Sara. “I am with the seer. How can she walk into my dream?”

“Umm. What are you doing here?” asked a perplexed Sara.

“Ma’am you messaged me at one p.m., on your birthday, to take two days off and return to work today, so here I am”, stated Sheela.

“What? Two days? My birthday? I messaged you?”, Sara scratched her head in disbelief as she listened to her house help.

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Photo Carousel Ride

“Yes! But I didn’t know you were refurbishing your house?”, asked a bewildered Sheela, unable to comprehend Sara’s state of confusion or why the house was starkly bare.

Neeta Doshi

“What refurbishing? What do you mean?”, squealed Sara as she looked around with Sheela.

A gentle push on the magnetic door of the corner shelf, Brings upon me an avalanche of memories.

When the truth dawned upon her, Sara laughed hysterically as tears rolled down her cheeks, much to the bemusement of Sheela. A note popped out of Sara’s pants pocket. Sheela pulled it out and read aloud, “Time Travel! Shouldn’t an educated girl like you know better? LOL! Hope you enjoyed the ride!”

Literally! as the antique-looking albums, Stuffed in a heap, fallout in quick succession, I try to catch a few; but in vain.

~

Just like the time that’s gone by, they slip out, And lay scattered on the floor.

I gaze upon some open pages, Moments in time, frozen, gape back at me.

I bend to pick them up and caress them gently, They are not mere photographs; they are a time machine.

I hop onto the ride; keep a tissue or two handy, I turn the pages one at a time, and I keep travelling backwards in time.

A joyful carousel of moments that make my life and make me!

The ride starts, and I go…

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From a year old to my forty-plus self From a decked-up bride to a naughty-looking kid at ten, From the arms of my loving parents to holding my own babies, From school to college, to the crazy hostel days!

Was it possible to feel so many varied emotions at once?

The photos transported me into the very moments.

I could hear, smell, see, and sense all the sentiments, It was almost like I was back in time, back in that very moment.

It takes me…

To the picnics, to school trips, To the song and dance for Teachers’ Day, To the beautiful play we had staged.

Just then, the doorbell rang with a sense of urgency, I wiped a stray tear as I rushed out to open the door.

From laughter to sadness, From victory to losses, From the forefront to the background, From sports to academics, From the failed cake trial to successful ladoo preparation, From friendships to failed relationships, From the weird hairstyle to trendy straightened hair, From thin and skinny to full-figure post-two children, From being with siblings to being with extended families, From being in the school uniform to wearing stylish clothes, From being on the sleeper class in train to business class on the plane, From looking awkward to looking confident, From feeling lost to feeling seen, From loving to being loved, From friends to loneliness, From madness to appearing proper, From home to places we travelled, From firm skin to postpartum stretch marks, From abundant hair to visible thinning out.

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I greeted my daughter with an ear-to-ear grin and realised, The past is in the past, I must live in this moment, in the now, And click more photos with my loved ones, To travel back in time whenever I want! ~

Raysancia D. Cunha

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I have been fascinated with colours since my early childhood. I work with watercolours and acrylics to create art. I find my inspiration in nature, in pages of the books that I read, and in all the beauty around.

One way to travel back in time is through collecting memories and experiences that one can reminisce and the other way is by actually visiting a place that possess a heritage value or simply makes you nostalgic.

The post box has served to me , as a medium to transport handwritten love, crafted and created out of sheer affection and therefore will hold a prominent space in my heart.

Back during the Pandemic when we didn’t get to move around as much and everyone was confined to the walls of their house, a postcard that I painted on travelled for 20 days covering approx 6,896 kms before finally making it to its destination in Germany making me feel elated.

Entering into Confeitaria 31 Janeiro that has been in operation since 1930, is like stepping into a time capsule that holds its wood fired oven so dear. There is a sense of joy in every bite of the sweets and savouries one can devoure at the bakery. One can’t miss the Swiss rolls from there!

Apart from that, when it comes to postcards, l like to personalise them as it adds a bit more value to it. The postcards illustrated above capture moments and each are a reminder of beautiful evenings spent by the beach.

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Transforming Beauty into Beast Albina Arjuman (कtha) Christmas is that time of the year which whispers pleasant notes of holidays in your ear. Having been sold to this premise, my kids also absolutely love the gusto around this time, particularly since the pair of them claimed their stake on this planet on the eve of Christmas.

Being the segue to this felicitous delivery, however, I must repeatedly stomach butterflies of past reminders each year, which start with a brightly coloured postcard left in my mailbox by my beloved on the very day, which always reads, “You did it!”

My dentist once told me that birthing pains are overestimated when compared to a root canal treatment (RCT) gone wrong (this was while I was whimpering with pain in her torture chair with instruments stuck in my mouth).

To me, this gave out all kinds of wrong ideas. Thanks to being overly educated, I imagined mathe-matical equations were also applicable to birthing experiences.

(My boss is a she-wolf/My dentist is a tough chimp) 2+ Both have a (successful career + grown up kids) 22× (She-wolf barely had labour pains) × (she-chimp confirmed that RCT was worse) = (Professionally successful women handle birthing pains wellsissies whine about it) 2

For some reason, he feels that this annual reminder will eventually turn the rancid part of its memory into an achievement. Although I appreciate his concern, au contraire, this hardcopy of a reminder ticks something and brings out the Grinch in me. This Grinch condescendingly smiles ear-to-ear, particularly upon finding women all dolled up, posting pictures of their plump bellies on social media.

I presumed this was applicable to me.

The truth about us women is that we’re inherently vengeful. We want others to go down the same rabbit hole we tumbled through.

Although this tendency may often stem from painful experiences, it’s on the quest to get an emotional payback to help one come to terms with things, I suppose.

Five weeks in, I learnt that I was making not one but two babies.

Not only did I feel happy, but I also felt resourceful (Two birds, one stone!).

This one time, my boss told me how smooth her birthing experience was. By the time she started to feel any labour pangs, her baby was out (this was while I was contemplating a conception).

I went ahead and conceived fully confident about my research, which evaluated factual estimates (anatomical/clinical details of the baby-making process) and qualitative parameters (real life experiences).

I went on to have a good pregnancy. Healthy, energetic, just a bit of nausea, glowed and could boast a healthy exercise routine. I took my gynae consults religiously and was more than willing to go all the way to have a normal vaginal delivery.

It all started when everyone suddenly felt obligated to give me gyan

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What to eat, how to evacuate, everything.

At 3 AM, there was panic. Not that I felt any pain, but upon probing, the nurse told me that there was an equipment malfunction due to which they were unable to monitor the heartbeat of one of my pups.

Two weeks prior to my final countdown, people started to share horror stories of their birthing experiences with me. These ranged from nasty episiotomies and nursing sores to lifelong haemorrhoids.

I was again surrounded by five women. A lead gynaecologist, her apprentice, a radiologist and two nurses. None were familiar to me.

Everywhere I looked, creatures seemed to be birthing. Be it my neighbour’s golden retriever, chickens on Insta-reels or bats and elephants on the Discovery channel.

Although it was evident that this was a case of equipment malfunction, they soon made it about me.

My confidence was vulnerable now.

The radiologist started to prod my belly intensely as if kneading pasta dough. I didn’t need a degree in science to know this was distressing my babies.

By the 38th week, I was still doing well. As part of the group practice adopted at this health facility, I was put in touch with two other doctors, just so they were familiar with my case, in the event of an emergency.

When I objected, she turned a red owl face.

The lead gynae said, “Don’t worry, you’re in safe hands, let us do our job.”

39th week and a routine check-up.

Suddenly, I was surrounded by five she-doctors who broke out into an argument. One said,

She then pinched my sac from the far end to induce labour.

I yelped out a mandrake’s cry.

I immediately started comparing this pain with my RCT experience.

So far, this was better than the latter.

“We have no guidelines to handle twin pregnancies beyond 36 weeks. We need to induce labour, NOW!”

Following my shriek, one of the babies, in sheer agony, did a somersault and came atop the other, whose head was stuck in the birthing canal.

My gynae objected, but she was quickly silenced.

I checked in the same evening as they planned to induce labour in the wee hours so that I could expel my litter in the morning.

There was now a mountain of two distressed babies on the left side of my abdomen.

A happy-cool selfie later, the fun began.

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pelvis was in splits.

while I felt like a sweaty amoeboid creature much like Ursula from The Little Mermaid, with either a baby or my gut pushing through two of my orifices and the third one intermittently squealing in base or screaming in soprano while the heartless vampires in the room insisted upon me ‘blowing a candle’.

The pain, now sharp and intense, was similar to my RCT By now, there was panic in the room.

“I can feel the baby’s head!”

The cherry on the cake was when a nurse came for my signatures to consent for the forced emergency C-section that the doctors were about to attempt on me.

“Push, push, push!”

“Do we need to operate?”

It could be a consent form for a decapitation for all I knew because I was blind with pain and was being made to sign a consent form while also blowing a GOD-DAMNED CANDLE.

“Can’t feel Twin 1’s heartbeat!”

“Just pray to God and do what you do.”

By this time, I was pushing like there was no tomorrow, and the pain was way past a bad RCT. All I could think of was the Nazi limb stretching technique, which I now strongly believed was a successful way of torturing anyone for information.

“In labour, you realise that your body tricked you into craving a baby, much like one craves af-ter-8’-dark chocolate.”

“It’s sort of a joke that nature decided to play on the female kind selectively.”

Suddenly, I found myself concerned about the violence that humans inflict upon the harmless chicken, making it tear itself open to squeeze eggs out every day.

With the pain intensifying, one baby refusing to come out through the prescribed orifice and the other way past, annoyed at the radiologist’s prodding, they decided to move me to the operation theatre for an emergency C-section.

At that faint moment, when I almost had it figured out whether it was the chicken or the egg that came first, I passed out.

There was a consenting process in place, but given the madness of the whole situation, they could have had my or my husband’s consent for an amputation if they liked.

It could have been the alien AI chip obliviously installed in my brain which populated new facts into my RAM because I woke up enlightened with new operational definitions,

Another shriek from me sent my pups trying to ricochet against my abdominal wall, reminding me of Sigourney Weaver in the movie Aliens. Only, she looked ever so slim and graceful birthing an alien,

Birthing: The process of transforming a beauty into a beast.

Gyan: Knowledge-based primarily on hearsay, loosely shared by lesser mortals.

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Group practice: A profit-making exercise followed by some gynaecologists to bully pregnant women into getting a /C-section.

Today, I encourage contemplating women to experience the beauty of going through a pregnancy because, hell yeah, I want to put others through the hell hole I went through!

The ‘so-called’ group practice exercise at the hospital was a coup, and I have a scar that reminds me of it every day.

My boss was a sadistic jackal, and so was my dentist.

Now, so am I. And while I ardently celebrate the birthday of my Princes as well as Christmas, I am good to go so long as I don’t check my mailbox.

But this Christmas, I realized that I have an even bigger issue. I can’t feel my Grinch, and I’m craving the after-8 yet again. ~

unravelled mails, fractured tales Dishari Ghosh an unnamed, unmarked parcel arrives, twisted and turned in a yellow-stained sheet, certainly not an expert, everyday handiwork; a purple ribbon holding the fragments together, an aesthetic eye, keen at work. inside lie pieces- tens, maybe hundreds, torn pieces of paper, each screaming something, narrating a story of their own, one glinting distinctly, all red, with a single word: LOST wonderment catches, disbelief flickers, the ‘what ifs’ left unuttered, shadows dance as mysteries lurk, walls draw up, as a deep fear is unearthed. sigh! two pieces fly away, taken far by the wind. the remaining flutter; while they make their way inside, a broken glass pierces the sole, reminders of the night before, everywhere you look, you shall see, the pieces were born, in multiple ways, on different days, both cold and warm. the puzzle begins and ends with a glance, at the shattered painting, the broken glass, the torn journal, the yellow transforming into purple, swatches, scratches, bruises and bandages. once a safe space, now a haunted trace,

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traded an ever glow for a smile now faux, the pieces seem to piece themselves, the red, yet again, distinct, shouting, screaming, yelling: LOST! LOST! LOST! two pits of paper, now wander on their own, with no claimants to pause what’s flown, from the lands of green and cheer to the fields of grey and drear, one embodies joy, the other yearns peace.

~ Suhana Rodrigues Moving to the United Kingdom has been a surreal experience. I've always admired this city from afar, seen it in movies, and now I'm finally here. But I was scared, and the first few days were lonely.

I kept wishing I was home, closer to my loved ones. Every time I walked on the street, I kept seeing these postboxes, and just like how I clicked a picture of the pretty sunset, I also connected a picture of it. It was like a reminder that I am never alone and that I should reach out to my loved ones.

So, now, every time I cross a postbox, I send a message checking up on them or telling them about my day. It's been comforting to have this constant reminder that I'm not alone. Although every day is still a challenge, I feel more connected to my loved ones now.

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A Past Life Arya Sarkar So many times, I’ve opened your chat.

The blinking cursor urged my nervous hands.

There was always the desire to say so much.

But I couldn’t get the introductory “hey” out even.

Staring at your name and your prettier-than-ever picture, With every moment, the weight of words and feelings grew heavier.

At best, I deleted the overthought and overwrought messages predestined for the bin.

Ironically it exacerbated the fear that my dismal contact list is bound to further shrink.

Either I push you away rudely or you find me downright boring and insipid— Those are the only two possibilities I have consistently imagined.

The vacancy of deep breaths and empty silences is all I ever got from trying.

It ended every time with me resenting the knots in my chest, too tired from untying.

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Perpetually self-effacing.

These days, I’m often irritated and burdened with guilt Whenever I catch myself trailing.

Like the foliage of trees in winter, the wind has swept you away.

And I the pentinent empty trunk, remain rooted in place.

It was fate and no one else’s responsibility, To me, you are “someone who leaves”.

It’s taking me years and more to find solace in that thought.

The eternal sunshine of life ahead dwindles because there is nothing I forgot.

We are thousands of miles apart with no recourse to ever cross paths.

I don’t know what keeps me yearning and hanging on to the past. ~

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The Last Letter

Arthur Cottage Isha Luthra

Riddhima Basiya It was the winter of 1940 in British India. The sun was setting early in Dalhousie. A burst of candy colours lit up the empty sky.

Overlooking the brown hills freckled with tiny cottages amidst thick clumps of deodar trees, Sir Arthur, a geologist of the Royal Natural History Society of England, stood smoking his pipe, reflecting on his recent lengthy journey from London to Bombay on the RMS Queen Mary. He was relieved to be back in his beloved Dalhousie.

There was a letter one day in the postbox Tied with a ribbon in the Christmas sock So I opened it with the hope of it being you The only wish that day I wanted to come true As I start reading it with my teary eyes It addressed how I never heard your cries But how could I explain that I had waited Though clearly not enough as that letter stated

The Englishman’s pale cheeks gradually started to turn a scarlet red despite the chill. He felt unusually weak and uneasy. But Sir Arthur blamed his age for these developments. He was, after all, 56 years old, and it was natural for him to feel tired after a seemingly endless journey spanning several days and nights. The rickety train journey from Bombay to Dalhousie wasn’t pleasant either, although it gave Sir Arthur a scenic view of winding slopes and hills that were plentiful with green.

So I read further with quiet sobs in between Reading out our memories like a movie scene And those flashbacks, yes they hurt a lot But maybe it was just a lesson that love taught And those unsaid words made the clouds cry Questions to which we both had never replied For the god knew it was a story to be told Not just another tragic ending to be sold

The sun sunk below the horizon, making the indigo sky look as though it was splashed with ink. Sir Arthur made his way stumbling to his little cottage. Inside, the fire blazed fiercely. On a regular winter night, he would sit by the fireplace to warm himself, wearing his cashmere shawl and nightcap, but now he wished with all his heart that the fire would simply vanish.

So at last I kept that letter back in the postbox Right where you left it in the Christmas sock And even though it was the last one you sent I didn’t have enough courage to read it till the end

A dimly lit lamp glimmered, casting a shadow inside the cottage, a shadow that was now lying on the creaking wooden floor, gasping for breath as the long night passed.

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Recently fired- advertising professional Murtaza Ali’s apartment in suburban Mumbai reeked of sweat, alcohol, smoke and rancid meat. Presently, it occupied him solely as his wife walked out on him six months ago; they didn’t beget children much to his relief and hers as well. Murtaza’s mind had succumbed to depression, costing him his job, family, friends, and, above all, his marriage.

His mother had left for Australia, two years ago, with his sister, who preferred Murtaza to stay away.

“Not given up? Dude, look at me, I am a living nightmare,” replied Murtaza, beating his chest out of disbelief at Saumil’s optimism.

“But still ‘living’, thinking and hoping, walking and talking. Murty, this is your chance to start afresh, do something unexpected, and unexplored. Get off that couch, get out, travel, do something!”

The conversation with Saumil that evening stirred something in Murtaza. Two months later, he found himself standing before a charming English cottage nestled on a hilltop in Dalhousie. It belonged to an Englishman. The advertisement stated that Arthur Cottage was a colonial-era home with 2 large bedrooms, and a well-maintained garden, in the midst of the hills of Dalhousie. The old-fashioned parlour housed a fireplace and stacks of books from Sir Arthur’’s personal collection. It further went on to say that the place was ideal for singles looking for a peaceful yet unforgettable getaway.

All that was left of Murtaza was a lonely, tall, wily, and gaunt figure with unkempt hair, a scraggly beard, and bloodshot eyes cradled in shadowy under-eye hollows. At 39, Murtaza’’s friends and cousins had raced ahead. Some had climbed the corporate ladder, others took ahead their family businesses. To add injury to insult, Murtaza often saw their social media feeds full of happy spouses and chubby children. How easy their lives looked when Murtaza compared them to his. What meaning did his life have now, he wondered. He had lost everything.

While his friends and peers preferred shiny resorts, Murtaza always had a secret desire to escape to a place where he could feel at home, at peace. He was excited to finally find what he was looking for: no fancy furnishings, no lavish buffets and no crowded pools with people filming themselves in skimpy swimwear. Instead, he was going to have an ‘immersive’ travel experience in a rustic old cottage shrouded in history.

“Have you really lost everything, Murty?” asked Murtaza’s best friend Saumil. Murtaza lay on his couch with one leg on its armrest and the other dangling down just an inch above the floor. “Bro, are you kidding me?” “No, I’m not actually”, answered a neatly dressed Saumil, looking anxiously at his friend. “Don’t go all philosophical on me now, Salma is gone, Thakur won’’t take me back on the team, I don’t have kids, I don’’t have a future… I..”

“Namaste Saab! Welcome, welcome to Arthur Cottage and to Dalhousie!” Murtaza turned around to see an old man in his late 50s with pearly white hair advance towards him, his hands joined in greeting. The man’’s eyes gleamed under thick glasses and a genuine smile was visible under a thick white moustache. He wore a checked shirt with a sweater on top while loose trousers and big boots completed his look. Murtaza gave a curt smile, “Namaste… you must be…” “Shantilal!” said the man with a broad smile before

“I get it”, interrupted Saumil. “Maybe, this is a blessing in disguise – all of it”, said Saumil reminiscing his disapproval of Salma. “I know it sounds crazy. But think about it Murty, you have nothing to lose now, but still here you are, living and breathing, even fighting.

You still haven’t given up. That is what sets you apart from the rest.”

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Murtaza could introduce him. “I am Shantilal ji, the caretaker of Arthur Cottage. Working for 35 years ji, father before me, his father before him ji”, said Shantilal in his heavy hilly accent.

Shantilal offered to help Murtaza with his bags but he politely refused with a nod and progressed towards the cottage, which looked very inviting with its white walls and red roof, while Shantilal walked behind.

As Shantilal opened the door to the cottage, Murtaza felt himself entering a world he had only seen in the movies. The cottage interiors were white just like its façade, antique yet humble furniture occupied the parlour. The head of a deer was placed high up on the wall indicating that its original owner had been a hunter.

A rustic fireplace drew his attention. An armchair in maroon upholstery sat next to it; a few tattered and dusty-looking books on nature lay on the coffee table. The walnut brown floor creaked as the two men walked on it.

The dining room lay on the right side of the parlour consisting of a small round table accompanied by two chairs. Clearly, its original inhabitants had preferred to be alone – something they seemed to have in common - thought Murtaza. An old wooden shelf against the wall was lined up with white porcelain teacups, saucers and dinner plates. Shantilal opened a large bedroom comprising a kingsized, four-poster bed, a fireplace and a brown closet on the side.

The frugality of the space was almost therapeutic for Murtaza.

Impressed with his new home for the next few days, Murtaza suddenly felt a tremor in his stomach. Noticing his guest was craving food, Shantilal exclaimed, “Hungry Sir Ji? Supper ready, only 5 minutes ji!” Murtaza found the use of the word ‘supper’ amusing. It was a very English word, one that he had read in an 53

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Enid Blyton novel in school. The English had surely left their mark, he thought.

Refreshed and changed, Murtaza was pleasantly surprised to walk into the dining room and see a neatly laid table with a silver candle stand in the centre and sparkling white crockery. Two small casseroles with light pink flowers were steaming with delicious rice and chicken curry. Murtaza’s mouth watered. He quickly sat down helping himself to generous portions of the delicious contents. As his stomach filled up, Murtaza realised how weary he was after the long trip. With a final shove of food, Murtaza left the dining room and entered the parlour.

He looked around to find Shantilal but instead noticed the tall grandfather clock that was about to strike 10 o’’clock. Time had passed quickly, thought Murtaza. He noticed that the armchair near the fireplace was moving slightly. Perhaps Shantilal was sitting in the parlour waiting for Murtaza to finish his dinner, but he was nowhere to be seen now. Maybe, he got tired of waiting but was too polite to inquire if Murtaza had finished his meal so he could leave.

The main door was closed, Murtaza latched it and checked if it was done properly. People in the hills sleep early; after all, they have lesser things to worry about, thought Murtaza. With these final musings, he threw himself on his bed, slipping into a blissfully deep sleep.

The next morning, Murtaza struggled to get out of his blanket. He had slept well after ages and felt like a new person altogether. The fire had died out during the night, filling the room with a deep chill.

Very reluctantly, and with much effort, Murtaza managed to take a hot water bath and change. It was still very early in the morning which is why Murtaza didn’’t expect any breakfast to be ready.

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you”, said Murtaza.

Wearing a thick cardigan, gloves and a cap covering his ears, Murtaza set out for a walk to become familiar with his new surroundings.

“Are you hungry?” asked Burrows. “Yes, I actually am!” said Murtaza. But I don’t know what time breakfast is served..” “8 o’clock sharp!” interrupted the Englishman. “8 o’clock is the time.

Shanty lays the table at 8 o’clock!”, said Arthur mimicking a strict English accent. “You know Shantilal?” asked Murtaza. “Of course I do! I know everybody in Dalhousie. I know Shanty, his father and his father before him. Been here long enough to know entire generations!” exclaimed the Englishman looking pleased with himself. “Well, well come along now. Do you mind if I accompany you to breakfast? I am starving!” said Mr. Burrows rubbing his belly with grey gloves. “Yeah! Why not? After you, please”, said Murtaza stretching out his hand in an attempt to be courteous and impress the Englishman. This is going to be an adventure I’ve always wanted, Saumil was right, thought Murtaza to himself as the pair of them walked back to the cottage.

As he passed by, he watched the simple village folk going about their business in the pale orange daylight. Shepherds accompanied their cattle and sheep, pink-cheeked children hopped along their way to school kicking up the dark brown earth, some played with puppies, others were seen huddling under a tree and eagerly opening up their snack boxes.

What a strange world, thought Murtaza. They have so little, yet they seem so happy. In the cities, people were in a never-ending race, a loop that kept their minds and bodies trapped; they were constantly trying to find happiness in material things. There was no stopping, there was no rest, no calm, no peace – the real wealth of life was missing in the big cities stuffed with flashy malls and skyscrapers stuffed with material things, but empty people. Just a little further from the cottage, Murtaza found a spot overlooking the hill slopes full of deodar trees. Cottages with colourful roofs made it look like a page from a fairy tale book.

Once in the warmth of the house, Murtaza felt at ease. The Englishman hung his coat and hat on the peg behind the entrance door and sat down in the armchair near the fireplace. “You won’t join me for breakfast?” asked Murtaza as he was about to enter the dining room. “Oh! ‘Course I will, but in a bit. I reckon I’ll warm myself by this wonderful fire first; give my bones a bit of rest! But do not keep waiting on my account; go on!” said the Englishman with a smile and a twinkle in his eyes. “Ok, see you in a bit,” said Murtaza who was pleased to see scrambled eggs, toast, and hot milk fresh and ready on the dining table. Without wasting a second, Murtaza started devouring his breakfast. As he looked around for Shantilal, he noticed a few paintings and memorabilia installed on the walls. He had missed seeing it all the night before because he had been so occupied with eating.

“Good morning!” said a voice that startled Murtaza, who turned to discover a foreign gentleman standing before him. “Hello!” said Murtaza offering a handshake. But the foreigner kept both his hands in the pockets of a long coat he was wearing. Before Murtaza could feel any awkwardness, the man said, “Beautiful morning eh?” “Yes, it is. Where are you from?” asked Murtaza, amused by the man’’s appearance. He wore a tall hat and long coat. He had pale blue eyes, a bald head, and a white beard; a smile lit his face up indicating a friendly nature. “Oh! Well I am from here for here I am!” chuckled the foreigner. “Haha, I didn’t mean it that way,” replied Murtaza awkwardly. “Oh no, no, no. Pardon my silliness! I am Burrows, and I am an Englishman as you can very well see!” “Really nice to meet 55

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After gulping the last sip of the creamy milk that Shantilal bought from a local farmer, Murtaza got up to explore the antique objects and art work. As he browsed through, he saw drawings of plants and rocks, monographs, a plaque from 1938 belonging to the Royal Natural History Society of England, paintings of hounds and a large man standing next to them with a gun, a black and white picture of a group of British officials in uniform. But before Murtaza could continue his inspection, something stopped him.

He moved two steps back to look at the painting of the hunter with the hounds; something looked familiar. As he squinted to look at the man, he felt as though he had seen him before. Gazing down, to the edge of the frame, he noticed the initials ‘A.J. Burrows’.

Burrows who had died in 1940 by the fireplace. Murtaza’’s mind raced. Was this real? Was he in a dream? Was the alcohol affecting him in spite of him giving it up 6 months ago?

“That is a reaction I often get”, said the ghost of Sir Arthur Burrows startling Murtaza who jumped in his chair hitting the empty glass of milk and shattering into pieces. “I am sorry you had to find out this way. Oh, and don’t worry about the cup, Shanty will get it cleaned up and not charge you for it,” the ghost said with a smile. “I must confess, it was me who forced Shanty to give that advertisement in the newspaper”, said Sir Arthur, bending down his head to look sorry which Murtaza doubted very much. “I keep hoping someone interesting might come to the cottage and make it their home. I doubt if families would stay with a ghost. Therefore, we ensure we only advertise for ‘single’ men…or women.”

Of course! The hunter was a younger version of the Englishman he met outside. It quickly dawned on Murtaza that Mr. Burrows was a descendant of A.J. Burrows; that explained the similarity between the two and the common last name. “So, I see we have become rather acquainted!”, exclaimed Mr. Burrows as he walked into the dining room. “Yes! You didn’’t tell me the cottage belongs to you. This must be your great grandfather…I suppose?” asked Murtaza curiously, wondering if he got his calculation right. “You are right and you are wrong, my friend”, replied the Englishman stoically. “The cottage belongs to me. Yes, that is very true indeed.

But the gentleman in the picture is not my great grandfather, or my grandfather, or even my father for that matter. It is…me”, said Mr. Burrows, his blue eyes locked with Murtaza’s.

“Great! so I am the perfect candidate to entertain you, you mean?”

Murtaza asked, now feeling anger for being conned by a ghost and his human accomplice. Looking empathetically at Murtaza, Sir Arthur spoke in a low voice, “Now, now, I know this business is very, very strange indeed”, said Sir Arthur trying to calm Murtaza down.

“But you must understand young man, I simply need company, and a successor to take over the cottage. As you may have noticed, I am without family, wife or children.” Murtaza felt thankful to hear this; he couldn’’t imagine dealing with a ghost family. “Also, I want to feel the warmth of a real person, and hear about their adventures!

The other ghosts in the neighbourhood have grown so very dull, there is nothing to talk about! It is all quite bizarre really!”

Murtaza couldn’’t feel his legs, a cold sweat sent a tickle throughout his body giving him goosebumps, his mouth went dry and he thought he’’d faint if he didn’’t steady himself. He turned his gaze away from the ghost standing before him aghast at its shocking revelation, looked for something to steady himself finally plopping in a chair behind him. Mr. Burrows was actually Sir Arthur John 57

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“So, you have friends?” asked Murtaza incredulously. “Wow, I never knew ghosts could have friends, you are surely better off than me”, Murtaza frowned and shook his head as he uttered these words and feeling calm realising he wasn’t going to be killed or become 58

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possessed by the ghost like in the movies. The English ghost seemed too sophisticated to commit a horror of that sort.

what makes you think I shall accept your offer? I mean how could you ever believe that you could just lure someone here and convince them to stay!” asked Murtaza animatedly with a slight rise in his voice. Looking down at the floor and glancing at Murtaza, Sir Arthur spoke in a low voice, “Forgive me, but Shanty and I did some digging and discovered that you are separated from your wife, you don’t have children, and you are very, very disturbed I’m afraid. Let this cottage be your ticket to freedom from all of it.”

However, he was still in disbelief yet amused by the irony of his situation. A smile passed Murtaza’s pale face expressing ridicule at the cruel games life plays sometimes. The living wish for death, and the dead are full of life even in death, he thought. “Mmmm, I wouldn’t particularly call them friends. I reckon ‘fellow ghosts’ is a more appropriate term. One of my fellow ghosts is an AngloIndian chap, Mills is the name! And the other is a feverishly dull English woman I’d rather avoid at all costs”, said Sir Arthur raising his eyebrows and widening his light blue eyes. “I tell Shanty to place some salt at the entrance so she cannot enter”, said Sir Arthur rubbing his hands looking menacing.

Murtaza simply looked at the ghost and blinked in disbelief. Was this really happening to him? “It is not that simple!”, cried Murtaza in frustration. “There, there lad! It is! Begin a new life here and when you are awfully bored, simply jump off the cliff for a quick death, and become a ghost, or not. I would very much like for you to keep me company in life or in death, the choice is yours.”

“So… how did you... become... I mean how did you…die?” asked Murtaza awkwardly. “Oh crossed over you mean? Well now I wouldn’’t like to believe I am ‘dead’. Ha! Far from it!” said Sir Arthur clapping his pale white hands. “Oh it was a bad case of the flu! I do regret very much not having met my dear sister Margaret, God bless her soul. I reckon she didn’t have any plans of turning into a ghost like me. Although I do wonder from time-to-time if she wanders the grounds of our estate, in Wembley, hunting partridge - a favourite sport of the English! Now, now, enough of all that. Let us get down to business, shall we? The unnaturalness of this situation aside, if you choose to remain here, you’d have everything you need. We would listen to you, never judge you, give you company, and laugh with you! People will come and go, but we ghosts will linger around for as long as you like! And last but not the least, you get to live here!” said Arthur raising his hands up. “This beautiful cottage with astonishing views of the valley! What do you say?”

Getting up from the chair, a frustrated Murtaza yelled, “Could you please stop thinking only about yourself for a minute, Sir? I’ve had many people telling me how I should live my life, I don’t need someone, especially a ghost, telling me how to live or die and what I am to do after dying! You are simply preying on my loneliness and helplessness!” Murtaza walked out of the cottage and into the garden shutting the door behind him. Within seconds, Sir Arthur’s ghost appeared before Murtaza startling him and almost making him trip. “My sincere apologies to you old chap! I never meant to be selfish or interfering. Forgive me if it appeared so!”

Murtaza paused to think ‘practically’ – an irony he struggled with.

This was the most impractical situation but it all made sense even if it didn’’t make any sense. “I need time to think,” said Murtaza, calming down. “Oh! By all means, please do so young man!” replied Sir Arthur and vanished into thin air.

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Murtaza added some more wood to the fire and sunk in the maroon armchair holding a much-needed cup of Assam tea; he looked at the crackling fire through the steam rising out of the cup. He remembered Saumil’s words that his life falling apart could be a ‘blessing’. Sir Arthur’s ghost was right about him. He didn’t have a family to go back to, he was unemployed with mounting expenses, no career prospects, and unhelpful therapists, among other negatives. But if he chose to stay in Arthur Cottage, he would have a different life altogether, free from worry and the toxicity that was killing him slowly. All he had to do was stay in the cottage and keep Sir Arthur’s ghost lifetime company. Whether or not Murtaza would turn into a ghost like Sir Arthur remained to be seen. For now, he had to decide what to make of his life. Sir Arthur’s ghost appeared beside Murtaza who almost spilled his tea. “Well c’mon now make up your mind old chap!” said the ghost excitedly hoping his living friend would succumb to his convincing.

With time, however, Sir Arthur Burrows, Mr. Mills and Mrs. Bells faded from memory as their time in their unearthly forms had passed. Murtaza visited the cemetery from time-to-time to pay his respects to his friends. He stood a little longer at Sir Arthur’s grave.

It was loneliness that had kept Sir Arthur from crossing over to the netherworld. But when he found companionship in Murtaza, his desires were fulfilled and his soul was finally at peace. Although the two unlikely friends didn’t get to say a formal goodbye, Murtaza did not lose heart for he knew they would be reunited someday.

A greyed and hobbling Chacha Murtaza as he was now known in Dalhousie, limped with his walking stick and pulled his tattered grey shawl to stay warm. He stood on a cliff overlooking the familiar deodar slopes he had first seen many, many years ago. He threw a glance behind and took in the view of his beloved Arthur Cottage.

He felt hunger strike his belly, but dreaded walking back up the slope. However, within seconds, this dread turned into a smug little smile on his wrinkled face. He didn’t have to walk anymore, but to simply disappear and appear again.

By the end of the day, Murtaza had finally relented and decided to make Arthur Cottage his home. In the years to come, Murtaza became a changed man. He became healthier and happier. He had a steady income, a place to stay, and no more debts. His friend Saumil was more than happy to assist him to sell his house in Mumbai and was glad that his friend had a full-time job as a ‘Director of Guest Experiences’ in a homestay in the hills.

~

Mr. Mills, and Mrs. Bells visited the cottage regularly. In the evenings, the ghosts and Murtaza sat around the fireplace and chatted through the night when there were no guests around.

Shantilal became a good friend to Murtaza and oversaw the upkeep of the cottage until he died choosing not to become a ghost for he had led a fulfilling life with no unmet desires like that of Sir Arthur and the other ghosts.

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The home of our journal, Manipal, has always been considered as a deeply individual experience. The surroundings of each person is different, which generates a variety of perspectives and emotions in them. For the students, it is a new opportunity to lead a different life, oftentimes lead the life that you would like to carry on into their adulthood. This student-built and student-led town is home to hundreds of vibrant souls. We come here in search of something and are left satisfied, fo better or for worse. Keeping the theme “In The Postbox” in mind, we have decided to bring out these nostalgic feelings and introspections in every person who has led the Manipal life fo the past couple of years— we reflect their gratitude, their remorse, their excitement and their anxieties.

THE EDITORIAL

Treenabha Dutta MA II, Manipal Centre for Humanities Can you describe your experience in Manipal so far?

For me, Manipal has always been a mix of challenging and rewarding experiences because it is a significant centre for education with a diverse population. It is worth mentioning how Manipal offers a pleasant living environment with its hills, beaches, and greenery; however, the lively atmosphere of the city is also enhanced by its cafes, clubs, and student cultural gatherings.

If there was one memory from Manipal you would like to capture as a postcard for your future self, what would it be?

To be really honest, I’m still patiently waiting for that one special moment to occur so that I can record it as a postcard for my future self.

If there is one person in Manipal to whom you could write a letter, who would you address it to?

That would be my friend Shiv, to whom I dedicated a letter 64

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describing our time together who keeps protecting me from dogs on the road, scotty rides, filled with many amusing memories, and were always there for each other.

I now proudly know Manipal as a student, which is the ideal way to experience this campus town. My life has largely been centred around MCH, it is my home, its professors an integral part of my life, the friends I’ve made here, the canteen these describe Manipal for me. It is more than just a college experience, it is a mould that shapes you, this however is a liberating experience. Living in this small campus town has enabled me to understand myself, the people around me and the larger processes that shape one’s life.

Living in Manipal has taught me how to overcome the uncertainties of life, while still being able to retain the certainty of myself and my passion.

What is one song you associate with Manipal?

Jee Karda from Singh is King- Because this is the song that my roommate and I used to listen to in our hostel whenever we were having academic difficulties. Hence, this song has become “Our song”.

Joseph Jose BA III, Manipal Centre for Humanities

If there is one memory from Manipal that you would like to capture as a postcard to send to your future self, what would it be?

The one memory that I would like to be made into a postcard is of a beautiful afternoon I enjoyed at MCH. I sat alone on campus waiting for the others to arrive for class. For a moment I breath in and looked around our small yet wholesome centre and felt like I was falling in love. The sun’s warmth caressed my face as a gentle breeze brushed my hair and I was able to see the lake in the distance from the first floor. I think that a painted postcard of this particularly beautiful afternoon would be a cherished memory. I would send it to my future self, so that I will always be grateful for the experience and remind myself of the pivotal role MCH has had in shaping me.

Can you describe your experience living in Manipal so far?

Two years ago, at home I sat on my bed gathering clothes and scrapes of memories which would accompany me to Manipal.

Leaving home is a huge step in one’s life, getting to live life according to your own terms without anyone dictating what you can and cannot do, is a privilege I have. The magnitude of the fact that I had left home hit me as I walked up the road in front of the Kasturba Medical College, the day before my first class at MCH. I was surrounded by a swarm of people, everyone minding their own life, laughing, smiling, and joyful. At that moment I held onto the loaf of bread I had just bought, and a stray tear ran down my cheek. My mind told me in the most bitter-sweet tone “Joseph, you are alone”, but yet I countered myself by saying “there are so many people around me”, there was nothing to comfort me but silence at that moment. Living in Manipal has been quite an experience, I have my moments of blissful joy, deep intellectual engagement, and loneliness. As my grandfather lives close by, Manipal has always been a pitstop on our family trips. But now I know Manipal, and it knows me, that, I believe has led to a solidification of this place in my heart. I’ve known Manipal as a traveller, a patient, and a guest, 65

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One song you would associate with Manipal?

I associate “Some Say” by Acoustic Sunsets with Manipal the most.

It is an instrumental song that deeply connects me to this place. I have listened to it while relaxing on the terrace or looking outside my window. It’s soft and comforting nature is what Manipal has offered me, a warm and wholesome feeling. Every time I listen to it, I am reminded of the sunsets at Endpoint, the chirping of birds, the 66

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rustling leaves, and the quiet conversations that the passersby have, as go on their evening promenade.

atmosphere in Manipal. Whenever I hear “Riptide” in the future, I’m sure it will transport me back to the memories and moments created during my final year in this vibrant town.

Mrinalini Manipal College of Health Professionals

Aditha Dayan MA II, Manipal Centre for Humanities

Can you describe your experience living in Manipal so far?

Living in Manipal has been a unique and enriching experience for me. The vibrant atmosphere of the campus, combined with the close-knit community, has made my final year truly memorable. The town itself has a certain charm – the blend of greenery, the energetic student life, and the cultural diversity create an environment that fosters both academic and personal growth.

Can you describe your experience living in Manipal so far?

On a scale of 1-10, it’s 5 :)) It’s been a rollercoaster of emotions.

If there was one memory from Manipal you would like to capture as a postcard for your future self, what would it be?

A postcard would be our group picture from Prof. Shafeeq’s Conference day. It will have the caption, “You make think it’s no big deal, but every small interaction is actually the most important thing in the world. Sooo. Take that.”(Unknown). Both the conferences (2022) hold a special place in my heart as they really brought out the best of all of us in MA I as a class.

If there is one memory from Manipal that you would like to capture as a postcard to send to your future self, what would it be?

If I were to capture one memory as a postcard to send to my future self, it would be a quiet evening spent at the End Point, overlooking the picturesque view of the sunset. The memory is etched with a sense of tranquility and reflection. It holds significance because it was during that moment of solitude that I found clarity about my academic journey, personal aspirations, and the friendships that have shaped my time in Manipal. It symbolizes the balance between the academic hustle and the need for introspection, a balance that I believe is crucial for personal development.

If there is one person in Manipal to whom you could write a letter, who would you address it to?

In a letter, I would pour my heart out to Aparna, my ride or die. I would start by expressing how grateful I am for her constant support throughout my journey from undergrad to postgrad. I’d mention how unique our bond is and how she’s always had my back; and how Manipal has its hold in moulding us to what we are today.

I’d talk about the places we had been to and the places we had not been to, blaming our laziness and cosiness; the new food spots and cuisines that I made her try, which she liked and which turned out to be the best-worst choices. I’d reminisce about those small moments we shared and the connections we’ve built in this place. Overall, I’d make sure she knows how grateful I am to have her to hold my hands, survive together in Manipal.

One song you would associate with Manipal?

As for a song associated with Manipal, it would undoubtedly be “Riptide” by Vance Joy. This song often played during casual gatherings, road trips, and lazy afternoons. Its upbeat and carefree vibe perfectly captures the essence of the laid-back yet lively 67

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Adelin Ben Thomas BA III, Manipal Centre for Humanities

What is one song you would associate with Manipal?

“We’re Going to be Friends” by The White Stripes.

Can you describe your experience living in Manipal so far?

I have lived in Manipal all my life and my it has been amazing.

Being in Manipal has shaped my personality and character in a positive manner, in the way I interact with different people and react to various scenarios.

I have experienced all sorts of phases of my life in Manipal and have not lived anywhere else and I, l do not want to change anything about. I love how small this town is and it makes me feel warm and welcoming and I have become too comfortable to imagine me being somewhere else. So Manipal is my home and I love that it is and wouldn’t a thing about it.

Here we are, no one else We walk to school all by ourselves There’s dirt on our uniforms From chasing all the ants and worms We clean up and now it’s time to learn We clean up and now it’s time to learn Numbers, letters, learn to spell Nouns and books and show and tell Playtime, we will throw the ball Back to class, through the hall

If there was one memory from Manipal you would like to capture as a postcard for your future self, what would it be?

So there was this one time when I was a toodler that Appaji took 4 of us cousins on his Bajaj Kawasaki on a night ride to Cafe Coffee Day (CCD). The speciality of this memory lies in the fact that this is one of the few times when all of us cousins were together and spent lovely time with one another, given that today its hard to get each other on just a call , owing to the differences in the time zones, commitments, and the distance that seem to get bigger by the day.

Death and loss has wiped away the existence of CCD in Manipal today and thus, this truly stays as a memory in every sense of the word.

Teacher marks our height against the wall Teacher marks our height against the wall And we don’t notice any time pass We don’t notice anything We sit side-by-side in every class Teacher thinks that I sound funny But she likes the way you sing It’s really hard to choose a stanza, either the first or the last stanza.

This song is the one that shows how far all of us have come across from being those lil innocent school going kids. I just don’t walk to class unbothered anymore, there’s a lot going on insideassignments, readings, class discussions, chores back at home, to make time to hangout with friends, to call family, and a lot!

Sitting in class at hexagonal tables and having fun isn’t there anymore. It’s all single chairs and individual spaces. We’ve all grown up and things have changed a lot.

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If there is one person in Manipal to whom you could write a letter, who would you address it to?

My future husband. To tell him that if he has to know me, he has to know the place Manipal itself, because Manipal is literally my entire being. This place has shaped my entire personality and character.

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What is one song you would associate with Manipal?

“Photograph” by Ed Sheeran. Growing up in Manipal, I have always seen people moving in and out and things continuously changing. It is a place where there is always a floating population and the surroundings are not constant. But the place in itself, being my hometown, has been a constant for me, and it will always be an irreplaceable part of me.

sense of building a home away from home.

Aditi Dwivedi MA II, Manipal Institute for Communication How would you describe your experience in Manipal so far?

Manipal has been an amazing experience so far. This place has shaped me into a more confident person who knows her worth. It feels like a huge change from my undergraduate years when I used to be constantly homesick and just wanted to go home. In Manipal, I feel more at home and it is because I have found amazing friends and a great community where I feel like myself.

Aditi Srivastava MA II, Manipal Centre for Humanities Can you describe your experience living in Manipal so far?

It’s been amazing— calm. I was in Bangalore before this and it was a very fast life more like a competition, everyone is on the clock yet still stuck in traffic. Manipal is the exact opposite. It’s a relaxed place - it seems like the city lets you be - feels like a no judgement - chill place that lets me breathe. The weather might come off a bit weird but other than that it’s been really peaceful and calm. The proximity to the beaches are a plus point and clubbing always adds more stars to the overall experience. The city seems like a closed knit cute little community where you can be yourself in a slow calm and relaxed manner.

If there was one memory from Manipal you would like to capture as a postcard for your future self, what would it be?

Everything I have done in Manipal is a dear memory, but to point out one, it would be this one day after I came back from home after the Diwali vacations and I felt really lonely and wanted to quit.

Even my mother told me to come back home and that we would figure it out. But then I went on a walk and I saw people around me walking and eating alone. That made me realise that if I learn to love myself and learn to enjoy my own company, nothing can make me weak. That realisation was very important to me and its something I carry with me daily.

If there was one memory from Manipal you would like to capture as a postcard for your future self, what would it be?

One memory would be the first time I saw a rainbow here. It was the first few days when I had shifted here and the rainbow seemed like a reassurance that it’s all gonna be fine.

If there is one person in Manipal to whom you could write a letter, who would you address it to?

In Manipal, if I were to write a letter, it would undoubtedly be addressed to the collective group of individuals who are pivotal in easing our daily lives: the caretakers, the cleaning staff affectionately known as ‘akkas,’ the laundrymen, the security guards, and the mess personnel. They are the ones who seamlessly manage our essential needs— from food and cleanliness to clothing and listening ear for

What is one song you would associate with Manipal?

“Up up and away” by Chance Pena. The song reminds me of the urge I had to grow up— to move out of my house and experience adulthood and Manipal has been the space that has given me the 71

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My Highlights from ‘Maas’

our problems. Often in discussions about hostel or college life, we speak of wardens, chief-wardens, and professors, but seldom do we acknowledge these vital contributors. So, I am compelled to pen down my appreciation for them, recognizing their indispensable role in our college experience.

Dishari Ghosh

What is one song you associate with Manipal?

I would say it’s the song “Ilahi” from Yeh Jawani Hai Deewani, specifically the lyric ‘Kal pe sawal hai, jeena filhaal hai’; This is because in Manipal I want to live everyday to the fullest. Even if I have an exam or a viva, I want to make the most of every single moment.

As the unfamiliar and the familiar converged on a rainy evening at the Manipal Centre for Humanities (MCH), Ms. Jyoti Dogra took us on a journey that was unsettling, comedic, real, and revealing but mostly important. Maas, which means flesh, is the one thing we have in common; some have more of it, some less, but we all have it, nonetheless. Yet, certain stigmas, notions, and outlooks get attached as soon as one sees this exact more or less. With Maas, one could feel layers peeling off, as Jyoti kept changing hers.

Manasi Chattopadhyay

This was an intensely expressive performance, where senses were engaged and heightened. There were sounds, sights, different languages and deep-embedded ideas through it all. At the beginning itself, without uttering a single word, Jyoti invites the public into a private, intimate moment of her undressing with only figurative actions, breaking a barrier right away. This private/public dichotomy also plays out subtly in the rest of the performance, where one sees how the ideas and displays born from the public impacts the private – the ‘self’.

Throughout the entire performance, Jyoti dons several outfits; some fit in with the idea of self, some to flatter the perceivers, and some don’t fit at all. With each one, a new idea is unravelled: how to hide your body and make it more appealing, which angle to take pictures from, and what to wear to boost your self-esteem. Clothes do make or break, but they sometimes make or break the person beneath them, too. While some feel the need to cover themselves up because of the way their body is, some are more accepting and flaunting.

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Too revealing, too covered, too dark, too light— everything is a bit too much at any given time. There are too many sharing their thoughts, often without a penny.

With social media, where screens have become a convenient façade.

The high number of likes on a good day will make you confident about yourself; those likes will make you like yourself. But, on a bad day, oof, they will bring you right down and how! Comments fly in from every direction, and the choices of words pop up without discretion. Maybe stop and wonder if they are ‘revealing’ too much and getting likes because of that. Perhaps it’s because they’d ‘rather be noticed than not be seen at all’. In the race to get to the top, even ‘what you’re meant to be, you would only know, if you know yourself.’ Discovering the truest self or image can be daunting when constantly covering oneself with a false image, often perpetuated by others.

Add shame or sharam to this mix, and voila, you have created a suppressed being, unable to think and choose for or believe in themselves. ‘Shame talks’ and appears at the most inconvenient moment, debilitating even the strongest. At different ages, it talks out loud for distinctive things; and makes one believe that they are never enough. It will attack, break apart, and tear you away from yourself and, in doing so, from others. Hence, you starve and resist temptations, apply products and cover- up, and ‘dazzle your mind to confuse it’, only to let you have a moment of peace.

‘Beauty draws people, and they want to be a part of it’, so you let them. You let them, and you allow yourself to soak at that moment, but let’s face it, ‘it is our body; it is not for comedy’. More certainly, it is our body, and we must do with it as we please, cover it or not, ink it or not, revel in its scars or not, we must cherish it. It does take time, but it is a path we must try and walk on at least once.

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KAAPI SESSIONS

27th May | 1:14 p.m

15th June, 2022 | 5:49 p.m

Sagarika and Akanksha

7th June, 2022 | 12:17 a.m I feel like I talk about you all the time, though your name has never come up in conversation. I remember you showing me a blue sequin you stole from your mother’s Diwali sari, only too proud to parade your deviousness. I remember my jealousy, the green bile building up in my throat as you flaunted your latest, most prized possession.

Sometimes, I open my purse and look at that sequin, wondering how you would feel knowing I was the one who took it away from you. Would you even remember care? If you asked me to return it, I don’t think I’d give it to you. It’s too pretty, you were too careless, and I am too possessive.

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Sakshi asked me where you were today. You remember Sakshi, don’t you? My kurta was orange, and you know how much I hate orange. It was the only one I had left. If I were to open your closet and poke my hand into the recesses of the shelves, would I feel the chiffon of my pink kurta among the bones of your many skeletons?

Would it still smell like me? I hope it smells like you. Are you happy knowing that I could never have it back? I need it back. You were supposed to return it. I wasn’t supposed to ask.

When will you return

2nd July, 2022 | 8:32 p.m I thought I heard you laughing at Mala Bazaar. I turned towards the buttawala, his Marvel graphic t-shirts a constant source of your amusement. It wasn’t you. I never understood how you could laugh at the Bazaar. I was always conscious of the aunties staring at us.

You would laugh while eating chilli bhajjis, uncaring of how hot they were or how the oil would drip down your wrist. You would laugh at me when I coughed and sputtered, my throat itching and tongue burning. I could never eat bhajjis with you. You always ate them without me.

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20th July, 2022 | 3:56 p.m I’ve never found these seats as uncomfortable as I do today. Maybe it’s because we used to talk and laugh and gossip, and the hours felt like days, and the worn leather felt like royal velvet. The train is passing through the mountains, but the man across from me can’t seem to look away from me. He’s not being subtle, either. Was it always like this? Would he still stare if we were together, in our constant chatter and subdued silences? I wonder how you would feel, knowing that my suitcase is just filled with memories of you.

You gave me a doll with matted brown hair and black beady eyes, and said it looked like me. The doll is packed away between a pair of jeans and a sundress, one of its legs most likely sticking out, fighting for room. You said it looked like me, but in the darkness of the night, it’s like looking at you.

This man keeps staring. My skin is crawling, and my blood is rushing in my ears, and I’m so angry sad scared confused betrayed annoyed that I’m alone on this train. I’m wearing the jhumkas that you gave me because you said I looked pretty when I wore them.

Did you know these would become my favourite earrings? Did you know that I would think of you every time the long, silver tassels touched my neck? Or every time I catch my dazed reflection in the mirror, my features unembellished and unadorned, except for these jhumkas? Not a day goes by where I don’t curse you and loathe you for your ignorance. Did you ever think about me? Is your mind plagued with thoughts of me the way mine is with you? I hate you I hate you I hate you I hate you

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11:39 p.m How do I apologise for being so hateful towards you when you’re not here?

22nd September | 4:17p.m I suppose it’s time for me to accept the fact that “you” and “I” and “you and I” are over. I met Sahil today— he’s getting married, did you know? We talked about you. There was an awkward lump in my throat and a hollowness in my chest, but I finally talked about you. He told me that you and I always seemed inseparable. I think, five months ago, you would have scornfully claimed that we were both two different people with two different identities and two different lives. I would have agreed with you— at least in front of Sahil. But in my room, having returned from Mala Bazaar, where you would have eaten your weight’s worth in chilli bhajjis, and I would have watched you in silent awe as you laughed to your heart’s content, and you would have forced me to buy yet another pair of jhumkas which you would vehemently claim looked nice on me, which I would vehemently deny, where you would conspicuously change the topic of conversation when I asked about you— I always felt that we were intertwined. You might be wondering when I became such a romantic. The truth is, I never was. I always was.

I don’t know. All I know is we were in too deep, you were too compelling, and I am too weak.

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Terms and Conditions Apply

Democratising Grief: The Despair (1954)

by Satish Gujral Megan Fernandes

A n u s h a

Thrown to the wolves, the world hath no mercy “Leave the nest” she says, “you will learn to fly” As she sits and judges if you are worthy You learn slowly, terms and conditions apply.

Gone are the days when you sat on your dad’s shoulder Blissfully content with being all mighty and high Now the world, day by day, keeps getting colder You learn slowly, terms and conditions apply.

Life gets messier, friend circles get smaller You try calling for help, but no lines reply No one is the way they were any longer You learn slowly, terms and conditions apply.

Amidst all this chaos, and the endless despair You pick yourself up, you learn to never cry You brave the world’s wrath, getting stronger with each repair Because you finally learnt, terms and conditions apply.

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Following the Indian Independence in 1947, the Partition of India divided the country on communal grounds, leaving trauma, violence, and mass displacement in its wake. This event in Indian history, whose dark shadow continues to loom upon the nation to this day, has been represented through artistic mediums such as painting, photography, and sculpture by several Indian artists.

The Despair (1954) is an oil painting created by the renowned Indian painter, Satish Gujral, as a response to the trauma he witnessed on account of being a first-hand victim of the violence of the Partition.

This work forms a part of a larger series that Gujral painted on the Partition and emphasises upon the noted art critic, John Berger’s words of how the act of sight establishes one’s place in their surroundings, so much soin that itthe paintings helps reiterate the spatial context and significance of the event for the viewer. Notably, Gujral painted the series as a means to both, represent and reconcile with the horrors of the Partition, based on the lived experiences of the people affected by the event, thereby allowing us , to quote Berger, “to share the artist’s experience of the visible”.

The painting instantly evokes a deep sense of sorrow, as it is painted in earthy hues of cream and brown. In the foreground, we see a weeping man whose head is tilted upwards in hysterical anguish. He has his arms outstretched towards the viewer, and it is immedietly apparent to the viewer that his hands are disproportionate to the body. Another man holds him back, and the proportionality is inconsistent here too. In the background, we see a shrouded figure holding onto the shoulders of the weeping man from behind. What is not represented within the painting, but is instead implied, is the reference to death or a dead body lying directly before the weeping man. The painting is of a man grieving the loss of a loved one, and when analysed against the context of the Partition,

one can assume the violent manner in which they may have been massacred. The clothes of the figures are essential to note, because their plain garments seem to indicate the figures’ poverty and lower 85

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class in society. The dark hues of the painting, the shadows on the garments, and the tortured expressions on the faces of the two figures also reflect a sense of foreboding and loss. The disproportionate hands can be further read as a reiteration of the helplessness felt by the two figures in the painting. The intensity of the clenched fists of the weeping figure who holds onto the dead and those of the other figures holding him back seem to depict the varied manifestations of grief in the body. What is particularly compelling is the choice the artist made in depicting the grief of men, as opposed to women.

Across cultures, but particularly in the South Asian context, men are expected to be resolute and stoic especially in times of debilitating grief. Placing grieving, weeping men at the centre of the narrative reveals the full extent of the trauma inflicted by the Partition of India; one that transcended all boundaries of gender, caste, and class.

Furthermore, the viewer of the painting is uncomfortably made to feel as though they were intruding upon an intensely personal moment of the mourning ritual. The figures’ physical proximity to each other, and the illusion the perspective creates, includes the viewer in the figures’ congregation around the deceased person.

However, it begs one to question, are we simply bystanders of the Partition, or do we grieve also? To what extent does this death affect us? Thus, one is reminded, and indeed invited, to empathise with what the artist himself as a first-hand victim must have seen and felt during the Partition. The painting delivers its intended message of emphasising the severity of the Partition’s impact upon the individual lives and the consequent trauma that had become part of their daily lives. From the artist’s perspective, in choosing to depict everyday sense of the aftermath of the Partition, Gujral prioritised and represented what the visual culture theorist and professor Nicholas Mirzoeff has succintly referred to as “the centrality of visual experience in everyday life”.

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Gujral’s works are seen as attempts to create awareness of the struggles of the common man during the times of the Partition.

However, this painting does not discriminate in the act of viewership.

Although the Partition of India has inspired the painting’s creation, the work can resonate with anyone who has experienced grief or loss of any kind, regardless of their class, community, caste, gender, or nationality. Through The Despair (1954) and his larger Partition series, Gujral is democratising the portrayal of grief, both, in the sense of who is represented within the frame as his subject, and whom it touches outside of the painting as its viewing audience.

This view is best reflected in his own words, in an interview with the Indian newspaper, The Hindu, when he said, “After a long time, I realised that I didn’t paint Partition, but I painted my own suffering.” This shows that his series was first and foremost an exercise in the portrayal of human sorrow, and only later an artistic documentation of the event.

Sources: Berger, John. Ways of Seeing: Based on the BBC Television Series (Penguin Books for Art). 1st ed., Penguin Books, 1990.

Gujral, Satish. The Despair. 1954, oil on canvas, National Gallery of Modern Art, Delhi.

Mirzoeff, Nicholas. An Introduction to Visual Culture by Nicholas Mirzoeff (13-May-1999) Paperback. Routledge; Ill edition (13 May 1999), 1999.

R, Shilpa. “‘I Didn’t Paint Partition, I Painted My Own Suffering.’”

The Hindu, 21 Dec. 2017. www.thehindu.com/entertainment/art/i-didnt-paint-partition-ipainted-my-own-suffering/article22138883.ece.

In conclusion, Gujral masterfully brings forth the trauma of the Partition of India in The Despair (1954). Through his Partition series, he contributed to a larger oeuvre within Indian Art that documented the horrors of the Partition— adding to works by artists such as Somnath Hore, Chittaprosad, Tyeb Mehta, Paritosh Sen, Jimmy Engineer, among others. Their works collectively depict a wide range of moods and themes; however, the human emotions of anguish, displacement, and loss underlie every artwork.

~

Crucially, the diverse representations of the same event by such an eclectic group of artists in various mediums clearly shows what Mirzoeff calls “the inherent multiplicity of possible viewpoints available,”— which unequivocally evidences the democratic nature of visual representation and art viewership.

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A Letter to Neuroscience

Seascape from Murudeshwar

Miss Richa Vishwanath Hinde When our eyes first met, We knew, it was the perfect set.

Remember, when you first talked, I read every page as we walked.

To learn more about you, here I am breaking the convention, But you gave my mind; the much-needed attention.

Even when our abstracts stayed apart, Why does it feel like you knew my story in every part?

My eyes and camera shall forever cherish this shot taken from the 18th floor of the Rajagopuram at Murudeshwar.

Today, how did you manage to visit my brain again?

Years ago, do you not remember leaving me alone in the rain?

Now, you just fall into my current domain.

Or is it my research invading your main?

Amelie Dutta

Passage to the Land of the Pharaohs

As we reconnect the algorithm from the bits, Will it help me process this cognitive transit.

Trying to dive into evrry book on how; How to untangle each and every neuron.

Years later, will you allow me to unravel your secret?

I have travelled really far, just to calculate your thinking rate.

I know we are meeting after long.

But trust me, this time we will stay strong.

Something that wewedon’t toor orisisbeyond beyondour our reach always seems Something that don’thave haveaccess access to reach always seems attractive.Such Suchwas was the the feeling to Egypt— attractive. feelingduring duringmy my visit to Egypt—the theland landofofmystery. mystery.

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--------------------------------------------------From Computer Science 90

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Postcards: An Epitome of Vulnerability, Uncertain Hope, and Loss

That beautiful postcard which I had sent myself I live in a city which, when December comes, sees art floating around with or without the impetus of Feni. Too bad, too soon for Urrack. I visited a post office exhibit as part of an art festival, where postcards were handed out for free. I got a postcard. I do not recollect the print on it, but I loved it enough to choose it over the rest. It was beautiful, this feeling I remember. And it occurred to me that I haven’t been receiving many postcards, at least not as much as I was sending out. So, I wrote myself a card and posted it.

I have no idea what I might have told myself in that card. Obvious remarks that I was sending the card to myself, and maybe a word of hope towards the end? That I hope it reaches the very hands that were scripting them?

Aruvi Ravana Karthik

“And that, my dear, is the thing about letters… they write themselves.”

This is an essay about postcards. No surprise. But the essay itself is about a surprise element that comes with sending postcards— the probability/improbability of the card reaching the hands of the addressed. I have personally sent out many postcards, most of which have gone undelivered; And some, just when I am on the verge of declaring them undelivered, surprise me by reaching the intended. However, I have declared many to be ‘lost.’ I see the irony in it, knowing that the card could still be out there somewhere and that it probably never is lost, the words for anyone to find and keep or to pass it on. Therein lies the heart of this essay— the elements of the postcard which make it an epitome of vulnerability, uncertain hope, and loss.

I did not take a photo of it for my digital postcard archive.

Sometimes, it just slips my mind to take that one photo before pushing the card inside the red box. Perhaps, as long as the card is with me, I am too confident that there’s no way for it to go amiss.

I posted this beautiful card to myself, only to go back home and await the time of its delivery. I was imagining the surprise and joy I would bestow upon myself. Days passed, the arts festival came to an end. Urrack season came and went. Feni, an inevitable presence. But no card ever reached, from me to myself, with love, hope and all else. I had already imagined the card up on my wall, whose story I would narrate to my visiting friends – of that one time I had sent a postcard to myself. That story, however, is not here yet. I have declared, to a longing heart, that the card is lost.

--This essay is now a memoir featuring three postcards.

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That beautiful postcard from the highest post office in the world

That beautiful postcard from the Rivona caves

Four-four-zero-zero meters above sea level and you thought of sending a postcard to me? Thank you, D. I may never go there in my lifetime, but the print on the card tells me so much about the view. Indeed, it is a piece from there— one of mountains, memories, and more mountains, and even more memories. Your card is one of remembrance to me – that aspect of the memory which can potentially break people as trauma. Your gesture of remembrance, however, did not break me into trauma, but set me free from unnerving depths of void into heights of bearable lightness— the mountain metaphor, indeed! It came with a mystery thread which I choose to believe is also a protective charm— bringing the mountain to the sea, and hope to a waterful (which is me)!

You were visiting the city I was living in. You were on your solo trip, a few hundred kilometres around with a backpack. We both knew the chances of us meeting were slim for that’s how it has always been. Credits to me being me— ghosting, my favourite coping mechanism. The travelling group which you had signed up for, had handed out a postcard for you to send. And you chose to send it to me. Thank you, dude! I found the card as I entered my room, and as I held it, I was indeed moved to tears, with the gesture and your words: “thank you for being whatever you are to me, dude!” Neither of us felt the need to sit at lengths elaborating on whatever we were to each other. I was. You were. I am. You are. Nothing else had to be said. It does take something to be whatever one is to the other, doesn’t it? Something to shelter the vulnerability in the other? To hold the vulnerable other as the other? It takes something, yes. It takes heart(s) to trust. While you were holding yourself, and your vulnerabilities, in care, thank you for sending me a reminder— in vulnerability, to be.

And dude, thank you for being whatever you are to me! <3

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My House in Memory

This memoir now concludes as an essay.

Long and far do we travel, like postcards, in a longing, uncertain hope, vulnerable to loss at every turn, and rarely, if ever, found.

Aren’t postcards, then, exemplar vulnerability, hope, and loss?

Write to me, let me know. ~

Dear Friend, We’ll Meet Where the Sky Meets the Sea. Manasi Chattopadhyay

Vishakha Mandrawadkar I lived in a house Which faced the sea, And the air had a hint of salt In daylight, and the waves Whispered to us, of how They single-handedly Swallowed the sun at dusk.

The walls of my house Smelled of Arabian oud.

Its aroma had settled in On almost everything The carpet, the curtains And even our clothes.

There are too many memories, I tiptoe around the nostalgia.

I can’t bear imagining the Cool texture of the door knob, Smooth edges of book shelves, The excitement of birthdays, Secrets and sleepovers, Fights and the sound of doors slammed.

Dear Friend, We’ll meet where the sea meets the sky.

While there exists this longing for you, I know perhaps there is no way we will meet.

Or will we?

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A Central Indian Chronicle

So, I do wake up confused From time to time and think I cannot be nostalgic casually.

1868 CE, Madhavghad State, Central India Agency Shreemay Phadnis

No, not even to steal that one Last look of longing.

When there is so much left behind With no way to go back.

The dominion of Madhavgad has passed from the East India Company to the British Crown. Queen Victoria rules with a firm hand. After a rapid succession of short-lived and incapable rulers, Madhavgad has an able ruler in Chandrojirao II Maharaj. This is a Golden age of rule in the history of Madhavgad. But the Mujumdar of the State was without progeny once more. This had become a problem with this family. The third generation to be barren since the death of Raoji Mujumdar in 1797 CE. His current successor— Sardar Balwantrao Mujumdar, was surely a troubled man. He was getting old and could not die in peace until he found a suitable successor. Maharaj Chandrojirao ll had taken it upon himself to search for a suitable child to succeed Balwantrao. He consulted with the Governor General’s representative to Malwa. The date and time for selection was announced.

Shortlisted suitable candidates would be invited to the Durbar with their families. It was mandatory that the applying families be related to Balwantrao, from near or far. After a test of sorts, conducted by the Maharaj himself, the brightest child would be chosen. The test would constitute knowledge of etiquette, swordsmanship, politics, arithmetic, and history. The chosen child would be presented with a kharita and his rights of investiture would be read out aloud to the Court. An heir would thus be chosen. The British would publish this new development in their precious Gazette. Hurrah for everyone!

Several families related to Balwantrao applied for this honour.

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Amongst them was a family residing in Garodiya, a fairly large settlement outside Madhavgad town. They were particularly confident of getting their younger son adopted by Balwantrao. He was a fair child, pleasing to look at. He had been taught well and was a decent athlete. Their chances were good.

The family left with their train of eight bullock carts early in the morning, on the auspicious day. They were fifty in all, almost half the village infact – so sure were they of their chances. As soon as they left the village, a small boy was seen running behind the last bullock cart. He was covered in tattered clothes with a large dirty turban on his small head.

Nobody took special notice of the child. He tried to get into the last bullock cart twice. But he was thrown out of the cart both times. He was unwanted. There was no space for him in the cart. Besides, he was only a distant cousin of the boy who was up for reckoning in the adoption. The young boy was undeterred and ran behind the carts for two whole hours, till they reached the Rajwada. On reaching the Rajwada, there was a great commotion as all the people proceeded to file into the great hall with their plates of offerings and luggage.

The boy slipped in unnoticed and took a place at the end of the line, almost detached from the crowd he had come with.

The other candidates had reached much earlier and the Maharaj was already questioning some boys and their parents. He was already tired by this time. There was a generous coating of sycophancy on everybody’s words. All the boys had been decked up in jewels and smelled of incense. The courtiers of the Durbar were speaking with each other animatedly in low tones.

The Maharaja’s eyes fell on the little boy in the dusty clothes standing at the end of the room. He stuck out like a sore thumb in the large gathering 99

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In all that great hullabaloo, the boy stood silently admiring the architecture of the Wada, his eyes fixed on a column capital. The Maharaj’s voice boomed across the great hall, “Child. Come here,” his eyes set firmly on the boy. There was no doubt as to who he had addressed in that large gathering. The little boy walked up to Chandrojirao, did a maanacha muzra, took a step back and stood still.

“What is your name boy?” Chandrojirao II asked, amused at the appearance of this odd one out, in the middle of this crowd.

It reminded Chandrojirao ll of his own adoption. Chandrojirao himself was not a natural heir of the earlier ruler. He was the son of a distant uncle of that ruler. He had been adopted by the Queen Regent Yesubai as Jankoji and then assumed the regnal name of Chandrojirao ll. This child reminded him of his childhood days before his own adoption, in the far away village of Tuljapur.

The child calmly replied, “Shamrao Walnekar, Mauja Garodiya.

Salutations to His Highness Maharajadhiraj Raj Rajeshwar Shri.

Chandrojirao Maharaj Bahadur.”

Chandrojirao was slightly taken aback to hear his complete name and title spoken unhaltingly by this young child. “So you do know who I am. Have you seen me before? Are you not scared by me? Or by this Court. All these dignitaries. This atmosphere” The boy silently replied, “Mahraj, with all due respect, why should I fear you? You are our protector. The father of this State. Our Mai Baap. It is an honour to be in your presence and to speak with you.”

The Maharaja was impressed. “You are certainly courteous, if nothing else. Tell me more about yourself. Where is your family?

Are they here? Who have you come with?”

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The boy pointed to the group of villagers standing at the back of the court and said, “I have come with them, Maharaj. My only family is a mother who is back in our village, working in a field. However, I am related to that boy who is sitting on that velvet chair. He is confident of his adoption. However, he never ever acknowledges our relation.”

Chandrojirao II was impressed even more with the frankness of this boy. “You are truly unafraid, to share this matter with me in an open court in front of all these people. Is this your first time in the city?”

The boy said, “No sir. I was born here. My father used to have a house in the old town, but he had to sell it when I was born. He had gone bankrupt. This is the first time I have returned since my birth. It is truly the heart of Madhya Bharat, your Highness. I had overheard wonderful stories of it from the Vanjaris who stopped in our village.”

The Maharaj replied, “Well, I am glad you liked it child. And what else did you hear from the Vanjaris?” Prompt came the answer: “I have heard much Maharaj. I have heard that you may soon be appointed as Aide-de-Camp to the Queen herself. That you were recently knighted. That you shall soon be travelling to England to the Durbar of the gora sahebs’ Chandrojirao was utterly stunned. “I wasn’t aware that my travel plans made carefully in secret were open news to a little boy in a village far away.” Once more the Maharaj sized up the boy from head to toe. He had not had a bath in many days and Chandrojirao could smell his odour even from that distance. The child looked like he was made of strong stuff. His skin was tanned. Not an ounce of fat on the body.

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He called the boy closer and held him by the shoulders. His shoulders were firm. His skin was hard. And his eyes were captivating. The child had lowered them, but Chandrojirao pulled up his chin and looked him in the eyes. “Can you fight?” he asked.

The boy hesitated for a moment. “I have never fought before. Such an occasion has never presented itself. But I can defend myself.

I can wield a stick better than most boys in the village. But my mother says that I must study harder and not bother about sticks and swords. I have to become a good lekhi so I can bring home a good wife who can take care of her.” He said and fell silent suddenly, afraid that he had revealed about his too much about his mother.

Chandrojirao II Maharaj rose. The entire Durbar became silent.

“Balwantrao, take this boy and plant him on your lap. He is the successor you seek. He shall be a worthy son. May he bring glory to your house and glory to Madhavgad. Boy— may you become as great as Our founder Chandrojirao I, as meritorious as the Queen Mother and as gallant as your father. From today, you shall be known as Shrimant Sardar Shamrao Balwantrao Mujumdar Walnekar. Your duty is to the Mujumdari of Madhavgad. May you never tarnish the sanctity of your office. The Durbar is dismissed.”

And Shamrao never did let Balwantrao and Chandrojirao II down.

He displayed every quality that the Maharaj had sensed in him.

He studied sincerely and fought with courage. Nothing escaped his eyes and ears. He was sent for his college education to England by the Durbar. When he came back from England, he became a force to reckon with in the Durbar. No task was too hard for him.

In that time, he also became a confidante of the heir presumptiv­e Shambhurao.

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Mujumdar Wada away from the Rajwada on the banks of the river and opposite the royal Chhatris. This became the new permanent residence of the Mujumdar family, and the Mujumdar Daftari was also shifted here.

Shamrao’s days were spent in hard work at his Daftari. He even gained the trust of the British Resident and his officers with his sincerity and transparency. The result was that, his post which had become just a hereditary formality in the past few decades, became a functioning post once more. He was given the authority to audit and pass the budget, sign treasury receipts and so on. Consulting with the Diwan, the provisional State Government was now given greater autonomy by the British Resident, in administering the State.

In the evenings Shamrao would visit his lands and meet with people, collecting taxes and listening to their grievances. He was soon granted more Jagir land in lieu of his able service. He had complete rights of Sardeshpandgi, Patilki and Deshmukhi on his (personal and ancestral) Jagir lands. The State paid for all his festival expenses - the Diwali kharcha, the Kawla.

Shamrao also built a wada around the family’s ancestral Laxminarsimha Mandir in Walnegaon. He rented some of the blocks for the upkeep of the Mandir and to pay for the expenses of the family’s Upadhyay.

Shamrao then married off his eldest daughter Indrabai saheb to the Diwan of a neighbouring State. He enrolled his son Ramrao in the prestigious Central India School. He also made a generous donation to the school during its expansion. The school authorities acknowledged his contribution by naming a block of the boy’s dormitory in his honour.

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Then came a turning point.

Shamrao’s wife passed away giving birth to their youngest child­ Tarabai saheb. Shamrao’s sprirts collapsed like a house of cards.

He became reclusive. His temper would fly and his nights became wild. At night, Shambujirao (soon to be king), would come to the wada to pick up Shamrao. The two would then set out gallivanting and paint the town red. Shamrao tried to find solace in the arms of other women. He soon earned a notorious reputation.

Carefully and completely, Shamrao undid everything that he had so painstakingly built. He exhausted his wealth on mistresses. He soon discovered that his son was a slow learner and it became evident that he would not be able to manage his own affairs. He could not find a suitable suitor for his son. His son-in-law’s family had now set into a decline. They had fallen out of favour with the Maharaj of their State and all their lands were confiscated by the Durbar. His younger daughter committed suicide. She had lived a year in great trauma and embarrassment, after being molested in the lavatory.

The culprit was never found.

Files piled up in the Daftar, covered in dust. The numbers did not add up. The fields were neglected. The wada became inactive and stagnant, like a puddle of water. Many years passed in this broken state. Shamrao managed to make ends meet with the goodwill that he had created and the sympathy of his well-wishers. As he crossed the threshold of middle age, he learnt to deal with his pain from within. Perhaps it wasn’t too late. Perhaps he could make amends before he ran out of life.

He set up a small estate in the last remnant of land that was left. He hired new staff and shifted there for good. He dedicatedly worked for a couple of years and tried to undo as much damage as possible.

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He continued his family’s legacy of charity and became increasingly religious. And most importantly, he began to search for a suitable successor to his son.

He had made peace with the fact that his son would never marry and have a natural born heir. Shamrao would have to make sure that a suitable and worthy child succeeds to the Mujumdari of Madhavgad after him and his son. Only then he could die in peace.

Shamrao’s daughter had seven children. Four of them were boys. He adviced his son Ramrao to adopt one of his own nephews and make him a legal heir. And so was Swamirao adopted. Like Shamrao.

And his father. And his father before him. And many fathers further back in the book of time.

With Swamirao’s adoption, the circle of Shamrao’s adoption was complete. Shamrao died a happy grandfather.

Wish you were here | Postcards from the Sea Aparna Adiyoli

~

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Sending someone a postcard seems to be one of the most beautiful ways to communicate. It seems to convey you're here and it's perfect but you really wish they're with you.

Perhaps because we bonded over our shared love for beaches, the sea reminds me of one of my most-cherished friendships that sadly had to fizzle out with time. Now, every time I go to the beach, I take a photograph and hope to send it across to them.

I wish you were here.

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Comfort Me Like a Child Vishakha Mandrawadkar

Whenever laughter feels hollow, And food tastes bland, Whenever gloom makes my heart full, And the sky looks dull,

My mind often strays to the confines Of my childhood home in memory, A standalone which doesn’t sit at the lap of luxury.

It is a haven tucked away from the world.

One where I can slam my door, in a fit of rage, Hide in the dusty curtains, Cry by myself and complain, Here I almost feel comforted like a child again.

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A Dreamer’s Trip to Ruskin Land Mitali Chakraborty It was a different kind of trip— a trip filled with nostalgia, but a different kind of nostalgia. For although I have never physically been to Landour, I've walked down its winding roads and narrow forest paths with none other than Ruskin Bond as my guide.

I don’t remember if I had read many of his books during childhood.

I became a Ruskin Bond fan much later when my sons started receiving his books as birthday gifts. My younger son loves books, and I love reading them to him. When he was barely able to read, I used to read out to him many Ruskin Bond stories about leopards, forest fires, monkeys, eagles, and whatnot.

Although I rarely stopped to explain the text to him, I always found him listening intently. I’m sure there were parts that he did not understand because usually we do not converse in English at home.

However whatever he could grasp, must have painted so vivid a picture in his mind, that he not only listened with rapt attention but even kept going back to those pages, just leafing through them. He wasn’t big enough to read them in their entirety. It was this feeling of wonder at the writer’s ability to grasp the attention of a six-yearold that possibly paved the way for my fan-ship.

Over the past few years, I have read innumerable short stories and diary extracts of Ruskin Bond. I liked them so much that I gifted myself his autobiography, Lone Fox Dancing. It is the most readable autobiography I’ve ever read, and I fell head over heels in love with that young solitary writer of Maplewood Lodge. Doesn’t matter if that young writer is now 89 years-old and I’m 47 years-old and a 111

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mother of two young boys! I just fell in love and let myself indulge in it and I had to see for myself all those mountains and forests and even the small town of Landour where Mr. Bond lives. So, when fears of the pandemic finally receded and the world started vacationing again, my first choice was naturally Landour.

My husband gifted me Landour Days and I researched on the internet and read all about the beautiful churches, cemeteries, and even shops of Landour. I came across travel accounts of people who had the good luck of meeting Mr. Bond in Landour – how he had obliged them with photographs, autographs, and even about the Cambridge book store where he met his fans every Saturday.

So with dreams in my eyes, our tickets were booked for a leisurely 10-day holiday in Ruskin Land. We had no big sightseeing plans, only plans of long walks along those paths walked by Ruskin Bond, to see and hear those sights and sounds about which I had read so much. I had to look out for “The Rabid Thespian” signage indicating the famous actor Victor Banerjee’s abode, the nurses’ quarters in Sisters Bazaar, the 250-year-old Deodars at the Savoy, the cemeteries, the Wynberg Allen School, below which once stood the Maplewood Lodge and many more.

I felt excited like that little boy in Sonar Kella, keen to visit the place of his previous birth. My father’s story of rare luck, of witnessing white chunks fall off the Nanda Devi when viewing through the binoculars at Lal Tibba, way back in 1970, added to the excitement.

On 3rd June 2022, we landed at the Jolly Grant airport and as soon as the car started moving, we were stung by the hot air outside. It was almost 40 degrees! We kept waiting for Ruskin Bond’s cool mountain breeze as the car ascended, but it was a really long wait.

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cool mountain breeze could be felt, but out in the sun it was quite hot. As soon as we had freshened up at our Airbnb apartment near the Clock Tower of Landour, we walked down to the Mall road to binge in the lovely cafes of Mussoorie.

I had read about a whole lot of must-visit cafes and restaurants from various travel accounts. For our first meal in Mussoorie, we chose The Tavern. The pizza and mocktails were really good. I browsed through a few Bill Aitken and Ruskin Bond books on one of the racks. The next day being a Saturday, we hoped to see Mr. Bond in person at the Cambridge bookstore and perhaps even get to talk to him.

After a late lunch, we headed towards the Clock Tower, and from there slowly inchedalong the uphill road to Landour. We had to pause frequently, for the climb was rather steep. As we sat on a roadside shed, my eyes caught sight of Tibetan flags, and a bluecoloured building peeped out from amongst the trees. “That must be Doma’s Inn,” I shouted excitedly. So thorough was my research on Landour and Mr. Bond, that I proclaimed confidently, “Ruskin Bond’s house is right next to it.”

We started uphill with renewed energy and after a few validations from passers-by, we indeed found ourselves in front of Doma’s. I took a few more steps, my heart thumping in anticipation, and yes, lo and behold, there were those red steps leading right up to Mr. Bond’s house. It was a wonderful discovery. I felt like a pilgrim at that moment, for I had seen with my own eyes the abode of the man whom I revered so very much.

My sons were super excited and kept asking if we could meet him.

“Let’s see” was all I could tell them, myself hoping as much that he would step out at any moment and oblige us. We walked back to 113

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Doma’s and sat down on the bench in front of it, our eyes towards Mr. Bond’s place. Soon, a family of four - 2 kids with their parents, came along and, after some deliberation, walked right up those red steps and rang the bell. We waited anxiously to know if they would be lucky enough but saw them walk back after a few minutes.

Looked like they hadn’t been able to meet him.

My sons also wanted to try their luck, but I had read about many incidents of people disturbing him in his mid-day siesta and definitely would not be one. Besides, one autograph or photograph was not what I wanted.

Finding the author’s address had been easy. The internet gave it all.

I had already written not one but two letters to Mr. Bond, telling him all about my desire to meet him and to talk to him. I had couriered the last one, two weeks before leaving Kolkata and my heart had jumped with joy as soon as the SMS came in that the courier had been delivered to Rakesh. I knew he was Mr. Bond’s family member (little Raki, he used to call him). email asking for an appointment.

Later, a journalist acquaintance of mine even shared his email ID and I also sent an In all those days of waiting for his reply, I’d dreamt of so many meetings - coffee with Mr. Bond at Doma’s Inn, coffee with him at his home, and even in our Airbnb apartment. I dreamt of seeing that room where he sat at his desk and wrote, and even of looking out that famous “window” by his desk. But alas, all these were just daydreams and no reply to my letters ever came.

Of course, I knew that a man of his popularity couldn’t reply to fan emails, but I couldn’t stop dreaming and hoping that my dreams would come true. As we sat on that bench in front of Doma’s, we saw two more families walk up those red steps and ring the bell.

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– strangers walking right up to his doorstep and even ringing the bell, just to satisfy their urge to meet a down-to-earth celebrity, who has obliged many over the years. No, I wasn’t going to be one of them, I decided.

characters of Landour, some lying in their graves and some still around.

At Lal Tibba, we did try out the binoculars, but June was not the season when one could expect to see the white peaks. After having some snacks at the cafe that houses the binoculars, we set out to walk again. The road going around Lal Tibba is very scenic and the Hydrangea flowers in bloom made the place really lovely.

As we walked along, we saw a beautiful house with the signage “Parsonage”. I assumed it was where the local priest or members of the church lived.

The sun was going down and we got up to walk back. While walking up, we had walked past the Lotte’s cafe, about which I had read very good reviews. So we stopped there to have coffee and pancakes.

The man at the counter boasted that they made the best pancakes and we discovered that he was not lying. The carrot cake was also beautiful but again like The Tavern, this was also an expensive cafe.

We realized that Mussoorie is a damn expensive place and if we went cafe hopping at this rate, the next ten days were sure to burn a hole in our pockets.

As we walked past the Parsonage, we saw a cemetery. Although the gates didn’t mention anything, I knew it was the Landour cemetery.

Two local women confirmed and even helped to call out to the guard to let us in. I was pleasantly surprised to see that the guard was a middle-aged woman, who stayed in a hut right beside the gates. She opened the locks and let us in, giving us time for five minutes only to walk around. The lady showed us a 150-year-old tree planted by the then Duke of Edinburgh. It felt strange walking around those gravestones of yesteryears. I wondered if Mrs. Beans, who had let Mr. Bond live in Maplewood Lodge, lay somewhere amidst those stones. Perhaps, Mr. Bond will also come to lie here when his time is over. I didn’t shudder at the thought;t was only natural. Isn’t it wonderful to know that one’s words will still be around to be read and loved by millions, even years after one is gone?

The next day, I woke up feeling slightly feverish and decided to rest and not walk around too much. Most of the day was spent soaking in the beauty of the mountains while reading Rain in the Mountains. As I looked out the window at the green hills beyond, my mind kept going back to the young solitary writer at Maplewood Lodge and I wondered if I would be lucky enough to meet him.

Being complete busybodies while in Kolkata, we had decided that this trip would be an absolutely leisure trip with no schedule, not even for sightseeing. So for the next few days, we walked past the Clock Tower, through the local bazaar of Landour purchasing plums, apricots, and even mangoes, and sometimes lazed in the bed with Mr. Bond’s books, looking out at the hills through the windows. It felt so blissful knowing that I didn’t need to attend to work which was forever urgent, prepare food for the children, hurry them for their baths, studies, and even bedtime. We were all on a holiday, that too in the proximity of famous and eccentric 115

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We continued our walk along the beautiful mountain road and soon reached a church. As music drifted to our ears, I suddenly remembered that it was Sunday. “Must be the Sunday mass,” I said, hurrying towards the church. We entered through a side door and took the back-most seats. Youngsters, possibly from some nearby school, were singing at the church choir. We stayed till the end of 116

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the day’s proceedings.

My children witnessed a Christian prayer meeting for the first time.

What they liked most was that it ended with tea and snacks which was offered even to us but we shied away and left. I’m not sure if they had a tea party every Sunday, but that day was the 25th marriage anniversary of a couple, and they’d hosted a small party.

There was a big cake outside, waiting to be cut, and quite a few monkeys looked at it greedily. They reminded me of that Bond story of a monkey spoiling Aunt Ruby’s wedding party by throwing cakes on people and even riding atop her car as she left for her honeymoon!

It was only after we had stepped out of the church and taken a nice look around, that I recognized the Kellogg Memorial Church from its green windows. It was a pretty little place, which also housed the Landour language school. Close by, was the heritage building of St. Paul’s Church, where we met an American couple and came to know about their experience at the Jabarkhet Nature Reserve. The lady was very impressed with the nature walks that they offered and gave us some useful details.

Walking further down, we soon arrived at Char Dukan, a busy tourist hub, everyone wanting to taste something at one of the char (really, five) dukans. We had some lovely pakoras and honey ginger tea. Basking in the joy of having seen quite a few of the places of this small historic town, we decided to end the beautiful day with another walk past Mr. Bond’s house, and back to our apartment.

We had arrived in Mussoorie on a Friday and the first impression of Mall Road had been terrible. With the crowd of people and acrid fumes from their cars choking our lungs, it was hard to believe that we were at a hill station. During those first few days we had decided 117

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to stay away from the crowded Mall Road but after a few days, the Mall road reminded us of the Durga Puja on the streets of Kolkata and we didn’t mind it so much.

The Mall Road was nothing short of a busy commercial hub, but the mountain views, if one could ignore the crowd, were pretty.

There were some beautiful houses to be seen and I wondered how the owners felt about the exploding crowds of tourists. One good thing about this road was its array of restaurants and they were really good. We decided to try a different one each day.

The Mussoorie library at one end of the Mall Road was the busiest landmark. Here again, we were lucky to be let in for five minutes by the librarian. The time was hardly enough to look at the volumes of books, but it felt nice to be able to walk around a heritage library.

The traffic right outside the library was one of the worst I had ever seen. It was worse than the perennially crowded Howrah station.

On our way back from the library, we took the Camelback Road, and found that it was a much better road to stroll along. Very few cars and very few shops. The long walk along the camelback road was relaxing. We stopped at several places to admire the beauty all around. One such stop was the “Scandal Point”. What a name! It must have been a meeting place for love-stricken couples.

We kept looking for the Camelback rock, and were sure many times that we had found it, for many undulating mountain tops resembled the camel’s back. However finally, almost at one end of the road, when a binocular man finally showed us the real camelback rock, we had a good laugh. The camel-back was a small rock, quite hidden from view but clearly visible through the binoculars. Yes, it indeed looked like the back of a camel. The binocular man charged thirty rupees only, for showing around five important points. He was a 118

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talkative man who confidently gave out many interesting but inaccurate information like Sachin Tendulkar owning a hotel in Landour.

We had planned to visit the Everest House but got discouraged by the serpentine queue of cars and went to Bhatta Falls instead.

It could hardly be called a natural waterfall, but we got to enjoy steaming maggi inside the fall, with water flowing under our chairs.

We requested our driver to drop us at the gates of Jabarkhet Nature Reserve from where we planned to walk down all the way to our apartment.

This nature reserve was a wonderful first experience of walking amidst a forest where wild animals are said to visit. We listened in awed silence as the insects hummed and the leaves rustled in the breeze and I had a sudden realization that the sound of waves breaking and of the wind flowing through the trees was very similar.

The forest was not at all silent, it was full of life –life that could be heard but rarely seen.

Before returning to our apartment that day, we stopped at Mrs. Jain’s restaurant which served authentic Garhwali cuisine. It was recommended by our driver, Sanjay Ji and we really liked the food.

Sanjay Ji was a nice and helpful man. He even took a detour because I had badly wanted to have a nice look at the Wynberg Allen School.

I find schools in hilly terrains fascinating; hostels at one level, classes at another, playgrounds at yet another, and students walking all the way from hostels to classes using numerous shortcuts amidst the thick green foliage-seemed like an ideal childhood experience.

I also stayed atop a small hill, during my childhood and rushed through such shortcuts with a heavy satchel on my back.

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As Sanjay Ji showed us around the buildings of Wynberg Allen and Woodstock schools, I tried to locate a possible place where Maplewood Lodge once existed, and that narrow mountain path beside the school that the author used to take to his home and where he had once seen a lone fox dancing. I felt grateful that there existed a man who had penned down all such beautiful experiences of his life, bringing smiles to the lips of people unknown to him.

I was one such person, and I just wished to meet him and thank him for all that he had given to the world.

We had come to know from our visit to the Cambridge bookstore that Mr. Bond didn’t go there on Saturdays anymore, and that he had stopped meeting people ever since the pandemic started. It was understandable, but disheartening.

I finally decided to write one more letter to him and leave it on his doorstep. Weekends meant the frenzied rush of tourists and I was sure there would be many more people who would walk up those red steps and ring the bell asking for an autograph. I didn’t want to be counted among them, so I decided upon Thursday.

We went to Sister’s Bazaar that day, savoured cakes and piesat the famous Landour Bakehouse, and made the mandatory purchases of apricot jams and peanut butter from Prakash Stores. I was interested in seeing the old nurses’ quarters that gave the place its name. It is a row of four plain houses with common walls, two of which now belong to the owners of Prakash Stores, and two are with film actor, Dev Anand and we came to know that his daughters still visit this place. It was while chatting with Mr. Anil Prakash, the present-day face of Prakash Stores, that we came to know that the pretty house marked as “Parsonage” was the one that belonged to Victor Banerjee. A rabid thespian at the parsonage!

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As we walked along the road from Sister’s Bazaar, we saw a house in the woods with a big black pirate flag flying high –a real black flag with skull and bones painted on it! I knew then that Mr. Bond did not at all exaggerate when he wrote about the eccentric people of Landour.

Around sunset, we walked back to Doma’s inn. We had decided to have dinner at Doma’s that day, to try and have as much time as possible in the vicinity of Mr. Bond. Once again we sat on the bench outside and deliberated over how to deliver the letter. Finally, with some prodding from my sons, I mustered courage and walked up the steps to pause in front of a small gate. It was dark and we couldn’t see very well. I had almost dropped the letter inside a letter box only to quickly retrieve it when my son shouted out that the nameplate on the door was non-Bond. The front part of that building belonged to someone else and the other, further in was Mr. Bond’s.

Finally, I left a big yellow envelope beside the second gate leading to Mr. Bond’s house, quite sure that it wouldn’t go unnoticed.

As we walked back to the bench I found my husband conversing with a man who worked as a traffic guard. He said that he knew Mr. Bond’s driver and knowing that we had come all the way from Kolkata, seemed eager to help. He took my sons along and confidently walked up the red steps and rang the bell at the first door. Mr. Bond’s neighbour was annoyed at the intrusion and almost banged the door shut on their face when they requested to deliver the letter. Was this the vicious neighbour about whom Mr. Bond had wondered whether dogs took after their masters or masters after them? He had read somewhere that chocolates were bad for dogs and had fed an entire bar of chocolate to the vicious dog, hoping it would be his last meal but the dog came back for more!

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My sons along with the friendly traffic man finally gave up and returned to Doma’s. As solace, he assured us that he would leave a word about us to Mr. Bond’s driver. We thanked the unknown helper and walked inside Doma’s for the much-awaited Tibetan dinner.

I walked in silence as I bade goodbye to Landour. Although we would be there till Sunday morning, we had decided to go to other places. With the weekend back, we didn’t want to brush against the steady stream of cars moving up to Landour. We had enjoyed our walks along the beautiful road, and that was the memory of Landour that we wanted to take back, not of cars lined up for kilometers.

The next day we went to Dhanaulti. The plan was to go to Tehri but as my son started feeling sick, we changed our plans and spent a nice day at an Eco Park in Dhanaulti. There are two parks. We chose the less crowded one. I guess it was the one with fewer options for adventure sports, which seemed to be gaining popularity. We spent hours under the shades of trees enjoying the green, and the cool mountain breeze. Lunch was delicious egg-maggi at a stall cleverly positioned outside the back gate of the park. The view from the Maggi stall was picture-perfect and we were not at all sorry that we had cut short our journey to Tehri.

Ten days went by, but not in a jiffy. I had been able to soak in the beauty of the mountains and live my dream of walking along some of those paths about which I had read. But for the unending list of eateries, I think my kids may have complained, for they had had to walk several miles each day. My husband, who loves to cook, did so on two or three days since we had a furnished apartment to ourselves. I enjoyed the most, as I was free to dream day and night.

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Bhavana D

The Contributors Aarni Banerjee

Aarni Banerjee, is a spirited class 10 student hailing from the bustling city of Kolkata, is a young writer with a passion for storytelling.

Her heart dances to the rhythm of life’s tales, just as it does to the beats of her favourite music. When she’s not weaving words, Aarni can be found dancing to the melody of classical and contemporary tunes or passionately engaging in spirited debates, enriching her understanding of the world. With an insatiable curiosity, Aarni endeavours to infuse her narratives with the same enthusiasm she brings to her hobbies. She invites readers to join her on a journey that transcends the ordinary and dives into the extraordinary, all while sipping on a cup of chai.

Akanksha Banerjee

Refer to The Teatotallers section.

Albina Arjuman (कtha)

कtha comes from a biomedical sciences background and took to writing short stories recently. She aims to use the genre of fiction to spread awareness about day-to-day signs and symptoms of sociocultural & mental health related nature, and other stigma-associated issues through short stories.

Amelie Dutta

Refer to The Teatotallers section.

Anosha Rishi

Refer to The Teatotallers section.

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Anusha Prakash

She loves illustrating especially for picture books, children’s books and children’s educational content. Apart from illustrating she loves to sing, play guitar, and dance when feeling chirpy and other times is often found settled on her cozy bed reading books with a mug of her favorite coffee and her cat “Joy’’ cuddling by her side. She always loves looking for those “little happy moments of life” that bring her a sunshine state of mind.

Anusha Prakash is a writer and poet based in Bengaluru India. She has an MA in English and Cultural Studies from Christ University.

She has previously been published in Arts Illustrated and EKL Review.

Aparna Adiyoli

Aparna is a poetry-enthusiast with a tendency to find poetry in everyday life. Oddly fascinated by nature, literature, fine food and photographs. Currently pursuing post-graduation at Manipal Centre for Humanities.

Dishari Ghosh

Refer to The Teatotallers section.

Dr. Madhumita Roy

Aruvi Ravana Karthik (she/her)

Dr. Madhumita Roy is an Assistant Professor in the Department of English Language and Literature, Adamas University, West Bengal.

Apart from her research interest in Tagore Literature and Bengal Renaissance, she loves to translate her feelings into poetry. She loves to explore new places and meet people. Her hobbies include writing, and finding texts beyond text books.

Aruvi Ravana Karthik is a transgender poet, and a research scholar.

She loves writing and most often seeks recluse in her verses to shut off the overwhelming voices within and without. Currently, she’s pursuing her doctoral degree in philosophy, working at the intersections of gender, structural injustice and technology.

Arya Sarkar

Illahi

Arya Sarkar is currently enrolled in the MA English program at MCH, MAHE. His research and writing interests comprise literary works of psychoanalysis, existential philosophy, and historical fiction. His literary inspirations are Franz Kafka, Milan Kundera, and Arundhati Roy. Apart from writing he enjoys playing music as a singer-songwriter.

Illahi (she/they) queer feminist, who is navigating life one day at a time, drawing inspiration from Sara Ahmed and Bell Hooks. She has a dream of owning their own bookshop and a tea garden, in a quiet space away from hustle and bustle of everyday life.

Indrakshi Banerjee

Indrakshi Banerjee is a Media and Communication Masters student.

Between decoding media mysteries and sketching her imagination, she is a pro at enjoying life’s flavors. Whether exploring new restaurants or creating art, she finds joy in every bite and every stroke. Oh, and she is also a nap enthusiast!

Bhavana D. Bhavana is an engineer turned illustrator, visual artist and designer based in Bangalore. She holds a Master’s Degree in Visual Communication from Srishti Manipal Institute of Art, Design and Technology, Bengaluru.

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Joyeeta Das

Neeta Doshi

Manasi Chattopadhyay

Prof. Sagar Mal Gupta

Joyeeta Das is an English teacher at Turito. She completed an M.A. in English Literature from EFLU, Hyderabad in 2022. Joyeeta’s thoughts are often intervened by creativity at odd hours. Her works have been published in magazines of Viswa Bharati University and Adamas University.

Neeta Doshi has a B.Tech in Computers with 10 years of experience in the IT industry. She has published a poetry book in English titled ‘FindingMyVoice’. She is also a freelance creative writer, a voice over artist and an amateur theatre artist having done two plays. She is also training in Hindustani classical vocal.

Refer to The Teatotallers section.

Prof. Sagar Mal Gupta is educated at the Edinburgh University in the U.K. and at the University of Hawaii in the USA, from where he earned his Ph.D. in Linguistics; writer of 12 books on ELT, Linguistics and Communication; and fifty research papers. Prof Gupta has fifty six years experience of teaching English Literature, Language, and Communication at various colleges and universities in India and abroad. He has four volumes of poetry and a number of poems published in national and international journals to his credit.

Megan Fernandes

Megan is a 22 year old girl braving the winds of Pune city (just a fancy way to say she hates adulting). More of a hey-the-glasshas-water kind of enthusiast with mood swings, a literature and food lover. She gets scared to death of dogs but will swoon over cute puppy pictures. Fun fact about her: she can sleep for 14 hours straight and still complain that she is sleepy.

Raysancia D.Cunha

Raysancia is a final year student at Goa University pursuing her Masters in History. She has been fascinated with colours since her early childhood. She works with watercolours and acrylics to create art. She finds inspiration in nature, the pages of the books that she reads and in the beauty of the little things all around her.

Miss Richa Viswanath Hinde

Miss Richa Vishwanath Hinde has over 10 years of experience in writing with 30+ accomplishments in scientific writing and creative endeavors. The author believes poetry is not just some lines you write but what you feel about life. The author has published a book, ‘Stardust Sentiments’.

Riddhima Basiya

Mitali Chakraborty

Riddhima Basiya is a corporate communications professional from Ahmedabad, Gujarat. She loves history,; literature, photography, and travel. Her short story ‘A Bittersweet Christmas’ was published by the Indian Periodical; ‘Statue’ was published by the Joao Roque Literary Journal and ‘Curry’ was published by Kitaab.

Mitali is an IT professional from Kolkata with 25 years of work experience. Apart from reading and writing, her other interests are music, gardening and travelling. Stories have fascinated her and she aspires to be a full-time published writer someday.

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The Teatotallers

Sagarika Wadiyar

Refer to The Teatotallers section.

Editors-in-Chief

Saujanya Satyanarayan

Refer to The Teatotallers section.

Chetana Agnihotri Chetana Agnihotri is a third-year student pursuing her BA at MCH. She is mostly seen either listening to music, or trying to talk about the latest show or movie which she has seen. She loves a good cup of tea or coffee, and an obscure poem from the Internet, or anywhere.

Shreeamey Phadnis

Shreeamey is a co-founder of the Heritage & Design Consultancy ‘Studio Gestalt’. He has worked in various capacities for the documentation, restoration and awareness creation of heritage panIndia with organizations like CRCI, University of Toronto, Ved Segan Architects, CSMVS, MMR-HCS, Sahapedia and the NFAI. He continues to actively research, promote and conserve heritage.

Mythily Zanjal

Mythily is a final-year MA History student at MCH. She is a big fan of true crime stories, whether in novels or documentaries. She enjoys leisurely strolls through museums, loves her coffee, and finds joy in watching the rain.

Suhana Rodrigues

Suhana is a student from Goa currently studying at the University of Law, Manchester. She enjoys travelling and believes that every place carries its own stories. As she is currently pursuing law, she wishes to contribute to making the world a better place and giving people the justice they deserve. She also loves watching Netflix series’ and exploring new cafes and their signature dishes.

Fiction Dishari Ghosh (Head)

Dishari is a final year Masters student at MCH, who believes most in engaging with different perspectives, both fictional and real experiences. She’s often seen collecting [or swiping through IG/ Pinterest pictures of] aesthetic mugs, stationery and bookmarks.

With her family, she loves road-tripping around the country, chasing sunsets, and soaking in narratives.

Vishakha Mandrawadkar

Vishakha Mandrawadkar is a writer, reader, researcher and a teacher of English Language and Literature in Hubli, Karnataka.

She loves to share memes and rant about life with her friends.She loves poetry and stories from the thriller and mystery genre and is currently rewatching. The Office and will accept new TV show recommendations.

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Abirami

Abirami is a 1st year masters student who is in a quest to explore and learn with an open mind on what life has to offer. She’s a core foodie who’s deeply interested in learning different cultures, art 129

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forms, tricks and tips of life, listens to a wide range of music and is always open to new genres.

YouTube videos all the time. His day consists mostly of daydreaming surviving a jump out of an aeroplane 35000 feet in the air without a parachute.

Angadh Singh

Saujanya Satyanarayan

Angadh is a third year BA student and musician, when he isn’t recording or producing music, you will find him on his desk lost in his desk lost in his favourite music like Periphery or Animals as Leaders. He also loves volunteering to help stray animals and feeds them in his free time.

Saujanaya is in second year BA and loves writing poetry, Bharatanatyam, and hopping cafes the most. You can find her curled up in a corner watching Christmas movies, listening to Prateek Kuhad or reading a rom-com book. Filter coffee is the only way to her heart.

Anirudh Prabhu

Anirudh is a 2nd year BA student who loves origami, photography, and all things food. His passions lie in getting out into the world and exploring things through the lens of poetic romanticism. He also likes Frank Sinatra.

Tenzin Dekyong

Tenzin is a third year student at MCH. She hopes to successfully graduate with a major in History and pursue further studies.

Non-Fiction

Gayathri

Gayathri, a first-year MA student at MCH, finds joy in the art of storytelling, immersing herself in books and poetry, with a special affinity for the works of Sylvia Plath. She likes to spend her day rewatching “Derry Girls”, or listening to Hozier while enjoying a walk around campus.

Nandana Joy (Head)

Nandana is an undergraduate final year Sociology major who reads as much as she eats, and eats as much as she breathes. She likes conversations that end in laughter, but she’s not sure if she likes referring to herself in the third person.

Manya Kapoor

Charvi Bhatnagar

Manya is a 1st year BA student and loves to write short stories inspired by songs, photography and reading. You can normally find her curled up with a cup of tea or coffee and a good book with music drawing out the world around her.

Charvi is a first year Masters student at MCH who herself is a master of none. Dabbling in different hobbies, be it art, poetry or academia, she’s headstrong about her tastes and finds comfort in instigating an expression. She is also seen cracking lousy old one-liners that never land and never can be amounted to be hilarious. To befriend her, just slip in some words about cats or naps and she’d instantly adore you.

Raaghav Chapa

Raaghav is a wannabe Journalist not pursuing it. He is an avid photographer, videography fanatic and practically lost in random 130

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Meghna Haridas

doodling on the sides of her notebook and watching Wong KarWai movies at night with some iced coffee. She also treasures her Pinterest board containing obscure cat memes.

Meghna is a second year MA English student, she thrives on her coffee, nonstop movie marathons and her Spotify playlist. She loves to write and to speak even more. Ironically she is most relaxed on stage. Whether it’s Bollywood gossip or international affairs you will see her in the group discussions.

Anusha Shetty

Anusha is a second year MA English student at MCH. Cats and fries are her pure form of love. She loves drawing and journaling but is slothy to bring her creative side upfront. Cuddled up on her ofa watching TMKOC or Shinchan is her solace.

Siri Lucille Chenni

Siri is a final year BA student of history. They like writing, long lazy winter days, dogs and visiting museums. They mostly engage with topics like gender and climate justice, anarchism and queer rights. They are easily impressed by cat videos and bare minimum cooking skills.

Manasi Chattopadhyay

Visual Art and Graphic Design

Manasi is a BA 3 student at MCH. Rains, warm coffee, books, handwritten stuff, poetry, painting, dogs and music is where her heart lies. A photographer by hobby, she captures what soothes her eyes and a foodie as all Bongs are, she also loves travelling.

Amelie Dutta (Co-Head)

Social Media and PR

Amelie is a final 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 obsessed with Hindi retro music and is often found humming one.

Sreya Das (Head)

Sreya Das, a final-year BA student at MCH, is dedicated to cultivating skills that bring out her best self. Her passion lies in the classical dance form of Odissi, and she finds creative expression through poetry, drawing inspiration from people, places, and situations. She treasures those quiet times when she’s with a book, a cup of coffee, and a natural setting.

Sagarika Wadiyar (Co-Head)

Sagarika is a final year BA student at Manipal Centre for Humanities with a love for cats and anything artsy. She spends her time painting in watercolour while her favourite songs play in the background, admiring the moon, and capturing everyday moments of laughter, sunlight, her friends, and other simple pleasures.

Akanksha Banerjee

An MCH student with a voracious appetite for literature, Akanksha wields her pen to annihilate the monotony of her last year of college (that is, when she isn’t composing five different songs in her head, drawing her outlandish imaginations on paper, or creating

Anosha Rishi

Anosha is a second-year BA student. She loves little trinkets, 132

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daydreaming about the interior design of her future house!)

Amshula Ravi

Amshula Ravi is a final year BA student at MCH who loves to explore different avenues in reading and writing. She likes listening to music, especially the soothing waves of the sea crashing the shore and outdoor walks. She is always open to learning something new and is also fond of engaging with things that excite her.

Thrishaana

Thrishaana is a second year BA student who you will always find planning her next trip. She loves her dog Toby (who she insists is not fat), watching the sunsets in her balcony and going for walks, but above all, she loves capturing these little moments.

Varsha Dev

Varsha Dev is a final year Masters student pursuing her love for history at MCH. When she is not busy meeting deadlines, she enjoys a good conversation over tea or catching the sunset at the beach.

Vidmahi

Vidmahi is a final year BA student who has a long list about what she loves. Dance, theatre, books, coffee, tea, quality time with friends/ family, evenings spent watching sunsets, MCH, Chaicopy, the list goes on. She’s glad that both MCH and Chaicopy are on the list. ~

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