Chaicopy Teapot Tales Vol. 6 Issue 1 June 2022

Chaicopy Vol. VI | Issue I| July 2022 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, 2022 Cover Art: Nethra Gopalakrishnan Cover Design: Nehla Salil Layout and Page Setting: Nehla Salil Editors-in-Chief: Serene George, Aishwarya Sabarinath Fiction: Tarang Mathur, Angadh Singh, Tenzin Dekyong Arati K P, Aishwarya, Akshaara, Chetana Agnihotri Non-fiction: Aatreyee Ghoshal, Abhiram Polali, Anjana Sathyanarayanan, Harshita Kale, Nandana Joy, Sarah Hussain, Shivapriya Subramonian, Siri Lucille Chenni Visual Arts: Lavya Joshi, Amelie Dutta, Aparna Manoj, Nehla Salil, Nethra Gopalakrishnan Illustration and Graphic Design: Nehla Salil, Aparna Manoj, Devika Nair, Maisah Irfan, Sagarika Wadiyar, Tenzin Dekyong PR: Amshula Ravi, Anupriya Shasheendran, Archisha Sanyal, Nehla Salil, Nidhi Shetty, Oishee Dasgupta, Rhea Menon, Sreya Das, Vidmahi, Oishee Dasgupta, Rhea

Editorial We have been living through a different time these past few years.

For many, it has been a time to reasses, introspect and reaffirm themselves. A remapping of where one started from, their journey and where they are headed. As we contemplated putting out another issue of Chaicopy, we inexplicably experienced similar reflections and thus, was born this anthology. Beyond being a tribute to the writers and artists who have been sincerely contributing to Chaicopy the past ten editions, we would like to also dedicate this issue to the all the Chaicopy teams who have been keeping this magazine existing from 2017 to now 2022. We hope that reading through this issue will help you remap your journeys with Chaicopy through skilled visual artworks, inspired poetry and witty prose.

The pieces we have selected tell the stories of the various past themes, concepts, and experiences and their exploration by authors. After combing through hundreds of previously published works, we managed to choose a few that represent this curious amalgam of stories. This issue uniquely features how Chaicopy has evolved throughout the years while maintaining its essence of original storytelling. Our writers, photographers, and artists have consistently been our backbone, and to this extent, we want to thank all of our contributors so far who have transformed our themes that began as mere ideas with keywords to stories, poetries, and art ebbing and flowing with life. It was indeed a difficult task choosing the pieces from each issue. As your eyes travel across the pages of our digital magazine, flipping through verses like “I crave for imarti and achaar, the sorcery of son papdi and the magic of mysore pak melting,” or “Her house smelt of expensive perfume

and ginger tea” express the sensations and spaces created by the writers for issues like Dig In (2021) or In the Meantime (2019). The possibilities were infinite, and the themes were welcoming enough for them to channel their inner artists.

The first edition of Chaicopy began with MCH alumni who did not know what to name it or what it would be about. They were simply connected by their shared love for art, poetry, and conversations.

Five years since its conception, and these are still the arterial links of the heart of our magazine. What started with Fragments (2017), an issue that brought about the voices of a myriad of writers and artists from various backgrounds has continued in finding the layered interpretations that are tucked away behind every expression of a memory or story through Mediums (2021). The journey of Chaicopy has always been about navigating the roads of emotions, grief, comfort, nostalgia, senses, and romance.

We hope you enjoy this anthology as much as we loved compiling it.

Regards, Serene George and Aishwarya Sabarinath

Ingredients Untitled | Photography | 12 Nethra Gopalakrishnan

Chai Expressions Madras Filter Kaapi | Photograph | 16 Meera Anand Summer Dreams | Poetry | 18 Aditi Bhattacharjee After Harvest | Short Story | 19 Serene George Through | Visual Art | 23 Ujjwal Sharma Love By Another Name | Poetry | 25 Ekasmayi Naresh atlas dreamt of us| Poetry | 26 Lara Kirubakaran

The Girl Who Made a Choice| Visual Art | 27 Vaishali Sharma Senseless | Short Story | 30 Dhristi Soni Sargam | Digital Art | 34 Tanay Gumaste Mind Game | Short Story | 35 Muhammed Salih The One Where I Name Names Without Naming Them | Poem |37 Shreya Jauhari Cult Leader 3 | Digital Collage | 42 Sarah Kaushik Morning at the Park Street Cemetery | Poetry | 43 Helly Shah Please Don't Take My Sunshine Away | Digital Art | 52 Meghana Injeti

Kaapi Sessions ember | Poetry | 56 Harshita Kale

ennui | Visual Art | 58 Nidhin Joseph Lecter and I | Short Story | 59 Malvika Lobo SSRIs | Short Story | 63 Michael Varghese Dose Of An Injection | Visual Art | 65 Kurang Mehta My Paati’s Checkmates | Short Story | 67 Nanditha Babuji Awake | Poetry | 68 Anahita Sarabhai The Last Piece (For Adarsh) | Creative Non-fiction | 72 Malaifly Spinning Tales | Photography | 74 Srividya Devadas The Contributors | 114 The Teatotallers | 119

Chai Expressions

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Teapot Tales

Dig In 2021

Madra Filter Kaapi

Meera Anand

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Dig In 2021

Summer Dreams

Aditi Bhattacharjee

I crave for imarti and achaar, the sorcery of son papdi and the magic of mysore pak melting in my mouth, the cool surprise of home-made aam panna and the tangy happiness of panipuri in the evening from the mohalla’s favorite chaat stall, the mischief of pocketing that abandoned Rs. 1 coin to get a cola stick after school, at times even a 5 Rs. Dosa from the canteen that can’t match up to a 5-star restaurant’s in taste. I crave for the crunch of carefree days and the flavour of innocence & simple joys when I bite into the delicious cone of memories from back when ice-cream was a luxury, to be saved for rare occasions like birthdays and weddings, when Kwality Walls & Dinshaws meant more than Baskin Robbins & Gelato when cassata hadn’t been eclipsed by the theatrics of nitrogen when spicy guava was just that and not another new-fangled idea to fool children into tasting fruit.

I need an everlasting scoop of rainbowraspberry, strawberry, mint chocolate chip, 11

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kesar pista, orange sherbet, red velvet with burnt almond fudge and creamy vanilla, a generous dose of raisins, nuts and candies with a sense of déjà vu

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Mediums 2021

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.

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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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Mediums 2021

Through Ujjwal Sharma

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Offline Issue

Love by another name Ekasmayi Naresh What is this

It’s nothing,

Of consequence?

none that I could sense

So, it could be anything?

Perhaps, if you’d like it to be

Like nursing a wound,

the first touch of ice on the now purpling bruise

Like the quick, sharp bursts of popcorn seeds

dulled into submission becoming the furtive flame’s muse Like being held back from the head-on traffic The pulse booming in its beating before being taken over by the mundane majestic Like suffering the smoulder while hoping to be surprised by something splendid that willing suspension of disbelief which pales the push and pull of reason and order Did you see what this means?

All of this is magically momentary and what happens when the moment’s passed? eroding the ethereal, that is now the thing of the past It did seem like the stars lacings of luminosity in the destitute darkness So, this was that?

That’s all it could be Something superficial but surreal, Do you believe in reality?

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Offline Issue

atlas dreamt of us Lara Kirubakaran What did Atlas see when he Stole heaven’s flame just for The two of us to be infinitely More than mud?

Did he know we would Dream of the same hellfire and Cotton candy magenta he fell Through when our teeth not Quite collide?

Did he feel shame or Laughter when graced with A thousand eyes adorning rings Of fire, saying they love you and I? There is a place in the Dreams that look and sound Like God was the cinematographer; (I know that because the floor was Gold and the soundtrack was laughter) We were eating soft tacos here.

The bed we wake up is Veiled – the children of rainbows 17

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Hide us away. It’s evening and the Sky is the colour of our banner.

We are just two girls in love That a muddy thousand sunsets died For, trying to look like your Hair on a Saturday, as Atlas Intended, his shoulders Holding up our wedding altar.

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Offline Issue

The Girl Who Made a Choice Vaishali Sharma

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In the Meantime 2019

Senseless Dhristi Soni Her house smelt of expensive perfume and ginger tea. You could almost hear the tea bubbling as she glided across the hallway, barefooted, leaving a trail of her scent. This scent was indistinguishable, it was proof that you had been with her. Heaven knows how she afforded it. It could never be washed off her or her belongings. But it could be washed off you.

Her wet hair dripped down her back, one droplet racing the other to curve around her much coveted hip. Her blouse clinging to her breasts, almost as if grasping every bit it could before it would inevitably be peeled off her body. Her skirt grazing onto her thighs, gently but surely – almost teasing itself with the touch of her skin.

As always, she seemed ignorant or rather indifferent to the activity revolving around her body and buzzed about on a quest of her own.

She rushed to the kitchen, remembering her dear ginger tea – reaching the stove just in time. Not a moment she spent alone was unaccompanied by a steady steam out of a cup of ginger tea, that cleared her throat and mind.

She gently sieved it into a cup – sighing in pleasure at its colour.

Her house resounded of sighs and turning pages. Her sighs varied in tones but they came through the day, every day. The only thing that could dare to think that it had caused the sigh was this ginger 20

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The rest of the sighs were hers alone. They came through different sources and it didn’t quite matter to her who delivered them. It was she who opened the door. It was she who ordered them. What she received as payment, was not something she asked for. It was only gratitude at having heard her sigh.

She meanders with a cup in one hand looking for her book, overturned on the page she left it at. She finds it hard to withdraw herself from the surrealistically real worlds of Anita Desai, Margaret Atwood, Jhumpa Lahiri, Alice Walker and so. She could almost picture herself being a subject of one of their upcoming novels.

Maybe, she could write one herself. She devoured, just like other things in her routine, every word on every page.

She curled up on a bamboo chair with a purple cushion, already immersed in the book. Today was her day off. She could indulge in leisure of a better kind than usual. The book let her enjoy suspense more than the other things of her life, the slow crackly turning of pages as she rushed to finish the last word on the previous page. It was always a wonder what the next page said.

The organization and uniformity of the typed words pleased her eyes – aesthetic she thought.

Her house displayed an aesthetic of pastels and tidiness. She hated a mess. Her bed sheet was always wrapped tightly around its mattress without a single wrinkle, despite the ruckus that was created on her bed. She was not one for extravagance. Everything she owned lay hidden - in neat sections behind locked doors. Her own head as 21

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sorted as that. Never would she falter in producing an answer. Only her main door remained unlocked.

She painted the house such that the colours seemed to soften the edge she carried in the curves of her body. They melted into one another. Soft colours that cooled things down, that reminded her of places she had been to, places she would go to. Colours that showed taste of a higher class.

Fidgety from the tension in her book, she glanced up at her creamy white table on which lay lilacs of a soft lavender, a notebook with an almost complete to-do list and her pen. Her breath steadied and she plunged right back into the book.

She gingerly brought the teacup to her lips. An odd but accustomed mix of tea and lipstick tingled her taste buds as she sipped absentmindedly. She let it float around her mouth before she finally swallowed – delightedly.

Her house tasted of skin and sugar. If you came to her house, you came for her. You came to know what ingredient she held between her legs that no woman could behold. You came to taste her, her skin and in every inch of her house she had shed some of it. Your appetite was meager for her. She lived in abundance, but heaven knows (and you’d have been there by then) that her abundance was exclusive, elusive.

In her ginger tea, she added only one spoon of sugar. But after your hearty meal, she would hand over to you something sweet – a 22 22

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confectionary (to-go, take-away). It would help heal your bitterness at knowing you would never taste her again. Most people kept it in a corner, nibbling at the crumbs, making it last as long as possible.

It was delicious, but it was only a consolation – never quite like the prize. Her own food however was adequately spicy, there was nothing she needed to be consoled over.

She grimaced as the last sip of tea brought with it the sugar that had settled at the bottom of the cup. She placed the cup on the table. It felt smooth and cold – now devoid of the hot tea.

Her house felt of crisp notes and smooth surfaces. There was not a single crack in a wall, in a showpiece, in anything that she owned.

Nothing of hers was broken. The world outside her was a different question altogether, though (falling apart). You could see her reflection everywhere as you followed her, that’s how smooth it all was. It was all a little slippery for you, but she glided across.

And you follow her out into the living room, still staring at her smooth skin and the wonders it did. You’d be embarrassed to even think of the crumpled currency in your pocket to hand to her. If you didn’t have new notes straight from the ATM, you’d run to procure them. You owed her. Even if she didn’t ask for notes that crunched as you picked them up from the machine, you knew you could offer no less.

Her house got through all five senses, imagine what she could do.

She lazily went to place her cup in the sink with her eyes glued to 23 23

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to her book in one hand. Just as she freed her other hand of the cup, the doorbell rang. Her lips pursed into a smile as she rolled her eyes slightly. She walked halfway to the door, then said calmly but loudly, “the door is open.” She waited to see the knob turn before returning to her book and chair.

In walked a man with a camera, a sharply dressed woman and a couple other people, looking frazzled. She glanced up for a minute, returned to her book, finished her page as they settled down and then put the book aside. Her ease frazzled them further but they contained it, waiting for her to begin. “I spend most of my money on travel and books,” she said nonchalantly, “the joy is just a tad greater than that of the sex.”

Taken aback, the sharply dressed woman (ensuring that the camera was running) asked, “so, you enjoy being a sex worker?”

“For god’s sake, it’s a prostitute. That’s what I am. Who even came up with the term sex worker,” she snorted. “Yes, you can say I do enjoy it. Although I don’t charge – they leave me whatever they wish to.

Like I said, I do it for the sex.”

“You’re educated and you don’t even care much about the money, so why are you here?”

“You documentary makers try to find too much purpose in everything. I just enjoy it. Haven’t you made a career out of what you love too?”

The woman faltered, “I uh, it’s different, I get to choose my projects 24

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and my career doesn’t stop me from other things – having a family, travelling! I can say no.”

“You only get to say no to your ‘projects’ when you reach a certain level of excellence. I have surpassed that level long ago. The fear of my denial consumes so many, they dare not approach,” she smiled, almost empathetically at this woman’s inability to understand.

“Why not literature? Why not travel journalism? Why this?”

“This doesn’t stop me from the rest. I have travelled half the world.

But I always like to come back home. There is something here that keeps pulling me back. Maybe it’s just the men. But you’ve seen our society. This is the only way to satiate my sexual appetite. The only way coming back for those men is worth it.” She returned to her book, not even glancing in their direction.

There was no doubt she loved the sex, that she chose her men, that they paid her for it and that she couldn’t care less for the money. But there was more. Under the lilacs lay a journal Memoirs of a SexStarved Woman written by ‘Tainted Lips.” And under this journal lay a letter congratulating her on winning the Pulitzer Prize, dated 2 years ago.

She never really let that letter out of her sight. But it was for her eyes only; she was fiercely private, fiercely protective.

Why was she taking money for all this, when she didn’t really need 25

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any of it? She always dodged this question with practised confidence, arrogance almost. Nobody knew of her book, but everybody could see her lavish lifestyle, knowing full well that even a premium charge wouldn’t cover it. So the question came to her repeatedly, till the curiosity for gossip in people fizzled out, and she could maintain the enigma she was known for. But this question always made her quiver a little, despite all the years, all the practise.

You see, leaving behind an abusive husband gone even more rabid after a miscarriage (of a son, gasp!) can never be easy. It got harder because she was a young woman of only 22 years, deemed infertile, living in a slightly orthodox family. But she left, somehow. What did ring in her ears after all these years - bruises healed, divorce settled, and the urge for a child satiated with regular visits (and donations) to the local orphanage - was the thunderous voice of her husband.

The memory is still blazingly clear.

She was covered in so much blood that it was hard to understand where it was all coming from. She was staggering out that door. He screamed, “You were never capable of being a good wife or bearing my child. But what’s worse, you are not even worthy of being a mistress! Even the lowest of scum wouldn’t pay a rupee for you! You have dreams of being a writer but you can’t even sell your body, let alone pages with your ridiculous mind on it!” With that, he made a pathetic attempt to spit on her, soiling his own shoe.

She remembers a burning tear running down her cheek.

Rage, ambition, strength, lust.

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Seven years later, every smooth denomination she gets, makes its way to her drawer where she is saving money. Gathering massive funds from the most honourable men – for her body - to get revenge.

She always sends her beloved ex snippets of what is to come – beautiful flirtatious women with STDs, exquisite frames with her poetry embedded, portfolios of high-profiled lawyers, biddings on his house, it goes on. But that is all just build up. You see, the to-do list still isn’t complete.

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Yours Truly 2019

Sargam

Tanay Gumaste

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Oflline 2018

Mind Game

Muhammed Salih

AVATAR ONLINE. NAME: FATHIMA AHMED “Born into a diverse world, your avatar must overcome the impediments put forth by the Real™ Simulator to successfully complete the game.”

She marveled at the text. She had been waiting for this game since forever. “The Ultimate VR experience,” that is how the product was to be marketed. But her father had kept it under wraps for so long and the hype around it was killing both of them. So when Luce showed her how to bypass security, they went along with it without even thinking twice.

They were pretty good gamers and well, they were only human.

Humans are curious creatures.

SKIP TUTORIAL “Fathima!”

“Wear your Niqab everywhere.”

But, I don’t want to.

“Fathima!”

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“Don’t raise your voice.”

But, why not?

“Fathima!”

“Your place is at home.”

But, there’s so much to see.

“Fathima!”

“You will bring dishonor to our family.”

But, I didn’t even do anything.

“Fathima!”

“You’re getting married.”

But, I’m only 17.

“Fathima!”

“This is what Allah would want. This is what we want for you.”

But, what about my wants?

“Fathima!”

“Obey your husband.”

But, I am my own person.

“Fathima!”

“I need this relief.”

But, please. Not today. Please.

“Fathima!”

“Talaq. Talaq. Talaq.”

But...

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“Fathima!”

“Why didn’t you obey him?”

But...

“Fathima!”

“You’re pregnant.”

But...

“Fathima!”

“What have you done? Why?” I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry.

AVATAR OFFLINE. She screamed at the top of her lungs. Luce was nowhere to be found. But their father now stood over the both of them.

“Didn’t I tell you both not to come here?” He asked, towering above them.

“I thought you said this was a game.” She said to her father, shivering.

“It is.” he said.

“What kind of game is this? It doesn’t even let you choose your own Avatar or as a matter of fact, anything.” She asked him, disappointed with the design of the game.

“Therein lies the beauty of it all. You need to make do with whatever the game gives you. The most elaborate mind game ever created.

My Magnum opus. I think I’ll name it, ‘Life’. And now, I’m afraid 31

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you both have to be in it, forever.”

Adam, Eve.

The characters in this game, however real you may find them are fictional characters created by the Real™ Simulator whose only purpose is to throw hardballs at you. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead is purely coincidental. The game assigns religion, gender, caste, name and everything at random to make it more challenging. So, the religious undertones you may come across here are only because of entropy.

The purpose of this piece is not to demean or discriminate against any religion but only to make you think.

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Bridling Chaos 2020

The One Where I name Names Without Naming Them Shreya Jauhari Outspoken /aʊtˈspəʊk(ə)n/ adjective: frank in one’s opinion, especially if they are shocking or controversial.

“Wait a minute, let’s sit and talk,” said he, with flailing arms, body inching forward towards a gun, pointing to his face, right before he was shot through the palm between his fingers.

His words, in universities, In J A M eea, in J N you, in G A R gee, have become unsafe.

Was he outspoken?

I would like to know, why people marching with Bhagat Singh’s words and Gandhi’s ahimsa, keep dropping like coins being thrown all the way from the trains into the Ganga?

Is it because the pen is, after all, mightier than the sword?

Is the written word going to brand me O U T S P O K E N, 33

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put me in the middle of a tricolored target-board that bleeds from the middle; take my hijab, my finger bones, and knees, will they crucify me because I am outspoken?

I do not know this, but I know there is a Polish village that has not seen male children in over 30 years, and they call this a miracle; a witch’s curse.

Meanwhile, in dozens of villages in North India, no girls have been born for months.

Authorities say it might be same-sex abortion.

A body, before it is even born, with one tiny pink foot in the grave.

Were they outspoken even before they could talk?

Maybe yes.

Maybe definitely.

Maybe that’s why they were shot down, nipped in the bud, chopped at the root, so that one day they could not grow up, 5 feet 4, arms flailing forward to save, yelling, “Wait a minute! Listen.

Let’s sit and talk.”

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When Pigs Fly 2018

Cult Leader 3 Sarah Kaushik

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Mediums 2021

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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Bridling Chaos 2020

Please Don’t Take My Sunshine Away

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Meghana Injeti

Chaicopy | VolTeapot V | Issue Tales II

Kaapi Sessions

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Ripples 2020

ember

Harshita Kale

as a pebble skips across the water, the ripples of voices spread, patterns emerge. the cold wind makes the flames along the temple rail dance in wild fervor. the night shivers. in every breath, a deep desire to live which combusts with those dancing fires of hope, of resistance igniting torches passed from hand to hand, they reflect in the deep blue stilling for the slightest of moments. then a small voice begins to colour a new pattern unfurling in the petals of the mind, they lap at the shore. the whispers multiply tautening the tension then spreading, loosening, they grow louder, and then diffuse. penetrating the darkest corners of night. waters part, an ember blazes within.

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and then diffuse. penetrating the darkest corners of night. waters part, an ember blazes within. my eyes fly open. is this bravery? i wonder to lift the black cloak the tiniest inch, step inside, and just be. as this ripple washes over you in waves embracing you then, letting you go. is this bravery? i wonder when a yes slips past all the no-s that swim uneasily in the brine of your mouth yes, to throwing back your hood so that you may pierce the eyes of demons within and without. to bending down and touching the water gently the impression of your hand pressing against it, merging with voices— the beginnings of new dreams and new changes. letting this ripple take you under its wing, continuing to cut through the waters even as the salt it holds seeps into 41

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letting this ripple take you under its wing, continuing to cut through the waters even as the salt it holds seeps into the lashes across your skin. to drown somewhere in between, and allow your bruises to point northwards to the shore. stand on the other side cold and dripping exhaustion yet lie down on the hard bank for the feeblest ray of sunshine you’re too weak to pray for. continuing to live, choosing to live even when you don’t know which cliff you’ll next scale neither fearlessness, nor that fictional sense of assured victory. choosing to live on, to dream on, even if they might not all come true. to pulse insistently in this throbbing pattern of life to rhythms of your own making, and recognising the battles waged in the in-betweens perhaps, weaving a strand or two of your own.

this is courage, if there ever was.

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Ripples 2020

ennui

Nidhin Joseph

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Imbalance 2017

Lecter and I

Malvika Lobo

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

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

He was demanding. He told me all the things I wanted to hear but refused to soothe my ears with what I wanted to know. My questions were rapid, laced with all the curiosity I possessed. He tendered me more silence. The same morose silence. He imposed his fantasies and desires on me through it. I could not indulge in it for it was tedious. It was irritating, his prosaic silence, broken only by a twitch of his neck or a wink of his eye, leading to an even more dreary silence, more bothersome calm. I could not look past it.

This immense calm spied on me incessantly. I tried to admire his red lips and those high cheekbones in order to disregard it in vain.

His silence drowned all the hubbub of the shady bar we were sitting in. It brought out in me a hopeless longing that I assumed was long gone. I was sitting with an illusion of him, a paradoxical illsion.

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This silence, I realised, was not a part of our existence at that moment. It negated our encounter. I dived in too deep and delved solely on this illusion which I thought will fade away. I thought about his theories on self-interest and his skull. They failed to describe this facet of his personality.

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

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

The encounter in the bathroom killed my high. The baggage of curiosity was too great a burden. I used my words freely, attacking him with a barrage of questions. The tiny room was vibrating from all the pent up fury. He looked at me with those big black eyes offering me fleeting consolation. Soothing me. He opened his mouth as I waited breathlessly.

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

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

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When Pigs Fly 2018

SSRIs

Michael Varghese TW: Self-harm & depression

50 mg.

This is your dosage. We’ll start with this and see how it goes. It should help with the anxiety and the depression, and, hopefully, with your thoughts and images too.

It sounds magical. Doesn’t it? A pill to make all my problems go away. My psychiatrist is careful to explain that the pill is not magic.

Not that the mechanism of it can be fully explained, but rather, I’ll still have all my problems; it’s just going to dim the lights, metaphorically.

Try not to miss your medicine. Get someone to remind you if you can. Set an alarm. It’s very important that you don’t miss them.

It sounds so foreboding. My medicines work on the principle that certain things are out of balance in my head; they work out the kinks and let me function on a day-to-day basis. And also, they make me sleepy; they make me nauseous; they make it really, really difficult to masturbate. Also, I still get depressed; I still get anxious.

When I was thirteen years old, I was laying down on a sunshade in the dark. It was a thin bit of concrete meant to keep leaves and sunlight out of our windows. Lying there, I felt, for the first time, the weight on my chest. The air smelt of bleach and dead moss, and I wanted to cry. I called it my sadness. When I was eighteen.

I felt it again and called it depression. My first therapist diagnosed me with episodic depression, which I thought was bullshit.

This isn’t episodic. I feel this shit on a day-to-day basis. Three years later, I would see her name on a plaque; she was a topper 46 46

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from the medical college where I was meeting my new therapist.

I’m still not okay though.

100 mg.

I lose control of my rationality when I’m under a lot of emotional distress. I suppose everyone does. However, I tend toward self-mutilation. A belief that a physical manifestation of my mental anguish, such as if I have a wound I can tend to, a burn, a bruise, helps me keep things even. If I can just nurse this bit of blood and scabs, it’ll get better. I recognized this as a fallacy of my thought when I was younger, but it helped, so I kept doing it. A pattern built on false assumptions. On sad days, I can still feel my wounds like they are fresh; it could just be the cold though. Also, my mind turns on me.

I suffer, to use an inadequate word, from intrusive thoughts.

They’re like worms in my skull. You’re worthless. You’ll never be a good person. You’ll never be a good writer. Hit that man. Hit that child. Hit the wall. Drink this. Smoke this. Run. Drown it all out. Liquor and cigarettes and love and video games. Clichés. A mix of learned responses and shared dread.

On bad days, my mind bleeds into my eyes. I see myself die in front of a truck. I see blades rip through my skin like paper. I feel the impact of bone and wall, of bone against bone, of bone against face. I see my fists covered in blood. Shame radiates down to my very soul. I don’t know these people. I don’t really think these thoughts. I don’t want to hurt myself, but my mind tells me that I do.

My psychologist tells me that it’s okay to have these thoughts.

The first time, I looked at her like she was insane. Do you ever act on them? No. Well, except for the ones that involve hurting myself. Conditional, I can’t be an inconvenience to others because of it. So, why does it matter that you have these thoughts? They make me a bad person. Do you judge people for their thoughts?

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No. I judge them for their actions. It’s not the same thing. She tells me that it is, and it takes me a long time to accept this.

150 mg.

I wake up sleepy every day. I spend approximately two hours every day trying to go to sleep. Under extreme emotional stress, my psychiatrist increases my dosage, just to be sure that I don’t flip. I’ve shown a lot of potential to flip. The meds make me ravenous. I eat because I absolutely cannot stop. Am I coping with stress or am I experiencing a side effect? I don’t know. I bloat. There’s one thing that absolutely nobody tells you about antidepressants; I’m telling you now. They destroy your stomach. For me, they make me nauseous and I fart, a lot. It’s annoying. It would probably help if I ate a more balanced diet though.

A friend asks me about antidepressants. His doctor recommended him some for his anxiety. He worries because one of the side effects is sexual dysfunction. I ask him how much he is taking and for how long: 5 mg for a week. Miniscule, in comparison. I laugh and tell that there’s no reason to worry at his dosage and that I haven’t experienced much of a change. I worry.

I tell myself that my dosage is just a precaution; I tell myself that mental health isn’t measured in degrees or dosages; I tell myself that I’m okay with my meds.

In reality, I want to stop though.

100 mg.

The higher dosages tide over my moods. As I spiral, we work on breathing techniques. As I spiral, we talk about emotional regulation. As I spiral, we are taught how to use our wise mind. It seemed trivial. It still seems trivial, but it helps. We sit in a room and call it Dialectical Behaviour Therapy. We call it group therapy and share our feelings. We are strangers with open minds and closed hearts.

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The regular dosage maintains my emotions at a manageable level. It blinds me to my thoughts for the most part. It slows things down for me so that I can manage to think things through and just stop myself for a moment. It’s a pain. Medication helps but it is medication. I feel robbed of my ability to be a functional adult. It’s a false argument though. I’m taking medication because I failed to be a functional adult. I’m sure my psychologist would not appreciate my thinking that though. The fact that it helps is just that, a fact.

On some days, I forget. I’ve starved myself. I’ve dehydrated myself.

I’ve kept myself awake for days. I’ve assaulted my body in many ways just to know all the different parts of it, all the different feelings. But, nothing compares to forgetting my meds. I wake up to a haze. My body is exhausted; I assume from adjusting to the change. My eyes can hardly stay open. Each movement blurs my vision and I can never move and think at the same time. It’s a pretty good method of self-correction for my oversight though. My therapist tells me that I have to be regular. That these medicines need time. Forgetting to take them once undoes a month of punctuality.

She tells me that a colleague of hers was surprised that I was coming for group therapy. She saw me as empathetic, understanding and calm. She was surprised I needed therapy. I am happy, at first.

Maybe I am a functional adult. Perhaps I am getting better. I think I might be pretending. I think that I am an imposter, a mimic of an ideal. Should I not be coming? Have I been wasting everyone’s time?

Or what if I’ve been pretending to have problems all this time? I spiral. I stop.

It is a lot easier to recognize the patterns now.

75 mg.

The world seems rather grand when you’re sad. It shatters around you, scatters in near infinite fragments. The scale of your thoughts 49

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seems incomparable. The depth of your own intrusion into your mind, unparalleled.

Happiness is in little things, minutia—a message from a lost friend; A single memory; The feeling of your feet under you. The feeling of your own mind in your own body, a little bit at a time.

I’m getting better.

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Imbalance 2017

Dose of an Injection

Kurang Mehta

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Dig In 2021

My Paati’s Checkmates

Nanditha Babuji

The sun was setting as I tried to understand why minimal activity had left me sweating like a pig. The quarantine had done its deed in a way that I now wore large clothes to hide my larger body. I had never had problems with my weight. I was that kid in school who could eat anything and never gain weight. “I have a high metabolism”, I’d say in an airy tone. The case of my metabolism remained cold, but quarantine had sure put me in an uncomfortable position. Now, I was eating “healthy”, “no white sugar, no maida or flour and no sweets'' was my motto, helping me through the process.

The weight gain had been unprecedented to the point where I was ashamed to even go to the running field, where I was proving to the world that I was trying to lose the flab. Ashamed sounds too strong – I was just shy. All the colony aunties had seen the slimmer version of me and often said things like “Evlo height iruku, saree kattuna romba nalla irukum, latchanama!” – You are very tall, if you wear a saree it will be very nice, you will look traditional and welcoming!

While I remembered the compliments, I had almost forgotten when they were said –– when I was a pre-teen. So, at this point, I didn’t want to grow up and “become a woman”, as my grandmother says.

Womanly or not, I had gained too much weight. This marked the beginning of my ventures into dieting and exercising. In my family, my grandmother was my constant cheerleader. She would compliment me when I felt the need to hide my face in shame after I had deemed it “ugly”. Living conveniently nearby, I made a habit of visiting my grandmother every afternoon after my “running to lose weight” agenda. It soon became a routine, and at times I could see 52 52

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her craning her head, waiting for me to reach. While she couldn’t see me watching her, the sight of her looking around and waiting for me became the reason I could never say no to her in the following situations. So, the general sequence of conversations and consequences happened every day, on loop, but never with lesser love.

I’d be a walking reminder of sweat, and particularly its stench.

The only reason I’d make a pitstop at my grandmother’s is that I always saw her waiting, and it would break my heart to watch her and not visit her. So, I would vigorously remove my shoes and socks with my feet – funny because I’d just finished my “exercising agenda” and yet took to lazy methods. I tried hard to at least wash my face before I saw her because I knew she would give me the warmest hug as soon as I walked in. I would ask her, “Naathama illaya, paati?” – Am I not stinking, grandma? But she would joke about her age and the degrading efficiency of her nose.

Leaving me standing, she would briskly walk, almost run into the house, and then I would hear the echo of her “come, sit”.

Very aware of my malodour, I would take the plastic chair, greet my grandfather and talk about what we always talked about, the news and the weather. My paati would zoom in and out and finally slow down to human speed, presenting a variety of delicacies – her eagerness almost urging them into my mouth.

My mind screamed “DIET”, and I would begin to explain to her, “Paati idhula sugar romba irukum, weight potudum” – This has too much sugar, I’ll put on weight. Or, “Paati ippodha running panen, komatum!” – I just did my running, I would feel nauseous! She would say things along the lines of Homemade = GOOD = no weight gain!

Yet she always knew I was a tad bit too clever to succumb to that.

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Before I could convince her to sit down and make her understand that I was in no position to eat, especially after running, she would dart in and out again, only to come back with a different variety of food. “This you can eat, and I know that”, she would say, her genuine smile reminding me of how we share the same crooked front tooth. The next time around it would be fruits, loads and loads of them – oranges, apples, two types of bananas and whatnot.

Knowing that this was indeed a well-crafted checkmate, I would say sheepishly, “Seri, paadhi apple, okaya?” –– Alright, half apple, okay?

I would reach out to take the apple, and she would bolt out again, only to come back with not only sliced apples but peeled ones. As I settled down in the too-short plastic chairs, with my too sweaty self, holding a plate of perfectly peeled apples, and my stomach would sigh happily. And when I ate them, my mind wouldn’t remind me that an apple is a whooping 52 calories (I know it’s not a lot, but my mind is a magnifying glass). My mind wouldn’t even be thinking about weight, exercise, sweat or the next meal. It would be in peace, eating those apples with complete faith in my grandmother because if she said I wouldn’t gain weight, I chose to believe her.

Another thing I believed is that food is our love language. She always had enough snacks to feed me for days. She would never let me into the kitchen, not even to put my dishes in the sink “Nee rest edu, naa onna paaka dhan wait panen.” – You rest, I’ve been waiting to see you only. And that is how I would sit with my paati at our worn-out dining table, reminiscing the memories created around it. She would wrap her hand around mine, placing an extra “parcel” or box of whatever sweet she had made. “Poi saapdu.” – Go eat – she would say, and that would be our goodbye.

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Fragments 2017

Awake

Anahita Sarabhai

You weren’t awake early enough for me to steal the kisses from you I had sought.

Bargained with time I did as I woke.

S l o w and tired From A Night of Unrest.

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

S.

That r

l

p i

p

e 55

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Against walls and skin.

Stretched beneath the blinked eye, Under each receding footstep.

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

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Ripples 2021

The Last Piece (for Adarsh)

Sonia Sali

I am that last little piece in the jigsaw puzzle that finally makes sense.

If it weren’t for me, the picture you behold would definitely be a picture. But would you live up to see or make sense of the whole?

Even if your imagination has given me away, pulling you to a side, to show you the complete picture without my presence being fitted into my place? I am that last piece that makes sense and over the years I have been told to fit in, curve myself, lean forward, submit a little, stoop very low and let the rest of the pieces take control over my sides so we could all fit rather well in unison and stay put for a long time at least for a while. For the longest time in my entire life I was submissive, let the picture oppress me, to stay, to make sense and be the final one that brought the “Whoa” in people. Didn’t I like all that attention when people picked me to fit me in? Didn’t I possibly enjoy those moments when I and only I could finally make sense? Didn’t I enjoy the privileges I was offered, the fact that looking at myself for the first time, I didn’t make sense as to where exactly I could be placed but only could when everyone else was finally placed, smoothed and settled in? Didn’t I come to relish that ultimate moment when I was scrambled for and fitted in with all pride and dignity? I did. I did a million times. It’s been so long, 22 years to be precise and I am bored, I wanted some spice, some aroma, some mystery, something different.

I wanted to be that piece that went missing under the table, 57

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that caused all the trouble, that was the sole reason the puzzle was left incomplete and the piece that had broken sides so as to be replaced, changed and maybe even thrown away so I could somehow see the backyard, lie in the pile of junk that went to the junkyard to be recycled, smashed and transformed to something else- maybe a flat piece of plastic or just a stupid piece so I could lie there in the yard and watch the world go by. If I had bad sides, too obstinate to fit in with the rest, the picture on my face faded and insipid I would be the change won’t I? I would probably be the reason why “they” thought it was high time for a change of jigsaw puzzle and tried a hand at scrabble or chess or simply gone to get a life outside of jigsaws, puzzles and pieces.

I was told to fit in but what if I pushed myself to the edge of the table to fall down and roll under the table to lie there dusty and unpicked for a long time – I would be the resistance that brought change, won’t I? I could give jigsaw some time alone, I could be the reason why jigsaw had to be locked again in little Joe’s cupboard for a long time, maybe for another 22 years. Maybe I could lie beneath here, swept out very soon into the backyard and be gone for good – for ‘Resistance and Change’. Just a little Resistance and Change’ from my rather boring fitting-into-the-jigsaw-puzzle life.

And to simply be gone to get a better life. Something a little better.

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Ripples 2021

Spinning Tales

Srividya Devadas

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The Contributors Aditi Bhattacharjee Aditi Bhattacharjee is a writer from Bombay, India. Her work has appeared in Lunch Ticket, Ayaskala Magazine, Evocations Review, The Alipore Post, The Remington Review, The Remnant Archive, The Banyan Review, The Vagabond City and elsewhere. Find her on Instagram @beingadtastic Anahita Sarabhai 90's kid. Born dancer, animal lover/activist, feminist kill joy, moon obsessed. Teaching teens how to get their shit together and be genuinely good human beings, usually through Theatre and English Lit. Trying to turn the tides of a non-existent queer scene in Ahmedabad. Currently reading Adiche's Americanah and doing some mental prep to go back to being a vegan in 2017!

Dhristi Soni I'm a 21 year old student of literature, currently taking a gap year to understand myself a little better. I write in an attempt to show the world through my eyes. I wish to create experiences and spaces that reach out to everybody, and make them question their way of being at least once.

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 60

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poetry.

Harshita Kale Harshita is a peculiar blend of romantic and realist, but those who know her say there’s an attractive order to her chaos. She is curious and believes kindness can change the world. She spends her time reading, writing and experimenting with different forms of expression to find her voice.

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.

Kurang Mehta Kurng Mehta is a painter and a Gujarati poet based out of Ahmedabad. He is a lover of arts, literature and Cinema Lara Kirubakaran Lara is a first-year medical student in the Caribbean and upstart neoRomantic poet. While not digging through flashcards and anatomy models, she enjoys annotating political theory, role-playing games, and Jane Austen.

Malvika Lobo Malvika Lobo has a bachelor's degree in chemistry, physics and math. She loves reading and observing people. She'll read anything and everything. She's currently pursuing a masters degree in English 61

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literature at the MCPH. Meghana Injeti Meghana Injeti is a student and part-time amateur freelancer. Her love for exploring themes that are quirky, emotional, semi-political, comical, and everything in the middle made her dive into the sphere of digital art, drawing and poetry. So far, her tiny work profile consists of publishing illustrations for 'Sophia' college magazine, and a poem for 'Delhi Poetry Slam 2019' weekly e-Magazine. She has also worked as an Art Assistant for 'Vitamin Stree' for few of their art-centric video segment projects called 'Scratching the Surface'. Fact time! She jams to overthinking, is conflicted while choosing between Netflix and Sleep and knows the whole of Bohemian Rhapsody's lyrics.

Meera Anand Meera Anand is a graduate in Economics and Media Studies from Ashoka University.

Michael Varghese Michael Varghese is a writer and poet. He has nurtured a passion for writing from his teen years. He has been featured in The Poetry of War & Peace, compiled by Brain Wrixon, and has selfpublished an anthology of poetry called The Abyss that Flinched. He attempts to grasp within language, ideas and thoughts that seem to be ephemeral and fleeting—emotions, static noise and introspective gaze. He aims to push the boundaries of his own ability to write. He worked as a Copy Editor at ansrsource India for a year. He finished his Bachelor’s degree from Christ University and has pursued his 62

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Master’s degree at Manipal Centre for Philosophy and Humanities.

Muhammed Salih Salih is a master’s student pursuing an arts degree in Mass Communication at Pondicherry University. Truth be told, Salih has always felt more comfortable writing than talking out loud.

People rant to each other. Salih rants on paper and Microsoft Word mostly. He just likes the lack of feedback. You might think he's a misanthrope, but he will assure you he is not.

Nandhitha Babuji Nandhitha Babuji is an aspiring poet who draws themes from life and often links them to the many happenings of the world. Her style of poetry is often abstract and metaphorical. She has a way with words that helps her shape her stream of consciousness into poetry.

Nethra Gopalakrishnan I’m Nethra, a final year student at MCH and I love things that are larger than life- whether it's movies or fashion. I am known among my friends for my ability to paint and create exquisite works of art whenever I am stressed while listening to Ritviz.

I primarily function on coffee and a tiny bit of optimism.

Nidhin Joseph I draw to express the lost idiosyncrasy in humanity. I want my works to express the inchoate society through metaphors and symbolism.I have a penchant to different movements in art and is not limited to a specific period. Apart from finding ways to stay away from societal paradigms, I am an avid foodie and a jazz lover.

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Sarah Kaushik Sarah's current practice, as a Scenographer, allows her to constantly indulge in narratives and story-telling, the basis to every thematic exercise. She began working with digital montages, applying the same knowledge of building narratives, only in a two-dimensional space creating provocative juxtapositions to explore the concepts of Feminism, power, the country and the mysterious in single, yet powerful frames.

Shreya Jauhari Shreya is unable to find neat categories to present their personality aptly in, but resonates most with reading feminist literature, taking theatre courses, and writing poetry in oxford-looking notepads. All this while in a bungalow with their two dogs alone. They have done their bachelor’s in liberal arts, and hopes to have a life studying sociology, and helping India’s current dysphoria towards activism.

Sonia Sali Sonia Sali is a freelancer and a masters student. She is a horrible introvert who has her best friend in herself and quite often is lst in blue skies. Well, she is often lost yet a deep thinker. She likes anything deep and out of this world. Quite strange.

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

Srividya Devdas Srividya Devadas completed her MPhil in Philosophy from Trinity 64

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College Dublin in 2020. Prior to that, she did her MA in Philosophy from Manipal Centre of Humanities and her undergraduate program in Craft Design from the Indian Institute of Crafts and Design. It is during her undergraduate program that she developed a passion for photography. Srividya likes to capture the essence of the everyday and pause that moment in time through her photography. She is also an avid writer and documents her creative writing and photography on her website.

Tanay Gumaste Tanya Gumaste is a twenty one year old student of Architecture. Aside from his academics, he has always nurtured a passion for wildlife, specifically birdwatching and nature-study.

His art is a unique blend of his technical training and the inspiration he draws from his surroundings. He looks up to artists like Kerby Rosannes and hopes to publish a collection of his work some day. You can find his work on Instagram (@tanay.inc) Ujjwal Sharma Ujjwal likes to carry sketchbooks wherever she goes. She stocks up on pens and new art supplies in excess. Deadlines and her are not a good match. Personally, she dislikes the hot weather in Manipal.

Vaishali Sharma Vaishali Sharma is an Anthropologist, an Art Critic, and an Artist.

She is a creative head of the community art project- Jamghat. Her areas of interest are gender and identity, visual art and culture, community art, and art therapy. Many critical and insightful essays have been published in eminent art magazines and individual art catalogs 65

Mediums

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

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

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

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 66

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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.

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 68

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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.

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! They like history and environmentalism and wishes to be able to make their own contribution to the field one day.

Visual Art 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.

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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.

Illustration and Graphic Design 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.

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.

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.

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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 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.

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 71

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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. .

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.

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 72

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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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