Thirty years is a long time, and I can’t find an ideal beginning for this editorial. Tracking down the history of the Raga for this occasion would be convoluted beyond measure. What’s nice to note, however, is its progression from being cyclostyled thirty years ago to today’s glossy edition you have before you. They say no celebration is ever without its share of killjoys. Our resident party pooper, Mr I’m-too-cool-to-have-an-i-where-it’s-supposed-to-be-inmy-name, declares that his math skills trump everyone else’s and that it is not our 30th but, indeed, our 29th year of the Raga. That is a conspiracy. The Raga encourages conspiracies. We love them. They can be imaginative and eloquently creative. Speaking of which, you may want to look out for tomorrow’s Raga. Why should you bother with this Raga, you ask? I could list the many, wondrous reasons why you shouldn’t ever put this down, but I won’t. I could tell you it’s the elixir of life, but I won’t. Because while all of those reasons may be true, I trust that you will peruse and find things you like. Amidst popping colours and captivating stories, take yourself back to the sixties, discover facial hair, and explore the aftermath of the apocalypse. Escape into the unexplored. As you stop at barricaded corridors, get shoved into a corner without sight of the stage, or miss the bus home, reach for this Raga. Join in our celebration! I do hope you come away thoroughly enchanted and entertained. Cover designed by Fabiola Monteiro. Back page by Cynthia Lewis and Cleon D’Souza.
Abisha Fernandes Alaric Moras Cynthia Lewis Fawzia Khan Prthvir Solanki Terence Fernandes
Ahat Sharma Alefyah Potia Arpit Gill Chinmayi Pilgaonkar Derrek Xavier Donovan Nazareth Janhavi Nadkarni Kriti Krishan Megha Mehta Meghna Joshi Namrata Sheth Natasha Chatterjee Nayanika Ghosh Nia Carnelio Saahil Nair Salonie Powar Sandhya Shyamsundar Soumya Khedkar
THE EDITORIAL TEAM
From left to right: Alaric, Abisha, Terence, Fabiola, Cynthia, Fawzia, Prthvir. ©Abisha Fernandes
EVERYONE WANTS THE D
Definitely fifty six windows, eight rows and seven columns shone in the dead of the night. Assorted lights were visible, owing to the colours of the various curtains. Somewhere in the corner of an inconsequential window sat a man with a harrowed look on his face. On the floor a drop of blood was spotted. His face looked like that of a man living with a disease; he had the eyes of bedlam. He looked at the back of his room where there was a creepy, once crawling, dead insect. He thought about the joy he felt while killing it. He sighed, and his sigh spelled Dacnomania. He awoke late in the afternoon with a jerk. He felt a cold metal object. He looked towards the slightly ajar door of his room and recognized a female shadow cast by the petite female that he loved. They say, ‘Man kills the one thing he loves the most’. He got out of bed and pulled the trigger of the cold metal object. The setting sun saw a fleeing female image leave a dark house. A suicide and killer was found dead in his bedroom in the morning.
owntrodden, having suffered years of oblivion, the time of the D has finally come. This seemingly insufficient entity, is all but oblivious now. Everyone wants the D. In fact, a number of people are now of the belief that we need the D. It has been proven that people who get enough of the D during a lifetime have a higher likelihood of maintaining a healthy body weight and heart. Not to mention the effect it has on bones. One of the reasons a number of people don’t get enough of the D despite being sufficiently exposed to it, is because it cannot reach its full potential until it is stimulated. To get the genie, you’ve got to rub the lamp right. Which is why, for all those of us who have a feeble immune system, low bone mineral density and muscle weakness, I would suggest getting out more often, hitting the park, even the beach and basking in the glory of the sun. That is after all, what we’re talking about here. Vitamin D.
Jahnavi JahnaviNadkarni Nadkarni
DOODLING DETAILS Doodling made the boredom a little more bearable and bored. Naila sat in the empty classroom, surveying the sheet of paper she had drawn on this morning. Today’s creation was her rendition of the Greek goddess Iris. As soon as the bell rang, a tsunami of students rushed into the classroom. The teacher, Mrs. Pandey - a mousy woman, probably in her thirties – walked in screaming for the students to get settled in her piercing voice. “Textbooks to page twenty...” she screamed, an octave higher than usual. All the students opened their books to a poem. The title read, ‘Silver’. Naila sat in the rows far behind. The coarse white paper, with print in a font so small that it took an effort not to swat the words away, and no illustrations whatsoever, made the textbook seem like the epitome of boredom. “’Slowly, silently, now the moon/walks the night.’ In this poem Walter de la Mare…” Mrs. Pandey began. Naila’s attention wavered. Not able to resist anymore, she fished out the lone pencil from her bag and set it to the paper. “Silvery fruit upon silver trees …” Mrs. Pandey continued. Naila’s pencil moved up and down on the paper, leaving beautiful strokes
of grey lead. Grey leaves and branches adorned the strokes that had been the trunk of the tree just a moment back, lighter bulbs were the fruit. “Crouched in his kennel, like a log/with paws of silver sleeps the dog…” the words found meaning on Naila’s paper. On the far end of the page now slept a dog, magnificent in the moonlight. As the teacher spoke of doves, harvest mice and fish, Naila’s pencil glided across the page, only stopping to erase a spot here and there. She was just finishing off on the stream running across the words in print, when the person on the right nudged her elbow. With a slight start, Naila’s eyes refocused on the classroom. Mrs. Pandey stood next to her desk, her shadow looming over Naila’s work of art. “Doodling is unacceptable during class!” she shook the book, violently, in the air. “I will expect an essay illustrating the importance of the setting of the poem in detail by 10 o’clock tomorrow.” Mrs. Pandey stormed off as the shrill ringing of the bell sounded. Naila thought “Setting of the poem… not so tough with a drawing of it in my book, is it now?”
AHAT AHATSHARMA SHARMA ©Terence Fernandes
Beatlemania There were no stars in the sky, for nothing was brighter than the stage was that night. The sea of people jumped around and danced that night. Everyone knew that it’d been a hard day’s night and they’d been working like a dog... All was silent. The world stopped spinning and the clouds parted.- Even God wanted to watch his favourite band play. Four men stood upright and looked into the dark void that was the mass of people waiting with bated breath. John looked at Paul who winked at George who nodded at Ringo. Then, as if the turning of the Universe didn’t matter to them, they kicked into the next song. The entire crowd sang along with John as Paul backed him up. George stood up on the woofer and played a solo that floored a small section of the crowd. All Ringo had to do was look over from his drum set, smile, and hearts would be breaking all over the world. The night was electric, the air was heavy with history that was currently in the making On that note, that perfect note, everything slowed to a halt like a sleek car sliding into the perfect parking slot. John, Paul, George and Ringo put down their instruments and walked to the front of the stage. They could hear nothing, though they saw eternity pass them by in the burst of a flashbulb. They flew high into the sky carried on by the screams of millions of fans. They were over the moon and if they looked down at the earth from there, it seemed like the entire planet was spinning to the rhythm of their songs. The planet screamed one name: ‘The Beatles’. “Tom, Dick, Harry, Jim! Your dinner’s getting cold,” screamed their mother and the four of them jumped off their milk crates and ran in to wash up. Maybe after dinner they’d put on the Magical Mystery Tour album and wear their Beatles costumes again until bedtime. TERENCE FERNANDES
SASHA There is just one thing I want to do all through my life. I want to float around, like I’m floating now, and make people happy. But no one wants to be happy. Everyone loves to hate. Why? I don’t understand. Why the animosity and war, why the fighting and aggression? Can’t you see the sounds I see? Can’t you hear the smells I hear? `Cause I can see the screams of an orphaned child right here before my eyes. I can hear the tears of animals as you butcher them to satisfy your hunger. That’s why I’m vegetarian, you know. All those tears in my food would’ve choked me. All their spirits would’ve haunted me. What’s my name again? It starts with an S, I think. S is a funny letter. It looks like a creek flowing down a hillside and onto my face, and it sounds like one too. It feels cool and nice — like a hug. I love hugs. Hugs are love and love is nice. I want to spread love everywhere. There are so many angry people, just so many. I want to love them all and make them love each other. I want to pick up my guitar and sing to them and dance with them. I want to bring them into my world full of sparkles. So many sparkles in my world. They’re everywhere, my sparkles, and they make my world pretty. People underestimate the power of sparkles. To get sparkles in your life, all you need to do is smell the flowers. Like I smelt the flowers before telling you all this. You know, they call me a hippie, but I’m pretty sure my name is Sasha. Janhavi Nadkarni
Eternal Sixties of the Silver Screen
If you’ve been to the movies in the last few years, chances are you’ve seen most of these — secret agent James Bond downing vodka martinis (“shaken, not stirred”) while saving the Queen, Captain Kirk and his Vulcan comrade-in-arms Spock touring the galaxy in the Starship Enterprise, your friendly neighbourhood Spiderman swinging through the New York skyline, and Captain America, Iron Man, and Thor banding together as the Avengers to thwart the evil schemes of Loki. Do you know what all these have in common? The 60s’! James Bond may be fighting cyber-terrorists today, but his tuxedo and Aston Martin date back to the peak of the Cold War. Similarly, Star Trek’s Enterprise’s roots lie in a cult 60s’ show with a modest budget. Before the likes of Robert Downey Jr., Chris Evans or Andrew Garfield graced the silver screen, Marvel’s superheroes were already fighting injustice in
comic book pages since 1961! The list doesn’t even end there. Did you know that Mission Impossible truly began on television in 1966, back when Tom Cruise was in elementary school, or that the Planet of the Apes had already been explored by Charlton Heston back in 1968? Oscar-winning Django Unchained derives its name and theme song from a 1966 Western called Django, while X-men First Class took the direct approach to acknowledging its roots by being set in 1962. What is evident is that the 60s — the decade which gave us birth control pills, pacemakers, cassette players, civil rights, hippies and the first man on the moon — continues to have a profound influence on contemporary pop culture, and in particular, the silver screen. The explosions may be more spectacular, the fight scenes gorier, special effects sleeker, but little else has changed as these icons of another age travel forward half a century to an IMAX screen near you. Saahil Nair ©Fawzia Khan
Facial Hair I’d rather ride my bike with a handlebar
Hairy Tales We had the opportunity to catch up with three of the most high profile bunches of facial hair of all time, who feel it’s time they get due credit for bringing you The Theory of Evolution, Das Kapital and everything you got for Christmas.
The Fuzz of Charles Darwin: “Given that his head was far too brilliant to house dead cells, Char Dar mastered the art of growing facial hair. I am the very fuzz Char stroked while he pondered the avenues of creation. Perhaps his intent towards finding the missing link resulted in my phenomenal growth from a five o’clock shadow to a beard any ape would covet. In the end, you really are a monkey. And you have me to thank for it.”
The Whiskers of Karl Marx: “It wasn’t Karl. It was me. I predicted revolutions. I inspired the proletariat to break free from the clutches of capitalism which – let’s face it – was getting too mainstream. With my vital contributions to society as a political guru and a trendsetter, I think I’ve made my Marx in the world.” The Bristles of Santa Claus:
MusingsofaMoustache “Ouch!” they all scream collectively and follow it up with several “Watch it, boy!” and a few “too sharp!” and “I’m not your toy!” It hurts. Every weekend, our nightmares come to life as a very sharp and shiny pair of scissors wreck havoc on us. It’s a shame that they cut us at all! We are the pride of the tribesmen, the glory that crowns their upper lip, the evidence of their strong male genes – the very reason for their being! We used to exist on every Oompa Loompa’s face, actually. But that came to an end when they came to work for that Willy Wonka. He was clean shaven; it was like his moustache had never existed. He cut and shaved it every day, and convinced the Oompa Loompas to do the same. And so the mustache was shaved and forgotten for many years, until it was finally revived by one who overcame his fears. The Oompa Loompa food suits us badly, though the moisturizer massages are accepted gladly! Wonka makes the Loompas taste his experiments, but all that chocolate gets stuck in us. The Follicle – that’s me – is the grower of the moustache – the one who sets the new hair free. The worst time was when moustached Loompas were herded in to help with the fire ignition of the incineration bin. Some of our brethren were burnt brutally and some turned to ashes, the life of a moustache has a lot of catches. The feel of chewing gum pulling at us is like having our bodies ripped apart. And the burst of one of Mr. Wonka’s ‘Bigger than a Beach Ball Bubble Gum’ leaves us looking like a real tart. We hate the routine cuts that have been ordered by Willy to keep the hygiene in check. Oddly shaped, unevenly cut, and sometimes as thin as a brow, moustaches adorn the Loompas’ faces nevertheless. The spirit of the Moustache will live forever and gild the faces of the intelligent and the clever. Ahat Sharma
“Ho! Ho! Ho! Did you get what you wanted last Christmas? Thank me! I’m probably the most iconic beard ever. Disagree? You can forget about that doll house you wanted for Christmas then. Aside from providing warmth to faces, I’m probably the most widely imitated beard ever. I make Santa who he is. Kids even yank at my clones in a bid to catch those phonies. Plus, I’m magic! Chinmayi Pilgaonkar
Mumbai’s Street Side Characters Of Passwords, Patterns & People The image of a towering skyscraper juxtaposed against a squalid slum seems to be a favourite for those who chronicle city life. If there’s one thing both the masses and the aristocrats have in common, it is the streets we navigate. Here’s presenting three street side characters we take for granted. The Marathon Runners: Their long strides and the purposeful swinging of their arms almost seem to say they are set to conquer the world. They don’t care about stepping on your toes or elbowing you in the stomach. Like horses with blinders, they can only see their name in the Time 100 article headline that lies ahead. They often end up banging their heads on poles or falling in muddy puddles because of the hurry they’re always in. The Pavement Dwellers: They don’t shout ‘Mummy!’ to decide who gets which bedroom; they take what they have and stick to it. They aren’t even afraid of a certain superstar’s Land Rover. We step over them without thinking twice, for they are the black spots that are the only things standing between us and our ‘world-class’ tag. What really irks us is that they can survive our neglect. Yet their poverty makes us guilty. However, it would do us good to get off our high horses soon. The next recession may send us there. The Dreamers: While everyone progresses at 25 frames per second, they’re the ones stuck in slow motion. They have nowhere to go, yet they appear to be the happiest among us. They seem to have cracked the code to surviving the city, but they’d rather float in ecstasy than sell the story to the rest. We pretend to pity them but in reality we envy their ability to enjoy solitude even in a crowd. These are, of course, only generalizations. It doesn’t really matter which category you fit into as long as you make it home alive.
My cell phone’s pattern lock roughly resembles a mash-up of my initials. My App lock traces the pattern of my birthdate while my email ID consists of my name and birth year. But I’m not the only one. A Manchester United fan might end all his tweets with #GGMU while a Liverpool fan might unlock his phone by typing “YNWA”. A math nerd would probably set the Fibonacci sequence ashis password and a Pokemon geek might receive emails at firstname.lastname@example.org. There’s so much of us that we pour into our virtual niches — the vast spectrum of 1s and 0s that fly through cables and routers every day. But it seems to me that as we strive to make our virtual niches as conducive to our tastes as possible, we are starting to become our niches. We are becoming these spaces; these boxes into which we put our likes, our tweets, our selves. And instead of gazing out of our boxes, trying to catch the wisps of new things that might fit into our boxes, we continue sitting in our little boxes, holding on so desperately to what is already in them. We find ourselves listening to the same bands, watching the same movies, reading the same books, stalking the same profiles and sharing the same memes. There is so much left to be discovered. There is so much left to be seen, and felt, and touched and experienced. Is it worth it, I ask — your box, your place, your little niche? Is it worth it, if it’s keeping you from capturing what could be?
Note the Sarcasm It was a typically fine Mumbai morning. I had hit my head against a pole at the train station, been shoved around by a thousand sweaty commuters and had had my way barricaded by a large cow grazing in the middle of the pavement. At this point, I was sure nothing could make my day any different. That was until I saw it. Paper thin, wedged between two paver blocks on the road, and trampled upon by countless feet, it was a wonder the thing had remained intact at all. I bent down to touch it, marveling at its survival against all the odds. It was a 100 Rupee note. Opening it up, I saw that it was not torn at all, and completely acceptable, even to the most critical autowallah eyes. Suddenly, the enormity of what I had discovered struck me. What was I to do with the thing? My mind flipped through all the possibilities.
Could I donate it to charity? No, obviously not! Everyone knows how corruption-riddled these charities are nowadays. Most people pocket the money they receive themselves. I could certainly think of a better place to hand it in. Should I give it to a beggar? What a ridiculous idea; it’s common knowledge that these people have secret one bedroom flats in Colaba and live it large on spirits and narcotics. No, it can’t be given to one of them. Where do I give money found on the roadside in a country plagued with corruption? Who deserves a 100 Rupees in a place like this? Who could I trust to make best use of the precious note, sans bribery and fraud? The answer was obvious. I pocketed the note and smiled as I went along my way, having learnt that there was at least one honest citizen in our country.
Pop Goes the World
The world ended the day I got my third nose job, non-cosmetic, merely a corrective measure for the royal botch-up of the second, which left me unable to breathe at the best of times. Looked great, though. I am a surgeon. I have been under the knife more times than I have wielded it. I lost both my legs to frostbite on a trip to Antarctica, an impulsive decision fuelled by a sudden windfall and a gold-digging girlfriend with an impractical sense of adventure. She died there, by the way. The fitting of the tacky prosthetic limbs triggered untimely tantrums from practically every other organ that my body housed, demanding a plastic replacement, refusing to work until the ultimatums were met. Over time, my fourteen fellow survivors (including Heidi Montag) and I fashioned an entire world using recycled polymers. We lived in plastic houses and managed to feed on staples of Kurkure and decorative fruits until we developed new sustenance techniques. Protecting our dignity with bubble wrap (an intoxicating polymer) garments, we be poppin’ all day long. I can honestly say that in all my years of existence, no sound has piqued my hearing aid’s interest as effectively as the soothing pop of bubble wrap. The lure of the pop tantalized me and heightened all my senses. This unhealthy addiction to what was once safety-packaging material brought me to my death. I realised it was a problem when I was forced to sell my Corvette, but I couldn’t stop. My hours revolved around that elusive pop. Procrastination led me to stop working altogether, credit card-less and dying of starvation. My fellow survivors suffered a similar fate. A generation of procrastinators, the apple doesn’t fall too far from the tree.
The scarlet rays of the sun seep through the foliage, coming to rest on my face. Slowly I open my eyes and awaken to the world... to life. I walk to a nearby stream and gaze pensively for a few seconds at my reflection in the gentle waters. I gaze at my tough, leathery, orange-brown skin, my dull grey eyes, the tunic made from the hide of a canomitar. My arms strong enough to snap a tree branch in two with minimal effort, my legs, equipped to outrun most beasts and leap over chasms. I admire my form... our form. Our race has been endowed with the body of hunters. This realization is our worship. I find my wings in the clearing at the mountain peak and strap on the metallic constructs. The winds carry me over the valley, as I scan the terrain in pursuit of prey. I glide for several hours, finding no beast worthy of conquest. Soon enough, I behold the majestic sight of the lava falls. And standing regally atop a rock beside the crimson ooze, I finally sight my quarry. Pure-white fur, gleaming golden fangs, and a poise suggesting that it, and not I, was master of this world. Perfect! I retract my wings, gradually descending. The canomitar senses my feet touching the ground. It moves fast, but I move faster. I fling my dagger at its flanks. It leaps into the air, dodging it. Its eyes stare ferociously into mine. It roars and rushes towards me. We are locked in struggle, this beast and I. But inevitably, I master it. The canomitar knows when to submit. I recognize my triumph. The night is spent at a bonfire, enjoying the fruits of my prowess. It’s the only life I know and the only life I want. I don’t know what the Old World was like, or how it was destroyed. I can’t say I care. My name is Zan-lok. This is my world.
Neverland A pan slammed across my face. This time she really hit me hard, tired of me being irresponsible and reckless about my studies. True, she worked till the wee hours of the morning so I could go to school. But having a pan slapping your face is still a bit much. I open my eyes. My bedroom disappears. My mother vanishes. There’s no pan hitting me. All I can feel is wet, and the stare of several eyes. “He’s alive!” a young lad squeaks. “He still doesn’t have a shadow.” I get up, and look over my shoulder. They all have their shadows trailing them. All, except me. “What’s your name?” I cannot keep count of how many of these boys ask me questions. But I need help, so I answer them. “Pa- paa-” I stammer. Why can’t I remember my name? Suddenly, in front of me flutters a tiny winged being, the size of my finger. My eyes grow wide in disbelief and I gag my mouth to stop a scream. “Happy thoughts!” she giggles. “Peter Pan,” I say, still feeling the back of the pan across my face. I look around. It’s a disastrous place. “The world ended yesterday,” a boy of my age says. He pauses, like I wouldn’t believe the next thing he says. “We’re all that’s left.” He sweeps his hand across the boys. “Us, and some mad men who submit to a Captain Hook.” This has to be a dream. I pinch myself. Hard. “That won’t work,” the tiny human said. The boy speaks again. “I don’t know what she is either, but she flies. And if we gather enough happy thoughts, she helps us fly as well.” I rub my eyes. She flies around me and I’m momentarily distracted by her grace.”What is this place?” I ask, bewitched. “Neverland,” he says.
S a l o n i e P Ow a r
dexter=gossip girl? By all means, continue scrunching your faces up in disgust as you read this article, but as a rabid fan of both these shows, I have reached the conclusion that Dexter and Gossip Girl are essentially the same show. Don’t believe me? Consider this. Dexter deals with the darker side of his personality, triggered by a painful childhood experience. Gossip Girl deals with Daniel Humphrey’s secret identity as a notorious blogger about fancy rich kids. He chooses to change his gender in cyberspace, which obviously indicates a serious underlying identity crisis, and the fact that Gossip Boy would sound just plain wrong. Still skeptical? Let me present to you Exhibit B. Take a look at the protagonists of both the shows. Dexter Morgan’s your boy next door, with puppy-dog eyes and an extensive wardrobe consisting mainly of khakis and pastel shirts. A sweetheart on paper, no one could ever suspect Dexter of harming a fly, let alone dismembering a bunch of people and dumping them in the sea. Rita Morgan: “Dexter, a killer? Hahaha, never.” And now think of Dan Humphrey.
The reason I’m writing this letter instead of straight out blasting you for your cowardice is because inspite of all your faults, I do not wish to humiliate you. It is my earnest wish that you should not suffer for the sins we have both committed. I mean no offence, but your mother was very rude to me the other day. She said I was and the ‘the devil’s own contraption’ and then uttered a phrase that was so repulsive, I cannot bear to say it. So maybe I am the reason you did poorly in your last terminal exam, and why your father was unable to complete his project for work but — and I don’t think this will surprise you — your mother wants me too. When she’s done washing the dishes and typing up her assignment for office, she comes to me. Quite frankly, I offer her a kind of solace she never finds with this family. I had many expectations when I entered this house, but your mother put me to task. I thought I would be loved, instead I was called those three words that I had been dreading since the day I had been made. You will never know the pain of having hundreds of gamma rays burn into you so that your family can watch the India-Pakistan cricket match or the latest Bollywood movie. From the humble LCD to the 72 inch plasma, a television set’s work is never done so it does hurt when your mother calls me ‘The Idiot’. Years later, when your children are watching Dan, Blair and Chuck’s grandchildren fight it out in a spin-off series on the latest model in the market, I hope you will remember me and not use the same harsh words your mother did. Forever Yours, The Not-so-Idiotic Box Megha Mehta
He’s essentially the same as ol’ Dex with the chocolate boy appeal, minus the khakis and pastels. In GG universe, no one would expect poor little Lonely Boy from Brooklyn to be the first-rate harpy that Gossip Girl is. Serena Van der Woodsen: “Dan? Gossip Girl? Hahaha, never.” See? I can sense your still raised eyebrows. At the risk of countless Dexter fans mobbing me whilst chanting “I see plastic sheets in your future,” I will continue. Dexter Morgan’s job is to kill bad guys, while Gossip Girl’s job is to kill the reputations of people whose goodness is debatable (Hello, Blair Waldorf). Both Dex and Dan have a skewed sense of justice, and also happen to share a fondness for blonde women. Coincidence? I think not. You know you love me. XOXO, Gossip Dexter Dark Passenger Girl I give up.
hot chai and the glow of a television It’s half past eight in the evening and I am waiting. I’m waiting for that familiar sputtering and clattering of the scooter that belongs to the person I know so well. For 33 years, I have stood outside the shop ‘Pratap Sons Television Dealers’. Each time, I stand with one man among the many that stand here. No one notices his absence but me. I remember the monsoon of 1980. I had taken shelter from the rain under the shed of a shop. The warm glow of a television set and the nearby chaiwallah had been inviting. I ordered a cup of chai. Another man ran to the shelter of the shed. He was in his mid-twenties, towering above others at 5’11. He stood coughing and shivering in his drenched clothes, as I ordered another chai. That was our understanding. We stood together the next day and for days after that. The owner of the shop would leave a couple of television sets switched on for spectators. We watched everything from our daily news to cricket matches there. I remember the night of the Cricket World Cup in 1983. I was 29 years old and an ardent cricket fan. India won by 43 runs. We cheered. Fists were bumped and embraces exchanged. When his wife had a daughter, we rejoiced together. When my wife lost a child, we mourned together. We understood each other. We didn’t need words, standing together was enough. Our friendship will last amid hot chai and the glow of a TV.
ahat sharma ©Abisha Fernandes
TV SHOWS NOBODY WOULD WATCH 1. 2. 3. 4. 5. 6.
Fill in the circles
The Pimpsons The Real Housewives of Dombivili Fresh Prince of Belgaum The Suite Life of Edward Snowden Who Wants To See A Million Bears? Mantri Hill Derrek Xavier
5 Signs That You Love Food More than People 1. You look forward to parties solely for the prospect of nice food. 2. All your friends are in relationships and you’re just sitting there like, “I love pizza.” 3. The name “Ronald” is subconsciously followed by McDonald rather than Reagan. 4. You spend the non-eating hours of the day dreaming about eating. 5. Undercooked chicken ruins your day way more than an offensive comment. Kriti Krishan
Fill in the circles such that they form words both radially outward and clock-wise.
Solutions Rebus:What goes up, must come down, Men out of Work, Painless Operation, Quicksilver, Scrambled Eggs. Fill in the Circles: Radially outward: star, this, mole, iota. Cicularly: sear, tail, hoot, mist. ©Abisha Fernandes
What would a Malhar attendee do?