Chaicopy Mediums Vol. 5 Issue 2 November 2021

Chaicopy Vol. V | Issue II | November 2021 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 jurisdiction of the courts of the Republic of India. © Chaicopy, 2021.

Cover Art: Ashlin Deena Mathews Cover Design: Madhumitha Arivu Chelvan Layout and Page Setting: Madhumitha Arivu Chelvan Team Members: Editors-in-Chief: Manjita Joshi, Serene George Fiction: Bhanusri, Aishwarya, Aksharaa Agarwal, Angadh Singh, Arati K. Prasen, Chetana Agnihotri, Deepthi Priyanka C., Madhumitha Arivu Chelvan, Shriya Adhikari, Sragdharamalini Das, Tarang Mathur, Tenzin Dekyong Non-fiction: Aatreyee Ghoshal, Abhiram Polali, Anjana Sathyanarayanan, Harshita Kale, Nandana Joy, Pallavi N. B., Sarah Hussain, Shivapriya Subramonian, Siri Lucille Chenni Visual Arts: Lavya Joshi, Amelie Dutta, Aparna Manoj, Nehla Salil, Nethra Gopalakrishnan, Vishvajith Madhavamurthy Illustration and Graphic Design: Madhumitha Arivu Chelvan, Nehla Salil, Aparna Manoj, Deepthi Priyanka C., Devika Nair, Maisah Irfan, Pallavi N. B., Sagarika Wadiyar, Tenzin Dekyong PR: Arpita Reddy, Shriya Adhikari, Amshula Ravi, Anaga S., Anupriya Shasheendran, Archisha Sanyal, Bhanusri, Eman Siddiq, Meghana Nayak, Nehla Salil, Nidhi Shetty, Oishee Dasgupta, Rhea Menon, Sreya Das, Vidmahi

Editorial The southern monsoon was a familiar background to an unusual meeting. It was a coming together of unfamiliar faces for Chaicopy; a meeting of virtual ghosts amidst a pandemic. Ironically enough, the theme, Mediums came up as an amalgam of parallel themes. In line with its origin story, Mediums is a theme that has incredible depth in meaning and potential for interpretation given its layered and multi-dimensional quality. We are incredibly grateful to the submissions of this issue for its range of engagement that brings to light the fascination that the term birthed in us that evening.

While expression and form is an aspect that the issue attempts to engage with, memory and nostalgia were underlying themes that were nuanced through prose and poetry. The old school charm of radios, cassettes, letters: artistry through the passage of time was revisited with a contemporary flair. ‘Pulupu’ is a visual art submission that presents itself in bright neon colors, reminiscent of pop art but in the form of a stamp indicating a going back and a revisiting. It is an interesting realization to witness the most innovative pieces being those that do not curb themselves to a form or medium but rather surrender to expression leading to fascinating combinations and amalgam works. Leaves are embossed on canvases, words calligraphed with ink and illustrations pushed script into the realm of art. Dream, as a medium, is a distinctive yet salient aspect to our interpretation of the theme. It is explored in ‘Vajeeha’s Dream’ as a powerful narrative device presenting the voice of a woman who is a mother. ‘Those that brought us music…’ engages with the medium of music, travelling through history, appealing to nostalgia and memory.

Whether passively or actively, what the issue has essentially brought across is reflection. Authors and artists were dwelling on the process, creating several pieces with meta narratives on artistic expression and creation. ‘boring’, ‘Serendipitous Stories’, ‘Destiny of a Poem’, ‘wonderform’ and ‘a fraud’ are pieces that present unique perspectives on the different spaces a reader and writer occupies in approaching books or writing a piece. It goes to show how a piece about the process is just as much a piece as any other.

As readers and writers ourselves, we are grateful to have this moment of indulgent introspection sparked by Mediums. Dear readers, we invite you into this moment through the medium of Chaicopy.

Bon voyage.

Regards, Manjita Joshi and Serene George

Ingredients Untitled | Painting | 12 Ashlin Deena Mathews

Chai Expressions After Harvest | Short Story | 16 Serene George we are also trees | Photograph | 18 Ashlin Deena Mathews Rain | Short Story | 19 Anoop Mathew Water Bodies | Poetry | 23 Serene George Untitled | Digital Art | 25 Jacqueline Williams The Destiny of a Poem | Poetry | 26 Helly Shah Time, the teller and Life, the medium | Poetry | 27 Ekasmayi Naresh

Waves | Short Story | 30 Aksharaa Agarwal Transcend | Painting | 34 Praneetha Gopalakrishnan wonderform | Poetry | 35 Malaifly The Sign | Short Story | 37 Gitesh Agarwal cat hair, mat, bug | Photograph | 42 Ashlin Deena Mathews Vajeeha’s Dream | Short Story | 43 Praveena Shivram Morning at Park Street Cemetery | Poetry | 52 Helly Shah

Kaapi Sessions A Memory | Creative Non-fiction | 56 Sonia Sali Childhood | Visual Art | 58 Praneetha Gopalakrishnan Evenings | Creative non-fiction | 59 Pallavi N. B. (to my father, in memory of) | Poetry | 63 Ar Shreeamey A. Phadnis Love as a Medium | Poetry | 65 Ava Arjun Avis | Painting | 67 Divya Muthukumar Ink and Inner Horizons | Creative Non-fiction | 68 Harshita Kale boring | Creative Non-fiction | 72 Malaifly Warm Foliage | Illustration | 74 Malaifly

work in progress | Poetry | 75 Harshita Kale a fraud | Poetry | 78 Ashlin Deena Mathews Anubhavabhasa | Painting | 80 Nethra Gopalakrishnan Serendipitous Stories | Creative Non-Fiction | 81 Tarini Agarwal Epistolary ‘Mediums’ of Mindfulness: An Interview with Letters to Strangers | Interview | 85 Aatreyee Ghoshal, Manjita Joshi, Serene George Medium Ingredient | Illustration | 96 Malaifly Paapalu Vachaaru! | Creative Non-fiction | 97 Tanvi Varigala Pulupu | Visual Art | 101 Meghana Injeti Virtually Clingy | Poetry | 102 Anaga S.

(to Society, past, present & future) | Poetry | 103 Ar Shreeamey A. Phadnis The Old Painting | Poetry | 104 Rameshwar Singh Rathore Music Belongs to People | Digital Poster | 106 Vishvajith Madhavamurthy Those that brought music to us | Non-fiction memoir | 107 Vishvajith Madhavamurthy

The Contributors | 114 The Teatotallers | 119

Untitled

Ashlin Deena Mathews

The colours have been painted muddily like the earth: some flowers and leaves have even gotten lost in the colours themselves.

Some parts of this canvas aren’t aesthetically pleasing, because nature isn’t always either. Sometimes it looks like a mistake but it provides a notion of newness with every frame seen.

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Chai Expressions

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After Harvest

Serene George

The sudden breeze brings with it the scent of the jasmines, nestling at the foot of the guava tree. “You will have to start watering it now,” I remind my husband. “I will, I will,” he nods appeasingly, stacking his pill bottles. “She even set freaking alarms for it,” he grins. They settle down into the silent air and watch the evening street. The new family, tenants at the Mathews’ house are back from their evening stroll. Their little girl was bouncing in her cherry red dress, little pigtails quivering in excitement. “The eldest is at the city for college apparently,” I say. “Girls grow up so fast,” he murmurs.

They settle down into the cool air nodding in mutual agreement. I decide to take them some of the sweets leftover from church. The kids will appreciate it more. The clock strikes six as Nair’s son struts past the gates to turn on the street lights. He was now tall enough to reach it without his mother’s stool. The yellow stream of light settles down on the front yard, lighting up the fruit trees.

The bottom of the tree strains under the cluster of jackfruits that lie swollen with fruit. Ripe, probably overly so. The guavas hang untouched, half-chewed by zealous bats.

The scent of sickly, sweet ripeness peaks. Far more noticeable now that it is seen. This is too much for two. I should probably invite the colony members for the weekend to take care of it. Harvest it off. The remaining decorations from the wedding flutter with a soft tinkling. Another wave of cool jasmine wafts by. And we smile 16

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At dew-drenched petals endless strings of white buds streaming in black curls, the curve of a pale cheek, the scent of sweetness and daughter and settle down into the a i r

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we are also trees

Ashlin Deena Mathews

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Rain

Anoop Mathew

The steel tip of the umbrella clicked against the hard pavement as Joel walked through the streets of Benson Town. The sky was overcast and light grey. The air was cold and dense with moisture.

He could smell the trees around him. The streets were slick with last night’s rain. Steam curled out through the doors of an old eatery packed with hungry people. The roads were almost empty. There were people on the pavement reading newspapers, old friends laughing over coffee, small children clutching the hands of their parents on the way to their favourite breakfast place. It was a lazy Sunday morning.

The patter on leaves signalled the arrival of a heavy drizzle. People around him scrambled for cover. Joel opened his umbrella, relieved that he had listened to his wife when she insisted that he take it.

The pavement was empty now. Back in his youth, he had believed that whenever something significant happened in his life, it would rain. The day he met Rouanne, his first love, the day he attended guitar classes for the first time, the day he met his wife, the day his daughter was born—every time it had rained. He was old enough now to know that those were mere coincidences. But secretly, he always felt that the universe was trying to tell him something when it rained. Like a prophecy. Of what, he could never tell.

Standing at the entrance of the supermarket, Joel closed the umbrella and placed it by the guard. He felt warmer as he stepped into the 19

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supermarket. He walked through the maze of colourful products until he reached the freezer at the end of the aisle. He rummaged through the freezer until he got two packets of his usual brand of bacon. On his way back to the billing counter, he stopped by a shelf to pick up a carton of milk. There was a lady standing there, a child pulling at the ends of her red dupatta, begging her to buy him chocolates. She looked familiar. The woman noticed him and squirmed. She would have gotten away if she had played it cool, but it was too late.

“Pooja,” Joel said, walking towards her.

“Yeah.”

She was the same, and yet vastly different. She was beautiful.

Her hair was different. She broke eye contact, looking down at something of no consequence, her face still level and her eyes like slits. She looked like a cat; always did when she felt conscious.

Her eyes were the same, those very same eyes. He realized that he was making her uncomfortable when she became fidgety, tucking her hair behind her ears and checking on the kid hiding behind her black kameez.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to,” he began. Their eyes met again, and he noticed that she was trying to smile but couldn’t.

“Hello,” he said.

“Hello.”

He nodded, not knowing what to say next.

She smiled.

“Mama,” the little boy called, peering around her kameez, and 20

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looking up at the stranger.

“What happened, baby?” she asked with a smile. “This is my son.”

“Oh. Hey there. How do you do?”

The little boy smiled and eased back to his comfortable hiding place behind her.

“Well, how are you?” he asked.

“I’m—” “Are you happy?”

“I like to believe I am. How are you?”

“The usual. Still campaigning for forests?”

She chuckled. “Yes.” “Still vouch for biryani?”

“Of course! It still is the best food in the world,” she said smiling.

“All those food festivals, and the only thing you used to—” “—order was biryani. I still do that,” she said laughing.

She pointed at the package in his hand. “Martha’s?”

“Oh, yeah. Martha’s bacon strips. It’s the best. It always will be.

You know that.”

“No, Theodore’s is the best. Do you want to argue?”

“Oh no. I haven’t forgotten the fact that I can never win an argument against you.”

“Good,” she said. They laughed, and for a moment, it drowned out the buzz of the heavy rain outside.

“We haven’t changed much, I guess.”

“No, we haven’t,” she said.

He couldn’t stop himself from looking into her eyes. And she held his gaze for as long as she could before she looked down.

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They stepped out of the supermarket to be welcomed by the heavy rains, trapped in the small space between the entrance and the stairs that lead on to the street. Joel took the umbrella from where he had kept it. As he turned, he saw her standing there looking up at the sky, probably trying to figure out when the rains would stop.

She was holding a bag of groceries in one hand and the wrist of a tenacious, wriggling child in the other. As he stood there looking at her, he realized how far he had come. How different his life was now, compared to what he thought it would be.

“Here you go,” he said, handing her the umbrella.

“Oh, please, that isn’t necessary. The rains will stop soon. We’ll wait here. You should leave, your family is waiting.”

“Just take it.”

“But when will I give it back to you?”

“I don’t know. Someday.”

She hesitated, and then relented.

Joel looked at them as they stepped out into the rain under the shiny, wet umbrella. After taking a few steps, she turned to look at him.

The bag of groceries dangled from the hand she held the umbrella with, and the little boy was rocking her other hand back and forth.

Rainwater dripped off the tips of the umbrella’s ribs. She smiled. He couldn’t decipher it, but he nodded in reply. She turned and walked away. He knew she would never look back, she never did that day, and she wouldn’t today. He felt strange as he saw her merge into the rain. It took a moment before he realized why. It had rained that day.

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Water Bodies

Serene George

Blue tarpaulins, pregnant, bellies taut with last night’s rainwater, well down the green slide of banana tree leaves leave me with the memory of the hull that was you beside me, precariously floating on waterbed mattresses your mounds of flesh, fat rolls, rounded and moist in eternal slumber.

On nights with purple churned skies, when watered down milky rubber sap sloshes down kitchen counters, restless dragonflies burn their crystal wings in last night’s embers, mango tree scents rise against the stench of rotting black sponge barks, your dreams drench your pillow, flow to me, wet my sleep with showers of dubious creations trickling from your mind’s eye.

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Streams of moss sift between my tresses weighing down the hyacinth bulb of my head, Curved fingernails press down my writhing tongue squelching around to mouth nymphaeaceae, Watering eyes refuse to see, blindly weeping past gurgling creeks, With ears filled with water, I vainly swim in search of your river long drowned in the salt of seas.

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Untitled

Jacqueline Williams

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The Destiny of a Poem

Helly Shah

The destiny of a poem is to appear.

Like a fruit The flower of a thought Blossoms, then disintegrates itself Knowing it serves a purpose Larger than its appeal.

The writer’s job; simply To reveal like a magician A rabbit out of a hat, And the reader’s; simpler To pretend The rabbit was not burrowed in Trees made of magic.

Reader pretends the poem didn’t already exist within.

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Time, the teller and Life, the medium

Ekasmayi Naresh

A life of stories, lived through them, for them, with birth invoking prophecies of what would be.

The days following – peppered with fairy tales and folklore to serve as lullabies, tales of yore from tongues that speak, while precious prattle reaches its peak.

Early life lessons taught in tale – fables preach caution and wisdom abounds, but resolute they remain to be reams riddled to regale.

Reality catches on, stabs the storied subsistence with shards of ‘truth’, receding into the made-up milieu now labelled uncouth; the exception, however, allows much leeway for lore 27

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as long as it fits the finer tastes, panders to prevailing proclivities and is bought from a bookstore.

The archetypal adolescence reimagines the self, incomprehensible in others’ eyes, fuelling instead, a forced fictionalizing of those dissonant times.

The coming onslaught of adulthood collapses these created concoctions into reminisced rubble, critiquing the callousness as naïveté, urging stauncher cynicism to break out of the blissful bubble.

Almost hypocritically, holding to the words of others that lived and left, stories fashioned as news and ideas peddled as propaganda come to capture this caricature of spirit and substance, bereft.

Denuded by days bent by the bygones, seasoned specimens stirred to enliven their guilt-ridden remains to make the most of their mortal claims.

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Rummaging through the rucksack of cherished memories, to pass on as postcards for posterity, Socratic spirit possesses their speech to dispel these dismal hours with animated retellings of lives lived but now, rendered out of reach.

A many-storied existence we weave and witness, from womb through the weathering, a curated compendium— Time, the teller and Life, the medium.

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Waves

Aksharaa Agarwal

2019 A.D, Kröller-Müller Museum Every year people spent a hefty amount from their pay cheques to make a once-in-a-lifetime sojourn to this wonderful country – the Netherlands. And once they’d reached, paid just a little more to see what actually makes it so wonderful. And I? I was looking at it right now.

I was vaguely aware of the crowd thronging, moving and murmuring behind me. But I was transfixed. I stared intently at the painting, rendered on canvas, with what was now old, faded, cracked oil paint, smeared across the surface in small, curved strokes. Like the waves of a viscous ocean climbing over each other just to get the chance to crest at a shore, as if fighting to come up for air…

I was…at sea, in this endless, endless ocean, everything going quiet and dark. But, wait. What was that? The waves…came together to form a coherent image? What…what was this? What was I looking at?

Right. A painting.

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1890 A.D, Saint-Rémy-de-Provence My vision dipped in and out of focus like someone was playing with the curtains. My arms shook as I tried to steady my stumbling self.

My hands were outstretched as if I was…grasping for something?

Pushing something away? No…throwing it. Whatever it was.

Slowly, my sight peppered back into focus, and my pupils adjusted to the dim light from the single lamp I knew hung from the ceiling.

My gaze flitted across the surface of my sun-bleached room till it came to rest on what was now an upturned canvas on the floor. I looked slowly at my own two hands, now permanently curved, with their oil stains and paint smears, deepened creases, and…blood?

I reached out with them toward the panel, tentatively, as if it might attack me if provoked. I quickly grabbed it, flipping it over, looking up from it at…a mirror? Or what once had been. A spiderweb crack now wove its way across to the edges; the shards it was missing were now scattered at my feet. I looked back and forth between the painting at my feet and the mirror I now propped up against the wall, holding my head. Even as I did, the image I saw became increasingly the same.

Why, oh why had I done this? And here the thoughts took off in a flight; Theo already earns barely enough to support himself and his family, and he has a kid now. Yet he spends recklessly on my own passions, my misled belief that art is my true calling. I mean, that’s why no one buys my art, right? Or even likes it?

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So why is he so convinced of my abilities when I myself am beginning to become unsure of them, just like all the people who mock me and throw me out? His blind faith in me as unnerving as it is awe-inspiring, what with his naming his son Vincent Willem, after me; for his support I was forever grateful. But then there were the visions, and the voices…especially after the incident with my ear…no. I couldn’t possibly tell him. It would just be too much.

Maybe…maybe I really am the madman everyone thought me to be.

So why had I done something so selfish? Right.

I didn’t have much longer to live.

2019 A.D, Kröller-Müller Museum I shook my head out of the haze it had fallen into and refocused on the painting that had now emerged before me. A man sat on a chair, and I would have thought he was right there, what with the way he held his head down, fists to the eyes.

You could not see his face, but you did not have to. No eyes to speak of some sorrow, yet all of it was visible in the way he leaned forward in his chair, as if weighted by a grief, a grief that made him hide; and to the viewer, it was almost as if he was right there, because you could feel him turn away from you, as if he knew you where you stood now, watching him. Watching him taken by despair, somehow just knowing the profound pain he went through, so unlike every other person who knew him as he lived; that pain 32

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which had led up to the creation of this piece.

He was made of waves, and the waves were made of his soul; they formed the same ocean we swam in every night in dreams. I had glimpsed this particular piece in my art history class, and raised my hand to it now as I recalled the memory. Its name was as profound as the man who had made it.

At eternity’s gate.

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Transcend

Praneetha Gopalakrishnan

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wonderform

Malaifly

i wonder what form i take when you read me if i stumble around like mumbled words if i swerve in accents of far-off foreign idiom if i hover in whispers that ricochet riots if i pulsate in the struggle of contained claustrophobia if i follow a rhythm that retaliates in rhyme if i clatter like crossfire of curses collapsing if i deviate from destinations in rambles to avoid an end if i cram constellations into choruses of empty night if i trail in the afterscape, changing shape and colour if i swallow entire expanses of emotion in dramatic pauses if i gnaw in nightly worries that are salved with patience if i crystallize without warning only waiting to dissolve if i ebb in thuds felt in stethoscoped ears if i placate the eerie calm of an unwanted awareness if i drown aloud the percussion of insatiable indecision if i devour the dread or proffer it feeds instead if i curdle in spittle sprung froth forming fetidity if i span the timelapse of montaged memories if i dull the stale ache of scabs being broken into if i shudder away the sanctity of stillness achieved if i taste of the context of moods swept into being if i am legible in the scrawls of documentation taking priority 35

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if i leave a mark at all or am simply gasped in and sighed out if i exist beyond these hypotheses or simply stay on the page

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The Sign

Gitesh Agarwal

Howard woke up in a sweat. Again.

This was the third week he had gotten up in the middle of the night.

He revisited the dream. It wasn’t a nightmare. No scary faces, no screams. Still, the fear always crept in, like darkness creeps into a beautiful evening, unannounced, unforgiving.

It began exactly 18 days ago, when he went to Chinatown with his friend Eva Hu, for a nice meal at the stalls of the famous food street. They had been enjoying their jiaozi – or Chinese dumplings – shaped like ancient gold ingots, which were believed to bring good luck. The vendor had the radio turned on, playing the latest Chinese pop songs. Howard felt he heard a whisper, a voice calling out his name with the coarse crackle of the radio. He looked around, and upon seeing nothing shook it off, thinking it was a figment of his imagination.

Then it happened again and again; now the whispers were sentences in a language he didn’t understand, calling out his name. His skin paled, like a blank canvas, bleached of blood.

Eva, who had kept smiling and asking if all was well, had sensed the change in energy too. She had panicked, seizing Howard by the arm, nearly running out of the street. The vendor had been surprised that his customers had left their food behind unfinished. No one had done that before – the dumplings were finger-licking good.

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If Howard and Eva had turned back, they would have caught the faint smile playing on the vendor’s lips, something suggestive, between mockery and evil.

Who knew?

That was the night it had started. Eva had kept questioning him, asking afterwards what had happened, but his words kept failing him. Howard, unable to explain it to Eva, had hastened to catch a cab, mumbling to himself.

That night, not wanting to remain conscious, he had taken a sleeping pill. Soon enough, he was lost to memories of other moments, painted alive as pictures on the canvas of his closed eyelids.

Then it happened. He heard it call, the rough voice, coarse like radio crackle, speaking to him in a language he could not understand, calling out his name. Growing louder, beseeching him to remember something, say something, do something. He was paralysed.

Fear has a way of creeping up even in closed bedrooms, upon white sheets and skin, into the mind and shocking the rhythmic heart, unnecessarily accelerating the gentle flow of blood. After that, the headache is not too far, almost as if it were waiting beside the alarm clock for the right moment to pounce and uncurl itself behind the forehead.

He spent the next 15 days visiting psychiatrists and other doctors.

Not a single one found anything wrong at all, beginning to wonder if he was losing his mind…

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And then Eva suggested he visit Dong Lim, a Korean medium. She was known to be able to call and connect with spirits from many a lifetime, and she had successfully healed many.

Howard was willing to give anything a try.

Dong Lim met Howard with a reassuring glance and, soon after the initial pleasantries, led him into a meditative trance. When she was sure the connection had been securely established, she ventured to question – “Who are you?”

The voice replied in a language she could not understand. But it sounded the same. The same crackle. The same urgency. Dong Lim patiently asked the voice if it could speak in a language they could understand.

After a brief pause, the voice replied to Dong Lim in her mother tongue, a dialectal Korean; but it was lost in the ancient finery of the words.

This is what she heard: “I am Gaia, Mother Earth. I am calling out to all of humanity to be warned. To Pause, Stop and Change their perspective on life, on Progress, on Greed, on senseless Exploitation of my beauty, splendour, riches. There is a limit. I’m unhappy. If I choose to take corrective action, too many of you would disappear.”

They were her children, and she had believed that they could be given a second chance rather than be wiped out, like bad handwriting.

But she had grown restless, the symptoms of which mankind was beginning to face in the form of unprecedented natural disasters and 39

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the pandemic because of which they were forced to repeatedly cage themselves in, hoping only that they would survive.

She gave exactly 331 days for humanity to display its intent to live and harmonise, lest she take her next large step. A step that wouldn’t be a happy memory for her or for any of those who would lose their families, livelihoods and homes to it.

Dong Lim’s eyes widened. She felt reverent with respect, and fear.

She was in communion with The Mother. “Why Howard?” she asked. “How will we convince the world? No one will believe us.”

The Mother replied, “Howard is not alone. He is like many others I am reaching out to. They have forgotten how to understand my language, just as they have forgotten my benevolence.”

Howard was the R&D head of the world’s largest chemical company, and his latest project was researching ways to melt the innards of the earth in search of minerals, gas, and precious metals. The impact of the damage would be devastating, but he wasn’t concerned about that. He believed that since it would all be below ground, no one would know or bother. The company’s profits would mean promotions, bonuses, awards, accolades, fame, wealth and riches.

Dong Lim apologised to Mother Earth, with eyes wet and a deepseated love blossoming in her heart. She thanked The Mother for her generosity. She pledged her every breath to keep the promise she had asked for.

Howard was brought back to conscious awareness. Instead of 40

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telling him, she simply played the video of their session she had the diligence to set up; a transparent record she always took, with consent, to convince her clients of their unbelievable experience.

Howard cried and wept, overcome and overwhelmed. He apologised profusely. He was thankful and honoured to have been chosen as the medium. He pulled out his phone – he had to make some calls and head to his office at once. He had to destroy the research and delete all data. He had to warn all contacts across his network. He had to resign.

It was past midnight. Though his half of the world was asleep, some were still awake in the other half.

The world’s rich and powerful – presidents, feared leaders, tech giants, crypto kings and petroleum bosses – woke up sweating.

They had just encountered what seemed like a lucid nightmare.

But it wasn’t, it couldn’t have been. It was too personal, deliberate, aimed, and the same to each one. A voice calling out their name, in the language of their childhood, sending a clear message that played like a movie on the canvas of their mind.

It was a sign.

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cat hair, mat, bug

Ashlin Deena Mathews

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Vajeeha’s Dream

Praveena Shivram

1.

In the dream, she was indestructible. Swords could pierce her perpetually moisturised skin and she wouldn’t bleed. She could walk through fire and come out unscathed, despite her morally inept vagina succumbing to the demands of the flesh (Arre! I am a woman with needs, she wanted to scream). The waters parted every time they tried to drown her, and well, nails broke and rusted before it could touch her skin. She stood there on that cliff against a thunderous black sky, lightning streaking the sky like broken veins, and she lifted her hands up and pitched forward into the wind, believing that she could fly into the abyss of destruction.

She met instead the floor of her room, rudely awakening from the dream and quickly muffled the scream threatening to escape her throat, lest her baby in the cradle wake up. Her baby woke up anyway. Vajeeha groaned and picked her up. She walked to the window, making soothing, clucking sounds against her daughter’s ear while settling into the rocking chair next to it to feed her baby.

If there was an abyss, it had to be this. No, Vajeeha almost said out loud. No, she couldn’t and wouldn’t think that. She tried to prise the fingers of the dream still clutching onto her skin and tried to focus on her daughter’s warm mouth on her breast. Outside, she heard the call of parakeets and crows, the whoosh of cycles still not drowned by traffic, the steady rhythm of the broom raking up fallen flowers 43

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and leaves – sounds that circled her waist like a rope and pulled her in a new direction.

Vajeeha knew, today, she had been saved.

2.

In the dream, Vajeeha leaned against the giant catapult tied to two coconut trees. Her body strained against the resistance, bending the trees down into submission. That’s how strong I am, suckers, she wanted to scream. In a moment, she knew she had to let go, interested as she was to see how much distance she would cover, rather than where she would actually land. Isn’t that the true measure of growth? How far you can walk before your legs give way? But not for Vajeeha. She was going to fly, propel herself by virtue of sheer disbelief suspended willingly as it were over here.

This is what Coleridge meant. A vague memory from school tried to seep in—of crowded classrooms, worn out desks, the smell of eucalyptus in the air, red sweaters prickling against necks, a teacher perpetually facing the board (as if she already knew the futures all of them were hurtling towards and it was all extremely boring to her), notes being passed, girls giggling, boys using rubber bands to fling knots of paper. And it brought her right back. Catapult.

Coconut Trees. Strength. She let go.

And found that she was standing in her kitchen, her hands kneading dough for chapathis she was going to make for dinner, her daughter wailing on the floor. Vajeeha picked her up, put her in the crib, prepared the formula, and then discovered the bottle from the 44

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previous feed was still in the sink — the remnants dry and caking the walls of the bottle like the vitiligo that claimed her sister. The one found later in her room… No, Vajeeha almost said out loud.

No, she wouldn’t think about that.

She picked up the bottle and ran water through it.

Waterfall. How long ago was that? Fareha and Vajeeha. Laughing under the power of the mountain’s tears, their shirts and skirts soaked, holding hands, gripping them till it hurt. So that they remember later in life that love hurts; that a mountain takes a long time to change its shape, that invisible growth can only be shown by laughter through tears.

3.

In Vajeeha’s dream, colours were unreliable. Her mother’s eyes might have looked green, but Vajeeha knew they were not actually green. They were black. Her husband’s armpit hair might have looked purple, but Vajeeha knew it was not actually purple. It was white and black. The froth around her sister’s mouth might have looked red but Vajeeha knew it was not actually red. It was white.

Black. And White. The only colours that matter. Vajeeha knew this.

Even in the dream.

She sat on a cloud, a large canvas spread in front of her – the world, so to speak – and she picked up her brush, dipped it into the cloud and covered half the world in white. Then she dipped it into her 45

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skin and covered the other half in black. She pulled the world apart where they would potentially meet – the colours – and created a rift, narrow enough to jump across, but wide enough not to be able to straddle it. Then, like a graceful diver attempting her longest dive yet, she jumped into the rift.

And landed in her living room, in front of the TV on mute, her daughter asleep on her chest. She craned her neck to look out the window – what was the time? Then she remembered she had a clock, right in front of her eyes. On the wall above the TV, next to the framed picture of the Karbala. No, Vajeeha almost said out loud. She wouldn’t look there. The night sky, still carrying faint remnants of the twilight, was good enough for her, a measure she could contain.

4.

This is a multiple-choice question. Are you ready?

Vajeeha was always ready in her dreams.

The light that splits the sky is the same as the light that splits your pain?

Yes No Maybe Don’t Know The lemon in your fridge is as old and dry and discoloured as your pain?

Yes No Maybe Don’t Know

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The carpet in your living room stubbornly protects the colony of dust like you do with your pain?

Yes No Maybe Don’t Know

The knife is the only thing that is going to work.

Yes No Maybe Don’t Know Vajeeha answered Don’t Know for all and turned the page.

True or False. Ugh. She left the dream.

And came back to the manual she was trying to understand.

Something was wrong with the fridge, and she knew she could fix it if she could somehow arrange the symbols and words in front of her eyes in ways that would allow meaning to emerge. Plant a seed and watch it grow, her mother had told her. And Vajeeha had spent an entire summer once when she was seven, doing only that.

In their ancestral village in Kerala, where time held only individual meaning and she could bend and twist it to suit her day, Vajeeha had watched a seed grow. Except, a month later, it still remained a seed.

Something was wrong with her.

Something was wrong with her daughter, too.

No, Vajeeha almost said out loud. She wouldn’t allow herself to think that. She went back to reading the manual, because she could, and let the nothingness of meaning wash over her.

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5.

Vajeeha opened the door to her dream. She simply twisted the knob on the door, pushed it open, and walked in. She found herself in the eye of the storm. The place where nothing moves. She sat down, a little self-consciously, like she would if she ever visited another person’s house. Her husband’s house, for instance. She always sat right at the edge of the chair, keeping the pressure slightly off her bum, like she was afraid of leaving even the slightest trace of her existence behind. She never sat on the sofas, with their worn out cushions carrying imprints and smells of other bums in the house – father-in-law, mother-in-law, sister-in-law, brother-in-law. How could she ever imagine leaving her imprint into that claustrophobic morass of family and tradition? Of course, she had to escape.

But in the dream, there was no escape. No one can ever escape from the place that is the escape. So Vajeeha sat there, in the eye of the storm, knowing that nothing remarkable was ever going to happen.

Everything that needed to happen was happening on the outside.

It was of no concern to her. She absent-mindedly cleaned the dirt from under her nails and then began to chew on them. Neatly. One smooth arch of dead keratin was ripped out and thrown into the chaos outside. Here, take a part of me, Vajeeha said. Not out loud.

Because by then a hole had opened out beneath her bum and she fell through.

And found herself in the storeroom of the house. This house. The storeroom was small, narrow, just enough for Vajeeha to stand, her hips grazing the sides of the shelves as she walked. She couldn’t 48

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remember why she had come here; the shelves were mostly empty, except for a sack of rice, a few packets of dal, stray packets of cumin and mustard and turmeric, some half open and busy in their attempts to colonise the shelves.

Where was her daughter? Why was she so quiet? Vajeeha scrambled out of the storeroom and back into the living room, her heart tentatively nudging out a hopeful question. What if she was…? No, Vajeeha almost said out loud. She would not allow herself to think that.

She found her daughter asleep in the crib. And Vajeeha breathed in and then out, and in again, till all of her relief and disappointment solidified and took the shape of her daughter’s curled body.

6.

In the dream, Vajeeha was surrounded by the sounds of gunfire.

People were scrambling around her, shouting instructions, shooting into the air – takatakatakataka – the sounds ricocheting off her ribs.

She fell to the ground, breathless, her face and body caked in dried mud and blood. Was she injured? She frantically checked – head, chest, legs – but she was fine.

Oh. She made a note.

Someone rolled right next to her and clung on to her shirt, face close to her face, breath in her breath. And she knew she must hear what they were saying but she couldn’t see any of the details of the 49

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face or the words that were being mouthed. Was this a man or a woman? It was a blur, like someone had fogged up the mirror.

The gunfire was drowning everything out, and Vajeeha looked up at the sky, coloured now with flames of orange and yellow, sputtering out like rogue stars. A particularly naughty one landed close to her and burst out into a garden of sunflowers. The person clinging to her had disappeared. The skies were clear, blue, wistful almost.

And Vajeeha recognised the scene. This was the painting in her grandfather’s room. The one he told her he had painted when he had gone to Europe for a holiday. She must have been 10 and she knew, even then, that he was lying. But she had been, even then, generous in the space she gave liars. After he died, she had taken the painting and it had travelled with her to her house of marriage, and now to her house of isolation. She touched the sunflowers and looked for the sun. All she found was a mushroom in the sky and an incessant ringing in her ears.

Someone was at the door. Vajeeha ran to her daughter, playing in her crib, and picked her up. Then inched to the door. The ringing wouldn’t stop.

She wanted to look through the peephole but she was paralysed with fear. Someone had found her.

“Vajeeha, open the door.”

“No!” This time, she did say it out loud. Because she could.

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She heard them scrambling outside, fiddling with the lock. Then the door burst open, a torchlight pierced her eyes, her daughter disappeared, the house disappeared, the white antiseptic room was back, and a needle pricked her skin.

7.

Vajeeha had a dreamless sleep.

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Morning at the Park Street Cemetery

Helly Shah

Kolkata draws its breath from what is left of the dead.

2019, I find myself in Kolkata with someone who once lived there.

“This street used to be a graveyard,” he says. I look down and imagine the residual bodies from centuries.

Perhaps an old English man who died at forty obliterated history.

Beneath my feet, layers of earth separate his decay from mine.

They know, I’ll meet him in time.

I look above to find shops, hospitals, hotels; aware we live a floor or two above death. 10 am at Park Street Cemetery, the gates open for the living to meet the dead.

I walk in and everything is either green or grey; tall or wide.

The moss clings to the grave the way life clings to death.

I make my way through plaques and epitaphs; follow butterflies, let mosquitoes bite; a small price.

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Some graves are bigger, fancier than others.

As though in death, it still matters.

I find graves of babies and I count how old they’d be if they were still alive. An odd man sits at the footstep of a grave reading a newspaper, and I wonder if the death toll around him isn’t enough.

It makes me laugh. Is it okay to laugh around the dead?

Well, in Kolkata, it is.

The city bursting at the seams with time capsule dreams hungover from a broken heart, not knowing how to part with loss, this city blossoms in decay.

All greens and greys.

Kolkata grows like moss around the grave.

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Kaapi Sessions

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A memory on the back of my shelf (For Jacob)

Sonia Sali

In the solitude that you were lost in, trust me, I found an attraction that was powerful.

In the mornings when I saw you, you hardly knew I existed, that someone observed and gaped at the little world you were lost in. I saw it all—the birds flying around in your world in little circles, the music sounding out a little bit sweeter and louder by the day, the blue skies that reflected your solitude and lameness, the warmth of the morning sun shining out your solitude to the world in dim, placid shadows—I observed it all. I saw it all from distances I considered safe, perfect and fine. Yet in my space I wanted to plunge into your endless verdure and see through the blinding morning light that you were lost in and somehow be a part of the silence that you gave your mind into, so much so that uttering words out aloud and being part of crowds was hard enough. Those mornings were blur; I can hardly explain. Caught between the urge to jump right into your world and compare to the world I lost myself into and the mere timidness of my personality, I lost my way to find the deep silence and peacefulness that you caught yourself into.

Ten years is a long time. When I close my eyes, I know I have walked farther than expected. The memories of your somehow fascinating and magical world I left behind in the woods and now stays somewhere at the corner on the back of my shelves like an old fairy tale I loved to read over and over again and listen from time 56

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to time. Yet I left this memory to rust in that shelf all by itself, but trust me I have thought of it over and over again. But how could I possibly come back to rummage through this rather packed shelf of mine to get to the back of it, to relish this particular memory again and again and over again? I haven’t cared to line my shelf in neat, orderly ways, beautifully or fashionably. In the past few years, I have come to care not for this particularly dusty, rusty shelf that I so highly loved to organize, set up and order. I was thrown out from the highways of life, found myself stuck in the by-lanes and could not find my way back. So I lead a tangled life that I packed with noise, chaos and blinding, garish lights – I knew I didn’t belong to.

I lost track of that person lost in solitude, that person/world/silence that I so madly fell in love with. But instead I stand in a by-lane crowded with voices that break my ears, melt my eyes and shatter my heart.

Some days I try hard to get to the back of that little shelf to search out that particular blurred-out memory. I close my eyes and try hard to swim and grab it and never let it go but I can hardly see through the mighty, blurred waters. I do not give up but I swaddle through the waters to hold it in my hands and plunge right into it and never come out. To simply sink myself into those endless waters of memories filled with stones, fishes, pearls and weeds full of you, to live in the silence that you lost yourself into and relish and live in the memories I have of you and never again feel the nostalgias of gaping into your world but living right in it.

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Childhood

Praneetha Gopalakrishnan

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Evenings

Pallavi N. B.

The clock struck four, and I knew it was time for me to join my squadron. Maybe squadron is the wrong word. Perhaps I could call it a crew? We had military-grade punctuality anyway. Hierarchy is a funny thing and even funnier when set up by kids. Every evening at four we all gathered, a good 10 of us in the line-up. We all assembled in front of my house. Why my house? It’s simple. I had the advantage of being on the ground floor—the floor with the wide corridor and the floor we unanimously agreed upon without agreeing upon it being the congregation point. When gathered, we’d go about two types of businesses – games and gossip, and that day we’d been blessed with the business of games. We rotated games every day. One day it was ‘lock and key’, another day it was ‘hide and seek’, and on another maybe ‘infection’? There were many others, but the names fail me. I think that was the time our creativity ran wild, inventing new games all the time. Ah! Another one was called ‘Simon says’, and another ‘king’s touch’ if I’m not wrong.

Deciding on a game was a hot discussion. We sat in the first sit-out (a seating area in the quadrangle of the building), and I was flanked by my comrades to my left and right, Sprha and Gargi. There was only one bench, and its occupation was based on a first-come-first-serve basis; the three of us occupying the bench was somewhat a point of pride. Having been the only ones to have a seat in the congregation felt…powerful. We waited for everyone to arrive. Slowly came 59

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a brother-sister duo, Anuj and Adya, fairly active crew members, often gone before everyone else. Thinking back to it, maybe I was a little rude to them. Next came two brothers, Chiranth and Chirag, the most active members of the crew. Chiranth was one of the fastest runners, instantly becoming my competition. Then came Amar, the object of my affections, the boy I spent my childhood doting on but never taking the courage to make a move, and an even faster runner compared to Chiranth. Then came Abhay, the fastest runner among us, his entrance almost fashionably late. Now, we were all gathered.

“What’re we playing today?” I asked.

“Hide and seek” “Cricket” “Infection” “Lock and key” We all chimed. Now how would we decide what to play? Personally, having been under pressure to improve my running, I wasn’t in the mood to run, but I guess the luck I had going that day ran out. A show of hands was ordered since democracy was the best way to solve this, yet somehow it ended up creating more issues.

“Hide and seek”, two hands went up, Chiranth and Chirag, their choices just as similar as their names and themselves.

“Lock and key”, one hand went up, Amar. I almost raised my hand.

My affections towards him were strong, but maybe not strong enough to make me run.

“Infection”, five hands went up. Adya, Anuj, Abhay, Sprha and 60

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Gargi. Betrayal at my doorstep! That settled it. My vote didn’t even matter. Five out of nine had voted on wanting to play infection, why would one person’s say matter? But no matter – today, I shall run. I shall best my timing. I shall make adversity my luck. And today, I was determined not to let Abhay get the best of me.

For context, the game went so; one person would be infected. They would have to run and catch all the non-infected people, and once caught, the non-infected people would also become infected, and they would all end up making a team and capturing the rest of the non-infected people. The game would end once everyone was infected – quite a smart mutation of running and catching, even if I do say so myself. The game utilised most of the architecture of our humble apartment complex: a full ground floor, a basement, and the first floor. Our complex stretched to floor three, but everyone agreed not to tire themselves more than necessary. The building was structured to facilitate a quadrangle. All houses opened into the quadrangle. The space was visible to everyone, shared by everyone, but it had the monopoly of the kids. This worked out perfectly for the adults. No more would they need to look for their kids; a peek over the hallways was enough to relieve their worries and concerns.

We started off by selecting who would be the infected one first.

To ensure the game’s longevity and fairness to the runners, we unanimously agreed to make an average runner the infected. This way, all the runners would not be caught too quickly by the fast runners, and the game would not go on longer than necessary due to the slow runners.

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To my luck, I was selected as the infected one that day. It wouldn’t be surprising if I fell off the stairs and broke my leg that day, such was my despair with the decision. But for the integrity and love of my crew, my bitter feelings were swallowed. To facilitate joy, I compromised. Looking back on it now, the story of the Omelas holds a lot more weight in my life than I thought it did when I first heard about it.

“1…2…3…4…5…6…7…8…9…10… Okay, I’m coming now!”

I stated, turning around with force, trying to weed out the presence of the non-infected. But to no one’s surprise, it was empty. I walked around the place: looking, preying, calculating, and strategising.

Catching glimpses of running feet, whizzing hands, and swooshing hair, I ran around everywhere. Feeling my heart beat out of my chest, I ran like a madwoman; not bothering with the throbbing feet, the almost spent stamina, and the determination to finally best myself, to prove something. That something, I don’t know what it was. Maybe it was me trying to run from my feelings? At that time, my emotional turmoil was at its peak, twirling, swooshing faster than any tornado, deeper than any whirlpool, but I could not see it; I could only see the person who ran before me, hoping not to get caught in my whirlwind. Maybe this is me placing superficial intentions on a child merely enjoying a running game, but I also remember feeling a sense of determination hard to describe. What was it, I wonder, for I don’t feel any of it now.

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(to my father, in memory of)

Ar Shreeamey A. Phadnis

Ornately carved wood adorns the rooms of his inhabitance Gilded ornaments of persisting class, pushing the illusion of his bearing to an unchallenged superiority Seasons did not diminish his pride or weather his resolve Finding solace in new disenchantments with life in all its forms, treating his body as a laboratory, his mind became a playground for abominations… …that cannot be uttered by the ‘civil.’

In a moment’s span he had given his Self all the time he needed Behind the confines of aristocracy arose the tiresome debate Poignant predecessors staring down from their likeness To what cushion of perpetual bliss must this offspring be condemned?

While here in the frenzy of fine foods and poetry of the cult, a decadent mind laced with the daze of opium, in the midst of his swirling misconstructions – sat the poet fascinated by the rigmarole of his own words Some flattered him, some sat flustered, his halls a salutation to the definition of seamlessness 63

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And whilst they simply watched, he coloured the canvas of his remainder In the richness of textures, he found his true meaning In the depth of the colours, he foresaw his own doom In the flourish of the brush, he revelled in his own glory and in his labour of artistry, he perceived his life a lost cause So, he lived not but lingered on, biding his time; till the day he was relieved of his inheritance And he received with open arms, the gift of mankind – to be dead and long forgotten.

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Love as a Medium

Ava Arjun

love is a funny thing you know, it comes in a trillion bottles and bowls a well-timed smile, a pat on the back a look at the stars and down a cheek, a tear rolls it means to be warm and safe and cosy, it means to be wild and hot and free, it’s putting oil into your daughter’s thick malayali hair or watching the squirrels play in a banyan tree love has many many mediums, it’s fragile but enduring; the stars align in a cheshire cat smile your one forehead crease and a funny sneeze, star-shaped cookies and a laugh that’s a wheeze people show love in peculiar ways, sometimes i don’t really understand the power of the right person holding your left hand while your right sits unheld and left alone, envious and waiting a pencil case of Mango Bites being passed under tables in class, ladybirds singing to you silently as you sit on the grass, braiding ribbons in your hair, drinking chai with her on the stairs, counting the freckles on your cheek in the mirror and laughing at yourself, thinking how strange you are, you are, and i love you for it 65

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what about the lightning love and no, i don’t mean flings; love like a thunder, roaring and thrashing, love of ours, greater than kings screaming affirmations at yourself to your reflection because you really need to shout, dancing to Bon Jovi, and singing until your lungs give out laughing with your mother in the kitchen while she burns her fingers, and you cry from the smell of onions as you carry your plate to the sink Jesus Christ, i wonder what the neighbours think wailing with your best friend for no particular reason or rhyme you wipe the tears from each other’s cheeks and chuckle from time to time love is a cacophony, a blinding light, a Billy Joel song, a perfect fitting pair of shoes it’s not one thing it’s not insignificant it’s not different but it’s not the same, love is interstellar and mystical, made of rose quartz and mirth; each time you love the tiniest thing it’s a new and brighter birth

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Avis

Divya Muthukumar

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Ink and Inner Horizons

Harshita Kale

My medium, my words, my refuge, my “self”. Sometimes, even I cannot tell these apart. Often, I do not want to.

Medium: of expression, of consolation, of emotion and dissonance and love, of capturing, of reflecting. My medium is my voice. My words spell out my identity.

Words and I have traversed a long road together, and we have had our ups and downs. They have angered, frustrated and terrified me.

I cannot recall the number of hours spent in front of blank pages and blinking cursors; or the sleepless nights spent wondering whether I could do justice to words – the singular thing I have admired and respected for as long as I can remember.

But they have also loved, understood and moved me, in deeper and more liberating ways than I can wrap my head around. I am grateful that my words have always come back to me, however long the separation. They gave me a voice and told me I mattered, when I wasn’t sure I did. In 2020, when I was deeply struggling, when no meaningful sentences would take form, I found poetry running across the pages of my journal instead. Rooting me, steadying me, breathing life into Life itself. Words first stemmed during one of the darkest times of my life and came back to me again, when I needed them the most. We walk together, coming back in full circles and the road becomes a little less lonely.

Still, there are times where there is an invisible wall between where I stand and the words I want to write. At others, it is in words that 68

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I find a familiar rhythm – in the gentle ways in which they curve and compress, slant and elongate. In the rise and fall of each letter, I sense my own breath rising and falling, rising and falling and catching and steadying. And so, we continue our slow dance for yet another Frank Sinatra song. As “The Wee Small Hours of the Morning” suffuses my room, the midnight oil continues to burn, the pages continue to turn.

My breath and my words: two streams bleeding together in a powerful river current – the safety net that I hope will catch me, as I fall into the abyss of my paper, again, and again, and again. * On days when the sea of the mind is calm, it is almost as if the ink baits its breath – waiting purposefully, deliberately, as it dries; glistening on the page under cloudy skies. Waiting, as if thinking about how exactly it should scent the page with memory, hope, love and grief; wondering how it should pulsate under each reader’s fingers.

But far more often, thought races much faster than my hand and pen can keep up with. By the time they do catch up, panting and out of breath, my handwriting morphs into something somewhat messy, somewhat me. But no matter how hastily the words have been lined up along the page, I am able to discern the lopsided letters, out of balance. As I piece together the innumerable notes in the margin, and the sudden bursts of inspiration inscribed above the date line; I am able to feel something of what I felt as I wrote those words 69

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then, the tenor of my heart distilled in a precise moment in time.

Perhaps, it is the joy and familiarity that comes with something you have created all on your own, perhaps it is something akin to one friend recognizing, seeing another. My ink might be smudged, my reflections perhaps disorderly, and my sentences – carefree, running wildly across lines and margins. But many years later, I will look at these notebooks and know with pride, that they belonged to a writer. * My medium of expression is slightly sweet, slightly sour; it covers my skin like curd and honey. It flows from within, as though an adventurer on a treasure quest; seeking, finding, hunting and chasing the abstracts within my body that can be transcribed.

At some places where grief simmers, hot and angry, it bypasses with a kindly glance; it knows that it will be a while before this sequestered space will invite it in. At other places, where joy and curiosity and wonder spill over each other, it cannot help but be drawn in; it samples and lights up, approvingly. Along yearning and nostalgia, it smoothly glides over like water, healing and soothing.

At other places, it is sticky, persistent, telling me that these scars are stitching and turning whiter, that it’s time to put pen to paper. * My words preserve and magnify my memories, they process my pain and give new life to my joy and hope. They capture my past 70

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and speak something to me of my future. They are two-dimensional accretions of everything that I am, and hope to be. They teach me, and forgive me. They allow me to forgive myself. They allow me to recognize myself. It is through them that I weave the rich tapestries of my life. For everything that they are, and for everything they allow me to be, I am grateful.

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boring

Malaifly

It’s ironic to be writing in the manner I will be deriding while doing so. It’s so open, and commonplace; it’s disappointingly pointed about exactly what is being expressed. It moves slowly, and the directions are too valid. You’re cutting out the aesthetic appeal of ambiguity.

Rather, the interpretation that would be granted should the words not be so startlingly stagnant. It’s conversational. Too personal to be poetic in a manner that is fulfilling and worthy of feeling proud of the work. It’s rambling and resembles a diary entry. All first person, or second and diligently unintelligent sounding. It’s honest in the crying without being able to help whether the snot runs down your face way. You can’t hide the ugliness of it all. You’re all blotchy and pink, with your voice wavering. Gulping the breaths between your rants and complaints. The epiphanies about how guilty you feel, the reasons to be ashamed. And you hope to dear lord that coming clean is akin to making amends. Maybe admitting the flaw will make it easier to deal with. Perhaps understanding the shallowness of the despair, will somehow aid in it going away. Decrease the pain by knowing what’s wrong. Rationalize like hell, about how it’s the first step. The problem is, the problem stays. Venting it, sometimes, only pollutes the air. And you stay infected. Just like the sentences in your journal. The thread that stitched it so far, is the same. The ink is scrawling on. Present tense, dragging and taking the reader too. It’s embarrassing, really. Because your chest still aches when you read the way you wrote it. Because you haven’t disguised the 72

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pain. Or even emphasized or realized its potency. It’s a waste. It’s powerless with its conventional capitalization and lack of dramatic use of space. It’s as routine as human experience, in the most boring way you could be empathized with. It’s tedious and unamazing, and its ending is anticlimactic.

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Warm Foliage

Malaifly

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work in progress

Harshita Kale

an artist’s room is a curious space. when their canvas is presented with a finishing, vehement stroke, i press my face against their window, admiring their splattered hands and half-filled sketchbooks, opened paint bottles and soaking brushes, the wrinkled papers creased in charcoal – how beautiful they all seem to me. so i glance deep into my own room of rooms, and wonder what a writer has to show for their work, behind-the-scenes, before the stage is blinded? is it my tarnished wooden desk, each line representing each word i’ve been brave enough, and too afraid to put on the page, the gaps in my keyboard, in which breathe things 75

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i’ve never known? do i bottle the tears that stay buoyant on my pillow, collect the bits of rainbow, coming in through what overflows? my pen, unforgiving, pricking my wrists, palms lined in eternal ink. record the sounds my hands make as they tap away into a deepening abyss, when my fingers trace only yearning? no coffee cups to show for my madness, do i collect the rain that gathers in my empty mugs then, distilling every thing i have felt? the spiral of a thought, everything that was left out? and when sunnier mornings take flight, spring arrives on my page, light slants across the notebooks and i find forgotten flowers 76

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smelling of sweet youthful memory, the kinder mornings where ideas sprout amongst my potted plants. how do i keep safe, the spring in each page as it comes alive underneath my hands, how it felt as the words took shape, glistening on the parchment, calling them home? do i photograph my soul, as i change with the words, as my words change me? do i photograph others, deeply engrossed in poetry? how do i keep safe their smiles, hold onto the pieces that shift inside them as they read each word? to all and any of these, i have no answer i think i can only keep thinking, keep on writing, and hope a few people will caress my words, so that i can write some more, observing still more carefully, my words, and me, my works in progress

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a fraud

Ashlin Deena Mathews

a fraud, I am cloaked in faux: my clothing embedded with letters, only one language swirling, where did the other letters go? my numbers are in one language I scream in the same I know not any longer how to translate myself into a tongue that was mine own, whether it be mine or someone else’s the truth be it that chaavi comes slower to me than key, a disappointed grandmother may have just been my saving and a state I wish to have nothing more to do with, the eyes that look upon with scorn, derision, hate, questions of loyalty are hammered into myself a country that was my nation was anything really mine to take? will voicing my opinions make me an outsider?

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where I come from and what I speak take precedence over how I look, can I ever make anything home? if I don’t know what home is, how it is supposed to be – how am I supposed to be? will I ever know?

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Anubhavabhasa Nethra Gopalakrishnan

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Serendipitous Stories

Tarini Agarwal

The warm glow of dusk lights up my bookshelf. Colours—red, orange, green and blue; shades of a kaleidoscope, run hither and thither. Merging and unmerging, rainbows of memories on the wall, shadows of the past.

I sit on the pale white floor. The bookshelf towers over me. Its chocolate brown contours are comforting and I revel in this solace.

My eyes take in the books—their titles, spines, and colours. A smile spreads across my face. Each book tells a story. Characters come alive every time I hold a book in my palm, and I am transported once again; to a different time, a different setting, a different story. I think of the words embellished within the pages of these books. But the canvas of my mind is now painted bright with memories. Soon, nostalgia fills me. My eyelids begin to shut and are now curtains. On these curtains a film commences, and the past is before me again.

“Take this,” she said and handed me a copy of Harry Potter and the Philosopher’s Stone. “Read it. It is going to change your life.”

And so, I did. In the beginning, it was exciting. I was peeping furtively into hidden worlds, schools of magic and enchantment.

But as I delved further, the story began to change. Hogwarts and The Wizarding World faded into the background. Harry, Hermione and Ron were but vehicles. The heroes of this story? Love, bravery, sacrifice, and above all else – friendship.

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My memories of Harry Potter and his adventures will forever be linked to friendship because my dearest friend introduced me to him. She persuaded me to read the books. We watched the films together and fought over the characters’ fates. She berated me for looking up spoilers online while we waited with abundant hope for our acceptance letters from Hogwarts to arrive.

We were children then. Much has changed now. The author and her ideologies are embroiled in controversy as audiences have begun to notice the tokenistic and often problematic worldview espoused by these books. My friend and I too drifted apart. Memories of love and laughter have been overrun and outnumbered by anger and sorrow.

Yet, every time I look at my worn-out copy of The Philosopher’s Stone my heart begins to thrum and the corners of my eyes crinkle with a smile.

The scene shifts suddenly to a decrepit lane, smoke billows from a corner and the world appears grey. A little girl emerges from the rubble. She leans over the bodies of two people. She is crying, begging them to wake up. A hooded figure, shadowy and black, hovers above the scene – watching, waiting.

I found The Book Thief by accident. I hesitantly picked it up and began reading it with caution. I finished it the next night. I was overwhelmed with emotion and awestruck because the story was heartbreakingly beautiful and the writing, powerful and nuanced.

This book revealed to me the power of the word. Within its pages, I rediscovered my passion for writing. I go back to this book every time I wonder if I have done enough, if my writing makes a difference. I 82

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return stronger, with an answer and a will to keep going. The book is an unwitting catalyst, but it serves as an important reminder; stories have the power to touch and change lives. How do I know, you ask? I know because this book changed mine.

The wheels of time begin to spin again. Six-year-old me sits by Ma, raptly listening to a story. The adventures of King Ram have always fascinated her. Enthusiastically, she corrects Ma every time she makes a mistake and claps in jubilation as she imagines Ram’s arrow piercing Ravana’s navel. She grapples however, with several questions. Why did Sita have to leave Ram? What happened to Urmila, Kausalya and Kaikeyi after Ram’s banishment? Why do we not hear from Mandodari and Surpanakha after Ravana’s death?

In trying to find answers to these questions, I fell in love with reading. With time though, I turned to tales of the Mughals and the Mauryans and within me developed a passion for history. As I excavated the layers of the past, I found myself drawn to social, economic, political, and gendered histories. The Ramayana, however, has continued to stay with me. I fall in and out of love with the story every time I read it from a new perspective. This is perhaps why my bookshelf is lined with retellings – both new and old. Stories of Urmila, Tara, Ahalya, Ravana and Mandodari among others decorate my bookshelf and edify me. These stories have been appropriated in political contexts and public discourses.

I, on the other hand, return to the Ramayana whenever I feel alone.

I bury myself in these tales every time I am sad, unhappy or afraid. I turn to the Ramayana for solace and comfort because it always stirs in me memories of home and a warm embrace.

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My eyes flutter open. My bookshelf still stands before me. But this time, I look at the books that are yet untouched, their stories waiting to be unravelled and absorbed. I think of the future—chapters that are yet to be unfolded and memories yet to be made. Excitement fills me and hope warms my heart as I beam and pick up a new book, ready to embark on a new journey.

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Epistolary ‘Mediums’ of Mindfulness: An Interview with Letters to Strangers Letters to Strangers (L2S) is a global youth-run non-profit seeking to destigmatize mental illness and increase access to affordable, quality treatment for youth aged 13 to 24. Through this platform, young people with no access to an emotional outlet can share their stories and feelings through a nameless letter, which will be exchanged with that of a complete stranger (through email) and appropriately responded to. The strangers are paired with each other carefully based on answers to certain questions in the sign-up form1.

On September 30th, 2021, through the Google Meets platform, students of Manipal Centre for Humanities, Aatreyee Ghosal, Manjita Joshi, and Serene George interviewed Aarushi Kataria (Founder) and Nayomi Dave (Vice President) of L2S India.

I: What was the motivation behind starting L2S? A: The idea was mostly born out of the fact that we (former cofounder Vaishnavi and Aarushi) were all away from home for the first time; it was a very overwhelming experience to be on campus and not be around the people who you were around every single day for the last so many years. The only thing that brought both of us comfort in a lot of times was reading letters that we carried with ourselves.

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We’d heard of L2S from a couple of people. We applied to see if they would be interested in doing something like this in Bombay; a place that exudes warmth, a place that taught us to be who we are as people. We didn’t want to be bounded by only the geography of what Mumbai stands as today. That’s how we began, and our mission every single day has just been to ensure that, no one feels as lonely as we did, at least one more person feels seen or heard at the end of the day.

N: I also started with Aarushi and Vaishnavi (former co-founder), in August 2019. The two of them actually came up with the idea and then asked me if I would like to join. And the reason why it was perfect timing for me is because I was also going through a similar phase in my life where I didn’t know what I was doing in terms of my career or academics because I was prepping for the medical entrance exams. The goal was to get into a government school because I couldn’t afford private school.

But what eventually ended up happening was that because of rankings and inflations and stuff like that, I could only get into private colleges, and that kind of made me feel like internally, pretty worthless. And I realized in my daily life that I had all the symptoms that people would normally associate with a mental illness. And even when I would remotely refer to the idea of going to therapy, all I got in return was, you know, all those generic, brown parent responses like, ‘you should just take walks,’ ‘this is all in your head,’ ‘you just haven’t spoken to people in a while,’ and et cetera.

And then after a while, finances became another issue because if my parents weren’t funding my therapy, who would? So, I had to go 86

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through this entire – well, a few months of just ‘therapist-hopping,’ who would take me for free, but then again, there were a lot of issues with the therapists I was seeing too; a lot of red flags that I noticed. And again, too much stigma. I could barely speak to my own friends about it, except Vaishnavi. So, I thought, similarly to what Aarushi said – we really don’t want anyone to have to go through what I went through, or what they went through, where you genuinely feel so lonely, just because the idea of a mental illness was that that you’re the only person facing it, and nobody’s supportive, nobody looks at it as a real issue?

My motivations to work for L2S and start something in Bombay was this. Even though we live in a metropolitan city, there is so much stigma attached, to mental health. So we just wanted to give students that emotional outlet because they need it more since have access to less resources to be able to get the right kind of therapy.

Through this letter exchange program we were just able to help someone get a friend in times when they need one.

I: Could you walk us through the process of L2S? A: For the letter exchange, we have people fill in responses to particular questions to see how they are reacting to certain situations in life through MCQs, and then try to pair them up with people with contrasting behaviours. Through the Google Form, people would tell us a little bit about their interests by answering a few questions.

Within twenty-four hours, you would have gotten a partner. You would be sent their details.

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We act as an intermediary. We give them some dates and ask them to send us the first letter by this date so we can forward it to their partner. After that it’s free-flowing conversation – there are times when people have developed friendships and communicated for six, seven months, through the letter exchange. There are also times when they don’t exchange more than one letter the first time, and then months later they remember that feeling of writing a letter was so nice, and sometimes they want to get back to the person.

Surprisingly, during the pandemic, we thought that people would be tired of doing things online, we’ve seen an upsurge in the number of people who’ve been taking part in the letter exchange. They’ve actually been responding, and our bounce rate is at the lowest it has ever been.

I: What are your opinions on letters, albeit virtual, as a form of communication, and expressing one’s thoughts – as basically, a medium of expression and communication?

N: Personally, I feel that there’s a lot of consciousness when I’m opening up to someone and they can see me. When it comes to letter-writing, you can articulate your thoughts better because you don’t have to say it at that very moment, you can write it gradually, as stuff comes to you. And because the other person is not right there in front of you, at least you can’t see them judging you. I feel like letter-writing is a better medium and emotional outlet, rather than talking face-to-face.

A: I find letters very intriguing because you take full liberty to keep 88

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going on about something you think the other person’s going to be interested in. Especially with your first letter, you’re spending these two whole pages writing about something that interests you, in the hope that your partner might like this too. What makes them interesting is that maybe there was one statement in that long letter that really stood out to you, and you wrote an entire reply about it.

In that way I find emails, or letters very therapeutic because they allow you to possibly mull over the same topic in a way that is very constructive to yourself; you could analyse it in different aspects.

It can be a very cathartic experience to write an email or a letter because you’re putting down all of the cacophony of emotions you are feeling. The person who is reading it is on the rollercoaster with you, and that’s what makes it a far more personal experience. A letter is, in some form, a soliloquy.

I: Did you used to exchange letters with your friends or family before L2S? A: I really like good stationery, but the easiest way to give it to me in a way that I would accept it was to give it on a nice piece of paper, so that was usually a letter or a poem. I had letters from friends and family; my parents wrote me a really long letter the night before I left for college.

Those letters kept me going, but we realised that they place a logistical constraint when you’re trying to do something on this big a scale. There were privacy issues when it came to someone’s address. We figured that people could either send in hand-written stuff and we would forward a picture of it to their partner and 89

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transcribe it, or they could send emails. So that was our way of trying to bridge the gap between the feel of a natural hand-written letter, versus an email that we have sent out.

I: How does letter exchange in the virtual medium speak to the larger question of intimacy, connections and communication, in the face of a global pandemic? Was there an increase in the number of people who participated in L2S, because of the pandemic?

A: I think, something that the pandemic did was it pushed us out of the lives that we were living; for instance, we had certain conversations with certain people that we were seeing at very regular intervals, and the pandemic just took that way.

It also meant that you would reconsider a lot of your friendships because if the sole reason something was staying alive was because you were seeing each other every day but you had nothing to talk about or anything to do apart from that, you reconsider a lot of your relationships at that time. At least, that is something I did.

And how the pandemic has helped people in embracing this is that there’s been this general acceptance of more empathy and vulnerability. People are a lot more open, I feel, talking about their mental health. now that Conversations surrounding the same have become so prominent. You have so many famous people actually talking about their own experiences. During our July event, almost every artist who comes on stage and performs, though a Zoom box for us, talked about their own mental health struggles and 90

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experiences, so it’s destigmatized to a very large extent, at least for the urban population.

It could be because the medium is virtual, it doesn’t really require that much of your time. People are really just embracing the whole act of vulnerability with other people, and they’re hoping that there’s this shared humanity, which plays a role in taking that leap of faith and reaching out to someone they don’t know.

Generally, what would happen is that we’d launch a letter exchange, and we’d get about a hundred to hundred and fifty responses, in about a week’s time. During the pandemic, right after the first wave around May or June, we launched a letter exchange that was based on the lockdown itself, that was our theme, and within a day, we had over a hundred and fifty people sign up.

We also noticed that our bounce rate dropped from about 40% of people not responding, to below 10% of people not responding during the heights of the pandemic.

We realised that this could be because of two reasons: one is, when the peak hits you’re obviously a lot more isolated, than you would have been otherwise. So, it could drive you to newer conversations, newer people, newer modes of communication. And, another reason is that, the peaks are generally accompanied by a lot of grief, and a lot of times, you don’t have the words to put this out to people you know, because there are different stigmas attached and you have to consider how the other person will react.

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the letter directly to us, as team members, if they wanted to. We did notice a lot of people writing emails directly to us, because a lot of them are thoughts that they might consider to be really triggering for other people.

People are dealing with their feelings a lot more constructively.

Indian society has been, generally, so repressed about talking about our emotions. During the pandemic, we saw at least, the empathy, the kind of vulnerability that people were willing to showcase, and how willing they were to actually work through their trauma, at an all-time high.

I: How do you see letter-writing as a medium of communication changing?

A: A lot of times people don’t know what to say. So, we send some guiding questions that people can use to start the conversations, because sometimes you don’t really have something to say, you just want to listen, but you also want to talk so you’re waiting for the other person to send their letter and maybe say the same thing in response. Generally, we noticed that a lot of people actually relied on these questions to frame these letters.

During the pandemic we saw lesser and lesser people actually rely on these prompts. There are things that people want to talk about.

Even if it’s the first letter, people are a lot more open to having deep conversations that are not fluff as we would call them, right from the beginning. I think in that way, the quantum by which people are opening up is a lot more. And I think that is a significant change.

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To give you an example right from this month, our theme this month was: the ways we say goodbye. The question was that, in many languages there isn’t just one way to say goodbye. In French, for example, you have something that means ‘see you soon,’ while you also have something that means ‘farewell.’ In Japanese, ‘Sayonara’ carries with it a tinge of permanence and loss; a goodbye that means, ‘maybe I won’t see you again, and I don’t know when I should see you again.’ All of these show up on Google Translate as ‘goodbye,’ so maybe goodbye is not so simple, maybe different goodbyes leave different things unsaid. How are some ways that you have said goodbye in your life that also defy simple definitions? If you had to create a glossary for your own goodbyes, what would it look like? A supplementary question to this was, sometimes you have to say goodbye to certain people, things, feelings, places, memories that we wish with every ounce of our beings we didn’t have to leave behind. In a sense, goodbye becomes an oxymoron. What happens when there’s nothing good about the bye? What can we do or say in the after that makes things a little easier, or at least a little bit less impossible? And what do you do?

This was largely because of the fact that the second wave in India had just passed over, and almost everyone had lost someone, or something, and we wanted people to possibly have a conversation with their feelings. We wanted them to process the grief that could have happened. A lot of times, it doesn’t strike us till we are asked to talk about it, just how deeply something’s affected you.

This was also a time when there were a lot of political upheavals starting up again, which meant that a lot more communities were 93

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being systematically discriminated against. There was violence happening. We wanted people to remember that there is someone willing to listen to you, that your stories matter and that we’re here for that. We’re here to ensure that there is at least one more person who listens to your story, who shares your grief with you and who identifies and sees you for everything that you are.

I: L2S works in an interesting space that blends the private and public. What does it mean for your organisation to be part of an initiative that deals with the personal, intimate medium of letters? What has L2S achieved in this context?

A: I think most overwhelmingly, we feel a sense of gratitude that people actually trust us. These are stories you possibly wouldn’t tell someone that you’ve known for years. They’re trusting absolute strangers with these. They’re trusting that this will not be misused.

They’re trusting the process, so to speak. They’re using this as a way of healing and we’re a part of that journey for them, and more than anything, I think that is what makes the work that we do every single day so important to us. That there is something we are doing that is helping someone out there, and that’s what makes it important.

Letters, as a medium of exchange…years later when you read letters that Kafka wrote to Milena, you read letters that Miller wrote to his lovers; you read so many of these letters and there’s always that idea that there’s something romantic in those letters. There’s this idea that the most famous letters are…love letters.

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But there’s just something so significantly beautiful about talking about the everyday, talking about things that you possibly wouldn’t talk about even when it’s 2:00 am in the night. But it’s there. You’ve actually gotten the courage to sit down and talk about it. You mustered that strength to put all of those really, really amorphous feelings inside your head into words. You’ve given your grief and your feelings some sort of container or some sort of shape with these words, and I think that’s what really matters at the end of the day. That you’re able to tangibly deal with something because there’s writing involved. I write poetry, and for me, there’s nothing as cathartic as being able to put whatever that noise in my head is that’s been annoying me for three days down on paper, irrespective of how much I hate it after. That’s okay. It’s down on paper. I think just that feeling of, yeah, it’s off my chest, that it’s not just my weight to lift alone anymore, that there is someone else who shares it with me. I think that is essentially what makes these letters so special, and that kind of sense of gratitude; knowing that at least one person who wrote to us today felt a little lighter makes what we do really important to me.

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Medium Ingredient

Malaifly

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Paapalu Vachaaru!

Tanvi Varigala The humid, balmy air with a hint of the salty sea sand. The rhythm of waves crashing against smooth, jagged rocks that paint the picture of a seascape. Rings of rolling green hills looming large like sentinels, protecting their kingdom. Ruins of the glorious past or the hauntingly serene presence of defunct lighthouses and forts.

All the unmistakable characteristics of an East-Indian coastal town.

Growing up with these scents, sounds and visuals often made me think of them as the backdrop against which the grand scheme of the universe unfolded; faded, blurry backgrounds against which stories unravelled. Until I realised that they weren’t just a part of the stories, they were the stories; until now.

My earliest memories of a giddy, carefree childhood are from the endless summers spent with my grandparents and cousins in an idyllic coastal town called Visakhapatnam, a tad smaller than a city in the South Indian state of Andhra Pradesh. For someone who lived in the happening metropolitan of Hyderabad, summers in Vizag were a novelty and respite, mostly for my mother who would look forward to a little break from the exhaustion of raising a little monkey (no points for guessing!). It was the time when my grandmother would lovingly ply me with ghee-laden sweets and delicacies that I would savour all year long, while keeping up with my racing up and down the stairs of their two-storied villa. Summer in Vizag was always a whirlwind of time with cousins coming over for a quick game of hopscotch, countless trips to the beach, bagsful 97

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of iridescent seashells, way too many wind-in-the-hair moments, and an unhealthy dose of fun, freedom, and laughter!

But my vividest memory is from the summer I turned thirteen.

Puberty had, as usual, kicked my friends and me in the gut and the things that hadn’t ever bothered me before had suddenly become irksome. The things that were innocent and fun before, had now been deemed silly and “childish” by me. Yet, the one thing that annoyed me the most was my grandparents’ unconditional love for my mother’s five, ‘new’ doe-eyed siblings, and my aunts.

Well, for starters, none of my aunts even remotely resembled my grandparents or my mother (Thank God! I wouldn’t want to look like them for anything in the world). They always woke the household up, even before the crack of dawn. They almost always wanted to eat. And even worse, all they ever did was roam the city all day long! But in the eyes of my grandparents, nothing could ever take their place. In fact, I am dead sure of the envious glances they received every morning from my mother for stealing her ‘only child’ status since my grandfather would proudly proclaim their arrival by announcing, “Paapalu vachaaru!” – Our daughters have come! –, as though showing off to the whole world their fine and charming appearance.

Charming? Well, I wouldn’t go so far as ‘charming’. But maybe I could grant ‘fine’! Hopefully, their description sways you my way. Think large, lustrous eyes that glow in the early morning sun; textured, leathery skin with hues of white and brown that ripples when seen closely, and a constant demure expression that could 98

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trick anyone into giving them food. When they walked on their four legs, swaying their hips to the household melodies, they looked bovine indeed! By now, if you haven’t guessed their identity, let me break it to you. My new aunts were cows. No pun intended! Five cows with four hoofed legs, a large snout, a long tail to slap away errant flies, and a big mouth with an equally long tongue that gave them a languorous appearance.

They’d lethargically walk, taking all the time in the world, wait patiently in a group, silently deciding their food and preference policies while my grandmother rushed downstairs to mix a concoction of nutritious food in large basins. Sometimes, as I glowered from the balcony above, my grandmother would strike a one-sided conversation (let’s face it, a ‘Moo’ isn’t a yes or no) with them that would often go – Ammama: “Eamma, ivvala nachaleda?” – My dear, didn’t you like it today? – Lakshmi aka one of the cows: “Moo.” Ammama: “Repu inka ekkuva uppu vestanu le.” – Don’t worry, I shall add some more salt in your food tomorrow. – At times, they would be late; during these times, my grandfather would stand anxiously in the balcony, awaiting their arrival. And when he would finally spot them, their triumphant entrance would be announced in a loud, “Paapalu vachaaru!”, their names called out (Lakshmi, Sarayu, Kanti…), and their numbers counted.

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Having had enough of it, my mother decided to go downstairs one day and see for herself what the fuss was about and probably start being a better sister. Not to be disappointed, they did manage to make her feel welcome into their extended family circle. Honestly, this menagerie was a little too much to take in for a thirteen-year-old.

However, their assuring presence grew on me and by the end of the summer, our relationship had grown from passing acquaintances, to letting me walk out of the gate without scaring me with their sharp pair of horns!

This year, in the midst of the raging second wave, when our airport taxi pulled over before my grandparent’s gate, we received a surprise welcome from the retinue of my wide-eyed bovine aunts.

Later, I would be told that their appearance at the gate on the day of our arrival was a real miracle; since they hadn’t been sighted in over six months, until that day!

Guess family works in strange ways, sometimes, even when they are cows!

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Pulupu – Sour –

Meghana Injeti

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Virtually Clingy

Anaga S.

I sit in front of the screen again, Too bright for my liking, but I stay put It’s my only comfort here, in this endless space And I can no longer differentiate the storylines, The bright lights and fictional stories have become a part of me A mix of culture, language and sadness There is a lot of sadness and uncertainty So I cling tighter, hoping for something soothing Maybe a virtual connect is better than none Maybe if I try harder, I’ll get the message through And the reply won’t be an emoji, or “shit happens” Oh! How I hate such replies!! I miss humane connections, I miss the familiar shapes and sizes of home, I miss the quiet sounds of morning hustle and bustle, The never-ending silence of afternoons And I miss the sound of people, their smiles and tears I miss humane connections, so I cling to virtual screens, Hoping fictional storylines and friends from afar can help And maybe I won’t be alone in my humongous space Like a drifting spaceship among beautiful stars, But lost to the warm light of the sun and home, Holding hands with gadgets to feel something, anything at this point.

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(to Society, past present & future)

Ar Shreeamey A. Phadnis

Civility, the bastard child of obedience Colourfully draped in authority and justice Meting out what dues it sees fit To every man his value and worth Concealing the shambles of its body In a veil of drowsy pacifism To not earn your keep and keep your earnings And pay someone else’s dues as part of its values Binding a child to a golden bond In lieu of its future and prophesy To each his own, to sew the torn and pull the thorn The burden of every common man Fervently catching up with the other’s pace In rhythm with the endless chase Not a single fellow out of line I give you my pretty middle finger, a standing ovation And you can ponder on that.

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The Old Painting

Rameshwar Singh Rathore

In the gallery of a museum A room full of art Hangs an old, lonely painting It’s been there from the start.

Through galleries and through museums it’s travelled The painting has a history But how does it always come back?

Still a bit of a mystery.

Through all the different owners The painting has lost its shine But still ever so beautiful It seems to be running out of time.

For everywhere it goes People leave a small smudge.

Canvas so intricately painted Has been left covered in dust.

People come and admire the painting The journey it has undertaken But no one wants a damaged painting It hangs there on the wall forsaken.

New art will always be made And breathe a new life It will cover the old-timers Things damaged by time’s tide But the painting will still exist 104

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Screaming tales of its travel.

The art never dies It’ll keep evolving and new chapters will unravel.

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Music Belongs to People

Vishvajith Madhavamurthy

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Those that brought music to us…

Vishvajith Madhavamurthy

There was a blast in the electricity meter-board, and the BPL 2-in1 tape recorder stopped singing. My elder brothers walked in and convinced me that I had caused the blast – by playing the same tapes over and over again for the 37th time that week! It was 1994, Baazigar was just out and “Yeh kaali kaali aankhein” was a craze, not just for Shahrukh and Kajol’s on-screen chemistry but also for the quirky combination of Kumar Sanu and Anu Malik. They made the song stand out among the post-80s dullness that the Hindi film-music industry churned out. I was scared, I wouldn’t play the cassettes for another week or two!

I still have those cassettes of Baazigar and Mohra, though the tapes have been written many times over with newer albums from Kaho Naa Pyaar Hai to Ajnabee to Fiza to Refugee. Written over, yes!

Because buying a new cassette meant spending 40-50 bucks for an album with 8-14 songs. In an era when my school was charging a mere 60 bucks per month as fees, my middle-class parents with their limited means and unlimited dreams, wouldn’t consider buying us kids every new album released. In fact, they would buy cassettes only if they liked the album and not because we liked them. And it had been a long time since they took a liking to anything that was released in the 90s, let alone the new millennium. That’s how we resorted to flicking the older cassettes, and some five bucks from mom’s purse, heading to the nearest cassette store to get one side of the cassette overwritten with the latest trending album. That’s how 107

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I grew up with music.

Cassettes were fun! The tapes would often come out of the cassette’s body when playing inside the tape recorder and get entangled with all the moving and stationary parts inside the player. It’d take an hour to pull the tape out safely; a Nataraj pencil or a Reynold’s 045 ball-point pen would come in handy to be inserted into one of the two ‘gears’ (or spools) of the cassette and help in rewinding the tape back into the cassette’s body. It was a marvel!

And yes! We called it a tape recorder and not just a cassette player.

Most cassette players also came with AM / FM radio, allowing us to record the radio programmes or the songs that were played in a programme onto the tapes by pressing the ‘Record’ and ‘Play’ buttons together. Some of the richer folks and the cassette stores used to have players with two cassette trays in them so that one could place two cassettes inside and play the audio on one to be recorded by the other.

Cassettes, unlike LPs of the gramophone era, brought music to the masses and made it affordable. It was a medium to carry your favourite music with you. Have a Sony Walkman or a cheap rip-off of it handy, and you could take your music anywhere. There were all sorts of tape recorders – tiny ones with a ‘mono’ speaker to the handy ‘boomboxes’. One would carry them along to picnics and on tours.

There was an alternative way to access music, one that remains to this day to a certain extent – radio. Vividh Bharti, Binaca Geetmala, 108

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Aap ki Farmaish – stations and programmes hosted by stalwart ‘presenters’ like Amin Sayani always gave the masses a way to listen to their favourite music. Music wasn’t omnipresent; it was something that everyone waited for and cherished. In the absence of telephones, these programmes were a way for families of soldiers to reach out to their beloved soldier by gifting them a song. Letters were read out on-air and then the requested songs were played.

Music was personal and social at the same time.

When CDs came into being, they could hold the same 10-14 songs that a cassette would hold. CD players were more of a technological sophistication than an accessible, sensible medium. Most often, an audio CD player would be bundled with a cassette player, and every new album released between 1998 and 2008 carried ‘Cassettes & CDs only available on XYZ’ in their publicity materials and ads.

Napster happened in 1999. It wiped out paid music in the form of CDs in the US, which eventually trickled into Indian markets as well. The cassettes had ruled the music scene for over 40 years in India when the MP3 format became mainstream and made its way to CDs. They sounded the death knell for the cassettes. Their own lifespan was short-lived, with the MP3 players and iPods hitting the market soon, relegating CD-based music to audio systems used in cars. Ripped audio made its way to MP3 CDs and then transferred onto our hard drives, thumb drives, iPods and what-nots. One had to visit the internet ‘parlours’, ‘cafes’ or ‘dens’ to pay and get a few hundred songs transferred over to the storage mediums of our choice. All this was still an expensive affair, for some of us at least.

Music, however remained personal, tangible.

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The turn of the millennium brought another revolution in the Indian music industry – private radio. When Radio City opened its first radio station in Bengaluru (then Bangalore) in the late 90s, they gave less airtime to the RJs and more to the music. These days, it’s either banter or ads that we hear, and very little music is played. And when played, they’re effectively fillers between the RJ’s endless chatter and the ever-irritating ads. Radio would play non-stop, 24x7. Radio in the house, radio in the buses, radio in the auto-rickshaws, radio in the cabs, radio in the canteens, radio in the cafes. Radio brought to us the joy of music only cassettes and Chitrahaar (on Doordarshan) had earlier succeeded at.

Cassettes were heading towards obsolescence, and I could no longer pay five bucks to get audio recorded onto tapes. I was running out of tapes, and tapes are mortal; they degrade over time. I had to figure out a new way of building my music collection beyond copying music off CDs owned by that (relatively) rich cousin. I plugged a transistor (a mini radio without a tape in it) into my computer (we weren’t rich, but somehow Dad got us a second-hand computer thinking it’d be useful for our studies and would help us become rocket scientists). I used a free recording software that’d record all the songs played throughout the day while I was away at school.

The first thing I’d do after coming back home would be to edit the recorded audio and save all the songs that I liked. Songs were now stored as files on the computer. I could catalogue them, play them on Windows Media Player, Winamp, Jet Audio, and Real Audio Player. The software industry and individual developers bombarded the market with newer audio players. Hard disks, however, were yet to evolve. As the hard drive sizes got bigger and the hard drives 110

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themselves became affordable, the music collection grew too! It took about seven years for us to get from 2 GB hard-disks to 80 GB hard-disks. By the time 80 GB hard disks became common, I owned close to 40,000 songs (I still have them), one-third of them recorded from the radio. Exchanging them collections proudly with friends was the ‘in’ thing. And then, streaming happened!

The decade that passed by has made streaming music mainstream.

Saavn, Spotify, Wynk, Prime Music, Apple Music – the choices are many these days. But we no longer own the music. There’s no hard work involved in purchasing that music and making a cassette, a CD or at least a digital file as our own. Today, we pay large internet companies that have licensing deals with the music companies to listen to music. We spend our money and data over and over again to listen to the same songs. We’re suggested songs based on what an AI engine thinks we should listen to next. Often, we don’t find the music we want on the provider we’re subscribing to. If we want to listen to a song they don’t have, we pay someone else and increase our monthly bills, or sell our data and get interrupted by ads. For some, it’s a marvel, it’s ease of use, it’s a way to explore the vast collection of the streamers. For me, it’s an invasion of my privacy, it’s subjugation to the companies. I was robbed of a hobby. What was once mine and mine alone is now theirs. And we are no longer in a business transaction, exchanging commodity for money; we get into a contract of perpetual slavery. Capitalism at its best!

Saregama, the music company that now owns all of HMV’s music collection, did try to mend the broken relationship and brought out some interesting products. At first, it was a 4 GB thumb drive 111

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with 250 songs of individual artists or mood-based playlists preloaded and sold, giving us oldies the feel of purchasing cassettes.

At INR 500, they were still expensive at a point when you could virtually get music for free, from a monetary standpoint. The ‘hit’ product, however, has been Saregama Carvaan – a digital device pre-loaded with close to 5000 songs, but one that makes it easier for the digitally averse and digitally naïve music lovers to access digital music. It comes in a form factor reminiscent of radio and has a radio as well – just in case one wants to listen to Vividh Bharti.

When I gifted one to my father, I stole a line from the movie The Last Samurai – “I belong to the warrior in whom the old ways have joined the new”. It was an invitation to his generation to be a part of the digital world in an analogue manner. Yet, it couldn’t match the gift the analogue world has left behind for me.

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There are 50 cassettes still lying in the rack in one of the cupboards.

And I still happen to own two working tape recorders. Out of curiosity, I picked cassettes at random and started playing them.

Songs sung by Talat Mahmood and then Mohd. Rafi played, then there was Dilip Kumar’s Mughal-E-Azam and Meena Kumari’s Pakeezah. There was Mysuru Anantaswamy’s Bhava Sangama and Rajesh Khanna’s hits from the early 70s – Amar Prem and Kati Patang.. The next pick was conspicuous as it wasn’t one of those branded once. It was a Sony CHF-90 recordable cassette, with “Baba Sehgal” scribbled on it. When I played it though, it wasn’t Baba’s unique rap from the 90s, but the music of an infant’s cries that played through the speakers. And then I heard my dad’s voice calling out to the baby by name. The name was mine. The joy of discovering that audio in a physical, tangible object was priceless, unlike the thousands of audio and video files we record on our phones today that we hardly ever get back to!

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The Contributors Aatreyee Ghoshal Refer to The Teatotallers Section Aksharaa Agarwal Refer to The Teatotallers section.

Anaga S. Refer to The Teatotallers section.

Anoop Mathew Anoop Mathew likes reading authors such as Cormac McCarthy, Gabriel García Márquez and Hergé. The last book that inspired him was Michael Chabon’s The Amazing Adventures of Kavalier and Clay. He writes occasionally. He finds the process hard but cathartic. He enjoys films, and they usually have an impact on his style of writing. He lives in Bangalore with his loving and supportive spouse.

Ar Shreeamey A. Phadnis Shreeamey is a researcher and academician currently based in Pune.

He is an Asst. Professor in the post-graduate Dept. of Architectural Conservation at SCOA. He is also a co-founder of the design firm ‘Studio Gestalt’. In the past, he has worked in various capacities for the documentation, restoration and awareness creation of heritage pan-India, with several reputed organizations like CSMVS, Sir JJCOA, MMR-HCS, etc. He continues to promote, educate about 114

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and conserve heritage as a consultant. He likes to write, sketch, hike, play football, listen to music and occupy his free time with a myriad of other such things. He truly believes in the old adage ‘The pen is mightier than the sword.’

Ashlin Deena Mathews Ashlin is still 21, and loves cats. Ye shall find her surrounded by webtoons, nail polishes, TV shows and films. Books and film give her life apart from breathing and other stuff. She loves to scribble away when she really should be paying attention but most of her art is born that way.

Ava Arjun Ava Arjun is a first-year student at Krea University. She has been writing for as long as she could string sentences together, albeit not very good ones. She doesn’t know how much more interesting she can make herself sound but let’s see um: she is a Leo-cancer cusp, she loves classic rock, she can play the ukulele and the keyboard (nervously looks at the camera) and she is from Kerala, the land of beef fry and her apparently! She hopes you enjoy the pieces she wrote and stay safe and happy.

Divya Muthukumar Divya Muthukumar is an Economics graduate currently pursuing her Master’s in Eco. She is a self taught artist and paints predominantly in acrylics and oils. She is a trained classical singer, and loves to read and review books. She also works as a speaker for financial awareness with an initiative called Project Raahat.

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Ekasmayi Naresh A psychology graduate, currently working as a therapist and researcher in the field of mental health. Fascinated by the power of words to create and dispel confusion. Inveterate lover of stories and poetry.

Gitesh Agarwal When he is not busy working, and eventually to everyone he comes across, Gitesh Agarwal is a gifted story-teller with a talent for extemporary creation- infused, always, with a wonderful lesson, and complete with a sense of wondrous adventure.

Harshita Kale Refer to The Teatotallers section.

Helly Shah Helly Shah is a 22-year-old spoken word artist from Gujarat, India.

A mass media graduate, she started writing and performing poetry at the age of 11. Her work was featured by Femina India and CNBC TV18 in 2020.

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

Malaifly Malaifly is an artist poetess for whom conjuring art and poetry feels like comfortable compulsion. Addicted to expressing herself in rhythmic verse, Malaifly thinks in words and conveys them in 116

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myriad ways, from spoken word and typography to pairing with illustration and even creating photopoetry.

Manjita Joshi Refer to The Teatotallers section.

Meghana Injeti Meghana is an aspiring clinical psychologist, and a part-time juggler between visual & digital art and creative writing. She loves nothing more than to project her feelings and quirky colours onto mediums.

You can catch more of her artwork on her Projectile Instagram art page @hue.due.

Nethra Gopalakrishnan Refer to The Teatotallers section.

Pallavi N. B. Refer to The Teatotallers section.

Praneetha Gopalakrishnan Praneetha is a student at Krea University. They are passionate about art, simply because it gives them a reason to be isolated from human society. And also because it’s fun to do and looks good sometimes.

Praveena Shivram Praveena Shivram is an independent writer based in Madras. Both her fiction and non-fiction have been widely published. Read her work at praveenashivram.com.

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Rameshwar Singh Rathore Ram is a 24 year old caffeine addict who is probably molding his personality around his next obsession as you’re finishing reading this sentence.

Sonia Sali Sonia Sali completed her Masters in English from Manipal University. She is a freelancer and a deep lover of the night skies, the soaring birds and silence. On every other day she is lost in her world and listening to her many thoughts roaring around her.

Serene George Refer to The Teatotallers section.

Tarini Agarwal Tarini is an 18-year-old student with a penchant for history and a passion for writing on issues of importance.

Tanvi Varigala Tanvi Varigala is a first-year student at Lady Shri Ram College.

She is a Carnatic Music singer who likes to dabble with all kinds of music genres and is a very passionate art history enthusiast. She absolutely loves travelling, painting, wandering art museums and exploring dusty little book shops in cobblestoned streets!

Vishvajith Madhavamurthy Refer to The Teatotallers section.

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The Teatotallers Editors-in-Chief Manjita Joshi Manjita is a final year MA English student at MCH. She loves reading children’s books and some modernist fiction, sitting in breezy spots, and snuggling in bed.

Serene George Serene George is a final year MA student at MCH. She is majoring in English. She enjoys reading and writing.

Fiction Bhanusri (Head) Bhanusri is a final year undergraduate student at the Manipal Centre for Humanities who loves dogs, music and unexpectedly long naps.

Aishwarya Aishwarya is a second-year BA student at the Manipal Center for Humanities who likes shopping, watching Netflix series, and lit up cities under the night sky.

Aksharaa Agarwal Aksharaa is a BA first-year student at MCH. The friendly 119

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neighbourhood bibliophile, she’s always up for incessant discussions on film, art, philosophy and more. She has both a passion for literature and penchant for the pen- or the occasional paintbrush and pencil.

Angadh Singh Angadh is a BA first year student at the Manipal Centre for Humanities who loves creating and listening to music (particularly heavy metal), volunteering for animal welfare, and reading and writing short stories.

Arati K. Prasen Arati is a first-year MA student at MCH who loves long walks, baking and pop-culture. You’ll find her in a quiet corner either reading or gushing over her new obsession of the week. As much as she loves the quiet, she also loves to go out and dance or try out new cuisines and restaurants.

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

Deepthi Priyanka C. Deepthi is a final year BA student at Manipal Centre for Humanities.

She loves chai, books, maps, caterpillars and chess. She enjoys writing fiction and poetry and is constantly dreaming up names, 120

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places, animals and things.

Madhumitha Arivu Chelvan Refer to the Illustration and Graphic Design section.

Shriya Adhikari Refer to the Public Relations section.

Sragdharamalini Das Sragdharamalini Das studied Mathematics at the undergraduate level at St. Xavier’s College (Autonomous), Kolkata and is currently pursuing an M.A.(English) degree at Manipal Centre for Humanities, MAHE. She is forever coping with sudden, opposing pulls of numbness and excessive emotions, while trying to remember that she needs to eat and sleep.

Tarang Mathur Tarang is a first-year MA student at Manipal Centre for Humanities who loves gaming, listening to music, reading (mostly fiction) and writing stories. He also likes watching movies, series and anime.

Tenzin Dekyong Tenzin is a first-year BA student at MCH who loves to read, go for long runs, and is obsessed with The Four Seasons, composed by Vivaldi.

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Non-fiction Aatreyee Ghoshal Aatreyee is a BA student at MCH, who wants to write and teach for the rest of her life, while making sure to remind herself and people around her to be kind always and unlearn, and learn. She likes music, Ghibli films, coffee, sunsets, cats and rainbows.

Abhiram Polali Abhiram is an MA first year student at MCH. He likes music (EDM, pop). His favourite film/web series genre is comedy, and he is also a fitness enthusiast.

Anjana Sathyanarayanan Anjana is a 1st year Master student majoring in History at MCH. She is also a professional singer, content curator and cat momma.

Her goal in life is to take it easy, enjoy the little things and adopt enough animals to fill up a big house.

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

Nandana Joy Nandana is a first-year BA student at MCH who finds solace in 122

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music and naps. She’s fascinated by the social sciences and is constantly trying to be the best version of herself.

Pallavi N. B. Pallavi is a final year BA student at MCH. She likes cooking, listening to music (genre really depends on the mood) and has taken an interest in illustrating recently.

Sarah Hussain Sarah Hussain, a first year Master student majoring in Literature at MCH. A bundle of emotions and simplicity, she loves to read novels that are raw and creative. Sarah also enjoys journaling, watching anime and listening to calming, but also upbeat music, in her past time.

Shivapriya Subramonian Shivapriya is a first year MA student at MCH who wishes to work in publishing. In her free time she likes to read, sing, and binge watch k-dramas. She loves the smell of old books and coffee, and she cares deeply about body positivity and mental health.

Siri Lucille Chenni Siri is a first year BA student at MCH who loves writing, discourse and dogs! She likes history and environmentalism and wishes to be able to make her own contribution to the field one day.

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Visual Art Lavya Joshi (Head) Lavya is a socially awkward literature major, who is a very annoying friend because she breaks every conversation with random facts about astronomy, history, books and theoretical physics.

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

Aparna Manoj Aparna is a third year sociology major, and loves plants, oil paintings, and lullabies. She enjoys sleeping in on the weekends, brewing suleimani tea and seeking refuge from the world under her blankets.

Nehla Salil Refer to the Illustration and Graphic Design section.

Nethra Gopalakrishnan Nethra is a second-year student at MCH. She loves to draw. She is known to have a dramatic flair and functions on coffee. Oddly weird yet fun, she loves individualism.

Vishvajith Madhavamurthy Vishvajith is a first year MA student at MCH. He loves doing 124

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everything between the Earth and the Sun, and beyond. He often heads out on interstellar travels in the comfort of the swing in his porch. He’s often stuck in the nostalgia of “those” days and bores everyone else with those stories.

Illustration and Graphic Design Madhumitha Arivu Chelvan (Head) Madhumitha is a final year BA student at MCH and pop-culture junkie. You’ll probably find them crying over K-pop or whatever brand new interest they have for that week.

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

Aparna Manoj Refer to the Visual Art section.

Deepthi Priyanka C. Refer to the Fiction section.

Devika Nair Devika Nair is a first-year MA student at MCH. She is passionate about carnatic music and classical dance. She loves to read, doodle and travel.

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Maisah Irfan Maisah is a first-year MA student at MCH. Passionate about art, history and travelling, she is always up for a good cup of coffee (or two). She hopes to someday keep up with her ever-growing TBR. Pallavi N. B. Refer to the Non-fiction section.

Sagarika Wadiyar Sagarika is a BA first-year student at MCH who visualises the world by painting her favourite things about it. She enjoys spending time with the people she loves and listens to music to unwind. A cat person through and through, she adores Luna, her cat and fantasises about living in a cosy home, mothering many more felines.

Tenzin Dekyong Refer to the Fiction section.

Public Relations Arpita Reddy (Head) Arpita is a final year BA student at MCH. She loves to cook, take long naps and pet stray dogs.

Shriya Adhikari (Head) Shriya is a final year BA student at the Manipal Centre for Humanities. She loves sunny walks, lemon tea and petting cats.

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Amshula Ravi Amshula Ravi is a first year BA Humanities student who loves to engage with things that excite and interest her. She likes to listen to music, TV shows, communicate with others and likes being outdoors. She also likes to explore herself in the field of writing.

Anaga S. Anaga is a dutiful bookworm, a writer, a dancer and an occasional moody cook. She loves dipping her fingers into different pies to try which goes the best together. Coming from a mixed background, she claims this is her way of carving her identity.

Anupriya Shasheendran Anupriya is a first year MA student at MCH, who has an eye for fashion and finding beauty in flawed things. She often pours out her heart and imagined thoughts through poetry and dancing.

Finding unnoticed cute corners and exploring places for coffee and food excites her. For someone who might seem super quiet in the beginning, she can be surprisingly spontaneous.

Archisha Sanyal Archisha is a BA first-year student at MCH who is eternally curious. She spends her time with books, films, anime, music, and her journal. When she’s not in bed, she likes to take long walks, travel the world and meet new people. She aims to be a nomad who never stops discovering.

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Bhanusri Refer to the Fiction section.

Eman Siddiq Eman is a final year BA student at MCH. She loves performing arts, basketball, musical instruments, languages, books and more.

She loves the outdoors but you will also find her binging multiple TV shows in her room, curled up with her cat – kurumolag/Pepper.

Meghana Nayak Meghana is a second year MA Sociology student who loves good food, good company and animals. She likes her coffee mugs and her hugs big and warm.

Nehla Salil Refer to the Illustration and Graphic Design section.

Nidhi Shetty Nidhi is a final year MA English student. She loves the smell of old books and coffee, and the only thing/being she loves more than these is her dog. She is aiming to collect all of the books that she can possibly fit in her room.

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

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Rhea Menon Rhea is a first-year MA Sociology student who has hyperfixations instead of hobbies. She spends her waking hours watching thriller TV shows/movies, learning new languages, looking up random trivia, solving twisty puzzles and doing other nerdy activities when she is not experiencing a quarter-life crisis.

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

Vidmahi Vidmahi is a first year BA student. She is into dance, drama and karate. She likes to read and listens to music every now and then.

Chai or coffee depends on her mood.

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