Sopanam 2018

Stanza 9, “Song of the Open Road” (Leaves of Grass) Allons! whoever you are come travel with me!

Traveling with me you find what never tires.

The earth never tires, The earth is rude, silent, incomprehensible at first, Nature is rude and incomprehensible at first, Be not discouraged, keep on, there are divine things well envelop’d, I swear to you there are divine things more beautiful than words can tell.

Allons! we must not stop here, However sweet these laid-up stores, however convenient this dwelling we cannot remain here, However shelter’d this port and however calm these waters we must not anchor here, However welcome the hospitality that surrounds us we are permitted to receive it but a little while.

WALT WHITMAN Cover Art: Aditya Kurup Batch ‘17

SOPANAM

DIRECTOR’S MESSAGE

Professor V. Ramakrishnan

In a science institute such as this, it is important that people have a platform to bring out their talents in writing, arts, and the likes of it. Sopanam has been successful in providing a platform and I am happy to say that I am rather proud of the efforts put in by the members of Team Sopanam in bringing out this year’s edition. I wish them all the best and hope they remain persistent in bringing out a magazine each year.

Sopanam | iii

iv | Sopanam

editors’ note As the more grizzled veterans among you will remember, this is the first time in four years that you are holding a copy of Sopanam in your hands. Four years. Some of you were emotionally invested in the magazine throughout that time period, constantly enquiring about its status with sorely tested, yet undiminished, eagerness. For others, Sopanam was but a name heard in a half-forgotten dream, of this world and simultaneously not. It was not easy for us either, having to let this student community down, year after year.

While it would be petty of us to come up with excuses, we would like to share with you the events of those four years.

Perhaps this act of putting you in our shoes would allow you to better sympathise with and understand our plight.

Eschewing a traditional hierarchy, each member at Sopanam is akin to a piece of a jigsaw puzzle, integral in their own way to the smooth functioning of the club. The advantages of this are manifold; the decentralisation of power meant that there were few, if any, ego clashes, and each member could go home after meetings with a sense of fulfillment.

On the flip side, the departure of even a single member has a domino effect upon the workings of Sopanam, as the rest of us frantically scramble to take up their responsibilities in addition to our own. It is the proverbial “two steps backwards�. Sopanam, you see, is a small club of a few members. In light of this, the fact that we endured not one, not two, but multiple resignations midway through the publication process crippled us. We do not begrudge those who departed. They had other commitments: to their academics, to their other interests, and to their own health. Nevertheless, the entire ordeal left us drained and disheartened. Our ties to the magazine grew strained.

Sopanam took on the features of a problem child, one that we loved deep down, but no longer had the energy to care for and raise.

Last year, however, those of us who were still clinging on came to the conclusion that, no matter how much pain it might bring us, Sopanam was still our child and we had to do right by it. We went about recruiting new blood. And find it we did. We assembled the most skilled and enthusiastic team of editors and designers that we have seen in years.

Together, we toiled away day and night (mostly night), and what you hold in your hands right now is the culmination of that labour of love.

Sopanam | v

1

The Wild

2

मैं जो हूँ क्या हूँ

3

A Question of Integrity

4

When You Leave Me

5

ഓർമ്മയിയല വസന്ം

6

ियाळयाच्या पयाऊलखुणया

7

People

8

Choices

12

The Subject

13

The Anthropocene Extinction

14

जो िल थया है आज भी िही

17

ഇര്ശവമ്ം

18

Anger

20

പുനരുദ്ാനം

21

Loss

24

JEE झयालेलया कग-हयाईि प्रदमि

28

Interview with Dr. Nima Arkani-Hamed

30

Aroma

34

Aurora

35

Monsoon Dreams

36

കഴുത

39

Science as a Hobby

42

पयापया ओ पयापया

44

Expectant Father

45

Where’s Dave?

46

നട്ാലൻ

47

On Writing

50

MIND SPACE

On Ursula K le Guin

29

CONTENTS VISTA

51

A SOPANAM ODYSSEY

60

OFFBEAT

2018:

65

Tripping Over the Truth

66

An Icy Mystery

68

Son of Saul

70

Million Dollar Quartet

TIME CAPSULE

71

“There is not a particle of life which does not bear poetry within it�

-Gustave Flaubert

MIND SPACE

On Ursula K Le Guin Imagine a city of happy people. They are not happy because they are ‘simple’; they are happy because they have learnt to recognize what is necessary, what is destructive, and what is neither. So they might have trains and washing machines, maybe even a cure for the common cold. But they have no kings or slaves, no swords or soldiers, and definitely no secret police.

Can you even imagine such a city? Then welcome to Omelas! A city of universal happiness.

Did I just say ‘universal’? Sorry, but to be precise, I should perhaps mention that there is a single child locked up in a dark and damp cellar. Everyone knows about it. But no one may ever show the child any kindness. This is the one unbreakable law on which all Omelas’s happiness depends. Now, if you were to be given a choice, would you like to live in Omelas?

JOSE MATHEW

Perhaps for this reason I like Le Guin’s stories, which feel more real, with complex characters and contemporary themes. Maybe it was this determination to be realistic that led her to call herself a ‘novelist’, rather than a ‘fantasy writer’ or a ‘science fiction writer’.

The heroes and villains of Le Guin’s stories are not people, but ideas. ‘Vaster than Empires, and More Slow’ is about a group of explorers who encounter a planet that reflects their emotions. As long as they fear and hate it, it echoes back their fear and hatred. Is this not similar to the way two cultures contact each other for the first time, each wary of the other, this vague fear creating hatred and leading to war between them?

Le Guin experimented freely with ideas, creating all sorts of geographies, ecologies, and societies.

An anthropologist, she wrote about cultures and philosophies more than about armies and empires.

Rather than claiming that a certain viewpoint is right, she often left it to the reader to decide what, or who, is right.

I found this story (The Ones Who Walk Away From Omelas) while in school, in a collection of short stories that also included Asimov’s Robot Dreams (the one the I, Robot film is loosely based on). I was immediately fascinated with Dreams, and while I liked this story, I actually did not notice (or maybe read, but soon forgot) the author. It was only today, while reading Ursula K Le Guin’s obituary in The Wire, that I realised that she had written it.

Which brings us back to Omelas. Would you like to live in a city whose happiness depends on the suffering For some reason, I do not like Tolkien. I do not know of a single child? The answer is quite obvious. The exactly why, but a comparison of his Ring story with thought of even one person denied all freedom and just the plot summary of Wagner’s leaves me with companionship for the sake of our happiness would the feeling that his retelling does not do justice to the revolt us. And yet we often turn a blind eye to the many original. He makes the characters black and white, ‘locked children’ we see around us, be they fireworks easily externalising and excising ‘evil’ (whatever that makers, rag-pickers or those ‘displaced’ (translation: is) without asking the reader any uncomfortable kicked out of their homes) by our strange ideas of questions. development.

Sopanam | 1

The Wild

ANUMIT SARALKAR

The funny thing about the wild is you can’t really describe why you love it so. Many people have a misconception that everything is perfect in the wild. I had it, too. Only recently, I realized that the beauty of the wild lies in its imperfection. A tiger doesn’t always sit at a perfect distance from us, posing perfectly. It’s a wild animal, a part of nature.

Nature doesn’t care whether or not it looks perfect. Here I say “looks”, because backstage, it is perfect! Everything arises from the soil and goes back to it. The Perfect Cycle.

People trying to find movie-style clichés are disappointed by the wild, yet clichés they do find.

I discovered the reason I love the wild when I saw a leopard fifteen feet from me: the grace, the stealth, the beauty. It didn’t glow with an aura, nor did I have a sense of anticipation before I saw it, but the moment I did, I fell in love again.

It was... I wouldn’t say magical, because everything seems perfect in magic.

The wild is imperfect and it doesn’t care. There’s always going to be a twig messing up the perfect canopy, or an unwanted pile of leaves ruining a breathtaking view. Yet, wildlifers are spellbound. Why, you ask? They see the beauty in the hunt of a cute sāmbhar fawn by a majestic tiger, the lightning-quick strike of a viper, or the ripping of meat chunks by a pack of wild dogs while the prey is still breathing. They see beauty in a thunderstorm as well as in the rainbow that follows. They see the beauty in a splendid peacock as well as in a lowly mongoose.

They know of the imperfections in the world and have accepted them. They know they are witnesses to the one true act of the Almighty, the act no one can deny is powerful as well as terrifying.

The wild teaches one about life. Ask wildlifers about how many attempts they needed to get even one glimpse of a leopard or a tiger—more than they can count, but never do they give up. They go in search of their goal yet again, ever hopeful.

Ask any wildlifer what the wild means to them. They’ll pause for a long moment and exhale, frustrated, helpless, yet awestruck, and say, “I can’t explain it! I can see it in front of my eyes, but I can’t explain it to you. You have to experience it to know it. And once you do, you can’t keep away. You, quite simply, fall in love…”

2 | Sopanam

मैं जो हूँ क्या हूँ ? विशाल यादव

यह जो भीति में है मेरे भीतर, क्या इसके भय का कारण हूँ ? या एकांत बैठे इस मानुष के , एकांतता का स्मरण हूँ ? सो गया हूँ या जग रहा हूँ ? क्या सदा स्वयं से सजग रहा हूँ ? या ये जिससे बात कर रहा हूँ , उसके शब्दों का अभिप्राय हूँ ? दीनता की, हीनता की, किसके चरण-पादका ु की ठोकर रहा हूँ ? यह जो अग्नि जल रही अम्बर में, क्या मात्र उसका मूक दर्शक रहा हूँ ? मैं जो हूं क्या हूँ ?

मैं जो हूँ क्या हूँ ? किसी कर्म का निशां हूँ ? या जिस्म-आशियां हूँ ? ये जो विकास कर रहा, क्या इसका विकास हूँ ? या ये जो सांस ले रहा उसको समेटे जो बह रही, वो सर्वव्यापी हवा हूँ ? ये किस महाप्रलय का नाद हूँ ? रक्त से श्वास का यह कै सा सं वाद हूँ ! मैं जो हूं क्या हूँ ?

मिल रहा हूँ , स्वयं से बिछड़ रहा हूँ , अक्सर लगता है, इस क्रम को समझ रहा हूँ , भ्रम अवलं बित विषाद हूँ या वास्तविकता की दरिद्रता रहा हूँ ? या विचारो ं के इस अप्रतिहत-प्रवाह का, निर्बल एक प्रेक्षक रहा हूँ ? ये किस सं स्कृ ति का सं स्कार हूँ ? औषधि हूं या विकार हूँ ? जन्म दिया जिस माता-पिता ने, क्या पूर्णतया उन्ही का अधिकार हूँ ? या प्रत्यूष को कलरव कर रहे, निश्छल पक्षियो ं का मधुमय सरोद हूँ ? क्यूं जन्मा? मर क्यूं नही रहा हूँ ? ये किस कवि की कल्पनाओ ं से प्रवर्त हूँ ? मैं जो हूं क्या हूँ ?

Sopanam | 3

A Question of

Integrity Hmm-hmmm, la-la-la..., I hummed to myself, immersed in a song. Our cabbie seemed to be lost in his own thoughts as well. My mom had stepped out to drop off a couple of bags for repair. We had a few odd jobs to finish. Suddenly, a sharp knock at the window jolted me back into reality. It was a very old woman. She was quite frail, had a hunch, and was obviously poor. I squirmed in my seat uncomfortably, feeling pity for her, and yet not knowing what to do.

I just looked ahead and pretended that nothing had happened. Just then, my mom returned. After a brief exchange with the woman, she gestured for me to come out. Only then did I notice that in the woman’s hand was an empty strip of tablets. I was directed to a nearby pharmacy, where I quickly purchased the required tablets and returned. My mom gave them to the visibly thankful woman, who blessed both my mom and me. Sensing that she was in real need of financial aid, my mom gave her another hundred rupees and we left. Following this, our next stop was a garment shop, where my mom shopped till I dropped (what’s it with women and dresses!). Then, we headed to Grand Sweets and had snacks (which were of course just yum!). We also bought idli and sambhar powder, and fell prey to the temptation of having kaju katli. Finally, it was time to pick up the bags and go home. When we reached the shop, the tailor informed us that the bags would be ready in another five minutes. My mom stepped out of the cab to catch a breather while I sat inside, lost in my own thoughts.

Suddenly, a knock on the window brought me back to reality.

I was bewildered to see the same old, frail woman with an empty 4 | Sopanam

ABHISHEK RAGHUNATHAN

medicine strip. This time, it was the cab driver (who had been hired for the entire trip) who lowered his window. The woman quietly, and with some difficulty, said that she required medicines and pointed to the same pharmacy as earlier. The driver proceeded to ask her what had happened to the medicines we had just bought, but she was unable to comprehend what he was saying. It was evident that she could not recognize us as the same people whom she had asked for help just a while back. I called for my mom, who had just collected the bags. She shook her head sadly, gazed at the woman, and we left.

I was puzzled and asked my mom what had actually happened. She gave me an exasperated look and said, “Come on buddy, isn’t it obvious? That woman was in real need of money. She went and returned the medicines to the shopkeeper, who gave her some commission. He is the real cheat here. But there is nothing that we can do now. Leave it.” But how could I? I replayed the whole sequence of events in my mind and tried to figure out who was really at fault.

Was it us, for not putting an end to the whole thing by returning to the pharmacy? But then, what could we have done without proof ? Was it the woman, for cheating people? But then, what else could she do for a living? She wasn’t even able to recognize us the second time. The most sensible answer seemed to be the pharmacist, like my mom said. But even he wouldn’t be able to sustain something like this for long if people like us didn’t turn a blind eye. I was unable to reach a satisfying conclusion. Whose integrity is at stake here – mine, hers or the pharmacist’s? I wondered.

WHEN YOU LEAVE ME

ABY PHILIP

We had only found each other, Nothing at the time felt better.

No sunrise over the hills nor Any sunset I had laid eyes on.

None could compare to the Beauty of your company, or The silence we could share.

Sitting always on the edge as We were, it was no surprise, That every wave hit us hard And struck where it hurt You, me, and us, the most.

I can’t help but ask you, When you do leave, will you Leave no trace of yourself Leave no trace for me to Remember you by? Will you Leave not even a bit Of the friendship we shared, Not even an imprint of your Hand in the sand beside me or Will this surging wave wash away Every last bit of sand you will Leave behind in my hand and in my heart?

Through every wave, as you Drifted away from me or when I started to wander, you only Held on tighter and tighter.

I held on to you, you on to me.

At the end, I was left just Slightly battered. The sight Of your face is comfort well Beyond any I could ask for.

Now, there is a slight surge Coming our way and I can’t Tell why, I don’t seem to Be able to keep a grip on Your hand. You’re slipping away.

Your face seems troubled By something, the surge, The impending deluge or By the thought of holding, Holding my hand through All of this. I can’t tell.

Are you going to leave me Before the tallest wave Hits us or will you go When the wave withdraws?

I’m screaming to you and Trying to be heard over the Roar of the incoming surge, Don’t leave me! Don’t leave!

Sopanam | 5

ഓർമ്മയിയല വസന്ം വാനയത് �ംബിക്കും യോന്മുടിതൻ താഴ്വരയിൽ, ടതൻ നകരാൻ വയന്നത്ിയ പൂത്തു്ികേീ നാം. പുതുഭാവന വിടരും, നിറമണിയുന്നീ മണ്ണിൽ സിരനിറയയ കകൗമാരം പുതുമഴയായ് യേയ്ം. മലനിരകൾ തഴുകിവരും കുേിടരകും കാറ്റും, കാൽത്േകൾ കിലകിലക്ി ഒഴുകുയന്നാരു പുഴയും; നാനാവിധ കവവിധധ്യം അണിടേരും ടനരം, മനമായക നിറയുന്നു ആനന്ദനാദം. കേിേിരികൾ അരുവികോയ് ഒഴുകുയന്നാരീ മണ്ണിൽ അ്ാണ്ടുകൾ ഒന്നിയച്ചാരു യാത്യിലാണീ നാം. കകവഴികോയ് വയന്നത്ീ, ഒന്നിച്ചണിടേർന്നൂ, ഒന്നിയച്ചാഴുകുന്നൂ-സ്വപ്നം പൂവണിയാൻ. ജീവിതഋതുക്ൾ മധുരിക്കും കാലം, ഒത്ിരി നാം ടമാഹിക്കും നമ്മുയട കകൗമാരം. ഒടുവിൽ നാം ഒരുനാേിൽ ദുഃഖിക്കും തീർച്ച, കകവിട്ടു കേയഞ്ാരാ ഓർമ്മയിയല വസന്ം.

ശധ്യാം രാജ്

6 | Sopanam

कयाळया�या पयाऊलखुणया अियादी अिं ि ियाळयामिल्या लुप्त होणयाऱ्यया पयाऊलखुणया नियिीिे ियाियारलेल्या जीि​ियाच्या �खन्न व्रणया... सलयाम मयाझया मयािूि �यािया, सकृ�ीमिल्या ि​िसकृजिया.. अिं ियामध्े नि�ि गेल्या उ�यांिीचे दिु े म्णया .. युगयायगु यांि​िू दबूि गेल्या असं �-अगशणि सं क्रमणया ियाळयालयाही गोठिणयाऱ्यया इनिहयासयाच्या कदव् क्षणया. चं द्रयाच्याही भयाळयािर उठणयाऱ्यया कद��जयी पद�चन्या सलयाम मयाझया मयािूि �यािया, सकृ�ीमिल्या ि​िसकृजिया.. कदसणयाऱ्यया पयाऊलखुणया.. ि कदसणयाऱ्यया पयाऊलखुणया.. योग-नियोगयांशी खेळि जन्म-मकृत्ूचे चक्र पुन्या ियाळपटयाच्या ियाळूिरच्या क्षुद्र अशया िणया िणया... ियाळयाच्या एिया लयाटेसंगे ियाह�याचया अशभशयाप िुम्या... ियाट दयाखिी प्रियाशयाची, कदगं ियाच्या अंिम्मिया सलयाम मयाझया मयािूि �यािया, सकृ�ीमिल्या ि​िसकृजिया..

डॉ �वनयायक कयांबळे

मी इथे मयाझया ग्मत्र आशण मूळ इं ग्रजी िनि​िेचया ि​िी आशशष जोगळे िर ययाचे आभयार मयािू इ��िो, कह िनि​िया आशण मुळयाि कह सं िल्पिया कदल्याबद्दल ि्ियाद आशशष..

Tracks on the sands of Time Tracks long lost in time Those brought to the verge of decline Evidence of our transition from fours to twos Time freezes on the faces of the moon Tracks often meet on the journey called life Though they will someday be washed away May they lead us to the source loving and bright ASHISH JOGLEKAR

Sopanam | 7

I dislike people. I like to avoid them. I avoid them, for they give me memories. They are, to me, stray graďŹƒti on a wall that I pass by.

8 | Sopanam

PEOPLE

NADI DIXIT

It was an uneventful evening, or so it seemed. The streets of the city were immersed in the dull din of complaints and regrets. Behind the glass paneled walls of upscale buildings, fat men in close-fitting suits got ready to summon their chauffeurs to return to their havens while, as if in a completely different universe, homeless men, thin and frail, looked for another refuge to retire for the night. Life seemed to have formed a pattern, where everyone danced to the same rhythms of happiness and woe. Maybe there was no story to tell. Or maybe, if one looked closely enough into the deepest layers of the motif, there were voices screaming to be heard.

The walls of the room always reflected her general mood. A shade of grey, with a few red blotches on the wall facing the bed. The room was ill-furnished and a small, stained mirror hung on the wall opposite a window that faced a noisy street. A table stood below it, with cheap mascara and lipstick spattered carelessly on its surface. Brightly colored pieces of clothing were piled up on the floor in a corner, and this is where they remained at all times. Her painted face would always turn to the red blotches on the wall.

Maybe, sometime, long back, the room had looked different with walls bearing vivid paint and draperies hanging by the window. The room had several stories to tell, and she imagined a new one each night as she went on with her business.

He was exhausted, mentally, but the weariness that he felt wasn’t unfamiliar; it was a friend he greeted each day. There was no place he could call home, no loving soul to go back to, and no emotions to vent out. He waited in the cold wind, contemplating on places to

go to for the night, until he decided to pay her a visit.

Jane D: It’s you again. How long?

John D: No, I just wanted to talk.

Jane D: I’m sorry, I don’t have the time to talk. I have to work all night.

John D: I’ll pay you. Book me for the whole night.

Jane D: What am I, your shrink? I don’t talk, mister.

She stood up and got ready to leave the room, turning her back to her strange customer.

John D: Please, just this once. (hesitates a bit) Hey, you know me, I’m a friend.

Jane D: I am not your friend! You are a customer and I get paid. Get it? Just leave if you have no business here.

John D: Look, you don’t have to talk. You could just sit with me, right here. We don’t have to converse at all. Is it that hard? Please.

She gave him a long, confused look. She had never had a customer who made her do nothing. She couldn’t remember the last time she had peacefully rest her head on a pillow and slept all night. Each night was a different terrifying act on the stage of life and she hated herself for remembering all of them.

Memories, she could never expunge them from her mind. But here was a strange man who offered silence, a peaceful entr’acte to the hateful play she was a part of, in exchange for nothing. She looked at his face and saw nothing. She had long given up deciphering the façade that men held up to their faces. She lit a cigarette in frustration and let the smoke bathe her lungs in imagined ecstasy. She slowly walked up to him as he sat on the bed, and held out a cigarette.

Sopanam | 9

Jane D: Cigarette?

He did not smoke, but somehow looking at her tonight made him want to accept the roll-your-own.

She sat beside him, and together, in the smoky room, they sat in silence for a long time.

John D: It is rather ironic that no matter how close you sit next to a person, you are still miles away from them.

Jane D: What do you mean?

John D: I meant I am still very far from getting to know you.

John D: I have never asked you before, but who are Jane D: You don’t need to get to know me. you? (turning to look at her) What is your name?

John D: Why not? I could be a friend.

Jane D: I don’t have friends. As simple as that. Okay?

She looked up at him after a long time.

John D: Why? Jane D: Look, I made it rather clear. I don’t talk. I Jane D: They call me many things but I don’t have a thought you said you’d shut up. name.

John D: What should I call you?

Time saw them laying on the bed, next to each Jane D: You can call me Jane. What about yours? other, but miles apart. Each one staring at the gray John D: I don’t go by a single name either. You can of the ceiling, contemplating things that neither fully call me John. understood. She could feel the peace growing inside of her. She put her hands over her head and breathed, More smoke filled the room, but there was no as if for the first time in years. suffocation, instead there seemed to be an aura of tranquility shrouding the place. He studied her face Jane D: (staring at the ceiling) I don’t like people. with apparent curiosity.

He turned to her, gazing intently.

John D: You have a nice face. I, uh, I like the shape.

Jane D: (laughing) You did not come here to say just Jane D: I fear them. This is where I live, in this small that. But thanks anyway. I don’t remember the last box, and I never get out. (pause) I’m hiding. time someone said something like that.

John D: Hiding from whom?

John D: (puffing on a cigarette) What do they tell you Jane D: From everyone. then? When they look at you?

John D: Not everyone’s out there to get you, you know. It’s a big world and people have their own shit The smile disappeared faster than it had come. to take care of.

Jane D: (whispering) They hardly ever look at me Jane D: I don’t want to be a part of their shit. (forcing a smile). I don’t expect them to. What do you John D: You haven’t met everyone. do for a living?

Jane D: What do you mean?

John D: Well, uh, you know, small errands here and John D: You haven’t met everyone. How do you know there. they want to hurt you? (silence) Jane D: We are all the same. I am no different from 10 | Sopanam

you and you are no different from me. We just have faces and names.

John D: Now you say we.

Jane D: (sitting up) Yes! Me, you, us, them! Sack of gunk!

John D: (sitting up, drawing knees to his chest) Can I have another cigarette? (silence) It was that time of the night when everyone in the West was asleep. Turning to the window, she saw that the night sky was devoid of stars. She wished she knew them at least. They couldn’t hurt her.

(silence) Jane D: I was clueless, John. I was naïve. I did not know that the world worked this way. I, uh, I was far too happy. And when the blow came, it hit me pretty hard (choking). It was bad. It changed me. I crawled into this shell and never got out again. I know I am not alone. There are many like me. But, I just feel this way.

So many conversations in my mind, But they never find the voice; So many scenes play in my head, But they never find the light.

John D: …not the same.

Jane D: What?

John D: (gazing at her intently) Why tell me all this John D: We are all not the same. then?

Jane D: What makes you say that?

Jane D: (shaking head) Because you’re…

John D: Well, for starters, people dream different. John D: A friend?

They have different dreams. They want different Jane D: (smiling) Good company. things. That sets us all apart.

John D: (laughing) Well, that is some progress. Why don’t you get some sleep?

Somewhere in the depths of her mind, a faint ringing went off. “…. dreams, dammit. Get over it …….”

As she descended into the world of dreams, he sat there, in the darkness, thinking of everything the girl Jane D: Dreams. (long pause). That is what makes us had just said. In what seemed like a dull rhythm of all the same. People fight all their lives for their dreams. everyday life, every John and Jane had a story to tell, People hurt each other in the name of dreams. Heck, none more significant than the other. It wasn’t really people kill for their dreams. How is it any different? the names that set people apart: it was the stories that John D: You, young lady, need to meet more people. they had to say. Tomorrow would bring with it a new Jane D: I can’t. dream, another page in the story each one told. There John D: Why not? would be many scratches and blotches, but once Jane D: What is this, a bloody session or something? done, each page would be a work of art, grotesque John D: Why? or beautiful: it would still be a work of art. He closed Jane D: (yelling) I don’t know! I can’t risk getting to his eyes, smiling to himself, thinking of the page that know people, okay? I can’t take any more damage! he’d just finished.

Shit!

Sopanam | 11

Standing at the edge, he looks around. The sun was about to set—poised low on the horizon to his left, imparting an inexplicably beautiful crimson tinge to the sky, and the waters reflecting off the hue as they lash against the cliff on which he stands. The winds press against him, trying to force him away from his viewpoint as he takes it all in. The harmony of the winds with the waves produces his most favourite melody of all—a rhythm he always seemed to find, amidst the chaos. Long breaths he takes, inhaling the salty smell of the sea. It makes his throat dry, and his tongue yearns for the taste of water. The winds make his hair stand on end, giving him goosebumps, and he drinks the view in. Rocks dot the ocean, stippling the calm waters far away, close to the horizon, while the water strikes at them with force near the shore.

Content with everything, and at peace with his life, he looks around again, and inhaling deeply, raises his hands above his head, and dives.

He looks around, standing at the edge. Any slight mistake on his part would be the end. Standing precariously, he realises that what is around him stuns him no more. People—mostly standing—cheering, a few sitting, watching the screen that projects a larger -than-life image of him, intently. The noise is music to his ears, the cheers giving him the rush that he needs, the catcalls providing him the perseverance.

The water shimmers below him in a beautiful hue of azure, calm and clear. All around him an atmosphere of happiness wafts around, and with it came the smell of summer, of times when he learnt his purpose.

Gulping a mouthful of air, he readies himself. The cheer gives him goosebumps, from excitement, not fear. Bracing himself against all the distractions, the diver with the highest score ever in the history of the Olympic Games takes the leap into the pool.

Choices

S JAYAKRISHNAN

12 | Sopanam

ANDREW WARREN

The Subject

He stood there, perplexed, shifting his gaze uneasily from the red container in front of him to the brown eyes boring into his from above. He slowly took a step towards the container and stopped to hear a loud scratching coming from inside a box that was kept beside it. He looked back into those brown eyes, and was able to sense every bit of anxiety, anticipation and exhaustion in them—he didn’t know what to do.

Just minutes earlier, he had heard his friend go through the same ordeal, while sitting in the darkness he was imprisoned in. He could hear the same scratching sound and that of his friend going to and fro, sometimes hastily, when the scratches grew louder. He sighed helplessly at his friend’s badgering and silently waited for his turn.

His mind reeled back to the present, finding himself standing still as before, gazing into those eyes. He wondered how long he had been standing like that, but it wasn’t long before he got his answer. The nervousness and weariness in those eyes had grown manifold. The scratching sound kept coming, but he knew it wouldn’t make the slightest difference. He took another step closer to the red container and whirled around to see the reaction in those eyes. They narrowed, praying silently for something to happen, of which he still had no idea. Perplexed once again, he stood still, trying in vain to contemplate his predicament.

Then it hit him. He felt his being engulfed in humour. He silently laughed to himself. Oh, how mysterious Life is! Yet so ludicrously simple. The extent one could go to—trying to understand its origin, meaning, and purpose, he was truly amused by it. In the end, feeling pity for the naïve mind, he disregarded his hunger and with a flawless display of sudden fright, he turned and scrambled away from the red container, letting out a series of fear-filled clucks.

He stopped at a distance, looked up, and smiled to himself.

The human’s eyes were filled with relief and gratitude as he retreated from the brown walls, marking something in his leaflet. He let out a mirthful cluck and said to himself, “Well, every sapien has his day!”

Sopanam | 13

“...walk hand in hand into extinction, one last midnight, brothers rocks, starving to the point of having to rip apart their children for sustenance and dying behind bars, sinking and sisters.” to the ground bearing the weight of a cross hewn from - Detective Rustin Cohle a million year old family tree. She has presided over If it could ever be said that the final age of man had a wildfires and tidal waves, earthquakes and snowstorms.

She has swallowed up beings of all kinds, from prions to prophet, then that prophet was Rustin Cohle.

Anti-natalism, the belief that humanity is morally sauropods; beings that were her children for anywhere obligated to not reproduce, came under the glare of between 10 and 100 million years; from the heights of popular culture through the conduit of perhaps the the troposphere to the depths of the oceanic trenches, coolest nihilist that ever existed (discounting God, of they have all succumbed. But despite their diversity, course). It fascinated the casual thinker and pretentious their varying colours and bodies, they have all gone TV consumer alike, offering itself up as a dramatic screaming and clawing; fighting tooth and nail for but sure way of ending the suffering that we endure as something they do not understand due to a reason that the result of being conscious, touching the emotional they cannot know. The Earth has never seen a species chords of the shallow Western mind that has no idea go into the void willingly. Until now, in the final age of what real pain is, and building for itself a makeshift man. This was a huge surprise, of course. For years, home in the thoughtless sensibilities of the light-minded humanity had thought that they had plucked the last of general public. There it lay dormant—until the cracks nature’s thorns from their flesh; that they were finally opened for the locusts to emerge. A mere century after out of Eden, so to speak. They no longer danced and this interesting little blip in popular culture, it behooves swayed to the random whims of their mother; natural one to try to create connections, tenuous as they may selection was of no concern to them, since they could be, between the dregs of philosophy spit into a million now change themselves within a lifetime. Ideas took minds through the mouth of Rustin Cohle, and the over where genes had no power, the arthritis-ridden watchmaking of nature was outshone, overtaken state of the world now. and left in the dust by the smooth silver machine of The Earth has seen extinction events before, several human innovation. We had finally severed the ancient of them, and they have hardened her, calcified her soil umbilical cord. Whatever She chose to fire our way, we with bones. Thousands of species, here one moment, already had an answer: vaccines, dams, concrete, guns, and never to be seen the next. She has seen them GMOs, chemicals and stem cells. There was no way struggling to make it through: limping with three legs She could subject us to Her unknowable will now. But through lava, gagging on the smoke from a pyre of as always, there was a caveat: we were now subject to 14 | Sopanam

THE ANTHROPOCENE EXTINCTION AMSHUMAN HEGDE

our own will, which is a terrible thing. We were now confronted with the problems that a billion-year-old unquantifiable machine was still struggling to solve.

We had unwittingly become the stewards of a system we knew next to nothing about. And the results were predictable: widespread pollution, overpopulation, resource depletion, famine, psychological disorders, violence, bigotry, and suffering. So much suffering.

Perhaps what happened wasn’t a huge surprise after all.

intangible maniacal conscious need, an itch buried deep in the marrow, a primal and fiery urge, an indestructible belief combined with an insurmountable will, to form the ultimately poisonous concoction—hope.

This is what we had that set us apart from anything else that had inhabited the world, that would simply not allow us to leap into the void no matter what the circumstance, that makes us adore the ocean and fall in love with words, that makes us stop to watch the rain and share smiles around a fire, that makes the pain But, there was always something that separated us from worth it and the moonlit grass soft, our bulwark against them, those feeble minded creatures who operated the cold and indifferent universe. And this is the sole purely based on artefacts, heirlooms passed down with reason we will never die. blind protein arms a million years long, cursed with an abundance of time. Alive was never something Or so I vehemently believed. that they were required to be; the products of an ancient mindless war between chemicals, they were But hope betrayed us, the strings were cut, the walls just weapons, and their ammunition was their life, their collapsed, the floor gave way, and the Earth opened up period of existence; the currency of this war was time to swallow us whole. itself, and hence these creatures had no real perception of it. They do not know that they are finite, or that they In the year 2047, the human race gave up. The reasons are alive. But after a billion years of blind sophistication, are not yet completely clear, but it was widely agreed a mistake was made; a mistake that we echo with our upon that the precarious situation in which we put every action, a sin of the greatest magnitude, that of ourselves had something to do with it. I have recently true creation. found good reasons to disagree with this, but those will have to wait. When I say “gave up” I don’t mean After a billion years, there arrived an animal who that they stopped completely, lay down and died; what knew, who could contemplate the vastness of the sky I mean to say is that it all came to be too much for and knew herself to be small, weak, finite, and hence them—the hunger, the disease, the suffering. So they precious. Finally, the jig was up, for better or for worse; decided, no more. In a tidal wave of empathy that where there previously was instinct, there was now an would drown the entire human race, they decided that Sopanam | 15

they could not put any more people through the torture of existing in this world. This world that, according to them, was a festering septic tank of vicious disease and untold malevolence. It was better to not be, and so it ceased. There were no more little feet, or shrill incoherent sentences, or cradles. The carousel was still, and the swings no longer creaked. A prophetic silence descended upon the world, and the original sin of nature, that of birth, was finally willingly erased. “...walk hand in hand into extinction, one last midnight, brothers and sisters�

It was peaceful; there was no resistance, no rioting, no religious outrage, no messiahs, no desperation of any kind. It was surreal to witness, to walk the Earth was to walk among a billion Bodhisattvas. It was serene, and there was joy in this serenity, the joy of nostalgia and endings. It was unprecedented: seeing people who, a few years ago, would cut off their own right hands in order to get to the other man’s throat with their left, embracing one another and smiling like old friends meeting in front of the noose. And so they began to die one by one, and nobody shed a single tear. It was better never to have been.

But I could not accept this. I, who have witnessed the horrors of Bosnia, Palestine and the Sino-Japanese wars.

I, who have seen first-hand the atrocities, the violence and the evil that men do, the selfsame men who bounce their daughters on their laps. I, who have seen the worst men redeemed, and hope spring from the most barren and desolate of deserts. I simply cannot accept that this species that has survived the wrath of Krakatoa, two world wars, the pestilence of religion, and the atomic bomb; would just keel over and die.

16 | Sopanam

And so I write this to you, as the last man alive, as the man who has exhumed ten thousand Smiling Buddhas and seen for himself the whole cruel masquerade.

In every single person that I have dug up and unceremoniously cut open, I have found the remnants of a hormone. One that has never been seen in recorded history. I shall not delay the writing of this with details, but I have discovered that the gene for this hormone lay dormant in every person until the exact year of 2047. Upon activating this gene in mice, they exhibited suicidal behaviour: the males would refuse to mate with the females and the animals would engage in autocannibalism, they would gather together in large groups and simply devour one another, their fur would fall off and their limbs would shrivel, until they were nothing but bones. And there was no resistance to this, no mouse would try to survive, try to reproduce. They would embrace death, like an old misunderstood friend.

As I saw these animals tearing each other to pieces, I could not help but burst out in raucous pathetic laughter, at our vanity, our false sense of freedom.

We were never free, we thought we had severed the umbilical cord but it was tied around our necks the entire time. We will never leave Eden, it is ingrained in us, She has carved Herself into us. We only exist in Her body, at Her mercy. There is no escape, there is not even the concept of escape.

I am left with a feeling of perverse satisfaction, a deathly calm. I was a wanderer, without home or land, but I was home all along. She will never leave me, and I can never leave Her. Inside my head, I feel the pulsations of rain on soft forest leaves, the beating heart of a warm rodent scurrying through the undergrowth, the rumble of ancient waves returning to shore.

After an eternity, I feel whole.

जो कल था है आज भी वही

अक्षय यादव

जो कल था है आज भी वही, शहर में गूंजती आवाज भी वही। गो अज़ल का हर दर्द है जाना, ज़खम भी वही, इलाज भी वही। सफीने से घूम लिया सारा बहर, हर दिल का है अंदाज भी वही। रेज़गार में बिछड़े उफ़क़ पे मिले, जो खुद पे है, उस पे नाज भी वही। अगले जमाने पे गौर फरमाइयेगा, है रीति भी वही, रिवाज भी वही। वादों में कै द झठू ी दलीले मानते है, है सत्ता भी वही, समाज भी वही। लोग लकीर को मानते है, जानते नहीं, सिर भी वही, सर का ताज भी वही। रहनुमाओं से शहर में अफरा-तफरी मच गयी, उत्तेजना से हुआ, दखल-अंदाज़ भी वही। बहुत बदला, न बदला फिर भी कु छ यहाँ, है सरिश्ते-दयार का, मिजाज़ भी वही। हर पल का प्रबं धन है इस ब्रह्मांड में, है आपदा भी वही, इजाज़ भी वही। निश्कर्षों का तआल्लुक़ है विचारों से, है प्रयोग भी वही, एजाज़ भी वही। बहुत बहकाया जमाने ने बहका नहीं गर, है अंत भी वही, मेरा आगाज़ भी वही। ज़ुल्मते-शब में चमकता है कोई, है शायर भी वही, बयाज़ भी वही। राह भी वही, मं ज़िल भी वही ‘ग़ालिब’, जीस्त के सफर का है राज़ भी वही। Sopanam | 17

ഇരട്ടശവമഞ്ചം ശ്രുതി എം എസ്

തെക്കേ നടയില്‍ നിന്നൊഴുകിയ രാമനാമം നിലച്ചിട്ട് നേരമേറെയായി. രാത്രിയേറെ വൈകിയിട്ടുണ്ടാകണം. കര്‍ക്കിടകക്കോളുക�ൊണ്ട് ഇരുണ്ട് കൂടിയ മാനം സമയനിശ്ചയം പ്രയാസമാക്കിയിരുന്നു. പക്ഷേ, മാന്തോപ്പിനിടയിലെ ആ ഇരുനിലമാളികയുടെ വെളിച്ചം മാത്രം അപ്പോഴും കെട്ടിട്ടുണ്ടായിരുന്നില്ല. പെട്ടെന്ന് അവിടെ നിന്നും രാത്രിയുടെ നിശബ്ദതയെ ഭേദിച്ചുക�ൊണ്ട് ടെലിഫ�ോണിന്റെ ശബ്ദം തുളച്ചുകയറി ട്രിംഗ്....ട്രിംഗ്.... ട്രിംഗ്....ട്രിംഗ്.... “ഹല�ോ! ചന്ദ്രേട്ടാ? ഏഹ്...അല്ല.. റ�ോംഗ് നമ്പര്‍.... ശ്ശെ!” ഒരു വലിയ ഒച്ചയ�ോടെ സുധ റിസീവര്‍ തിരിച്ചു വെച്ചു. “വെറുതെ ആശിപ്പിക്കാനായിട്ട്. ഓര�ോന്ന് ഈ നേരത്ത് തന്നെ വിളിച്ചോളും.”

“കുന്തം! വണ്ടിക്കൂലിയും ചിലവാക്കി അവിടെച്ചെന്ന് കാവല്‍ കിടക്കേണ്ട ഒരു കാര്യോം ഇല്ല. അതിനുള്ളത�ൊക്കെ വാരിക്കോരിക്കൊടുത്ത പുന്നാര മ�ോളുണ്ടല്ലോ അടുത്ത്. അത് മതി.” “മമ്മീ….” മുകളിലത്തെ നിലയില്‍നിന്നും അപ്പുവിന്റെ ശബ്ദം. “ഗ�ോ റ്റു സ്ലീപ്പ് അപ്പൂ...” താഴെ നിന്നും സുധ ശാസനാസ്വരത്തില്‍ വിളിച്ചു പറഞ്ഞു. ശ്രീനി നിസംഗഭാവത്തില്‍ തന്റെ കണ്ണട ഊരി, ഷര്‍ട്ടിന്റെ അരികുക�ൊണ്ട് അത് തുടച്ച്, വീണ്ടും കണ്ണുകളിലേക്ക് വച്ചു. പുറത്തെ കൂരിരുട്ടിലും കേള്‍ക്കാം- മാന്തോപ്പിന്റെ മര്‍മ്മരം. ശ്രീനി കാത�ോര്‍ത്തു. അവ എന്താണ് പറയുന്നത്? തങ്ങള്‍ക്ക് ദിവസവും വെള്ളവും വളവും നല്കി സംരക്ഷിച്ചുപ�ോന്ന ആ കരങ്ങളെയാണ�ോ അവ തിരയുന്നത്? അവയ്ക്ക് എന്ത് സംഭവിച്ചു എന്നുള്ള വേവലാതിയാണ�ോ അവര്‍ പങ്കിടുന്നത്?

“ നീ ആ ഫ�ോണിന്റെ കീഴില്‍ നിന്ന് ഒന്ന് മാറി ഇവിടെങ്ങാനും വന്നിരിക്കെന്റെ സുധേ. എന്തേലുമുണ്ടെങ്കില്‍ ചന്ദ്രേട്ടന്‍ ഉടനെ വിളിച്ചറിയിക്കാന്ന് പറഞ്ഞിട്ടില്ലേ?” അല്പം മാറി സ�ോഫയില്‍ ഇരുന്നിരുന്ന ശ്രീനി അവളുടെ “ശ്രീനീ… ഫുഡ് കഴിക്കുന്നില്ലേ? എത്ര നേരായി പിറുപിറുപ്പിന് ആശ്വാസവാക്കെന്നതുപ�ോലെ പറഞ്ഞു. വിളമ്പിവെച്ചിട്ട്? തണുത്ത് ഐസായി.” “നിങ്ങടെ പെങ്ങടെയല്ലേ കെട്ടിയ�ോന്‍. പറഞ്ഞ “മമ്മീ....” ക�ോണിപ്പടിയുടെ താഴെ അപ്പുവിന്റെ മുഖം. വാക്കിന് അത്രത്തോളം വിലയേ കാണൂ. അല്ലെങ്കില്‍, “അപ്പൂ...നിന്നോട് ഉറങ്ങാന്‍ ഞാന്‍ പറഞ്ഞതല്ലേ?” ഇവിടെ ആള്‍ക്കാര്‍ ടെന്‍ഷനടിച്ചിരിക്കയാണെന്ന് അറിയാല്ലോ? എന്താ ഇടയ്ക്കിങ്ങോട്ട് ഒന്ന് വിളിച്ച് “ഉറക്കം വരുന്നില്ല മമ്മീ... മമ്മി കൂടി വരുമ�ോ? അപ്പൂന് സ്ഥിതിഗതികള്‍ പറഞ്ഞാല്‍?” ഒരു സ്റ്റോറി പറഞ്ഞ് താ മമ്മീ...” “ഞാന്‍ പറഞ്ഞതല്ലേ അത്രിടം വരെ ഒന്ന് “ലുക്ക് അപ്പൂ…. ഇപ്പോ സ്റ്റോറി ഒന്നുമില്ല. നാളെ പ�ോകാന്ന്? ശരിക്കും പറഞ്ഞാല്‍ നമ്മളും ഇന്നവിടെ സ്കൂളിൽ പ�ോകേണ്ടതല്ലേ? ഗ�ോ റ്റു സ്ലീപ്പ്. ക്വിക്ക്!”

-” “അതിനിന്ന് അച്ചമ്മ മരിക്കില്ലേ? അപ്പോ സ്കൂളിൽ പ�ോകണ്ടാന്ന് മമ്മിതന്നല്ലേ പറഞ്ഞേ?” ഒരു നിമിഷം സുധയും ശ്രീനിയും തരിച്ചിരുന്നുപ�ോയി. പിന്നെ നിരാശാഭാവത്തില്‍ സുധ പറഞ്ഞു; “നിന്റെ അച്ചമ്മ വെറുതെ ആള്‍ക്കാരെ ക�ൊതിപ്പിക്കുന്നതല്ലാതെ പ�ോകുന്നമട്ടൊന്നുമില്ല. നൗ അപ്പൂ... എന്നെക്കൊണ്ട് വടിയെടുപ്പിക്കാതെ, ഗ�ോ ടു സ്ലീപ്പ്.” ഒന്ന് ചിണുങ്ങിയശേഷം പരിഭവഭാവത്തില്‍ അപ്പു തിരികെ മുകളിലേക്കുള്ള പടികള്‍ ചാടിക്കയറി. ചെറുപ്പത്തില്‍ താനും ഇങ്ങനെ തന്നെയായിരുന്നു

18 | Sopanam

എന്ന് ശ്രീനി ഓര്‍ത്തു. എന്നും കഥകള്‍ കേള്‍ക്കണം. ഉറങ്ങുന്നതിനു മുമ്പ്, ആഹാരം കഴിക്കാന്‍... പക്ഷേ തന്റെ ആ പരിഭവങ്ങള്‍ക്ക് ഒരിക്കലും അപ്പുവിന്റെ നിരാശാഭാവമായിരുന്നില്ല ഫലം. ആകാശത്തിന്ന് കീഴിലുള്ള എന്തിനെക്കുറിച്ചും വളരെ രസകരമായി കഥകള്‍ ഉണ്ടാക്കാനറിയാമായിരുന്നു - അമ്മക്ക്. അമ്മ...ആ പദം താന്‍ ഇങ്ങനെ മനസ്സിലെങ്കിലും ഒന്നുച്ചരിച്ചിട്ട് നാളേറെയായിരിക്കുന്നു. ഇപ്പോള്‍, വളരെക്കാലത്തിനുശേഷം ആ രണ്ടക്ഷരങ്ങള്‍ ചേര്‍ത്തു വെച്ചപ്പോള്‍, എന്തോപ�ോലെ. തുരുമ്പെടുത്ത സൈക്കിള്‍ ചെയിനില്‍ എണ്ണയിടുന്നതിനുമുമ്പുള്ള ഒരു ശബ്ദമില്ലേ? ആ ശബ്ദം ഇരുചെവികളും ഭേദിച്ച്, മൂര്‍ച്ചയുള്ള ഒരു കൂരമ്പായി ഹൃദയത്തില്‍വന്നു പതിച്ചു. താന്‍ ചെറുതായ�ൊന്ന് പുളഞ്ഞുവ�ോ?

വലിയ�ൊരു ശബ്ദത്തോടെ ഇടിവെട്ടി. ആകാശത്ത് വെള്ളിപ്പിണരുകള്‍ കൂട്ടമായി പ�ൊട്ടിവിടര്‍ന്നുക�ൊണ്ടേയിരുന്നു. ജനലരികില്‍ ചെന്ന് അയാള്‍ ആകാശത്തേക്ക് ന�ോക്കി. കൂരിരുട്ടിലും കാര്‍മേഘങ്ങള്‍ ഉരുണ്ട് കൂടുന്നത് അയാള്‍ക്ക് അറിയാന്‍ കഴിയുന്നുണ്ട്. അയാളുടെ മനസ്സിലും ഒരായിരം കരിമേഘങ്ങള്‍ പ�ൊന്തി. “നാശം. കറണ്ടും പ�ോയി … എന്തൊരു ചൂടാ....” സുധയുടെ ഉച്ചത്തിലുള്ള സ്വരം അയാളെ ചിന്തകളില്‍ നിന്നുണര്‍ത്തി. കറന്റ് പ�ോയിരിക്കുന്നു. അവള്‍ പുറത്ത് വന്നിട്ടുണ്ട്. സുധ പിന്നെയും എന്തൊക്കെയ�ോ ശകാരവാക്കുകള്‍ പിറുപിറുത്തുക�ൊണ്ടിരുന്നു.

“അല്ലെങ്കിലും ഈ പട്ടിക്കാട്ടില്‍ ഒരു “ശ്രീനി… കഴിക്കുന്നില്ലേ? ഇനി എപ്പോഴാ കുഞ്ഞുകാറ്റടിക്കാന്‍ ന�ോക്കി നില്ക്കുകയാണ് കറന്റ് സൗകര്യാന്ന് വച്ചാ എടുത്ത് കഴിച്ചിട്ട് പ്ലേറ്റും കൂടി കഴുകി പ�ോകാന്‍. എത്ര നാളായി ഇവിടെ പെട്ടുകിടക്കുന്നു? വച്ചേക്കണം. പറഞ്ഞേക്കാം.” എല്ലാം വിറ്റുപെറുക്കി ടൗണില�ോട്ടെങ്ങാനും താമസം മാറാമെന്നു വെച്ചാ അതിനും ഉണ്ടല്ലോ.... “ഒരു കഥ പറഞ്ഞു തരാമ�ോ?” അമ്മയുടെ കൂര്‍മ്മ ബുദ്ധി. മരണശേഷം മാത്രം “കഥ?..കഥയ�ോ? ഉറക്കം നിന്ന് പ്രാന്തായതാണ�ോ? അവകാശമത്രെ. ആരുടെ മരണശേഷം? ആ തള്ള പിച്ചും പേയും പറയാതെ എടുത്ത് കഴിച്ചിട്ട് വന്നു പ�ോകുന്ന ലക്ഷണമില്ല. അതെങ്ങനെ?...കര്‍മ്മഫലം കിടന്നുറങ്ങാന്‍ ന�ോക്ക് മനുഷ്യാ. ഇന്നിനി നല്ല അനുഭവിച്ചല്ലേ പ�ോകൂ...” വാര്‍ത്ത കേള്‍ക്കാന്‍ കാത്തിട്ട് കാര്യമുണ്ടെന്ന് “സുധേ നിര്‍ത്ത്. എന്തിനാ ഇങ്ങനെ ത�ോന്നുന്നില്ല. അവസാന കാലത്തും തള്ള മുനുഷ്യരെ ബഹളമുണ്ടാക്കുന്നത്?ഇപ്പോ കറന്റ് പ�ോയതിന് വലച്ചിട്ടേ പ�ോകൂ.” വലിയ ശബ്ദത്തോടുകൂടി ഭക്ഷണ അമ്മയെന്തു പിഴച്ചു.” പാത്രങ്ങള്‍ അടച്ചുവച്ചിട്ട് സുധ മുറിക്കുള്ളിലേക്ക് കയറിപ്പോയി. “അയ്യോ.....ഒരമ്മ! അമ്മേ പറഞ്ഞപ്പോ അങ്ങ് ക�ൊണ്ടു. അല്ലെങ്കിലും അങ്ങനെയാണല്ലോ. ഞാനും പുറത്ത് നല്ല കാറ്റുണ്ട്. മാമ്പഴങ്ങള്‍ മ�ോനും നിങ്ങടെ ആരാ? ഞങ്ങളെവിടേക്കെങ്കിലും വീണിട്ടുണ്ടാകുമ�ോ? പണ്ടൊക്കെ കാറ്റത്ത് പഴുത്ത പ�ൊയ്ക്കോളാം. മിനിയാന്നും കൂടി എന്റെ ഡാഡി മാമ്പഴം വീണാല്‍ അത് പെറുക്കിയെടുക്കുവാന്‍ താനും വിളിച്ചപ്പോ പറഞ്ഞതാ. ഞാന്‍ -” ചേച്ചിയും മത്സരിക്കുമായിരുന്നു. മത്സരത്തിന�ൊടുവില്‍ അത് പങ്കിടാന്‍ മദ്ധ്യസ്ഥത വഹിക്കുമ്പോള്‍ ഏറ്റവും അവളുടെ ബഹളത്തിനിടയ്ക്ക് വീണ്ടും ടെലിഫ�ോണ്‍ നല്ല, മുഴുത്ത മാമ്പഴങ്ങള്‍ തന്റെ, ശ്രീക്കുട്ടന്റെ, മണിശബ്ദം മുഴങ്ങിക്കേട്ടു. സുധയുടെ മുഖത്ത് പങ്കിലേക്ക് മാറ്റിയിടുമായിരുന്നു അമ്മ. അത് പ്രതീക്ഷയുടെ കിരണങ്ങള്‍ കളിയാടി. അവളെ ചൂണ്ടിക്കാട്ടി ചേച്ചി ചിണുങ്ങുമ്പോള്‍ ‘അവന്‍ കുട്ടിയല്ലേ’ തടഞ്ഞുക�ൊണ്ട്, ഫ�ോണ്‍ എടുത്തത് ശ്രീനിയാണ്. എന്നു പറഞ്ഞ് സമാശ്വസിപ്പിക്കുമായിരുന്നു. ഈ മറുതലയ്ക്കല്‍ ചന്ദ്രേട്ടന്റെ ശബ്ദം. എല്ലാം കഥ എന്നോ സുധയ�ോട് പറഞ്ഞപ്പോള്‍ തന്റെ കഴിഞ്ഞിരിക്കുന്നു. പുറത്ത് വെള്ളിടി ആഞ്ഞു വെട്ടി. വിഡ്ഢിത്തത്തിനെ അവള്‍ പുച്ഛത്തോടെയാണ് മഴ തിമിര്‍ക്കാന്‍ തുടങ്ങിയിരിക്കുന്നു. ന�ൊന്തുപെറ്റ എതിരേറ്റത്. 'ഇത്രക്ക് സ്നേഹമുള്ള അമ്മയെന്തേ മകന്റെ കണ്ണുകളില്‍ നിന്ന് വരാത്ത അശ്രുകണങ്ങള്‍ ചേച്ചിക്ക് ടൗണിലെ വസ്തുവും പ്രിയപ്പെട്ട പ്രകൃതി കടം തരികയാണ�ോ? ശ്രീക്കുട്ടന് ഈ ഓണംകേറാമൂലയും തന്നു' എന്ന് ************************** കുറ്റപ്പെടുത്തിയപ്പോള്‍ അമ്മയുടെ പക്ഷാഭേദത്തോട് അമ്മയുടെ ചേതനയറ്റ ശരീരത്തിന് ക�ൊളളി ദേഷ്യം ത�ോന്നിയിരുന്നു. കലശലായ ദേഷ്യം. വെക്കുമ്പോഴും ‘കഴിഞ്ഞ ജന്മത്തില്‍ ആര�ൊക്കെയ�ോ പക്ഷേ, ഇന്ന്...ഇന്നിപ്പോള്‍ ത�ോന്നുന്നു അമ്മയുടെ ആയിരുന്ന ഒരാള്‍’ എന്ന ത�ോന്നല്‍ കണ്ണില്‍ എന്നും മുഴുത്ത മാമ്പഴം അച്ഛനുറങ്ങുന്ന ഈ ശ്രീ ന ിയില്‍ അത്ഭുതമുളവാക്കി. അത്രത്തോളം മണ്ണാണെന്ന്. അകന്നുകഴിഞ്ഞിരുന്നുവ�ോ താന്‍ പെറ്റ വയറില്‍ നിന്നും? ഇന്ന് ശവമഞ്ചം ചുമന്നതും ക�ൊള്ളിവെച്ചതും അമ്മയ്ക്ക് മാത്രമായിരുന്നില്ല. വര്‍ഷങ്ങള്‍ക്കു മുന്‍പേ മരിച്ചുപ�ോയ തന്നിലെ മകനുംകൂടി വേണ്ടിയായിരുന്നു. ഒരു വ്യത്യാസം മാത്രം. മകന്റെ ശരീരം കാലാധിക്യം മൂലം ജീര്‍ണ്ണിച്ച് പുഴുവരിച്ചതായിരുന്നു. മരണം നേരത്തേയെങ്കിലും സംസ്കാരം ഇത്രയും വൈകിയതിനാലാകാം. ബലിച്ചോറ് നല്കിയതും രണ്ടുപേർക്ക് വേണ്ടിയായിരുന്നു. എന്നാല്‍ ആദ്യത്തെ ഉരുള കഴിക്കാന്‍ മത്സരിച്ച ബലിക്കാക്കകള്‍ക്ക് രണ്ടാമത്തെ ഉരുള തീര്‍ത്തും അന്യമായി നിന്നു.

As now anger became a part of my voice, Letting go is not gonna be my choice.

When it takes complete hold of me, Others hate and refuse to talk to me.

My fury burns down our relationship, All that is at stake is my friendship.

I thought I rule my emotions too, Instead the demons inside me chose to.

I wander around in this beautiful place, As I think about my favourite phrase, All of a sudden I start to frown, And the pretty smiling girl is gone.

But trust me, I’m trying, Yet I would end up crying.

My only reaction to a problem was rage, And all this is getting worse as I age.

And I realize it one day, How anger has blinded me till this day.

This world is filled with beauty and harmony, Hence I decide to spread on positive energy.

Anger

HARINY RAJADURAI

20 | Sopanam

പുനരുദ്ധാനം മിഥുൻ സി മധുസൂദനൻ

സമയം രാത്രി 10.00 മണി കഴിഞ്ഞിരുന്നു.

കുന്നുമ്മേലച്ഛ൯ .

ഉമ്മറത്തു വന്നു നിന്ന ഓട്ടോയെ കുറെ നേരമായി പ്രതീക്ഷിച്ചു നില്‍ക്കുകയായിരുന്നു ആ സ്ത്രീ. മദ്ധ്യവയസ്സ് കടന്ന് വാർദ്ധക്യത്തിലേക്ക് എത്തിന�ോക്കുന്ന ആ സ്ത്രീയുടെ ഭാവി പ്രതീക്ഷ മുഴുവൻ ആ ഓട്ടോയുടെ സാരഥിയിലാണ്. മന�ോജ്, അതാണവന്റെ പേര്. പ്രീഡിഗ്രിക്ക് 80% മാർക്കുണ്ടായിരുന്നതാണ്. ക�ോളേജിൽ ചേരാ൯ തയ്യാറെടുക്കുമ്പോഴാണ് ഇരുട്ടടിപ�ോലെ ആ ദുരന്തം അവരെ തകർത്തു കളഞ്ഞത്.

“അച്ചോ ഒരു നേരത്തേക്ക് 10500രൂപ കുറവല്ലേ?” “അല്ല മാത്യൂസേ. തനിക്കറിയാമ�ോ ഇവിടുത്തെ സ്ഥിതി? ഇത�ൊരു ആശുപത്രി അല്ല. ജീവിതത്തിലേക്ക് മടങ്ങി വരില്ല എന്ന് വൈദ്യശാസ്ത്രം വിധിയെഴുതിയവർക്കുള്ള ഒരാശ്രയമാണ്. ഇവിടത്തെ ചിലവുകൾ നടത്തിക്കൊണ്ടുപ�ോകുന്നതെങ്ങനെയാ ണെന്ന് എനിക്കുമാത്രേ അറിയൂ മാത്യൂസേ”. “അച്ചോ എനിക്ക് മനസ്സിലാകും. പക്ഷേ-”. ആ വാക്യം പൂരിപ്പിക്കുന്നതിനുമുൻപ് കുന്നുമ്മേലച്ചന്റെ ഓഫീസിലെ ടെലിഫ�ോൺ മണിമുഴങ്ങി. “ഹല�ോ! സിഗ്മ പാലിയേറ്റീവ് കെയർ” “ഹല�ോ..!” മാന്യതയുടെ വേലിക്കെട്ടുകളിൽ തങ്ങി നില്‍ക്കുന്ന ആ ശബ്ദം അങ്ങേ തലയ്ക്കൽ ഉയർന്ന് കേട്ടു. “കുന്നുമ്മേലച്ചനാണ�ോ സംസാരിക്കുന്നേ?” “അതേ കുന്നുമ്മേലച്ചനാണ്, ആരാണ്?” “അച്ചോ, ഇത് ഞാനാണ്, ജ�ോർജ് ത�ോമസ്. തൃശൂർ അമലയിലെ ഓങ്കോളജിസ്റ്റ്.” “ഓക്കേ ഓക്കേ, മനസ്സിലായി. എന്താ ജ�ോർജ്, പറയൂ.” “അച്ചോ, കഴിഞ്ഞ മാസം ഡയഗ്നോസ് ചെയ്ത ഒരു കേസാണ്. പേര് മന�ോജ്, പുതുക്കാടാണ് വീട്. ഓട്ടോ ഡ്രൈവർ ആയിരുന്നു. ഇവിടെ എത്തിയപ്പോഴേക്കും സെക്ക൯ഡ് സ്റ്റേജ് ആയിരുന്നു. ക�ോളനിൽ ആണ് കാൻസർ . അവസാന ശ്രമം എന്ന നിലയ്ക്ക് ക�ോള൯ നീക്കിയെങ്കിലും വിജയിച്ചില്ല. ഒട്ടും കഴിവില്ലാത്തവരാണെന്ന് ത�ോന്നുന്നു. ‘ഇനി എന്തു ചെയ്യും എന്റെ സാറേ’ എന്നവന്റെ അമ്മ എന്റെ മുന്നിൽ അലറി വിളിച്ചു കരഞ്ഞു. അതാ അച്ചനെ വിളിക്കുന്നെ.” “ഞാ൯ വേണ്ടതു ചെയ്യാം ജ�ോർജ്. “-എന്ന് പറഞ്ഞ് അച്ച൯ ആ ഫ�ോൺ കട്ട് ചെയ്തു.

“മ�ോനേ...അച്ഛ൯ പ�ോയി...”, അച്ഛന്റെ കൂട്ടുകാര൯ മ�ോഹന൯ ചേട്ടനാണ് അവന�ോട് കിതച്ചുക�ൊണ്ട് വന്ന് കാര്യമറിയിച്ചത്. ആ വാക്കുകൾ ഇപ്പോഴും അവന്റെ ചെവിയിൽ മുഴങ്ങുന്നുണ്ട്. ഓട്ടോ സ്റ്റാന്റിൽ കൂട്ടുകാര�ോട�ൊപ്പം തമാശ പറഞ്ഞിരിക്കുന്നതിനിടെ ഒരു നെഞ്ചുവേദന. പെട്ടെന്ന് വെട്ടിയിട്ടപ�ോലെ നിലത്ത് വീണു. അന്നസ്തമിച്ചു അവന്റെ സ്വപ്നങ്ങൾ. അച്ഛന് ആകെ കൈമുതലായുണ്ടായിരുന്നത് ഈ ഓട്ടോയും ലക്ഷം ക�ോളനിയിലെ മൂന്ന് സെന്റ് സ്ഥലത്തുള്ള ആ ക�ൊച്ച് വീടും മാത്രമാണ്. വീടാണെങ്കിൽ സർക്കാർ വക ഭൂമിയിലായതുക�ൊണ്ട് ക്രയവിക്രയം ചെയ്യാ൯ 25 വർഷ മെടുക്കും. അവിടെയാണ് അവനും അമ്മയും താമസിക്കുന്നത്. “എന്തേടാ നീ വൈകിയേ?” “ഒന്നൂല്ലമ്മേ, ഇരിങ്ങാലക്കുടയ്ക്ക് ഒരു ഓട്ടംണ്ടാർന്നു.” “വേഗം കുളിച്ചിട്ടു വാ, ച�ോറെടുത്ത് വച്ചിട്ടുണ്ട്.” “എനിക്ക് വേണ്ടമ്മേ.” “എന്താടാ നീ വഴീന്ന് കഴിച്ചാ?” “നിക്ക് വെശക്കണില്ല..! അത്രന്നെ.” “എന്തൂട്ടാ നീയീ പറയണേ? ഞാ൯ പിന്നെ ആർക്കു വേണ്ടീട്ടാ ഇത�ൊക്കെ ഉണ്ടാക്കിയെ..?”

-ഏങ്ങലടക്കിക്കൊണ്ട് ആ സ്ത്രീ പറഞ്ഞു. അവ൯ ഭക്ഷണം നിരസിച്ചതിലല്ലായിരുന്നു ആ സ്ത്രീക്ക് നിരാശ. തന്നെ അവ൯ ഒഴിവാക്കുകയാണ�ോ എന്ന ഭയമായിരുന്നു അവരുടെ ഉള്ളിൽ മുഴുവ൯. മന�ോജ് കുളിക്കാ൯ കയറി. വിശക്കുന്നില്ല എന്ന് പറഞ്ഞത് കളവല്ലേ എന്നവന് ത�ോന്നി. പക്ഷേ, കുറച്ചു ദിവസമായി അവനിങ്ങനെയാണ്. ഒരു ഉത്സാഹക്കുറവ്, ശ�ോധനക്കുറവ്. പല ആയുർവേദ മരുന്നുകളും കഴിച്ചു, ഫലമില്ല. പൂവ൯പഴം കഴിച്ചുകൂട്ടിയതിന് കയ്യും കണക്കുമില്ല. ഇന്നു പക്ഷേ…… ച�ോര..! ച�ോരയാണ് വന്നത്..! “ആശുപത്രിയിൽ പ�ോയേ പറ്റൂ.” -തണുത്ത വെള്ളത്തുള്ളികൾ അവനെ ത�ൊട്ടുരുമ്മുന്നതിനിടയിൽ അവ൯ അവന�ോട് തന്നെ പറഞ്ഞു. **************************

************************** “അതേ വടക്കനച്ചനാണ്..... എന്തൂട്ട്? ഒന്നൂടെ പറഞ്ഞേ...” ഫ�ോണിന്റെ അങ്ങേ തലയ്ക്കലുള്ള വാക്കുകൾ കേൾക്കാ൯ അദ്ദേഹം ബുദ്ധിമുട്ടി. വടക്കനച്ചനെ തൃശ്ശൂർകാർക്കെല്ലാം അറിയാം “കിഡ്നി അച്ച൯” എന്നാണ് എല്ലാവരും അദ്ദേഹത്തെ വിളിക്കുന്നത്. കിട്ടിയ അവാർഡുകൾ അനവധി. അവയവദാനത്തിന്റെ മഹത്വത്തെപറ്റി ജനങ്ങളെ പറഞ്ഞുമനസ്സിലാക്കേണ്ടത് തന്റെ കടമയാണെന്ന് വിശ്വസിച്ച് മുന്നേറുന്ന ഒരു ആധുനിക സന്യാസി. അങ്ങനെ ഒരു വേദിയിലിരിക്കുമ്പോഴാണ് സിഗ്മ പാലിയേറ്റീവ് കെയറിന്റെ ഹെഡ് കുന്നുമ്മേലച്ചന്റെ ഫ�ോൺക�ോൾ അദ്ദേഹത്തെ തേടി വരുന്നത്.

സമയം കാലത്ത് പത്തുമണി.

“അയാൾക്കത്ര നിർബന്ധാച്ചാല് ഞാ൯ വരാം അച്ചോ. നാളെ ഒരു ഉച്ച ഒക്കെ ആവുമ്പോഴേയ്ക്കും വരാ൯ ന�ോക്കാം. തിരക്കിലാണ്, പിന്നെ വിളിക്കാം.”

ഓഫീസിലെത്തിയ ഓക്സിജ൯ സിലിണ്ടർ കമ്പനിയുടെ റെപ്രസന്റേറ്റീവിന�ോട് സംസാരിച്ചിരിക്കുകയായിരുന്നു

തിരക്കുപിടിച്ച ആ ദിവസം കടന്നു പ�ോയി. രാത്രി വൈകി റൂമിലെത്തിയ അച്ച൯ ആല�ോചിച്ചു;

Sopanam | 21

എന്തിനായിരിക്കും ആ ചെറുപ്പക്കാര൯ തന്നെ കാണാ൯ ആഗ്രഹിക്കുന്നത്? ************************** പതിന�ൊന്നര ആയപ്പോഴേക്കും അച്ച൯ അവിടെയെത്തിയിരുന്നു. കുന്നുമ്മേലച്ച൯ അദ്ദേഹത്തെ സ്വീകരിച്ചിരുത്തി. “കുറേ കാലായി മന�ോജ് അച്ചനെ കാണണം എന്ന് പറയുന്നു.” “എന്തിനാണെന്ന് വല്ലതും...?” “ഇത്രേം കാലായി അവൻ എന്നോടുപ�ോലും എന്തിനാന്ന് പറഞ്ഞില്ല. അച്ചനെ മാത്രം അറിയിക്കാനുള്ളതാന്നാ അവ൯ പറയണെ.” “മ്...” വടക്കനച്ച൯ ചെറുതായിട്ടൊന്നു മൂളി. “അവന്റെ മുറിയെവിടാണ്?”

“റൂം നമ്പർ 204. ഒന്നാമത്തെ നിലയിൽ ഗ�ോവണിക്കു ശേഷമുള്ള നാലാമത്തെ മുറി.” “ശരി.” റൂമിലേയ്ക്ക് നടക്കുമ്പോൾ അച്ചന്റെ മനസ്സിൽ ഇതുവരെയില്ലാത്ത ഒരുതരം ജിജ്ഞാസ ഉണർന്നു, കൂടെ അരിശവും. തനിക്ക് എറണാകുളത്ത് അത്യാവശ്യമായി എത്തേണ്ടതാണ്. പിന്നെ കാ൯സർ ര�ോഗിയാണ്, ജീവിക്കാൻ അധികം നാളില്ലാത്തവനാണ് എന്ന ഒര�ൊറ്റ വിചാരം ക�ൊണ്ടാണ് വന്നു കാണുന്നത്. അച്ച൯ റൂമിലേക്ക് കയറി. ഫിന�ോയിലിന്റേയും ക�്ളോറ�ോഫ�ോമിന്റെയും രൂക്ഷഗന്ധം അച്ചന്റെ ശ്വസന നാളികളെ അസ്വസ്ഥമാക്കി. കിടക്കയിൽ കണ്ടത് ഒരു ജീർണിച്ച മനുഷ്യനെയാണ്. അസ്ഥികൂടത്തെ വെല്ലുന്ന രൂപം. അർദ്ധമയക്കത്തിലായിരുന്നു ആ പ്രാണ൯. ത�ൊട്ടടുത്ത്, കസേരയിൽ, വാർദ്ധക്യത്തിന്റെ ലക്ഷണങ്ങൾ കാണിച്ച്‌തുടങ്ങിയ ഒരു സ്ത്രീ കരഞ്ഞു വിങ്ങിയ കണ്ണുകളുമായി കരങ്ങളിൽ തലചായ്ച്ചുറങ്ങുന്നു. അച്ചന്റെ കാലടികള്‍ അവരെയുണർത്തി. പുതുതായി എവിടെനിന്നോ സംഭരിച്ച ഊർജ്ജത്തോടെ മന�ോജ് ഉറക്കെ വിളിച്ചു പറഞ്ഞു - ”അച്ചോ ഞാനിപ്പോ ചാകും..!!”. മരണം കാണാത്ത ആളല്ല വടക്കനച്ചൻ. റൂമിൽ തിങ്ങിക്കൂടിയ

22 | Sopanam

പിരിമുറുക്കത്തിന് അയവു വരുത്താ൯ ഹാസ്യരൂപേണ അദ്ദേഹം പറഞ്ഞു, “എല്ലാവരും മരിക്കും മന�ോജേ, നീയും ഞാനും നിന്റെ അമ്മേം കുന്നുമ്മേലച്ചനും ഒക്കെ ചാകൂടാ... നീയ�ൊന്ന് പേടിക്കാണ്ടിരിക്ക് ”. ഞരമ്പുകൽ ത്രസിച്ചു നിന്ന മന�ോജിന്റെ മുഖത്ത് പെട്ടെന്ന് ഒരയവ് വന്നു. അതിനുശേഷം പിന്നിട്ട ഒരു മണിക്കൂർ ആഹ്ളാദത്തിന്റേത് ആയിരുന്നു. മന�ോജ് തന്റെ ജിവിതത്തെപറ്റി വാചാലനായി, അച്ച൯ അവനിലേക്ക് പുതു ഊർജ്ജം നിറച്ചു. അവസാനം അച്ച൯ ച�ോദിച്ചു, “നീ എന്നെ എന്തിനാ കാണണം എന്ന് പറഞ്ഞേ?” “അതു പിന്നെ അച്ചോ, ഞാ൯ ചാകുമ്പളുണ്ടല്ലോ, എന്റെ ഈ ഹൃദയം.... അത് ഒന്ന് ദാനം ചെയ്യണം.” എന്ത് പറയണം എന്നറിയാതെ അച്ച൯

സ്തബ്ധനായിരുന്നുപ�ോയി. മരണം മുന്നിൽ കാണുന്ന ഈ അരപ്രാണ൯ പറയുകയാണ് തന്റെ ഹൃദയം ദാനം ചെയ്യണം എന്ന്. തിരിച്ചൊന്നും പറയാ൯ സാധിച്ചില്ല. നിശബ്ദമായി കടന്നുപ�ോയ അനവധി നിമിഷങ്ങൾക്കുശേഷം അച്ച൯ അവന്റെ കൈ തന്റെ നെഞ്ചോട് ചേർത്ത് പിടിച്ചുക�ൊണ്ട് പറഞ്ഞു - “നിന്റെ ജന്മം വെറുതെ ആകില്ല കുഞ്ഞേ...” ************************** എറണാകുളത്തെ പരിപാടിക്കുശേഷം തൃശൂരിലേക്ക് പ�ോകുകയായിരുന്നു അച്ച൯. പെട്ടെന്ന് കുന്നുമ്മേലച്ചന്റെ ഫ�ോൺ വന്നു - “അച്ചോ, അച്ച൯ ഇന്നു വന്ന് കണ്ട മന�ോജില്ലേ, അവ൯ മരിച്ചു.” മരവിച്ചിരുന്ന് അച്ചന്റെ മനസ്സിലേക്ക് അപ്പോൾ ആ വചനങ്ങൾ കടന്നുവന്നു. ”ഞാനാണ് പുനരുത്ഥാനവും ജീവനും, എന്നിൽ വിശ്വസിക്കുന്നവ൯ മരിച്ചാലും ജീവിക്കും” (യ�ോഹന്നാ൯ 25:26) ************************** അറിയിപ്പ് : യഥാർത്ഥ സംഭവങ്ങളിൽ നിന്ന് പ്രച�ോദനമുൾക്കോണ്ടാണ് കഥാകൃത്ത് ഈ കഥ രചിച്ചത്.

P Charulekha Batch ‘17

Sopanam | 23

It was after the 2-1 loss to Brighton and Hove Albion that a chilling, nasty sort of fear began to creep over me. I was not able to place its source, initially. Was I afraid of the title slipping out of the grasp of my beloved Arsenal, a club I have been supporting ever since I saw Samir Nasri score a goal from a near-zero angle? Far from it: our title hopes had been dashed a long time back through a combination of shoddy defending on our part and peerless excellence on Manchester City’s part. Was it the prospect of falling outside the top four for a second year in a row, ruling us out of the Champions League, that marker of ‘elite status’ in Europe, thus condemning us to yet another season of cold, snowy Friday nights in Belarus and Denmark playing in the ‘second-fiddle’ Europa League? I had given up on that as well, comforting myself in the belief, nay, delusion, that we stood no chance of winning the Champions League against the ‘big guns’ of Europe and that the Europa League was more achievable. Was it the fact that we were no longer considered one of England’s Big Four?

Blasphemy! We will always be one of the Big Four, I told myself, although our grip on that status is tenuous at best, and the loss to ‘small fry’ did sting. Maybe that contributed a little. It soon began to dawn on me that the creeping feeling of dread originated from my worst enemy: the winds of change. No matter the changes in lineups, I always had a warm, fuzzy 24 | Sopanam

Loss

MANAS SHARMA

“He was far from perfect, yet he couldn’t have been more perfect for me.” feeling of security, complacency even, when the boss walked out of the dressing room and took his place in the dugout each game. Arsenal was inseparable from him, and him from Arsenal, a mutualism to rival even the most complex associations in the natural world.

For subsequent games, however, the good feeling was gone, replaced by a nail-biting nervousness that lasted until the match was won or until the final whistle (these two events were often coincident). I was desperate for results to go our way. However, the worst part was whenever we lost. I wasn’t one bit happy about it. I wasn’t sad either. I would just switch off the television and carry on with my life, albeit in a slightly cheerless fashion. This was a far cry from earlier losses, where I would sulk for the rest of the day and dissect the match events incessantly with my father, who would offer his opinion (often more accurate and unbiased than mine), then relent upon seeing my glum expression and try to comfort me with a “the ref was

horrible”, or a “that de Gea was lucky”, and so on.

Appa is a cut-in-the-cloth international football fan.

He does not think much of club football. The lack of financial shenanigans in the international game coupled with strong feelings of national belonging are what make him feel more strongly about World Cups and Copa Americas than domestic leagues. To him, that is the pure form of the game. It is what he grew up with, when he and his eight siblings would huddle around the radio listening to 1978 World Cup commentary, trying to visualise how Mario Kempes orchestrated win after win for Argentina (the default ‘national team’ in our house). Yet even he has now grown to possess a soft corner for Arsenal, partly because he loves me, and partly because my love and support for the team is so infectious. Such a fan as I had grown...indifferent. I do not claim to have foreseen the events that followed. But I knew, from that day on, that Arsène Wenger— the Arsène Wenger, the man who, along with the legendary Juan Roman Riquelme, made me stop liking football and start loving it—was, like all things, impermanent.

It dawned on me that he would one day leave Arsenal, and that that day was nearing. I was gutted by the idea of him leaving after his contract ran out two seasons later. I was preparing myself to handle the loss, and I thought myself emotionally ready for such a departure. So it was no surprise that I was incredibly wrong when I read the shock news of his impending resignation from the post of Arsenal manager, where he stood for over two decades.

The news broke me in a way few other events have.

I once had a grey rabbit, Shunti by name, who brought joy to our house. He passed away last year in November, when I was still writing my exams. He was seven. I never got to see him in his last moments.

I would only discover the tragic news when I got home for the holidays. My parents, fearing an extreme reaction from me, did not disclose the news of his demise until my exams were over and I had returned.

Their fears were not unfounded. For the next two weeks I would lose my appetite, my strength, and my

drive. Even such a simple act as eating an idli (one of his favourites) would trigger off a wave of painful memories. Bunny images on the internet would do much the same to me. I found the going hard.

While I have come to terms with the loss now, I still remember how hollow I felt during the time. I felt a similar hollowness, though not nearly as severe, when I heard the news about Wenger.

I suppose I was foolish for thinking the old man would run his contract down. The next few days were torture, as I was forced to read page after page dissecting the decision. People more experienced than I seemed to be as confused as I was, even his own players. Once I recovered my senses, I searched for every news article I could get my hands on and fervently read all of them. Most were still ruminating over the decision and its ramifications in a state of lingering shock.

Some were touching.

Some, particularly those from British publications, including some ‘reputable’ ones, were hurtfully disrespectful. I suppose there is only so much one can expect from the xenophobic Brexiteer crowd when it comes to saying something nice about a Frenchman. This is nothing new in Wenger’s career. Here is a man who changed the way Premier League players and teams approach topics of health, diet, and physical and mental aspects of performance and training, a man who brought in world-class scientists—nutritionists, psychologists, physiotherapists, statisticians—to the training ground.

And yet the only thing a ‘respectable’ publication can say about this is that his biggest contribution was introducing “broccoli and pasta” to British football, in a kind of sneering, holier-than-thou tone one has come to expect of these media houses. Here is a man who showed the world that young, homegrown talent delivers the goods just as well as established stars.

And yet his recruitment of youth players is compared to “child-trafficking” by a player of Karl-Heinz Rummenigge’s stature, an appalling analogy that simultaneously trivializes both child-trafficking and Wenger’s contribution to youth player development.

Here is a man who, with three league titles and a record Sopanam | 25

seven FA Cups, is Arsenal’s most successful manager of all time. And yet Jose Mourinho has the nerve to call him a “specialist in failure”. A toxic section of the fanbase railed against the man for the last few seasons on end, demanding his resignation, and comparing him, rather uncharitably, to Robert Mugabe and Adolf Hitler, two unspeakable tyrants among men. Some did it out of a perceived sense of injustice, believing Arsenal deserved more, despite us having only sporadically mounted a serious title challenge prior to the Wenger era. Some, with the audacity to officially brand themselves ‘fans’, merely did so to capitalize upon the strong emotions exhibited by people in the former category, and thus generate more revenue on their media outlets.

Things move fast in the football world; a bit too fast, for me. I am rather conservative when it comes to accepting change. I am, admittedly, rather old-fashioned when it comes to my footballing outlook. That is largely down to my Wengerized view of the football world. I, too, believe in being frugal with transfer budgets and favour slick, attacking football even if it doesn’t win games.

His departure is yet another change I must learn to deal with. I have immense respect for Unai Emery from his time at Sevilla, and I am excited for what the future holds for Arsenal. I want him to succeed at the club.

I wish him the best. Yet there is a bitter, sadistic part of me that wants him to fail. Or worse, do well, but nowhere near as good as Wenger. It is an unpleasant stance to take, and I am embarrassed at the thought A normal person would’ve buckled under an assault having even crossed my mind. Yet it is so. of this proportion a long time ago. Wenger, however, was anything but normal. One thing I would always I did not want this piece to descend into a mournful discuss with my father was how Wenger seemed to sob story; I am, after all, writing an article and not an have sacrificed his ‘normal life’ for Arsenal. To a hero- elegy. I should be discussing the life and times of the worshipping fan like me, his love for the game was man, the glorious victories. I should talk about his early astounding. To my father, ever the family man, his successes with Monaco and Nagoya Grampus Eight. lack of a social life seemed depressing. Yet we both About how David Dein convinced the board to take a could agree upon one thing: no one person has given chance on an unknown Frenchman at a Japanese club. more to Arsenal than he has. To be there, day in, day About the first double, and then the second. About the out, for over two decades is simply astonishing. That Invincibles, the greatest XI ever assembled in British his enthusiasm was undiminished right to the last day football history, who went a whole season unbeaten. makes it all the more remarkable. And that is what About pulling top four finishes from the jaws of makes criticism of him so difficult for me to stomach, mediocrity (yes, fourth place is a trophy whether you especially from the more vile sections of the fanbase like it or not). About Henry, Bergkamp, Pirès, Anelka, and the punditry. Football writer and longtime Gooner van Persie, Rosický, Cazorla, Özil, Sánchez. Yet these Tim Stillman describes Arsène Wenger as being like are precisely the reasons for my sorrow. I lament all his father: a towering figure that was for him alone to that could have been. The title races that ended in a criticize, and no one else. There is no better description narrow runners-up finish. The times we were edged of what he meant to fans like me. For all his flaws, he out by Fergie’s United (and the times we were simply was the greatest we had ever seen, and we doubt if we outclassed by them). The could-be stars of tomorrow shall ever come in contact with such greatness again. whose careers were torn apart as badly as their He was far from perfect, yet he couldn’t have been hamstrings. The European trophy that never came. The more perfect for me. great unfulfilled legacy that is Arsène Wenger.

26 | Sopanam

Aditya Kurup Batch ‘17

Sopanam | 27

JEE झालेला िग-हाईक हा JEE झालेला िग-हाईक वाटतो / फार मोठा घोळ झाला वाटतो / Physics चा तर विषय खूपच गूढ आहे / ठाऊक नाही काहीही जे वाचतो / Chemistry च्या त्या टर्म्स त्याने पाठ के ल्या / पण ionic मध्ये उडाला वाटतो / गणिती फॉर्मुले पाठ झाल्याचे कळाले/ Probability गुप्त झाला वाटतो / पाठ के ल्या सर्व सं द् ्न या घोकू नी / घोकलेल्या ओकताना लाजतो / िकतीही लिहली लक्ष देवनू उत्तरपत्रे / प्रश्न आमुचा ना निकाली लागतो / झिजून गेल्या खुर्च्या लायब्ररीच्या / काही घं टा कळत नाही जे वाचतो / डब्बा खाऊन पेंगताना त्रस्त झालो / थांब बाबा, मी जरासा झोपतो / खरच, हा JEE झालेला िग-हाईक वाटतो...

गणेश धर्मािधकारी

28 | Sopanam

प्रदमन अशभम्ु

हर िष्म होिी जिसभया हमयारे शहर में रु�च लेिे हर एि प्रत्ेि निषय में || ग्मलया हमें भी मौिया, उसमें जयािे िया अपिे निचयारों िो जि जि ि​ि पहुंचयािे िया || इस िष्म िे निषय में थी मिुरिया जो थी गयाय िे दू ि में घटिी गुणित्या || चचया्म चल रही थी, ियाद-नि​ियाद हो रहे थे एि सयाहब िोिे में बैठे हंस रहे थे || मैं ि समझ सिया उि​िी मुस्याि िो उि​िे बयािों में लछपे नि�याि िो || िपयाि से बोले, गुणित्या में िहीं हो रही िमी क्ोंकि पयािी ग्मलया रहे हैं दू ि में सभी || पयािी में घुले हैं अिमोल ग्मिरल िई जो देिे हैं दू ि िो गुणित्या सही || हम भी हंस पड़े, ठहयािे लगया िे थि गए लोग ियाललययां बजया िे || समयाज में िै�यानि​ि िो हैं हर जगह उजयागर होिे िे ललए चयाकहए एि िजह || उसिी आंखों में कदखया मुझ,े �यालों िे ललए प्यार पिया चलया बयाद में है िह मयािधसि रुप से बीमयार || मेरे कदल से नि​िली एि आियाज, �याले िो होिे हैं बड़े जयांबयाज इस बयाि पर मुझे एि ियाियया ययाद आ गयया…. प्रभयाि फे री िे िक्त, जयािे लयािे िो दू ि, देर से जयािर �यालया िर देिया हमें क्रुद्ध बछड़या खुलिे ही, दौड़िया मयां िी ओर, ऐसी खुशी ग्मलेगी िया उसे चहुूँ ओर || िह जयाललम-जयांबयाज बयांि देिया उसे एि छोर, छोड़ दो नि​ि​िी िरिी मयािो हयाथ जोड़ मैं देखिया रहिया, गयाय िी ियािर आंखों में प्यार, बछड़े िे खयानिर िह िरिी �याले से ि​िरयार || अंि​िः थि जयािी मयाि​िर िसीब िया दोष, �याले भरिे रहिे दू ि से अपिया िोष || द्रनि​ि हो गई हमयारी आत्या, देखिर मयां िी दद्म भरी आंखें, डर और दद्म से बढ़िे लगी हमयारी सयांसे || इस िहयािी से आ गयया चचया्म में ियया मोड़, सब देखिे लगे ियाललययां बजयािर हमयारी ओर || अब और िहीं सह सि​िया, मयां िे दद्म और इस चचया्म िो, चलिया हं अब मैं िह िे अलनिदया आप सब िो ||

Sopanam | 29

Interview with

Dr Nima Arkani-Hamed Dr Nima Arkani-Hamed is an American-Canadian theoretical physicist of Iranian descent, with interests in high energy physics, string theory and cosmology.

Currently a faculty at the Institute for Advanced Study, New Jersey, and Director of the Centre for Future High Energy Physics (CFHEP), Beijing, Dr Arkani-Hamed is known for Split Supersymmetry and the ADD model (in collaboration with Dr Savas Dimopoulos and Dr Gia Dvali), also known as the model with Large Extra Dimensions, which seeks to explain the weakness of gravity in comparison to the other fundamental forces.

The International Centre for Theoretical Science (ICTS), Bengaluru, celebrated its 10th Anniversary in the first week of January, 2018. Dr Arkani-Hamed delivered a series of lectures on Cosmology, as part of the Kavli Asian Winter School programme. The members of Team Sopanam were presented with an opportunity to interview Dr Nima, thanks to Dr Bindusar Sahoo (SoP, IISER Thiruvananthapuram) and Dr Rajesh Gopakumar (ICTS, Bengaluru).

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Q: Hi Nima, my name is Manas, I’m a fourth year biology major at IISER, and also with me are Siddharth, Debaditya and Gokul, who are first year students. Before we get to the more technical questions on our list, we’d like to know more about you, the person. So, outside of science, what do you do?

I enjoy music; I play the piano often. I play a lot of tennis when I can and I go hiking. I think maybe the most interesting hobby I have is something that I’ve been doing for the past three or four years. I don’t know if it’s possible in India, but there are a lot of places on the east coast in the US, where you can go down to the beach, and hunt in the water for fossilised teeth of sharks, like say, from thirty million years ago.

It’s totally amazing! It’s exactly like physics research, except it’s all scaled down to a shorter time scale, a lot of work, but when it pays off, the euphoria is unlike anything else.

Q: Wow, that’s pretty cool! You also mentioned you love to play the piano. Do you have a favourite composer?

Beethoven. By orders of magnitude.

Q: Which piece do you like the most?

Oh, there’s lots. But if I have to pick, although very clichéd, the 5th Symphony.

Q: Let us go back a bit to your childhood. Your mother says your curiosity once saved your life when you were still a boy. Can you tell us more about that?

It’s a very long and complicated story. My parents had many problems with the Ayatollahs, so like many people at the time in Iran, we ended up escaping through the border, to Turkey. It was a ten-day journey. I still feel bad about it to this day, because I was a real burden on my whole family during this trip when I became extremely ill. I drank some bad milk or something, and I got a really high fever. I couldn’t walk, I was being dragged around by my parents. I very nearly died. And this was in the Kurdistan part of Iran, near the border between Iran and Turkey. It was around midnight. We were high up in the mountains there, and I saw the most unbelievably beautiful vision of the Milky Way that I had ever seen upto that point, and I was absolutely transfixed by it. I was in really bad shape. But my mom promised me that if we made it out, she’d buy me a telescope. And she made

me tell her what I would do with the telescope, what I would look at, just to keep me talking.

“...I saw the most unbelievably beautiful vision of the Milky Way that I had ever seen upto that point, and I was absolutely transfixed by it.”

Q: That’s very inspiring! Seems like you kept on with your passion. Let us talk about the science that you do now. While many people may not be familiar with it, you are known for the ADD model that bears your name. If you had to explain it to a layman, in a limited set of words, how would you put it?

Those are actually some very simple ideas and are pretty easy to explain. One of the most basic facts about the universe is that gravity is incredibly weak. It is one of the major mysteries of physics to Sopanam | 31

understand why it is the weakest of all the forces. This model explains that the reason gravity is weak is that all the other forces, the particles, and everything else, are trapped to a three dimensional surface, but that 3D surface is floating in a larger space and gravity has to go everywhere. Einstein taught us that gravity is associated with space and time. So you can’t stop gravity, it can go everywhere. But everything else is trapped to the surface. Gravity loses its strength in these long extra dimensions but everything else doesn’t, and that explains the weakness of gravity. This is the basic idea. The theoretical ideas involved are also very simple. What was kind of remarkable about the idea was that the size of the extra dimensions that we’re talking about is gargantuan, larger than anyone can imagine. And it’s kind of crazy that we could have something so extremely large and macroscopic and not have noticed it all this time. That was the most interesting part of what we did. The theoretical ideas involved are simple, but the most remarkable thing about it is that it’s a seemingly crazy extension of the picture of the world and that it’s perfectly compatible with all the experimental constraints that anyone can come up with.

Q: On the same note, how hopeful are you that the LHC project will find extra dimensions, and how hopeful are you that the findings will be consistent with your model of large extra dimensions?

I think it’s very unlikely right now, but something quite dramatic is happening here, you see, it isn’t just this model, the ADD or supersymmetry, it’s not any particular model which is in trouble, they’re all in trouble. There’s something more general going on, which is that there is a whole paradigm of what should happen at the LHC, and all these models like supersymmetry and extra dimensions are examples in this spirit. The Higgs particle is the strangest particle we’ve ever discovered, it is also the simplest. It has the fewest properties of any elementary particle. Its very simplicity makes its existence perfect. There is a whole paradigm that leads you to expect that nothing like Higgs would actually make sense unless it was accompanied by a lot of new particles, and there couldn’t be many new particles. New particles would have to come up to you through very violent quantum mechanical fluctuations, the kind of ones to make the existence of the Higgs possible. People thought about this for 20-30 years and came up with two or three possibilities: supersymmetry, extra dimensions and a 32 | Sopanam

few others. This entire paradigm, which people still believe very strongly in, was axiomatic at a time when I was in grad school, people were so confident about it, and that’s what is being puzzled over. Now what we presume, and there are a lot of substantial clues, is that this paradigm could be falsified. There are a lot of little niggling problems, lot of things people were worried about already before the LHC. And in fact, I was one of the people who was most vocal about being worried about it. Around 2005, together with Savas Dimopoulos, I made a concrete proposal of something in the opposite direction and that gained some success with the theoreticians, especially with the supersymmetricians of the world. However it’s fundamentally a paradox; there’s no reason we should see all sorts of particles in the galaxy. I very well remember many of my colleagues yelling at me at conferences for even daring to talk about its possibilities. They were really yelling at me, I’m not joking! We’re a minority, not a small minority, but a minority nonetheless— who were worried about it.

And a chief part of that worry is actually the fact that we’re missing something.

Q: Interesting. We’ve also been sourcing a few questions from students at our institute, and one of the questions that came up was, suppose the LHC doesn’t discover supersymmetry in this run, should we keep going to higher energies?

Yes, you should go to higher energies, but for a variety of reasons. First of all, there’s the zeroth reason: we don’t go to higher energies because we’re confident that we know what we’re gonna find there, right? The whole point of frontier exploration is that you go to the frontier and see what’s there, and for over a century, people have been doing these experiments.

Its only recently, in the last two decades, that we’ve gotten into this sort of mentality that we should more or less know what we’re to expect before we go there.

That’s ridiculous, that’s never what science has been

about.

In more detail—I wanna emphasise this point because it’s really important—precisely because we didn’t see all the things that people expected to see for thirty years, that makes the stakes even higher. Theoretically, we can think about what’s going on, why we’re wrong, and what we’re thinking; as I said it’s not like nobody expected it. In fact, a number of us were even anticipating at some point that this was going to happen. In order to grapple with what doesn’t make sense of the Higgs, we are very likely going to need even more radical ideas than the ones we’ve been receiving so far. When you discover something and you’ve never seen anything like it before, you study it. You have to put it under an even more powerful microscope and study it. One of the mysterious things about the Higgs is that it looks like a point-like elementary particle, but we really need to put it under the microscope to see if it really looks like a point and figure out what to do about it. One thing we should be doing is build something called the Higgs factory which gives a quick blow of energy producing millions of Higgs particles in a very clean environment, by just colliding electrons and positrons. And that machine could figure out whether the Higgs looks more like a point when it’s being looked at by other particles.

That’s an important set of experiments. It sort of improves the resolution of the Higgs by something like a factor of thirty when compared to the LHC, so it’s really a big deal.

Q: A majority of the students here are undergraduates, including us, and most of us will be looking for places to go to for our grad studies after graduating from here. One thing that we always worry about is what do professors like you look for in prospective students? We would love to know!

I have good news and bad news about this! The good news is the following—a lot of students think there is one unique moral code to being a great theoretical physicist: you have to be a super-genius, incredible at math, know everything. A lot of grad students are always concerned about how much they know and how advanced they are and what potential courses to take and so on. The good news is the space of talent is extremely high dimensional; there are many, many different ways of being great. The bad news—and what is not necessarily bad news but a fact, is that you have to work like a maniac. And by work like a maniac

I don’t mean you shouldn’t be sitting there watching TV or something. But what it does mean is that you must be absolutely obsessed with theoretical physics.

You must care about it a massive amount. Whenever someone tells me they want to become a theoretical physicist, I ask them if there’s anything else they could imagine themselves doing. If there’s even one thing you could imagine doing in your life that will keep you happy, I would definitely do that instead, if I were you; don’t do theoretical physics! You should only do the subject if the questions you find are so annoying that you can’t help but keep thinking about them in the background as often as you can. You have to live and breathe the subject. And the one thing you must do, which I tell my students to do, is to have your own personal picture of the universe. It’s one thing, thinking of all the old laws, most of what we teach in books. They’re just dusty books—those are all the same. No, each person should have their own, personal picture of the universe. What I tell my students to do is to think of it as a kind of ‘intellectual castle’ in their mind. That’s their castle, it’s their castle only, they’ve got to live in it. And you’ve got to build it yourself, you can’t get any support. You’ve got to get bricks there, you have to assemble it, you have to keep it stable, you’ve got to work on maintaining it.

If you have to do this subject, you’ve got to have this obsession to make this castle inside of your head.

Q: That makes so much sense, let us wrap this up with a final question: careers as successful as yours are difficult to build, but looking back on it, do you have any regrets?

I think it’s too early to say. I’ve worked on a pretty wide spectrum of things. I’ve done work very closely related to experiments, I’ve collaborated with experimentalists, I’ve done work in particle physics and cosmology, in string theory sometimes, things that are very mathematical. So I’ve wandered around the intellectual landscape a lot. Each thing that I did at any time, I thought was the most important thing that I, personally, could do.

Thanks a lot for your time, Nima. It was indeed a pleasure talking to you. This was a very enlightening chat.

Thanks! Pleasure talking to you guys, too.

Question credits: Dr Bindusar Sahoo, Subramanya Hegde For the uncut, full-length interview, visit our blog at

sopanamtheblog.wordpress.com

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This one too ran pitter-patter, Pouring down the heavens’ elixir.

It did carve out hills and valleys, Islands, lowlands and marshy alleys, Canyons, pools and filthy gullies Of that soul-filling fluid, down its way.

But it was the first.

It did make that mud house melt, Into oblivion, into mere thin earth.

It did slide down the glass panes Of showy cars and the humble bus.

It did drip down, slow and flat, Down the edges of the same bright panes.

But it was only the first.

It made some cry hard with pain, And made some dance it out with joy, The rest were made to watch it dance, With drums and trumpets and flashy streaks.

It did do little tricks so naĂŻve That it did flood a town so big.

But it was still the very first.

None did ever but bring this out, That perfume deep from the dry land heart.

That which made life to suck in air, To take that deep in heart and soul.

The first rains bring in life and love, Grief and pain and long lost friends.

But it too opens up the fragrant vase, Hidden deep in the vaults of secret earth, From which rises the aroma of life.

Aroma ANAND E P

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Aurora P CHARULEKHA

I had left my post And travelled miles away from the Australian coast.

When it was everyone’s night Antarctica was still bright.

I found my way to my seat With my only company campfire’s heat.

You were glowing in the dark, Too silent and no one to bark.

Orange, mauve, pink, green and blue; All I could think of was you, And how much I missed you.

I enjoyed your dance And wished for another chance To watch this beautiful sight, Though I knew you were my last sight.

That night, I slept in ice.

That night, I had lost my vice.

Even here, at paradise, there is nothing more colossal than you.

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Monsoon Dreams

or An Ode to Winterreise

DEBADITYA SINHA

Franz Schubert’s ‘Winterreise’ or ‘Winter Journey’ is a haunting and deeply philosophical self-reflection of 24 songs for voice and piano, poems composed by German poet Wilhelm Müller. As an ardent lover of Schubert’s works, I have tried to reimagine his seminal composition in the context of subcontinental monsoon, drawing in anecdotes from my life. Here, I present my reconstructions of the first, eleventh and twenty-third stanzas from ‘Winterreise’ under the title, ‘Monsoon Dreams’.

1. Gute Nacht / Good Night A traveler I am A vagabond A loner Raindrops kiss my cheeks And hug me good night As they roll down my body And end up on the soil Seep down to earth Where they belong.

A loner I am Lovelorn The spring had come With bright hopes of a union of souls But monsoon came And washed us all away You kissed me goodnight And vanished into the dark Like those drops of rain.

I leave hence Dejected But wherever I go You rain on me Engulf me Like clouds of monsoon I run before you come and say goodnight For I fear it might be Your last.

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2. Frühlingstraum / Dream of spring I dream of our first date That orange sky Those tender jackfruits Succulent Like our young love Oozing with passion A solitary quail somewhere Looks over us with her “wet my lips” Her eyes fraught with foreboding.

Din of rain Incessant Startle me up All dark and grey And gloomy Toads croak And ask this wary soul How can you dream of spring?

For this is monsoon.

I sit up And ponder over my dream Trying to draw Freudian conclusions Only to get lost in dreams Dreams of some future spring Of her looking into my eyes And asking Do you care?

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3. Die Nebensonnen / The Phantom Suns Roads come to an end Drenched in rain Mud and clay Blown by monsoon winds Clinging to flowers of spring Like my one last frantic effort To salvage my love Amid winds of change And rain of her memories.

Before me Lies uncertainty And a horizon Of future Yet unknown But I see Three phantom suns Hazed by the monsoon clouds Retreating.

Two set before the road ended One took down with it My faith in God One went down With her memories Tagging along The last one, my past Shall set, and set me free Into a new night, a good night.

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വെറുതെ ഇരുന്നപ്പൊ ത�ോന്നി എന്തേലും ഒക്കെ ചെയ്യണമെന്ന്, പുറത്തിറങ്ങി അലഞ്ഞപ്പോ പലയിടങ്ങളിൽ ആൾക്കൂട്ടം സ്വാതന്ത്ര്യം വേണമെന്ന് പറഞ്ഞവൾക്ക് നേരെ കല്ലെറിയുന്നോർ; തനിക്ക് മുന്നേറണമെന്ന് പറഞ്ഞവന് നേരെ കല്ലെറിയുന്നോർ; പീഡിപ്പിച്ചവനെ പൂവിട്ടു പൂജിക്കുന്നോർ; കളവു പറഞ്ഞ് ല�ോകം കീഴടക്കുന്നോർ; ഒരിടത്തു വട്ടം കൂടിയിരുന്നു ചീട്ട് കളിക്കുന്നോർ, അവര�ോട് കൂടി നല്ലൊരു കഴുതയായി വിശ്രമിക്കുമ്പോളറിയുന്നു അക്കൗണ്ടിലെ രൂപ ആര�ോ എപ്പോഴ�ോ എടുത്തൂന്ന്, ഞാൻ കഴുതയാണെന്ന്. തേജസ്വിനി എസ്

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P Charulekha Batch ‘17

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Aswathy S Batch ‘14

Sopanam | 41

SCIENCE AS A HOBBY SIDDHARTH BHATT

That afternoon seemed to be nothing out of the ordinary to me as I sat in the bus. In my bag, I had the question paper from a mathematics competition in which I had participated earlier that day, some mint candies in my pockets and ever-shifting thoughts in my mind. That particular day, however, my thoughts were focused.

I had met a person, who kept me thinking in silence throughout the two-hour bus journey. No staring at my mobile screen, no reading any magazine, no tapping my feet to the tune of music, just thinking.

She was a student of economics and statistics, and had participated in the same competition as I had that day. We chatted for quite a while—discussing topics, sharing opinions and, yes, enquiring about small details from each other’s personal lives. “...also science is my hobby,” she said. I don’t remember much of what happened after. I paid little attention to the following conversation before we exchanged contacts and she got off at her stop in the middle of the city.

It was a long time before the bus reached the nearby town where I was headed. All the while, those words kept ringing like Christmas bells in my head. “Science is my hobby.”

Science as a hobby? I thought to myself. The idea seemed strange to me. As a student of science, I

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understand that scientists put in their blood, sweat, and tears into doing what they do best: science. But is science just outlandish equations and concepts wrapped in inarticulable words? Or can it also be a source of leisurely enjoyment, maybe even a way to express oneself ? Science, in essence, is describing anything in the world. Everyone, mostly children (adults are too busy), often looks around, wondering why things are the way they are. Many snap out of it, thinking it to be useless, but few spend unheeded amounts of time pondering over it because hanging around in doubt makes them restless and they probably couldn’t find answers beyond page one of Google search. Such people are, albeit unwittingly, doing science. Just because they don’t run to the patent office or write a paper and submit it to a fancy journal, it doesn’t make it any less science-y. Some might say that they’re just sitting around being unproductive but what they’re doing is using their brain to as much extent as they can.

Why waste the most precious resource our bearded imaginary friend has given us: the ability to think?

Conversely, if you’re a full-time scientist, it doesn’t mean you can’t have science as a hobby. Not every idea that pops into your mind can be made into a startup or a research project. Many mundane ones make you scratch your head and then overkill them with your knowledge and academic resources. You’re still doing what you do best. For artists, writers, sportspersons and many others with unconventional professions, their jobs are their hobbies as well. Not everything they do is a part of of their works. Some just remain doodles, scribbles or horseplay which make them happy. A few of them may even become ideas for actual work in the future. It seems strange, come to think of it, for one to do one’s job during off-hours, but those who do so love it so much that they can’t help but work as much as they can even though they aren’t getting any productive work done.

Science is definitely my hobby, and I spend so much time at it, it might as well be my profession.

I thoroughly enjoy the fun small-time bits, but big equations and the difficult words don’t scare me, which is why I chose to become a science student and that makes me look forward to a career in science even more.

Josiah Zayner is a biohacker and scientist best known for his crowdfunded campaign to provide genetic engineering CRISPR kits to the general public. He believes in the importance of letting the general public participate in scientific experimentation, rather than leaving it exclusively to labs.

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पापा ओ पापा… सं कल्प मिश्र

पापा ओ पापा, मेरे प्यारे पापा मुझे याद है, अब भी सारा अफसाना...../१ वो उं गली पकड़कर, घर में घुमाना । मेरा रुठना, वो तुम्हारा मनाना ।। फिर कांधे के ऊपर, मुझको बिठाना । वो कागज की कश्ती, नाव बनाना ।। पापा ओ पापा, मेरे प्यारे पापा मुझे याद है, अब भी सारा अफसाना...../२ मुझे रात में आकर, कम्बल उढ़ाना । मेरे सर पे, प्यार से हाथ फिराना ।। मुझे प्यार से, किस्से कहानी सुनाना । खुद टू टकर, इस घर को बनाना ।। पापा ओ पापा, मेरे प्यारे पापा मुझे याद है, अब भी सारा अफसाना...../३ हां हो तुम हकीकत में, जन्नत मेरी । जिसके बदौलत है, ये शौहरत मेरी ।। जिसने सिखाया, मुझे राह चलना । कभी मुफलिसी में, घर को चलाना ।। गलत काम करने से, रोका है जिसने ।। मेरे पथप्रदर्शक, ओ मेरे परमात्मा ।। पापा ओ पापा, मेरे प्यारे पापा मुझे याद है, अब भी सारा अफसाना...../४ तुम मेरी दौलत, हो मेरी सारी ताकत । मेरा धैर्य तुमसे ही, हो मेरी साहस ।। सुरक्षित मैं जिसमें, वो सारी छत हो । जीवन जीने का, सं गीत तुम हो ।। पापा ओ पापा, मेरे प्यारे पापा मुझे याद है, अब भी सारा अफसाना...../५

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He walked up and down the dimly lit corridor, his pace quickening and muscles tensing with each passing moment. He stopped and once again looked uneasily at the grey doors at the end of the corridor. A bright red light glared menacingly at him. At the other end, journalists and photographers crowded behind a glass door, trying in vain to get a clear glimpse of the situation. Ingenious inventor, gifted entrepreneur, brilliant businessman and renowned philanthropist, the twenty-eight-year-old billionaire was currently the most iconic figure in the world. Yet nothing he had learnt or experienced had prepared him, the legendary Leonard Washington, for this crucial moment.

EXPECTANT FATHER YASHAS RAMAKRISHNA

He collapsed into the chair by his side, exhausted, but still nervous. He looked at his watch. It was five minutes to eight, local time. He leaned back and his ranked second on Forbes’ list of The World’s 100 mind reeled back to that morning.

Most Powerful Women, yet Leonard’s worry seemed August 1st, 2022. The London sector was undergoing incessant. He found himself repeating, almost chanting, an inspection. As much as he hated it, being the to himself, “Don’t worry. Listen to Mum. Trust Alex. founder of Eden Enterprise gave him no choice She’ll be fine. It’s gonna—” A bloodcurdling scream but to allow this annual procedure. He was in the echoed through the corridor. He jumped to his feet middle of examining a new product design when the and ran towards the grey doors. Just as he closed in, phone buzzed. “Get over here, you oaf!”, a female they opened. One of the doctors came up to him. voice screamed through the speaker. The time had “Relax, Mr. Washington. Everything is fine.” A shrill come. The next hour found him in his private jet, cry met his ears. It was the most wonderful sound urging the captain to go faster, fidgeting in his seat he had ever heard. “Congratulations, sir. It’s a boy.” as the Dassault Falcon 7X cut through the bright His legs gave away under him and he fell to his knees. blue sky. Ten hours later, he landed at Kempegowda Tears streamed from his red, sleep-deprived eyes. The International Airport, jumped into his Lamborghini screen was pulled aside. Behind it, lying on a delivery and raced through the streets of Bengaluru, praying bed, Alex looked at him and smiled, clearly exhausted. he would be there in time. He was. She had just gone in, and he had to wait out till he was called. That was The doctor helped him up and held him as he walked an hour ago. It was taking longer than expected. He toward her bed. In her arms, wrapped in green grew increasingly worried with every passing minute. cloth, mewling and wriggling gently, lay his son. His He recalled his mother’s words, “Don’t worry, son. firstborn. He kissed his wife on the forehead, and sat Alex is one of the strongest women I’ve met in my down on the chair beside the bed. His vision blurred life. She could even give your grandmother a run for as tears of joy once again filled his eyes. She ran her hand through his hair, “Our little bundle of joy is her money! Have faith in her.” finally here, honey.” He lifted his head and looked It is said that the more you love someone, the more at the baby. “He has your eyes”, he said. “And your worried you tend to get if that person ends up with nose”, she calmly replied. The couple said in unison, even the slightest of bruises. Alexandra Washington “Anthony.” The doctor smiled, “Anthony Washington was his life. He had met her in college and she had it is.” Reining-in his emotions and gaining back his swept him right off his feet the first time he saw her. composure, he stood up. “Wonderful!”, he said out Everyone admired her. Some even said that she might loud, and looked at his wife, “Now let’s go make him be the only one who could equal Leonard; comments a sister.” Her cheeks flushed with colour. In one swift he scorned at, but secretly admitted to. They married movement, she caught him by his ear and pulled him at twenty-five. The same year, he established Eden down hard. “Ow!”, he yelped. She kissed him on his Enterprise. In three years, Eden became one of the cheek and replied, “All in good time, love.” Hearty largest conglomerates the world had ever seen. She laughter lit up the corridor.

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WHERE’S DAVE ?

ARYAN JAKHAR

Marta is past her prime, feeling selcouth, all the time.

How she used to be, how she is and how she wants to be; oil and water.

Sitting in the kitchen alone with that butter knife set Dave bought her for being forgetful.

The children are never home like Dave.

Where’s Dave?

Dave comes home past midnight smelling like Crystal but Marta keeps shut, and her mood numb, hiding her anxiety and melancholy behind her soft sarcasm, to be the roadkill in Dave’s drive, and to cook another meal for Dave.

46 | Sopanam

“പൂർവസമുദായങ്ങളുടെ കാൽപ്പാടുകൾ മുഴത്തിനു മുഴമായും ചാണിനു ചാണായും നിങ്ങൾ പിന്തുടരും. അവർ ഒരു ഉടുമ്പിന്റെ മാളത്തിൽ കടന്നാൽ അവിടെ നിങ്ങളും കടക്കും.”

-മുഹമ്മദ് നബി

നമ്പോലൻ

നവ്യ എസ് ഡി

ആത്മീയബിസിനസിലെ ധനലാഭവും ഒരു വെള്ളിടിപ�ോലെ ഹരിയുടെ ചിന്തകളിൽ നിറഞ്ഞു. രാത്രി ഏറെ വൈകുംവരെ ഹരി എന്തെല്ലാമ�ോ ഗൂഗിൾ ചെയ്തുക�ൊണ്ടേയിരുന്നു. പെട്ടെന്ന്, ഹ�ോസ്റ്റൽ ഇൻടൈം കഴിഞ്ഞെന്നോർത്ത് ആധിപിടിച്ച് റൂമിലേക്കോടി തന്റെ സിംഗിൾറൂമിൽ കയറി വാതിൽ ഐസർ തിരുവനന്തപുരത്ത് BSMS ബയ�ോളജി ക�ൊട്ടിയടച്ചു. ദിവസങ്ങൾ കടന്നുപ�ോയി. പലരും മേജർ വിദ്യാ൪ത്ഥി ആയിരുന്നു നമ്മുടെ മുട്ടിവിളിച്ചു, വാതിൽ തുറന്നില്ല. “അറ്റെൻഡൻസ് കഥാനായകൻ ഹരി. മെലിഞ്ഞുണങ്ങിയ പ്രകൃതം, ഷ�ോർട്ടേജ് ” -കൂട്ടുകാർ ഓർമപ്പെടുത്തി, വാതിൽ കട്ടിക്കണ്ണട, നീട്ടിവളർത്തിയ മുടി. സ്കൂളിൽ തുറന്നില്ല. വീണ്ടും ബുധനാഴ്ച വന്നെത്തി. മെസ്സിൽ പഠിക്കുമ്പോൾ ത�ൊട്ടതെല്ലാം പ�ൊന്നാക്കിയിരുന്ന, ഐസറിൽ വന്ന് ആ കഴിവ് എല്ലാം നഷ്ടപ്പെട്ടുപ�ോയ ചിക്കനുണ്ടായിട്ടും കടുത്ത ന�ോൺവെജ് പ്രേമിയായ ഹരി വാതിൽ തുറക്കുന്നില്ലെന്ന് കണ്ട് സംഭവം ഭൂരിഭാഗത്തില�ൊരുവൻ. വല്ലപ്പോഴും ‘മലബാറി’ൽ നിസ്സാരമല്ലെന്ന് അവരൂഹിച്ചു. എന്നാൽ, പ�ോയി ചിക്കൻ തിന്നുകയും CETയെ ഗൃഹാതുരമായി പിറ്റേദിവസം വൈകിട്ട് 3:34 -ഓടെ പെട്ടെന്ന് സ്മരിക്കുകയും മിഡ്‌സെമുകളിൽ പ�ൊട്ടുമ്പോൾ കംപാരിറ്റീവ് ഗ്രേഡിങ്ങിനെ കുറ്റം പറയുകയും ഒടുവിൽ വാതിൽ മലർക്കെ തുറന്നു. പക്ഷെ മുറിയിൽ ഫൈനൽഎക്സാമിന് സർവവിധേനയും ക�ോപ്പിയടിച്ച് ഹരിയുണ്ടായിരുന്നില്ല. പകരം ഒരു പൗർണമി ചിഹ്നം. പാസ്സാവുകയും ചെയ്യുന്ന ഒരു സാധാരണക്കാരൻ. ജീവിതമങ്ങനെ തട്ടി മുട്ടി ഒഴുകിക്കൊണ്ടിരിക്കെയാണ് ഐസർ വിദ്യാർത്ഥിയുടെ തിര�ോധാനത്തെക്കുറിച്ചുള്ള ആ ബുധനാഴ്ച വന്നെത്തിയത്. അത�ൊരു വാർത്ത ആദ്യം ‘Deccan Chronicle’-ലും പൗർണമിനാളായിരുന്നു. പിന്നെ മന�ോരമയിലും തുടർന്ന് മറ്റു പത്രങ്ങളിലും അച്ചടിച്ച് വന്നു. ഒൻപതുമണിചർച്ചകൾ ചൂട�ോടെ രാത്രി ലാബ്‌വർക്കും കഴിഞ്ഞ് റിസൾട്ട് കിട്ടാതെ വിറ്റുപ�ോയി. മനഃശാസ്ത്രവിദഗ്ധർ ക�ോളേജുകളിൽ CSBയിലൂടെ ഡിപ്രെഷനടിച്ചു നടക്കവെയാണ് വിദ്യാർത്ഥികൾ നേരിടുന്ന വെല്ലുവിളികളെ പറ്റിയും കൂട്ടിലടച്ചിരിക്കുന്ന വവ്വാലുകളുടെ കരച്ചിൽ തത്വചിന്തകർ ആധുനികവിദ്യാഭ്യാസരീതികളിലെ ഹരി കേട്ടത്. രാത്രിയുടെ നിശബ്ദതകളെ നിലവാരശൂന്യതയെ പറ്റിയും ഭേദിച്ചുക�ൊണ്ട് അതിതീവ്രമായ ര�ോദനം. ഘ�ോരഘ�ോരം പ്രസംഗിച്ചു. പ�ോലീസിന്റെ ഹരിയിലെ സഹജീവിസ്നേഹി ഉണർന്നു. അന്വേഷണത്തിന�ൊടുവിൽ നഗ്നനായ�ൊരാൾ “പ്രതികരിക്കൂ....” - മനസ്സ് ആക്രോശിച്ചു. പ�ൊന്മുടിയുടെ ഉൾക്കാടുകളിലേയ്ക്ക് ഇത്തരം മനസ്സാക്ഷിക്കുത്തുകളെ അടക്കിവെച്ച് കയറിപ്പോകുന്നതുകണ്ടുവെന്ന് റിപ്പോർട്ട് വന്നു. ഐസറുകാർക്ക് നല്ല തഴക്കമായിരുന്നതിനാൽ രൂപസാദൃശ്യം വച്ച് അത് ഹരിയാണെന്ന് അവർ കംപ്യൂട്ടർലാബിൽ പ�ോയിരുന്ന് രണ്ടു വീഡിയ�ോ ഊഹിച്ചു. കാണാൻ ഹരി തീരുമാനിച്ചു. ‘ഇടിവെട്ടിയവനെ പിന്നേം പാമ്പ് കടിച്ചു’ എന്നുപറഞ്ഞപ�ോലെ ദേ ************************** വരുന്നു യൂട്യൂബ് ആഡ് - പതഞ്‌ജലി ഹെയർ വർഷം മൂന്ന് കഴിഞ്ഞു. ഹരി കഠിനമായ കെയർ ഓയിൽ. ആധുനിക രാഷ്ട്രീയത്തിൽ തപസ്സിലാണ്. ചിതൽപുറ്റ് വളർന്ന് മതങ്ങൾക്കുള്ള സ്വാധീനവും നിലവിലുള്ള ദേഹമാസകലം മൂടി. വിറകുശേഖരിക്കാൻ വന്ന മതങ്ങളിൽ യുവാക്കൾക്കുള്ള വിരക്തിയും (അറിയിപ്പ്: ഈ കഥയ്ക് ജീവിച്ചിരിക്കുന്നവര�ോ മരിച്ചവര�ോ ആയി യാത�ൊരു ബന്ധവുമില്ല. നിങ്ങൾക്കങ്ങനെ ത�ോന്നുന്നുവെങ്കിൽ അത് തികച്ചും യാദൃശ്ചികം മാത്രമാണ്.)

Sopanam | 47

ആയിടയ്ക്ക് തിരുവടികളുടെ പൂർവ്വാശ്രമത്തെക്കുറിച്ച് പലകഥകളും പ്രചരിച്ചു. അങ്ങനെ സ്വാമിജിക്ക് ഉൾവിളിയുണ്ടായ ദിവസം നമ്പോലൻജയന്തി ആയിരുന്നെന്നും, 334 വിശിഷ്‌ടസംഖ്യയാണെന്നും, ബ�ോധ�ോദയത്തിനായി കരഞ്ഞ വവ്വാലുകൾ നമ്പോലന്റെ മാലാഖമാരാണെന്നും ബ�ോധ്യമായി. ആയതിനാൽ സ്വാമികൾ നമ്പോലന്റെ പ്രവാചകനാണെന്ന് സംശയമന്വേ അംഗീകരിക്കപ്പെട്ടു. നമ്പോലൻമതം പ�ൊന്മുടിക്കുന്നിറങ്ങി വടക്കോട്ട്‌ ബാലമംഗളത്തിൽ പ്രസിദ്ധീകരിച്ചിരുന്ന ‘നമ്പോലൻ’ സഞ്ചരിക്കുമ്പോഴേക്കും മതത്തിന്റെ വിശുദ്ധഗ്രന്ഥം കഥകളിൽ ആകൃഷ്ടനായിരുന്നു സ്വാമി. ആയതിനാൽ ബാലമംഗളമെന്ന പേരിൽ അക്വിഭാഷയിൽ ഔദ്യോഗികമായി പ്രസിദ്ധീകരിച്ച് കഴിഞ്ഞിരുന്നു. തന്റെ ദൈവം നമ്പോലനാണെന്ന് അദ്ദേഹം നമ്പോലന്റെ അത്ഭുതപ്രവർത്തികളും പ്രസ്താവിച്ചു. അങ്ങനെ നമ്പോലൻ, രക്ഷകനും ഭരണാധികാരികളിൽ നിന്ന് നേരിട്ട മർദ്ദനവും ദിവ്യനും ഏഴ് ആകാശങ്ങളുടെ കാവൽക്കാരനും വീരമരണവും ഉയിർത്തെഴുന്നേൽപ്പും അതിൽ പാപപുണ്യങ്ങളുടെ കണക്കെടുപ്പുകാരനുമായ ചേർത്തു. പിന്നീട് മതത്തിന്റെ നിയമങ്ങളും വിമ�ോചകനായി. നാമ്പോലാനുയായികൾ അനുഷ്ഠ ‌ ാനങ്ങളും മഹത്വ ‌ ചനങ്ങളും അതിൽ ശുഭ്രവർണത്തിൽ ഹറംപാന്റുകൾ ധരിച്ചു. ഉൾപ്പെടുത്തി. എല്ലാ ഭാഷകളിലുമായി പ്രാർത്ഥിക്കാൻ സ്വാമിജി തപസ്സിരുന്നിടത്ത് രണ്ടാംപതിപ്പിറക്കി. നാമ്പോലനാലയം പണിതു. ആലയത്തിന്റെ കന്നിമൂലയിൽ പൗർണമിചിഹ്നം ആലേഖനം അങ്ങനെയിരിക്കെ, ഒരു പൗർണമിനാളിൽ ചെയ്യപ്പെട്ടു, വിചിത്രമായ�ൊരു ഭാഷയിൽ നമ്പോലന് സമാനമായി തിരുവടികളും മരണപ്പെട്ടു. മഹദ്‌വചനങ്ങളും. അത് മതശ്രേഷ്ഠന്മാർക്കുമാത്രം നമ്പോലൻവിശ്വാസികൾ ബാലമംഗളം അറിയാവുന്ന ‘അക്വി’ഭാഷയായിരുന്നു. എല്ലാ ഏഴാമധ്യായത്തിൽ പരാമർശിച്ചപ�ോലെ പൗർണമിനാളിലും വിശേഷദർശനങ്ങൾ. ഇടതുകൈയ്യിൽ ഉപ്പുവെച്ച് അക്വിഭാഷയിൽ ബുധനാഴ്ചകളിൽ മതപഠനക്ലാസുകൾ. മന്ത്രങ്ങൾ ച�ൊല്ലി പ്രവാചകനെ ബാലമംഗളത്തിൽ നമ്പോലൻ വീരമരണമടഞ്ഞത് യാത്രയാക്കി. മരണകാരണമായ ആല് പറന്നുവന്നു കവുങ്ങിൽ ലാന്റ്‌ചെയ്യുന്നതിനിടയിൽ ആശ്രമപരിസരത്തെങ്ങനെവന്നുവെന്നത് ആല് മലദ്വാരത്തിൽ തുളഞ്ഞുകയറിയായിരുന്നു. ഇന്നുമ�ൊരുസമസ്യയായി അവശേഷിക്കുന്നു. ആകയാൽ കവുങ്ങ് നിഷിദ്ധവൃക്ഷമായി കരുതപ്പെട്ടു. അട്ടയുള്ള ഇടങ്ങളിലൂടെ സഞ്ചരിക്കുമ്പോൾ സ്വാമിജി “തിരിയുന്നവർക്ക് തിരിയും അല്ലാത്തവർ നട്ടംതിരിയും” ചിരട്ടയിൽ ഉപ്പുക�ൊണ്ടുനടക്കുമായിരുന്നു. എന്നിട്ടും എന്ന നമ്പോലൻവാക്യം (20:11) ഇവിടെ സ്മരിക്കുന്നു. സ്വാമിയുടെ തിരുപാദത്തിൽ കടിച്ചുവീർത്തുവരുന്ന കാര്യങ്ങൾ ഇനിയും വിസ്തരിച്ചാലുണ്ടായേക്കാവുന്ന അട്ടയെ പാപങ്ങള�ൊഴിഞ്ഞ വിശുദ്ധഅട്ടയായി അസഹിഷ്ണുത ഭയന്ന് കഥ ഇവിടെ പ്രഖ്യാപിച്ചു. അവസാനിപ്പിക്കുന്നു. ആദിവാസിപ്പെണ്ണിന്റെ കൈമഴു അറിയാതെ പുറ്റിൽ തട്ടി ച�ോര പ�ൊടിഞ്ഞത�ോടെയാണ് കഥയുടെ രണ്ടാംഭാഗം ആരംഭിക്കുന്നത്. പ�ൊന്മുടിയിലെ ആദിവാസിക�ോളനികളിൽ വാർത്ത കാട്ടുതീ പ�ോലെ പരന്നു. സയൻസിൽ പഠിച്ച പ�ൊടിക്കൈകളും ലേശം മെന്റലിസവും ക�ൊണ്ട് ഹരി അവരുടെ ഇടയിൽ ‘അത്ഭുതങ്ങൾ’ പ്രവർത്തിച്ചു. അപ്പോഴേക്കും ഹരി, സ്വാമി ഹരിയാനന്ദതിരുവടികളായി മാറിക്കഴിഞ്ഞിരുന്നു.

48 | Sopanam

Shradha Ajith Batch ‘17

Sopanam | 49

Felt like writing, so here I am again, trying to see through pain.

Is there anything to gain?

Is my composition fit?

Does it whisper anything?

Or is it just floating out there in nothingness?

Am I trying to find something, through my own words?

But words flow from the soul just like the Wapahani.

O how I do love it when everything makes sense!

Everything?

It rarely does for me.

Do my words mean anything?

Or do they just keep meandering about the concepts of life, without ever touching them, like the curling and billowing smoke from the cigarette between those lips?

Who deserve my words?

People or ideas?

One being abstract, the other not so I did once write about someone.

Who else?

But does she write about me?

I doubt.

But I still hope that there is a part of me in that diary by her side, living with her forever: an idea of me.

ANONYMOUS

50 | Sopanam

On Writing

VISTA

Sopanam | 51

52 | Sopanam

BSMS‘13

Ardra K S

Sopanam | 53

IPHD ‘13

Akash Ashirbad Panda

54 | Sopanam BSMS ‘17

Gagan V S

Anees Mohammad BSMS ‘14

Sopanam | 55

Birupaksha Banerjee PHD ‘18

56 | Sopanam

Sopanam | 57

BSMS ‘14

Anees Mohammad

58 | Sopanam

BSMS ‘17

Sukhada Darpe

Sopanam | 59

Ananthakrishnan V M BSMS ‘14

2018:

A SOPANAM ODYSSEY

After a rollercoaster ride of highs and lows, Sopanam is finally out. The last year was quite the ride, though.

From all-night meetings to last-minute design sessions, us Sopanites have really seen it all. Over time, we came to realise how much the magazine means to us. It may mean different things to each of us, but mean something it does. We all wanted to express, in words, this feeling. We thought we’d share our words with you and walk you through the many emotions Sopanam invokes in each of us.

For some of us, sheer pride: “In the four years that have gone by, Sopanam has grown to mean a great deal to me. From being a college magazine that I was just a part of in my first year, it has now become a responsibility—a child that I need to nurture and care for. Not that I am complaining, it is a beautiful feeling altogether. The magazine, to me, has been a definition of change.

Between what it used to be and what it is now, lie a myriad of ideas, blunders, criticisms, mouse clicks and an incomparable zeal to bring to life the Sopanam that we had envisaged. Through the endeavour of bringing out this year’s copy, I learnt a very important lesson: the value of persistence. The quality of being persistent is, as I have realized, what keeps great ventures and institutions going, and I see it in the crew that we recruited this year. As I sit through the meetings and get to acknowledge the creativity in some of the new members, I can’t help but tell myself that Sopanam will be in better hands when it is time for me to step down. The ardor is remarkable and with the coming of this year’s copy, I feel an enormous amount of happiness and satisfaction—a parent’s pride.”

our extended period of dormancy? I certainly did not do as much as other, more illustrious members did. The guilt bugs me to this day. The converse, however, is barely a question at all. Could Sopanam have done more for me than it has? Not a chance.

Sopanam isn’t just about my love for literature and the language. It is the place where I can be me. Nowhere have I felt more at home than when surrounded by this group of people, none of whom I had been wellacquainted with previously but all of whom would eventually become like friends I had known forever, and some of whom would even go on to become a major part of my life. The transition I underwent in that period, from the brooding, antisocial junior who took the interview to the friendly, affable senior editor who happily mentors new recruits, is practically the story of my college life. The way I approach life today—with a broad smile and a bad joke—owes a lot to Sopanam. From now on, whenever I think of a literature or magazine club, I am never going to envision a sophisticated meeting around a grand wooden table in a large, carpeted room with tapestries and pictures of famous authors on the walls and bookcases full of philosophical treatises, where a group of erudite, bespectacled scholars discuss Plato For some, sheer gratitude: “Sometimes, I feel like Sopanam is a big what-if in and Spinoza in clipped accents and dead-serious tones. my IISER life. Could I have done more for it during Never. Give me a Sopanam meeting: a rare, chaotic 60 | Sopanam

blend of focus and distraction, of determination and indecision, of efficiency and impracticality, of ideas both great and silly, all washed down with the tears of disappointment, laughter, and joy in equal measure. I would take that any time, any day.”

For some, the end of a journey: “My journey as part of Team Sopanam started in my first year. Sopanam was one of the few things at IISER which made me realize that IISER life is not just about science—there are many more paths to explore. I met many new people, all different in their own ways, all of whom influenced me greatly in various ways. Due to unforeseen reasons, we couldn’t put up the magazine for the last four years. But now, with the new team, we are up and running again.

Sopanam has evolved from just a magazine to a lot more. It has become a community of sorts.”

For some, a beginning: “Being the latest addition to Team Sopanam, my experience with the team can be likened to how a newborn child experiences the world. Within this short span of time, Sopanam provided me with a platform to express skills that I had seldom used before. I am very proud to be a part of this amazing team which is a perfect blend of all things wonderful.”

For some, happiness: “Working with Sopanam was very different from what I’d thought it would be, and a lot better too.

Looking back to its condition at the beginning of the year, with barely four or five working members,

it is heartwarming to see how much progress we have made, and the plans that we’re making for the future as we bring out this year’s edition. This wouldn’t have been possible without the collective effort of the whole team and I’m very glad to be a part of it. Here’s to Sopanam, and of course, to Nadi who managed to keep this unruly flock in line!”

For some, satisfaction: “Working with Team Sopanam was a fantastic experience. The goal of reviving the magazine was a hard one, and we worked tirelessly for a whole year to achieve it, which is why it is incredibly satisfying to witness the coming of this year’s edition. Team Sopanam is incredible as there are people here who I can rely on, people who are proficient at their work, and having them trust me was the biggest motivation.

At first, I was doubtful if I’d fit in, but now, Sopanam feels like home. The senior members kept each other in check, which created a fun yet productive work environment. We had a lot on the plate, with many side projects, but this team managed to get it done because it is this team. Finally, this year’s Sopanam, brought to you by the blood, sweat and tears of Team Sopanam. Hope you like it.”

For some, a celebration: “This is where I’m supposed to say a few words about Sopanam, but frankly, I don’t think I’d do it any justice by putting it into mere words. Sopanam is an experience. One cannot truly understand what it’s like until one joins it. I didn’t too, until I became Sopanam | 61

a part of the gang. It’s one thing to watch the show, but to be a part of it, that is something else entirely.

The sleepless nights where our brains were clearly not capable of continuing the editing sessions, the innumerable impractical ideas that provided constant entertainment, the repetitive act of straying off the topic and getting dragged by the ear back to it by our dear Nadi, these memories are not something that can be conveyed to another person by any form of media.

Every session of Sopanam has left me with a smile on my face, a treasured memory in my mind. So now, rather than going on about my times with Sopanam, here’s a shout out for all those of you who want to know what it’s like to be a part of the team, to be a part of the family. Join us at our rebirth and let’s make some memories together.”

For some, a responsibility: “Varsity years shape the very character of a person, or that’s what they say. But the responsibility of a university doesn’t end in meting out slides and sending students to grad schools abroad. Its responsibility, our responsibility, also includes commenting on the society and discerning the good from the bad, the monochrome from the grey. That’s where Sopanam comes in, we all come in. We’re not just any college mouthpiece, we are the society’s mirror. At this juncture of a seminal time in Sopanam’s (and India’s?) history, when we are in the phase of a “rebirth”, I, the so-called in-house poet and editor, would like to thank all the legends who made Sopanam possible: from Sajesh, our mentor, to our present leader, Nadi, 62 | Sopanam

who have spent sleepless nights trying to bring out the magazine against all odds. We’ll strive to work harder and build Sopanam the way our former members had dreamt of, perhaps even better: a true social and literary magazine. T.S. Eliot famously said, “Oxford is very pretty, but I don’t like to be dead.” It’s our choice how we’d like to see Sopanam in the coming years, dead or a rising phoenix, alive and kicking!”

For some, a revival: “It all started two years ago, when came a message that invited students to join the magazine team.

Sopanam had been inactive, said the mail, and my interest was immediately piqued, and I wanted to be part of its renewal. I was ready to work for Sopanam, to revive it, and become part of it. Unfortunately, Sopanam had to remain dormant, but not for long.

With another round of invites to join the Sopanam team, and submissions from students, we were ready to roll, and the end result is what you hold in your hands! This copy of Sopanam is not just a revival, but also a testament to the work put in by each of the contributors, and the magazine team. I hope you enjoy the experience of reading through this edition, and appreciate our toils with submissions for the next edition!”

For some, a reward: “The last year has been wonderful thanks in no small part to the magazine. From editing marathons that stretched on till midnight, to hour-long debates about a single word, the last year has given me a healthy

appreciation for the subtle art of editing and all the effort that goes into publishing a magazine. Kudos to all the hard work put in by the other editors and designers. Of course, none of this would have been possible without Nadi, who single-handedly managed to bring to order the motley crew that is Team Sopanam. But most of all, it was wonderful to see the response from the IISER community—your support and participation made this year-long labour of love that much more rewarding.”

For some, a sense of awe: “As I look back and reflect on my experiences with team Sopanam this past year, I am filled with awe at what we’ve collectively been able to accomplish. It has certainly not been easy. Right from the beginning, there was extreme pressure to revive the magazine after its two-year hiatus, and the collective feeling that this had to be our year. Thanks to the dedicated efforts of all our team members, the dream has finally been realized. Props to the designers for going the extra mile and being phenomenal, and to Nadi and Manas for always keeping us motivated and focused on the ultimate goal, even when things weren’t going so well.

Honestly, witnessing firsthand the transformation of the magazine from a collective dream to a reality has been something special which I will cherish forever.”

so much more than a magazine for the people who’ve truly poured out their hearts and souls into making it.

There used to be a time when Sopanam was just the annual magazine. Those days are gone. Sopanam has started to make its presence felt on social media. You can now find us on Facebook, Instagram and Twitter.

We have a blog too! In the days to come, somebody will hopefully walk up to us and say, “You know what?

That mag was a damn good read!”. Honestly, the magazine was a bit overdue. But give it time. Quality work, after all, does take quality time. While we’re rebuilding our magazine, I want you all to pick up a piece of paper and give voice to your thoughts. We want them to be heard. Especially on our blog, where space is virtually limitless. In which case, why not dig deeper, and put out some good articles?”

For some, a part of them: “When I joined Team Sopanam in September, it was just a magazine to me. A magazine where students from different batches were working together.

But as we started spending time together to put everything in place, it started to mean something. It was an unforgettable experience: the meetings in the Discussion Room, me being completely disinterested in the memes and jokes and just doodling away, Nadi bringing us back in track and us working during the summer from all over the world. And now, after For some, a sense of belonging: almost a year, I have come to realise that Sopanam “As a freshman, I found it easy to join a club I could isn’t just a magazine. It is a lot more than that. It is easily relate to. Sopanam was the only place where I a part of me. It is a part of you. It is a medium that found people whose wavelengths matched mine. It is unites us in unique ways.”

Sopanam | 63

OFF BE A

64 | Sopanam

t

GAYATRI ANAND

Tripping

Over the Truth

The Doors of Perception (1954) by Aldous Huxley relates his experiences while taking mescaline, a psychoactive drug derived from the peyote cactus, as part of an experiment conducted by British psychiatrist Humphrey Osmond. It gets its title from a phrase in William Blake’s poem ‘The Marriage of Heaven and Hell’: “If the doors of perception were cleansed every thing would appear to man as it is, Infinite.” The book takes the form of Huxley’s recollections about the experience and his reactions to different stimuli such as art and music while under the influence of the drug.

In his drug-addled reflections, he finds Cézanne’s Self-Portrait in a Straw Hat exceptionally pretentious (“Who on earth does he think he is?”), while Vermeer and his French contemporaries, the Le Nain brothers, are described as the greatest painters of human still lives. On Botticelli’s Judith, “…the forms of folded drapery are so strange and dramatic that they catch the eye and in this way force the miraculous act of sheer existence upon the attention”. In the realm of music, Gesualdo’s madrigals were “…a kind of bridge back to the human world”, while Alban Berg’s Lyric Suite sounded “rather funny”.

Huxley also touches upon the concept of Mind at Large, the idea that the human mind filters reality because it is incapable of handling every single detail that the senses perceive. He believed that psychoactive drugs could partly remove this filter.

His first experience with mescaline convinced him that the drug provided more insight, rather than dampen reality, and he was to remain a dedicated psychonaut for the rest of his life. After his first wife died of cancer and he himself received a terminal diagnosis, he strongly believed that tripping would ease the passage into that good night. On his deathbed, barely able to speak due to laryngeal cancer, he asked his second wife to inject him with “LSD, 100 μg, intramuscular.” We will never know how Huxley’s last trip went, but his experiments with psychedelia helped kickstart the American social revolution of the ‘60s. His photograph can be found among those on the album cover of The Beatles’ Sgt. Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band. Jim Morrison’s band gets its name from The Doors of Perception. Timothy Leary and Allen Ginsberg, of “turn on, tune in, drop out” infamy, were inspired by Huxley’s style of shamanistic pseudoscience. It is safe to say that the book didn’t just envision the future, it changed it.

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AN ICY MYSTERY JOHN RAO

When it comes to obscure and possibly underrated video games, I can’t help but think of the 2009 survival horror title Cryostasis: Sleep of Reason. As a first-person shooter, it can’t be considered to have the best graphics or gameplay, but the setting and plot are sensational.

The game is set in 1981, aboard a Russian nuclear-powered icebreaker named “North Wind”, which has been shipwrecked and frozen in an Arctic wasteland. The main character is Alexander Nesterov, a Russian meteorologist who finds the ship and decides to investigate it. There are two unique elements to the game. The first is that, instead of the traditional health bar, there is a temperature indicator which shows the main character’s body temperature. Any damage taken results in lowering of body temperature and to stay alive, the player must find sources of heat. This adds to the chilly and claustrophobic setting.

The second — something that sets this game apart — is Mind Echo, Nesterov’s ability to take control of the minds of fallen crew members as they were, moments before their death. He can not only relive the events that had occurred but can also change them with his actions.

What I really liked about the game is its innovative storytelling. The immersive and interactive experience that comes with stories is what made me fall in love with gaming ever since I was a child, and Cryostasis is a treat in that aspect. The snippets of plot which the player gathers from Mind Echo and other clues form pieces to a puzzle which he puts together to learn about the ship’s past and possibly take control of it to avoid the tragedy. The story also contains allusions to a popular Bessarabian fairy tale “The Flaming Heart of Danko” by Maxim Gorky, and the player uncovers parts of it throughout the game. Such a creative storyline, along with gripping gameplay and visuals makes Cryostasis a breathtaking adventure.

If you’re a Soviet era fan, a gaming buff looking for something other than the usual Call of Duty or Battlefield, or just a regular guy caught in a long semester break, Cryostasis is a highly recommended play.

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WINNER

BEST FOREIGN LANGUAGE FILM

GOLDEN GLOBE

WINNER

BEST FOREIGN LANGUAGE FILM

ACADEMY AWARD

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Imagine Claude Lanzmann’s pathbreaking Shoah— shot in a hand-held, intimate, in-the-moment shooting style—squeezed into 107 minutes of abject terror.

Well, that is exactly what László Nemes’ first feature, Son of Saul, is; or at least what the filmmaker intended it to be.

For readers unacquainted with world cinema, think of Schindler’s List, expunge the gloss of Spielberg-esque sentimentality, put in a substantial dose of mind-numbing macabre, and voilà, you get an unfailing recipe for an Academy Award.

Nemes has built his film entirely in Auschwitz-Birkenau, deep within the Second World War. The time is crucial, as a lot of events in the film can only be made sense of by taking into account the growing impetuosity of the Nazi regime, the advancing Soviet forces, and an imminent Allied victory.

Protagonist Saul Ausländer (played by Géza Röhrig) hails from Hungary, from where the mass deportation of Jews only occurred in 1944. But what sets him apart is that he is a member of the controversial Sonderkommandos—a squad of Jews ordered by the German overlords to facilitate in the killing of other Jews. Röhrig, quite unlike an unprofessional actor (he is a poet and a former teacher), portrays Saul brilliantly, with the stoical resignedness expected of a person whose very survival rests on shepherding his fellow Jews unwittingly to their deaths. Things go haywire as he witnesses the cold-blooded asphyxiation of a child

who somehow survived the gas chamber. Saul confronts the prison doctor Miklós (Sándor Zsótér)— who turns out to be a Hungarian Jew himself—and convinces him not to perform an autopsy on the dead boy. Saul decides to give him a proper Jewish burial.

The rest of the film revolves around Saul’s quixotic efforts to find a rabbi; meeting hapless Jews on the way, getting into armed mutiny, and waltzing with death.

Nemes uses shallow focus techniques that blur everything that is not immediately in front of his protagonist’s face, so we are left to interpret the background through a series of horrifying sounds—cries, gasps, footsteps, blows—that leave us claustrophobic, and at times, nauseous. This is where the debutant filmmaker fails to attain the dramatic perfection of Shoah or even Polanski’s commercially successful The Pianist.

Nemes, in his attempt to recreate the stifling atmosphere of a typical Nazi concentration camp, forgets to offer insight. In much of the film, the viewer is left to comprehend and conjure up the scenes, grappling with obscure visual cues and faint morbid sounds.

However, in all fairness to the then thirty-eight-yearold debutant, Son of Saul is a masterpiece; a job well done. The allegory of the dead boy deftly brings out the bedevilled attempts by the Sonderkommandos to exhume humanity from the ashes of their own.

Sublime, provocative, but at times superfluous, Son of Saul is yet another commendable take on the Holocaust; but like the Holocaust itself, insight is elusive.

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(THE KILLER, THE KING, THE HILLBILLY AND THE MAN IN BLACK) {THE MILLION DOLLAR QUARTET} GAYATRI ANAND

On a cold December night in 1956, four musicians happened to bump into each other at the Sun Record Studios in Memphis, Tennessee. The resulting impromptu jam session would be cemented in music history as a seminal moment in rock and roll. The musicians in question were Elvis Presley, Johnny Cash, Jerry Lee Lewis, and Carl Perkins.

Perkins, who was a household name at that point due to the massive chart success of “Blue Suede Shoes”, was in to record new material, and Jerry Lee Lewis, still relatively unknown, was recruited to play the piano. Cash, wellknown by then in the country music circle, had dropped in to listen in on the session. The up-and-coming Presley, who had appeared on The Ed Sullivan Show for his infamous performance earlier that year, had turned up to meet the owner of the studio and happened to hear a recording of Perkins’ session. The four of them began to play together casually, and Jack Clement, the sound engineer, recalls saying “I think I’d be remiss not to record this”, and so he did.

Country, gospel, and R&B featured heavily on the choice of songs, with Presley taking lead vocals on nearly all the tracks, and Lewis on the piano. Perkins plays guitar and supplies harmony vocals, only taking the lead on “Keeper of the Key”. Cash joins Presley on “Peace in the Valley”, “Isle of Golden Dreams” and “Blueberry Hill”, of which only “Peace in the Valley” was released. The quartet performed several gospel hymns like “When the Saints Go Marching In”, “On the Jericho Road” and “Down by the Riverside”. Presley tries to imitate Jackie Wilson on “Don’t Be Cruel” (one of his own hits), and he and Lewis can be heard experimenting with Chuck Berry’s “Brown Eyed Handsome Man”.

An article was published the following day in the Memphis Press-Scimitar under the title, “Million Dollar Quartet”.

The recording was first released in 1981 and contained only seventeen tracks, but the discovery of more tracks in subsequent years led to the release of The Complete Million Dollar Quartet. A total of 43 different tracks were released, most of them incomplete and none of them pristine. The recordings were unrehearsed and interspersed with chatter, never meant for commercial release. It was just four friends playing old favourites and sharing the joy of making music.

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TIME CAPSULE

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ITSAV AND IISM Michael Jordan once remarked that to learn how to succeed, one must first learn how to fail. This quote, coming from arguably the greatest basketball player of all time, is representative of the sheer persistence, hard work, and determination required to excel in any field. For many of us, sport is one such area where we desire to shine. For others, it is a means of relaxation, and a chance to chill with friends. And of course, there are a few people for whom these reasons intersect.

In addition to this, sports are a great way to remain physically fit and pick up several essential skills like teamwork and leadership, to name a few. It is quite understandable then that they are an integral part of daily life for many of us IISERians. However, it doesn’t end there. Apart from the daily scrimmages, IISER organizes several tournaments, the perfect platform for budding young sportsmen and sportswomen to display their talents to a general audience.

Among these tournaments, the two most noteworthy ones are ITSAV (the intra-IISER TVM sports meet) and IISM (the inter-IISER sports meet). Last year, ITSAV took place during the second weekend of September, with its main objectives being to encourage student participation in different sports and to act as a precursor to IISM. The various sports played were football, basketball, cricket, kho kho, badminton, table tennis, volleyball, throwball, kabbaddi, chess, and athletics. Of course, organizing such an event came with its fair share of challenges. Rain often played spoilsport and disrupted many of the outdoor games, requiring them to be rescheduled. However, it can certainly be considered a matter of collective

pride that no amount of rain could dampen the spirits of the students and administration alike, who took painstaking efforts to ensure that everything ran smoothly. The result was nothing short of a grand success; a dazzling display of talent which took everyone’s breath away.

After ITSAV, preparations for IISM, which is conducted every December, began in earnest. The collective dream was to make IISER TVM proud on the big stage. Finally, the big moment arrived; the weeklong tournament was conducted in IISER Mohali between 18th and 22nd December. The contingent, which consisted of the institute’s finest athletes, was eager to make some noise and reap the benefits of countless hours of toil. And they did so in an emphatic manner! Everyone put in one hundred and ten percent effort and left no regrets behind.

The collective feeling of belonging and support among the students was heartwarming. The results simply speak for themselves. For the first time in the institute’s history, the boys’ basketball and football teams reached the finals and earned silver medals. The other main success story was athletics. Kedar (Batch ‘14), was awarded the Best Athlete of the Tournament award. The girls’ 4×400 relay team bagged 2nd place.

All in all, the students earned four gold, four silver, and three bronze medals to finish fourth overall out of ten participating institutions.

This collective excellence has acted as a catalyst to speed up the development of sports facilities in our institute so that such standards can be carried forward and the flag of IISER TVM can always fly high.

ABHISHEK R

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Curiosity is the engine that drives progress, and progress is incremental. It grows through healthy discussion and the sharing of ideas that would otherwise remain confined to the leaves of a book. The official science club of IISER Trivandrum was set up in 2009, nearly a year after the inception of the institute. What began as an attempt to promote discussions that one wouldn’t normally encounter in the classroom has now grown into an entity with a greater purpose: to foster a generation of curious minds that will drive the progress of our nation and the world. Since 2012, the club has been tasked with organizing the Anvesha festival, the annual science fest of IISER TVM. The 2017 edition of the fest was the first Anvesha to be wholly hosted in the permanent campus. The fest saw the return of classic events like Crime Scene Investigation (CSI) and Aficionados, the intra-IISER expo. A melange of novel and engaging events were also thrown into the mix, like Integration Bee, Wordsworth, Error-404 (the coding competition) and Rebus puzzle solving. However, a few traditional events like Utsuk, the science quiz for school students, and Jigyasa, the intercollegiate quiz had to be cancelled due to technical delays. Despite the minor hiccups faced in organizing Anvesha 2017, the fest was a learning experience for the club, and the lessons learnt from the pitfalls in planning and organization will be paramount in making future editions of the fest better.

The 2018 edition of the fest is slated to happen on the 26th, 27th and 28th of October 2018, and preparations are well underway to ensure a bigger and better Anvesha than the previous installments. It will see the return of the signature events from the previous editions, as well as many new games and competitions bound to make the event truly festive. The year also marks the first time that the club will seek funding from external sponsors.

This move is aimed at slowly reducing the dependence on institute funding to run the fest. As a part of IISER TVM hitting ten years of existence, the club also plans to organize a series of outreach events targeted at school students and the general public, including a public lecture series. With this, we hope to enhance the public perception of IISERs and the implications of the science we do in furthering the progress of humanity.

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Think all IISERians have their noses buried in textbooks all the time?

Think again. Ishya, IISER Thiruvananthapuram’s annual cultural fest, is a celebration of the myriad interests of this vibrant student community. For an institute as young as ours, it is truly heartening to see that Ishya is of the same calibre as cultural fests in other, older institutes nationwide. The last edition of Ishya was made possible by our title sponsors: Canara Bank and Hexa, an efficient research management tool which was created by our very own illustrious alumnus Ranjit Singh.

Ishya kicks off with the curtain raiser, followed by a series of literary, cultural, and art events leading up to a three-day long cultural extravaganza. This year, the renowned social activist Ashla Rani was the chief guest, who spoke on the importance of palliative care and compassion. The inaugural event was followed by literary events across multiple languages and arts & crafts competitions for the artists among us to display their talents. Various fun box events kept the spirit of Ishya alive. Gaming competitions thrilled all the ardent gamers in the campus. Lumera Obscura, the photography competition, and Avant Garde, the short film competition, received a ton of exceptional submissions. There was also a graffiti competition, where the students came together to give life to their own interpretations of the theme ‘Bon Appetit’.

The week leading up to the main event, a.k.a. Promo Week, started off with Batch Night, organised and conducted by the then-newest

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batch at IISER, Batch ’17. The promo week saw the campus following a different dress code every day and an open mic event in front of the Central Dining Hall. The prelims and semi-finals of Domitor, the personality contest, were conducted during this week.

The weekend saw the campus come alive: three days packed with cultural events and various competitions. Intra-collegiate events included the spot choreography contest Step Up, the duet competition Aalaap, the group dance competition Tarang, and the fashion show Rawaaz, all of them massive successes. There was a performance by Batch ‘14 dedicated to their graduating seniors, followed by one final performance by Batch ‘13.

However, Ishya is not for IISERians alone. This year saw an enthusiastic turnout from colleges all over Kerala. We had the singing competition Awaaz, and the group dance competition Mudra, where the best talent from across the state dazzled on stage. IISER’s active quizzing scene was lit up by the presence of Major Chandrakant ‘Captain’ Nair, who hosted the open quiz, Put Funda. The fest culminated with the Pro Show, featuring a magical performance by the progressive Carnatic rock band Agam. It was an unbelievable night, and the electrified atmosphere made many of us rediscover our love for the music of our land, rocking out to Agam’s familiar-yet-unfamiliar renditions of classic Carnatic songs. All in all, Ishya 2017 was a fantastic success and was easily one of the most memorable and exciting events of the year for all of us.

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Republic Day

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Onam

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CONVOCATION 2018

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Acknowledgement Sopanam has been a dream come true for many of us, and its realization has been made possible by the support we have received from our fellow students, professors, and the administration. It is only just that we express how grateful we are for their help in bringing out this year’s copy of Sopanam, the annual magazine of IISER Thiruvananthapuram, and make known the roles many have silently played in aiding the process.

We wish to thank the Director of our institute, Dr V. Ramakrishnan, for his encouragement. We are indebted to Dr R C Nath, the Dean of Student Affairs, for his constant guidance and support. The Registrar and the rest of the administration have been extremely helpful with the whole process of bringing out the copy that you now hold in your hands. We would also like to thank the professors of IISER for their valuable inputs, and suggestions to improve the magazine. We are thankful to the IT Support for the systems and softwares that were used in the making of Sopanam.

This magazine is an amalgamation of the literary creativity of the students and professors of IISER. The amount of effort, both mental and physical, that has been put in by these incredible people is truly worthy of praise. There are some students who deserve a special mention for their help in shaping this magazine. Sajesh Vijayan (PhD), whose invaluable suggestions aided in shaping the magazine, has been a wonderful mentor, Meera CS (batch ‘14), again, for her valuable suggestions and Adithiya Dinesh (batch ‘15) for her contribution in editing the Malayalam articles, Sethulakshmy ES (batch ‘13) and Midhun Bhaskaran (batch ‘13), both of who, in spite of being in their final year, helped get an idea of the printers, Aby Philip (batch ‘14), Muthusamy Sharath (batch ‘15), Subramanya Hegde (PhD) for their help in transcribing the interview and Nikhil Alex Verghese (batch ‘17), Sagnik Saha (batch ‘16), Ajay MK (batch ‘16) and Adithya S J (batch ‘17) for providing us event photographs. We would like to specially thank Aditya Kurup (batch ‘17) for his brilliant rendition of this edition’s cover page design. We couldn’t have been happier with his work. We would also like to place on record our gratitude to those who made submissions and have patiently waited to get a copy of the magazine with your work in print.

The rebirth of Sopanam has been a tremendous task. Many sleepless nights have been spent in bringing this dream to fruition. It was an incredible lesson for all of us at the magazine: several mistakes were made and criticisms drawn but what kept us going was a common dream to make the magazine a reality.

Finally, we thank you, our beloved reader. With you, our dream has finally come true.

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to be continued...

NOTES