Spark - April 2014 Issue by Spark Editor

Spark Word. World. Wisdom April 2014

Fiction | Non-fiction | Poetry| The Lounge Sparkâ&#x20AC;&#x201D;April 2014 | Journeys

05 April 2014 Dear Reader, As Spring gives way to Summer, life gives way to journeys! Spark’s April issue is all about journeys – the literal, the physical, the emotional, the metaphorical. Read on for poetry, fiction and non-fiction that will make you ponder, chuckle, and sympathise. Here is another Spark issue whose diversity in themes we are delighted about – and we hope so will you. Go on, read the issue, and send us your comments at feedback@sparkthemagazine.com!

Contributors

Till we meet the next time, we hope the summer dawns on a fun note!

Parth Pandya

- Editors

Anupama Krishnakumar Divya Ananth M.Mohankumar

Prashila Naik Preeti Madhusudhan Ram Govardhan

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Saranyan BV

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Spark—April 2014 | Journeys

Inside this Issue

POETRY My Sole-Mate by Divya Ananth Lineage by Shobhana Kumar Journey’s End by M. Mohankumar The Flight of the Monarch Butterflies by Parth Pandya Trudging by M. Mohankumar Chillness by Shobhana Kumar FICTION Afterlife by Ram Govardhan Utopia by Prashila Naik Absence by Anupama Krishnakumar NON-FICTION Tighter Breathing and Zero at the Bone by Saranyan BV Memoirs of Paris by Divya Ananth THE LOUNGE SLICE OF LIFE| In Search of the Warrior Poet of Love by Preeti Madhusudhan

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Poetry My Sole-Mate by Divya Ananth Divya Ananth pens a poetic tribute to a pair of footwear – a friend through myriad journeys. Entwining lace, enticing face, Bewitching Black Beauty Perched high on a rack

You bit me so hard And I cursed you with all my heart… Yet, you walked with me, ran with me, Sometimes you played silly games Making me trip and fall

Forever with me, Through rain and shine, heat and mud, Over puddles, on lawns, Across continents, across boundaries, The lilt in my step you knew, 4

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Sometimes the long, sad trudge too

Age has crept in and the wrinkles show, The lovely block heels, now frail, The charming young face, now tired, Your journeys are over But I still have a long way to go

I look fondly at you, The places you’ve been to, The paths you’ve kissed, The heat you’ve borne, The dirt you’ve worn, As I slip into another pair, I realize I’ve grown.

Divya Ananth is an advertising copywriter – a creative consultant. She simply loves to travel, and Carnatic music is her anchor in an otherwise crazy life. She’s also a busy mom of two adorable boys, and juggles cricket and tennis classes, organizes play dates and reads Geronimo Stilton with them. Writing, to her, is an intimately joyful experience.

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Fiction Afterlife by Ram Govardhan A man is on the brink of finishing one journey, and wonders about what the next one will be like. Ram Govardhan pens a story. Is the end of this journey the beginning of the other? If that’s the case, wouldn’t it be the greatest escape he would have ever enjoyed? Isn’t David going to swing from the hangman’s noose within a day? As the halter tightens, aren’t his wriggles and exertions going to fall flat before life gives up? His body, already lifeless, after the mandatory minutes, would go taut and, when they remove the hood, untie hands, legs and set them free, will he still be he or it? Like any other inanimate thing, isn’t David more likely to be called it than he? And, isn’t our language profuse enough to call it variously: body, dead body, stiff, corpse, carcass, and cadaver? And, in well-mannered circles, remains?

every life on earth end in sad or bad enough circumstances? Even when someone has led an adequately solemn life, aren’t the offspring sufficiently capable of rendering the old man’s death scandalous? But, first of all, why is he so inquisitive about the hereafter? Hasn’t he shrugged off suggestions of afterlife all his life? Is the dread of death triggering all sorts of hopes to cling on to something to somehow make it even if it is a mere possibility? Wasn’t he tremendously successful in an impoverished nation where, for everyone who made it, thousands are left behind? If that feat was abundantly phenomenal, what’s wrong in expecting another miracle when the gallows are in your face?

Why should he bother about semantics? Or Why is he so fascinated with the moments why should he worry about the disgraceful between the beginning of hanging and the end of this birth? Doesn’t every journey of 6

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final gasp? Is there a ring of truth to the belief that, just before the finality of death, a sort of ‘life review’ blazes through mind in which life-changing moments flash in quick succession? Of course this journey has gone horribly wrong, but, armed with such priceless hindsight, with a bit of luck, can’t he set his next one right?

dead and gone? If yes, wouldn’t they need some sort of intelligent contraption like brain to log in? But who on earth is allowed to take one’s brain with him after he has kicked the bucket? Hasn’t David treasured his body and kept it so fit right from his adolescence by subjecting it to all sorts of slimnastics, aerobics, parallel bars, and calisthenics? If afterlife turns out to be a life without this body, however sweet the next world may be, how could he embrace it? Wasn’t he lucky enough to have been born to such gorgeous parents, inheriting such a handsome body? Why would he even entertain thoughts of entering an ugly body in next life? Or why should he accept an afterlife that is formless? How can you relish the pleasures of the world without a physical form to receive them? If it’s really going to be a formless existence, wouldn’t he wish to end the whole cycle of life and consciousness here and now?

Or why is he suddenly so seized of the so-called eternal journey of the soul? Even if he has read enough of Russell, given the circumstances, isn’t keeping sanguine hopes alive the way forward? Is it true that a lifeless body is soulless too? Can soul exist after brain, or its alter ego, mind, had perished? If souls can hang in thin air, why on earth would they make our bodies their home? And, if there is indeed an afterlife, how do we deal with it when we are no more? Is there a mystic who can unravel the highway to the wondrous spirit world? Has anyone savoured the blissful realm of afterlife? Can we access the hereafter through yogic reflection or other meditative techniques that are on discounted If perishing is an inescapable law of nature, sale? Has anyone accessed afterlife while why is soul an exception? And if soul is mabeing alive, or is it accessible only to the terial and tangible enough to measure and, 7

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as the western physician claimed, if it indeed weighs 21 grams, where does it reside in the human body? Or, are the 21 grams distributed evenly undetectably throughout the frame despite being a quantifiable material?

more precious than all the wherewithal he has bequeathed? Why should he boil if all of them discard his surname despite his blood in their veins? Hasn’t someone asked what’s in a name? He asks, what’s in a surname?

Or is it going to be the factual end of journey, is it going to be the eternal oblivion where death is the truest end of life and consciousness? Or will it be the infernal hell, the kingdom of Hades, for him to live among the devils and condemned spirits? Or, since he was born in India, is afterlife nothing but a reward and punishment system that goes by Chitragupta’s database?

Does it really matter if his handsome body was dissected for the medicos to know how chain smoking clogs up the tubes? Or how loss of cellular immunity causes irreversible havoc? Or how the envenomed malignancy travels through the body, dismembering limbs, causing recurrent upper respiratory tract infections, and spreading the extent of tuberculosis, toxoplasmosis of brain, canOn the eve of hanging day, does it matter as didiasis of trachea, and esophagus? to who appropriates which of his acres, es- What’s wrong in meeting the few visitors tates and paddy-fields that he had passion- waiting to have one last glimpse of him? ately accumulated? Or which of his wives From the squares of mesh that separates the usurps which of his favourite farmhouses? convicts and visitors, given his failing eyes, Or which of his children cursed him to no can he see them clearly? end? Or which of his mistresses prayed for Why should he be annoyed if the whore he his long life even after knowing about him? frequented is first in the queue to see him Or which of his employees swindle from just a day before he goes to the gallows? which of his companies? Should he cry when she laments her gratiIs he a fool to expect his wives and children to travel a thousand miles to take his body? Hasn’t he ruined their lives irreparably? Haven’t they abandoned him? Or was it he? Either way, hasn’t it been over five years since they saw him last? Why should they forgive him now, or posthumously, even if he has made their lives secure? Isn’t dignity

tude for gifting a swanky bungalow in the heart of the town? Or should he thank her for bringing Bill Withers, Tracy Chapman and Santana’s albums even if it’s his last day on earth? What is the point of her tears? His tears? And what if she says she will end this journey and join him in heaven a little later? How charitable is it of her to expect 8

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David to be in heaven? The point is, isn’t Isn’t such a graceful gesture, a good enough she alluding to the next world? idea to catch few hours of wholesome sleep Isn’t the woman standing behind the whore even though it is the last night of this jourvery familiar? Is she the woman whose fam- ney? ily of four was subjected to the ‘rarest of rare’ crime that he committed in a fit of rage? Why is she here? Does she really wants to see someone who had wiped out the whole of her family? Wasn’t she behind the family lawyers to push the case to higher and higher courts, up to the highest one? And weren’t they after him until execution was pronounced? Or, has she come to spit on him one last time?

How courteous are the guards who woke him up, gave him a fresh set of clothes, and asked him to have a bath? Aren’t they wasting new clothes just before hanging him? How polite are they in wee hours while serving him tea, breakfast, and tea again? How merciful of the jailer to have granted him a piece of paper and pen? Or, was the officer so sure that David will never use the pen to kill himself?

“How can I forget what you did to my family? But I am forgiving you,” she said, “Will you pardon me for all the curses I called upon you?”

He has a piece of paper to write and the right of last wish; isn’t this having and eating it too in prison parlance?

Isn’t she a great soul to have travelled all the way just to forgive him? Weren’t her words benevolent enough to move seasoned criminals? Can anyone be more gracious? And will he not be a fool not to believe her even it was for a day? Or night?

An hour after daybreak, the jailer wondered why David wrote ‘Afterlife? There must be one’ on the piece of paper? Why did he cry ‘Afterlife’ as his last wish? Is there a way to know without journeying to meet David in the next world?

Ram Govardhan’s first novel, Rough with the Smooth, was longlisted for the 2009 Man Asian Literary Prize, The Economist-Crossword 2011 Award and published by Leadstart Publishing, Mumbai. His short stories have appeared in Asian Cha, Quarterly Literary Review of Singapore, Muse India, Asia Writes, Open Road Review, Cerebration, Spark and several other Asian and African literary journals. He lives, works in Chennai, India. Email: ram.govardhan@ymail.com 9

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Poetry Lineage by Shobhana Kumar A woman visits her ancestral village with her family after many years. Shobhana Kumar’s poem is a mix of memories, contemplations and the incidents that happen during the visit.

and one day we arrive— touristy travellers, sunglasses, backpacks, mineral water, et al, at our ancestral villagetemple-opt to pay homage to a long-forgotten god. abandoned, the priest says— your barren womb is proof enough.

the home that once housed our great grandmother stares, aloof, amidst it all.

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ma turns a child—

at the god’s altar,

points to this and that,

ma prays for us.

in a voice that trembles

but my mind wanders

under the weight of memory—

to that moment when He

shadowed imprints of earthen

forsook grandmother.

lamps that once pushed night out of their house’s days;

why would He remember

half-buried mounds

to guard over us,

of earthen stoves

three continents away?

whose aromas somehow found their way into our modular kitchens, some laughter in the courtyard,

Shobhana Kumar’s first volume of poetry, ‘The Voices Never Stop,’ was published by Writers Workshop, Calcutta in 2012. Her work is featured in ‘The Dance of the Peacock—An Anthology of English Poetry from India’ edited by Dr. Vivekanand Jha and will appear in a forthcoming anthology of contemporary women’s writing from India. Her work has also appeared or is forthcoming in several journals in India, USA, Canada and the UK. Origami Poems Project ‘has recently published her first micro-chap book, ‘It’s winter after spring.’ She has authored five books of nonfiction. Her short stories are featured in New Asian Writing and will be part of the 2013 anthology. Her second volume of poetry, ‘*Conditions Apply’ will be published by Writers Workshop in 2014.

fear in a far corner.

and then, she stops at the room where she last saw her mother alive; seven births had finally robbed grandmother of her eighth child.

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Non-fiction Tighter Breathing and Zero at the Bone

by Saranyan BV Words can carry you to realms where the imagery superimposes on the real, the ‘now’ on a different period in cosmic time. Saranyan’s visit to the Daulatabad Fort gives him one such experience. Recently, I visited the Ajanta and Ellora caves near Aurangabad in Maharastra. A small de-tour took me to the magnificent Daulatabad fort, hurdled by a demanding gradient to the top.

population of Delhi and changing the name from Devagiri to Daulatabad. It is legend that our own Don Quixote later shifted the capital back to Delhi – lock, stock and barrel.

The fort wore a weary look, but wasn’t abandoned entirely; the archeological department’s little office was at the base. Before I embarked upon the journey, I had updated my knowledge of history from the website of Maharastra tourism.

Reaching the Fort, I had second thoughts about scaling it, for it was too steep and too desolate. There were a handful of visitors, mostly families from nearby villages. The older Marathi men wore their typical white head gear, the women wore their sari wound through the legs. In contrast, there was a fair, aristocratic-looking family of five were there, speaking Telugu. They looked as if they belonged to the erstwhile Nizam, despite the flagrant poverty exhibited through their attire. Also there was a lady from Denmark, walking around with her DSLR, accompanied by a tourist guide who spoke broken English. I was not sure if the

The city of Devagiri was founded in 1187 by the Yadava king Bhilian V, with the fort constructed later during the reign of Singhana II (1210-46). It was captured by Ala-udDin Kalji in 1294, marking the first Muslim invasion of the Deccan. Muhammed-binTughluq sought to make this city the capital, literally, forcibly transferring the entire

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lady spoke English either, but the two by the trap. The defenders didn’t really have seemed to be getting along fine. to make an effort. We arrived at the foot of the fort where something resembled a huge door, painstakingly carved. It even had a padlock. I learnt that it wasn’t a door at all, it was a falsestructure embedded on the rock-solid walls to look like a door. The simple decoy was purported to mislead the enemies who would tire themselves out in an effort to break-open the darwazah. The defenders, by then, would organize the counter-attack from the real door at the flank, where the passage was narrow, barely able to allowing two cavaliers to ride side by side.

A creaky modern bridge was in place to take the tourists inside circumventing the original path. The bridge hung precariously across the moat which had neither crocodiles nor water, but filled with boulders gawky enough to the break bones.

The guide explained that the path multiplied into several chutes after some distance, forming an intricate, dark maze, all of them ending blind except for one. The invading army, the guide informed, killed each other in the pandemonium and darkness created

reached a blind end. I was not sure if I returned to where I had started. The more I tried, the more I was baffled. After sometime I was sure I had lost my way completely. No trace of light anywhere. In some places the floor was wet, the little puddles

The complacency of city-life gave vent to the prospect of exploration and adventure. I waived the bridge with contempt, cast aside the guide’s warnings about how dark the path would be, took a deep breath and slithered into the hole to explore the maze. Inside, I was carried back to historical times. I Further up, a giant rock soared rose steep, imagined that I was the General leading high and instantly. A moat went around, Kiljee’s army, all set to conquer the citadel. making it impossible for one to go forward, I was certain that my instincts would never except through the cavernous hole carved let me down, but the passage soon proved on the granite rock. The guide said that the tricky, turning dark quickly as it meandered. hole was the original passage conceived by Then the paths started diverging to the left, the architects of the fort, but long since dis- to the right, some climbed up, a few trails used. plummeted down. Every path I took

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making it difficult for me to crawl through. I tried flashing some light by fiddling with the touch-screen of my cell-phone. It was of no use. The network strength was feeble, almost dead.

didn’t know how long I waited miserably, hating the smell of bat and bat-shit, panting in desperation. The hot breath bruised my cheeks every time I sighed. I lost count of time.

I panicked.

Have you watched the mangomoth coming off from mango I tried guessing the way back, by seeds? The wings flutter with joy feeling the direction of wind, but of freedom after getting out of the air was still except for the the birth-trap. Every man is a traveler lying fanning from bat wings. Bats flew over my head and shoulders at regular intervals. dormant, until there is an opportunity. They never touched me even once – they But why do we reckon travel as a physical had no problem in detecting obstructions in event? their flight-path. The bats were fidgety, er- Don’t we travel faster in our minds, feasting ratic and in the abysmal darkness, appeared on the fodder of premonitions? Does our to take sharp curves. Trying to gauge the mind not fatten like a banana fish in our direction with the bats’ flight paths was use- excitement? I love the short story, “A perless; how would I know if they were coming fect day for Banana Fish” by JD Salinger. in or going out or trying to settle in their Maybe like the banana fish I have become nook for the night-cap? too big for this hole. The weight of my It was time to leave everything to God. Questions jumbled. Would the guide be able to get me out? Or would he have found another tourist, more affluent than me? What if a robber comes, disengages me of cash, the camera and worse, the credit cards? What if a restless soul of someone slain during Thughlaq’s times, rises from the dead and takes revenge? I lied down feeling the wall with my palms, it was impossible to squat or crouch anymore. The wall was coarse, cold like a reptile’s skin. I

body increased with each premonition, the ribs pressing deeply against my heart. I kept opening and closing my mouth, thinking this act would shrink me, make me lissome like a millipede, or like a snake. It seems a snake knows its direction using the scales under their belly. Snake… Emily Dickenson’s poem flashed like a lightening on a new moon night. ‘A narrow fellow in the grass Occasionally rides..’

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‘But never met this fellow

sharp, the hand dragged me, almost pulling my pants down. I hate showing my butt Attended or alone cleavage, I thought, tapping the hand off. A Without a tighter breathing male voice asked me to follow him as he crawled backwards. Every consonant from And zero at the bone’ his larynx seemed to say,‘ I told you so, I I prayed that there should be no snakes in told you so’. that crevice. And even if there are, not the poisonous ones, not the cobra. Why was I I followed him carefully, my limbs aching. preoccupied with only the reclusive authors It seemed to take long. during this dark hour? Emily seldom went In the beginning there was God, then there outside her room, but she discovered in her was light. In the light I saw a vicious grin own mind and spirit, in the tangible places under the thick growth of beard. which she visited often, the intensely private dominion referred to as the It was Abdul, my guide. He had a sweet ‘undiscovered continent’ and ‘landscape of smile, the smile was God. the spirit. My mind started doing rapids in the chasm of fantasy. Somebody slapped my back – the sting was

Saranyan BV is a Mumbai-based writer who came into the realm of literature by mistake but loves dwelling here. His poems and short stories have been published in many magazines in India and abroad.

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Poetry Journey’s End by M. Mohankumar When a loved one departs all of a sudden, the reality is hard to come to terms with. M. Mohankumar writes a poem that describes the emotions surrounding a journey’s end.

The manner of your leaving, so sudden and without a word, still confounds me. How could a boat overturn when the sea was calm and no gale blew? On the vast shores of this wide world I stand alone, benumbed and speechless. And like a dry, fallen leaf, tremble Mohankumar has published seven volumes of poetry in English. His poems have appeared in almost all reputed literary magazines in print in India. His first collection of short stories in English will be brought out by Authorspress, Delhi shortly. Mohankumar retired as Chief secretary to Government of Kerala.

before every passing wind. Memories are wounds that refuse to heal. Sometimes the minds flares, and slowly sinks. Then, nothing but emptinesswithin and without.

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Fiction Utopia by Prashila Naik A little boy, full of energy and jabbering away in a language she can’t follow, keeps the narrator glued to her seat on a bus journey. Prashila Naik tells us about the boy, the epitome of innocence, and what happens next.

You smile as the boy plops himself down on the first seat, instantly thinking of how you were of that age once. That age… you dwell on these two words, refusing to attribute any form of evil or malice to them, easily associating them to a utopia-like existence, momentarily dissolving the other boy in the sugariness that same utopia generates for you. “That age”, you ruefully remind yourself one last time, before focusing on the boy again. You know he is not rich, but you know he is not poor either, at least not the kind of poor that makes your heart bleed. The boy is a restless source of energy, refusing to settle down on the seat, his upper body delightfully twitching in all directions, as if attached to a spindle. You watch him

with fascination, for such sightings are what make your journey in that soiled and depressing bus bearable. An elderly woman suddenly enters the frame of your vision, the pallu of her saree on the verge of falling off her shoulders, two overflowing jute bags – with a bottle gourd secretly peeping out of one of them – balanced in her chubby arms. You instantly decide you don’t like the woman, much in the impulsive manner in which you sometimes detest the very sight of your mother. You watch her with mild distaste as she stops near the boy, silently gesturing to him to move aside so that she can sit down. The boy refuses to budge even as the woman is forced to glare and move onto the next empty seat. You simply don’t like the wom-

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an and are inadvertently delighted that you this time almost getting off his seat as his are able to witness a few more moments of father only ends up snarling for a second her travails. time. You smile again as the boy resumes his twitching, his head expertly rotating by at least a hundred and thirty degrees, as he struggles to keep the seat next to him unoccupied. “Pappa,” he yells excitedly just when you are beginning to feel mildly disinterested in his antics. You turn your head by 45 degrees to look at the approaching pappa. You are unimpressed by his appearance. The man is lean and dressed in heavily creased clothes. His skin, even through the dim light and drudgery, you can see is disgustingly rugged.

“Pappa, sit,” the boy says or at least you think he says, for you don’t understand the language he is speaking in and you only feel a mild form of relief when pappa finally sits down, the boy too settling himself down on the territory he has so painstakingly been preserving.

“Pappa”, the boy calls out and begins to twitch all over again, only you know this time the twitches are a direct aftermath of an innocent accomplishment that jaded souls like you could or would never be able to experience.

You sigh softly at the ease with which pappa ignores the textbook and turns his head to look at the young woman who has just got inside the bus. “Pappa, teacher will be very happy,” you hear the boy say in clumsily uttered English as he thrusts the same book towards his father, for a second time.

You expect the pappa to smile or nod or just sit down on the seat his son has been so carefully guarding for him. Instead you see the man snarl at the boy, taking you by surprise. “Pappa,” the boys calls out again,

You feel a strange form of uneasiness, your eyes by now glued to that seat, when the boy suddenly pulls out something that looks like a school textbook, and thrusts it towards his father. “Pappa, Hindi textbook.”

This time the father swats that hand as if it were a fly en route to his ears and that is when you spot the slight tremor in those lean arms, a tremor that you are certain owes its origins to some form of alcohol.

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You look at the boy’s by now stiff back, wishing for his own sake that he would give up. But he takes you by surprise when he springs back to mobility, this time turning himself around on the seat, pointing his finger outside, towards something you cannot see. “Pappa, xxhjhj kjjjjk hjhjhs…,” he goes on in a language you don’t understand, unmindful or probably ignoring his father’s angry glares and indifference, animated and effortless with so much earnestness that you squirm. You draw your fingers into fists, tapping one of them against the other. “ggj sjdhsj dhjsd utytasjk hhghg…,” the boy continues, his pointed finger now bent like a hook, tired but defiantly persistent. You think you can sense an increasing desperation in that boy’s voice or maybe it is just

you getting increasingly worried. You then dismiss the possibility but tell yourself to relax trying to focus on the boy’s close cropped hair that in the dull light seem to be colored in a curious combination of rust and black. You are just about letting that curiosity develop when the father places a sudden slap on the son’s face. He follows the slap with a clear admonishment in their language, his arms still shivering and his voice chillingly cold. You hear the bus engine roar just then. You can’t see the boy’s face. You lower your head and look at your fingers, their nails long and sharp, filling you up with violent ideas. You don’t look in the direction of that seat again, and spend the rest of the journey staring straight out of the seat’s window.

Prashila Naik dreams of retiring into the idyllic landscapes of Ladakh and longs for a day when every child in India will have two full meals to eat and a permanent school to attend to. When not dreaming or longing, she continues to extend her repertoire as a veteran IT professional who loves to dabble with words and discover new genres of music.

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Poetry The Flight of the Monarch Butterflies

by Parth Pandya Parth Pandya draws upon the migration and the linear lifecycle of Monarch Butterflies and compares this to the human journey, which is never only about the future but is also a lot about the past. Each year it happens this way Each year those million monarchs Are born, sprout wings, and fly off To a warm place, a continent away

Something living goes there, puts down its luggage Collapses on the bed, kicks off its shoes Orders room service, hatches some progenies And then without apology, promptly dies

A life with no correction, No retraction, no redemption No reset, no egress No nostalgia, no regrets 20

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We too could be monarchs We too could journey with no return Never turn to wonder at ‘what if’ Never have a chance to go back

And yet, nature’s scripts for us differ Not for us the singular sense of purpose Our journeys are bound to a leash Our future tied to the past

Fly, O Monarch, fly to your tenacious end We fly forward only to look back We travel in circles, in our hearts Our beginnings married to our end

Parth Pandya is a passionate Tendulkar fan, diligent minion of the ‘evil empire’, persistent writer at http://parthp.blogspot.com, self-confessed Hindi movie geek, avid quizzer, awesome husband (for lack of a humbler adjective) and a thrilled father of two. He grew up in Mumbai and spent the last eleven years really growing up in the U.S. and is always looking to brighten up his day through good coffee and great puns.

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Non-fiction Memoirs of Paris by Divya Ananth Divya Ananth fondly remembers her first holiday in a foreign land, with an eightmonth-old no less. Despite the baby’s innocent fuss and frequent reality checks, she did manage a dream vacation. It was December in Duisburg, Germany. Winter showed no mercy. The sun occasionally made a guest appearance. Sure, spring was right at the end of the dark, cold tunnel. But the trudge was getting weary. On one such crisp December morning – just a few months since we had set foot in Deutschland – we hit upon a plan. How about we treat ourselves to the muchawaited spring in… “Paris”! My husband and I exclaimed. The reason for my excitement was that Paris had always been top of my list of to-dos. The uber-cool Alliance Francais in Chennai, four years of French in school and college, and many tales from a distant aunt created an affinity for Paris. My husband, on the other hand, was excited because he’d also found a superb travel deal online.

There seemed to be more sunshine in the drawing room that morning. There was something to look forward to. My husband and I were lost in deep discussions every single evening. The depth of our discussions would have put even the UN summits to shame. We idiot-proofed every single minute. This was our very first holiday in a foreign land, and the ifs and buts of travelling with a baby loomed large. The prospect was unnerving, to say the least, and we gave it the much unwanted effect of travelling to Mars. The day of departure drew near. We started packing. For a five day trip, we carried about three feeding bottles, a sterilizer, a flask, a pack of diapers, warm clothing, mittens and shoes, barf bags, wet wipes, medicines, a few favourite toys… oh, plus the

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baby as well!

took the metro to Bir Hakim Grenelle. As we approached the station, we craned our Our itinerary had just about four destinations. We told ourselves that if we could do necks to catch the first sight of the Tower. the Eiffel Tower, the Louvre, stroll through Voila! Against the sparkling waters of the Champs Elysses and visit Notre Dame, our Seine, the Eiffel rose proudly, puncturing trip was a roaring success! the sky. We couldn’t wait to Our timelines were entirely go up. As we made our way based on baby’s feeds and to join the long queue, realsleep routines. All we wantity shook us rudely from ed was a smiling, happy the surreal moment. A mild child who would not ruin stench filled the air. Baby the holiday. Who wanted to had a weird expression. be feeding a baby atop the How well I knew what he Eiffel tower and cajoling was up to. Why now? Why? him to sleep at Champs Embarrassed, perplexed Elysses? and terribly frustrated, I got off the queue to hunt for March 21st. Yipeee! The the rest room. ‘Thalys’ sped through countries. In about four hours, it pulled up at Gare Du Nord.

Poor kid! Did he care if he was in Germany, Chennai, Paris or Timbuctoo? His was a blissful world, with no sadness, no happiness, no expectations and no disappointments. He did what he had to do. Ruminations over, I did a speed cleaning job and joined the queue. We went up, and as we feasted our eyes on the incredible view, reality check again. It was feed time.

Was it all a dream? Paris was bewitching. May be it was that sense of actually stepping out into a holiday, maybe it was the little buds waiting to blossom in long tree lined avenues, the pleasant nip in the air, the promise of a beautiful holiday, maybe it was travelling with really close friends – whatever it was, the bustling, lively city immediately made its way into my heart. And so time rolled by. Between taking turns Day 1 – We packed up Junior and set out in carrying the baby, feeding him bang in for Tour d’ Eiffel. He helped himself to the middle of Champs Elysses, or watching croissants with chocolate fillings, and sat him gape at Mickey and Donald toys at the sweetly in his pram. So far, so good. We Disney store, we did manage to steal some 23

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quiet joys. We gazed endlessly at the Monalisa, went “wow” as the Eiffel lit up against the evening sky, gave the humble croissant a royal indulgence, tchtched at Princess Diana’s scene of accident, lounged at sun kissed lawns amidst baby flowers, marveled at the stained glass paintings inside the Notre Dame, sat down over coffee at road side bistros and watched humanity go by.

when the little one ‘grew up’ (they take a lifetime to grow up, don’t they?). We had our fair share of utter desperation when he decided to stay awake and play peek a boo after a bone-tiring day, refused to take a feed or kicked up such a fuss lying in the pram. I ate my words as I fed him atop the Eiffel and cajoled him to sleep at Champs Elysses.

At the end of the fifth day, as we boarded the train again, I watched him as he slept peacefully in his pram. It was We swayed to the throb not so bad after all, travelling of a dynamic city abuzz with the click-clacks with an eight-month-old. of designer wear stilettos, high pitched bonjours and ouis. We were enamored by sparkling eyes and smiles that flashed the As I closed my eyes, images of Paris danced world’s finest cosmetic brands. We dis- in front of me. I heaved a contented sigh. cussed the bloody history that the city wore What a lovely, lively city! Paris, I’d love an lightly on its sleeve. We looked longingly at encore, sans baby paraphernalia that is! Moulin Rouge and promised to come back

Spark—April 2014 | Journeys

Poetry Trudging by M. Mohankumar When hope meets illusion in a long and tiring journey, it is a harrowing experience. M. Mohankumar captures this in his poem. A sea of sterile brown

of a marooned sailor

and still waves

sighting a ship

as far as the eye can see.

on the high seas.

You trudge on,

Promise of manna;

dragging scorched feet

elixir of life;

and a mind heavy

deliverance.

with dead hopes. You advance Till your roving eyes

with quickened steps.

light upon a patch of green

It recedes.

on the far horizon, and you feel all the excitement 25

Sparkâ&#x20AC;&#x201D;April 2014 | Journeys

Fiction Absence by Anupama Krishnakumar A journalist sways during her journey from one point to another. Anupama Krishnakumar pens the story of the addict.

She dashed into her cubicle taking him by He raised his eyebrows in surprise. surprise. ‘So all the silence all this while was only to ‘Looking hot, eh? Even at this hour.’ He contemplate and say this?’ commented, ‘blue jeans, white shirt and all She was drumming her fingers on the work – doing magic!’ table already. She had thrown her slippers No response. Just heavy breathing.

which now lay carelessly under the desk. She had both her legs up on the chair.

God, I need a puff now, she thought as des- The clock on the desk said 11:30 PM. Not peration churned within, creating ripples of much was happening inside the office at that hour, as always - they were just around panic inside her. to handle any sudden ‘breaking news’. The Tough long day, no time for a break and news channel’s office was blissfully silent. now, rains outside. And her pack of ciga‘Do you have another one?’ she asked nonrettes was empty. Fantastic on a sarcastic note, damn on a desperate note and why-oh chalantly, shaking her head referring to the -why on a reflective note. Thoughts raged. dwindling stick in his hand. ‘Shameless, smoking inside the office?’ she ‘Ah, no’ he answered and then pausing a bit, added, ‘unfortunately.’ And he winked, chided him. quite unnecessarily. He gently tapped it on 26

Spark—April 2014 | Journeys

the ash tray, discarding the grey ash – rem- She stood up and opened her mouth to say nants of nicotine that had done its bit for something and then quickly changed her yet another addict. mind. No point talking. She looked longingly at the ash tray and She collapsed into her chair and stretching then frowned, lookher legs, picked up ing his way. the single post-it note on her table He shrugged. and began rolling it ‘Damn, this addictill it looked and tion gives me the felt like a fine stick shivers,’ she sighed. of cigar. Slowly, she held it between her ‘Fear is such a bad clumsily shaking thing, you know,’ fingers and placed it he chipped in maton her quivering, ter-of-factly, ‘it red lips. She then closed her eyes. It felt takes you nowhere.’ weird like crazy but she was learning to She stared hard. She hated philosophy withcope with the absence of her dear, dreadful out a solution. stick. A beginning, perhaps, to move on.

Anupama Krishnakumar loves Physics and English and sort of managed to get degrees in both – studying Engineering and then Journalism. Yet, as she discovered a few years ago, it is the written word that delights her soul and so here she is, doing what she loves to do – spinning tales for her small audience and for her little son, singing lullabies to her little daughter, bringing together a lovely team of creative people and spearheading Spark. She loves books, music, notebooks and colour pens and truly admires simplicity in anything! Tomatoes send her into a delightful tizzy, be it in soup or rasam or ketchup or atop a pizza!

Spark—April 2014 | Journeys

Poetry Chillness by Shobhana Kumar Wealth and attitude â&#x20AC;&#x201C; one gets to witness these in travellers at airports. Shobhana Kumar writes a poem that captures the mood and the chillness.

Pinstripes and black shoes, Brushed and polished Like antique silverware, Waiting to check in another frequent flier mile.

Homemakers in delicate chiffons Chanting instructions For dinner to be laid out at home.

Honeymooners who bury Night cravings Over sweet nothings Oblivious to tut-tutting moralists.

Sparkâ&#x20AC;&#x201D;April 2014 | Journeys

Executives who must log Reports before boarding time.

An occasional child, Impatient in conversation With his own.

Bermuda-clad, accented Indians wearing bemused expressions of an India they no longer know.

Women lost in books, And men buried in their mobile phones.

Travellers who commute without a word in exchange.

it must be the chill of the air conditioning in the airports.

or is it?

Sparkâ&#x20AC;&#x201D;April 2014 | Journeys

The Lounge

April 2014 30

Sparkâ&#x20AC;&#x201D;April 2014 | Journeys

Slice of Life by Preeti Madhusudhan

In Search of the Warrior Poet of Love In this multi-part series, Preeti Madhusudhan tells us of her journey following the trail of one of the most enigmatic Tamil poets, tribal king-turned-robberturned-poet Thirumangai Alvar. Read on for her journey through Tamil Nadu’s rustic temples.

The lord himself declares in the Bhagavad Gita (10.35) “Maasaanaam Maargasheershoham” – “Of the months, I am Maargasheersha”, i.e Margazhi the month, which equals the western calendar dates between the 15th of Decemberthe 15th of January. Our preceptors have set aside a month in a year for us to devotionally engage ourselves. Today, this is more poignant perhaps than ever. Thirty days of the three hundred and sixty five, to retract inward, recluse and quietly observe the Self, re-position its coordinates with respect to the larger scheme of things. Special Utsavs are held in temples to honor the saivite and vaishnavite poets – namely the Nayanmars and Alvars, and religious lecturers dissert their hymns and poems for the benefit of the streams of bhaktas.

But December is also the month of devotion. 31

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December in Tamilnadu is akin to a rare flower, the kind that deserves an organized show with expensive tickets, VIP stalls and effusive odes sung to its glory. The temperature is a balmy, mild 26 degree Celsius on an average, with night temperatures dropping to a surprisingly pleasant 20-21 degree celcius. Humidity is low or nonexistent. The weather puts the auto-wallahs and roadside vendors in Chennai at their genial best, so you find you don’t have to haggle much. Taking advantage of the weather, the sabhas put up their annual music festivals. Out, come the gorgeous silk saris and lovely jewelry that accompanies them. Music literally fills the soothing air of Tamilnadu, as radio and TV channels vie each other to telecast these concerts through the month. But December is also the month of devotion. The lord himself declares in the Bhagavad Gita (10.35) “Maasaanaam Maargasheershoham” – “Of the months, I am Maargasheersha”, i.e Margazhi the month, which equals the western calendar dates between the 15th of Decemberthe 15th of January. Our preceptors have set aside a month in a year for us to devotionally engage ourselves. Today, this is more poignant perhaps than ever. Thirty days of the three hundred and sixty five, to retract inward, recluse and quietly observe the Self, re-position its coordinates with respect to the larger scheme of things. Special Utsavs are held in temples to honor the saivite and vaishnavite poets – name-

ly the Nayanmars and Alvars, and religious lecturers dissert their hymns and poems for the benefit of the streams of bhaktas. Most prominent amongst these poets is the lady poet, Andal. Of the hundred and seventy three hymns she sang, a collection of thirty called the “tiruppavai” are especially important in Margazhi, a hymn for each day of the month. Thirty hymns through which she undertakes a “nombu”, a passive-penance, an oath of steadfastness, thirty hymns in delightful Tamil, through which she awakens the maiden of each house in her neighborhood, to accompany her to see Krishna, the lord of every gopika’s heart. What appears at the first glance as elegant verses sung by a lovelorn maiden delirious with bhakti, are actually interlaced with layers upon layers of hidden ideology, concepts from the Vedas defining the Supreme, the Self all sugarcoated with phrases of love and simple devotion. So, December is in fact the ancient Tamil version of Valentine’s day, only more elaborate and elongated. But such is the elegance of the phrases, veracity of the message and dazzling imagery of the poet, that the Tamil Margazhi, the Alvars and Nayanmars are unrivalled in the art of esoteric love. From this background of devotional love, there emerges a warrior, a poet, a vaishnavite, distinct in his bearing and profession. The warrior poet Kaliyan, known as Tirumangayazhwar, was a

Spark—April 2014 | Journeys

tribal chieftain who was swayed into vaishnavism owing to his love for Kumudavalli. Kumudavalli, a vaishnavite, made Kaliyan promise to feed a 1008 Vaishnavas every day for a year. In order to win her affection, Kaliyan began this endeavor, only to resort to highway-robbery to make ends meet. In an effort to rob a party of newly-weds, he bites the toe of the groom, aiming to remove his toe-ring. Lo! He has bitten the toe of the Lord, come to test him and impart knowledge to him. This is what makes one catch one’s breath. A tribal king-turned-highway robber-turneddevout poet. One can read shades of regal arrogance in his words as he declaims the Jains, saivites and Buddhists. One can hear abject dismay as he beseeches the lover (the lord) to consider his (Thirumangai Alvar) daughter as His partner. “She, the young damsel of moon-like countenance Born with Amrit off the milk-ocean That she resides in your chest, is known and Yet (my daughter) has not renounced desire for you Endowed with kuvalai – flower eyes, like the statue of Kolli hills Pray tell, with desire only for your lotus-feet Of this girl, what is your intention O lord of Tiruvidavendai!” December is the month when schools in Australia close down for their annual holidays, as the southern hemisphere starts heating up. The timing couldn’t be more perfect, and so my son and I pack our bags in the trail of Kaliyan, a king, a lover, a highway-robber and finally an

Alvar (one who is immersed in his love for the lord). Our aim is to make Kumbakonam, a six hour drive from Chennai, our base-camp, and visit the many temples that are known for their associations with Kaliyan and the other Alvars. Kumbakonam and its surrounding towns and villages house a multitude of temples dedicated both to Shiva and Vishnu. As the urban ugliness of Chennai flies past the car windows, the more rural, rustic beauty of Tamilnadu starts to emerge, dotted by clumps of villages, towns and cities of distinction. Just ahead of Kumbakonam, we decide to take a detour to Gangaikondachozhapuram, which preconditions our minds for what is to come. Once the capital of southern India for a brief yet important time in the history of the region, it is now a forgotten village off the highways, centered on a ruined temple complex. Yet, the sheer scale of the sculptures inside prepares you for what lies ahead. What lies ahead is what sparked the imagination of the Alvars millennia earlier. A heightened sense of aesthetics in stones and words alike molded the Bhakti movement here. My son is now all eager to continue gawking at “big temples”. “Yippee!” he yells as he hurriedly scrambles out of the car. The fact that whatever he was going to see was at least a few hundred years old fires his enthusiasm. “No one is going to believe me in school,” he says. We reach Kumbakonam around mid-noon, and go to our accommodation near Opiliyappan temple in the town Vinnagar, praised by Tirumangaiazhvar as “Poomaru Pozhilani Vinnagar” – Vinnagar of dense gardens and fragrant flowers. Jacaranda trees bearing red and orange blossoms and bright orange flowers from pumpkin creepers peep from everywhere. We mull on the

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words of Alvar on this lord “Kaadhal Seidhu Ilayavar Kalavitharum Vedanai Vinayadhu Veruvuthalaam”, as our car leaves to a place 20kms from here. “The pleasure that young women yield is the entirety of sorrows, which leads to perpetual material afflictions” he laments! The poet is now in the throes of love for the Lord and begs again and again for release from a materialistic life. Where is the lover we are in search of? Tiruveliyangudi, our first stop, is supposed to have existed through all the four yugas, or eras – Satya, Treta, Dvapara and now Kali, so the temple has supposedly existed through the times of all the ten of Vishnu’s avatars. “Setridai Kayalgalugal Tigazh Vayal Soozh Tiruvelliyangudiyaduve”, Tiruvelliyangudi that is surrounded by fields with fish in the mud, sings our warriorlover-poet. So fertile was the land, so lush and tall the crop, so dense that it seems fish thrived in the fields’ muddy soil! Margazhi is a good time to see the landscape that he saw. December sees the paddy and sugarcane fields rich and dense. After miles of travelling amidst fields, the horizon decked with the setting sun, we reach the temple. “Kudikudiyaga Koodininramarar Gunangale Pidatri ninretha,” – it seems there are groups of Devas singing about the infinite good qualities of the lord. And a pattern emerges as we speed across the now darkening horizon to the next string of temples, all sung about by Kaliyan. His lines aptly capture the scenic beauty that is perched precariously on the verge of extinction. Perhaps that makes the temple lore even more fantastic. The fear that the next time we visit the precious fields that the Alvar has so heartrendingly de-

scribed, they could be drastically changed, makes us want to continually stare outside the window, to record and to store the memory forever. The temples are always in the middle of nowhere, now. So what is actually just a few kilometers, takes time in the narrow winding mud roads. All the temples usually close at 8, but December is the margazhi festival time so most of them are open for an extra half hour. By the time we finish Pullamboodangudi and Chakarapani, it is almost time for the famous Aravamudhan to close. We literally race past the august assembly of hymns chanters. Not unlike the psalms of the Catholic Church, the deepthroated chanting of the 4000 hymns by the Alvars reverberate through the stone pillared halls of any vaishnavite temples and feel like a wall of audio-rush when they collide with one’s ears and lungs. The pillared hall at the temple for Lord Aravamudan (one who as infinitely sweet as nectar) is bathed in floodlights. A colonnade of gigantic 12 feet high white wooden steeds stands guard to one side of the hall. The chanting is reaching a final crescendo. Even my super-enthusiastic son stands rooted to a spot as the final hymns paying obeisance to the lineage of Vaishnavite gurus, swell and hit our chests in massive waves. Centre to the hall is the processional deity Lord Aravamudan, with a marvelously mysterious smile that beckons. He holds court, he is the king among his royal bards, for right opposite him are all his 12 Alvars, presided by Nammalvar decked as a woman, for he was another Alvar who frequently placed himself in the role of the woman pining for the unrequited love she nurtures for the Lord. Nowhere else other than in Tamilnadu do

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we witness such a high place for poets, be it the Alvars or the Nayanmars. Their command over their language, their ethos of esotericmetaphysics dazzles, subjugates their followers even today. It is with hymns dedicated to this temple that Tirumangai Alvar starts his legendary “tirumozhi”, a compilation of 1084 hymns. “Vaadinen Vaadi”, “I regretted, rued having born into the bag that is a reservoir of sorrow” he begins and goes on to beseech poets to rush to see Aravamudhan as he alone can release souls from their eternal misery. But it is the other Alvar, Nammalvar, whose lines my mother starts singing in the dark road back to our accommodation near Opiliyappan koil. Also dedicated to Aravamudhan, Alvar sings ArAvamudhE! adiyEn udalam * ninpAl anbAyE * nIrAy alaindhu karaiya * urukkuginRa nedumAlE! ** sIrAr sennel kavari vIsum * sezhunIrth thirukkudandhai * ErAr kOlam thigazhak kidandhAy! * kaNdEn emmAnE!

fanned by whisks of golden paddy. As she steps into the second line, her lone voice is soon joined by my mother-in-law and eventually me. As we sing, the poet’s love overtakes us. The next few stanzas has the car slowly filling with sniffs, and whimpers as we struggle to maintain our voices. “When my body languishers and this life come to an end, grant that I may hold on to your feet relentlessly”, Nammalvar begs. My son finally breaks this deadlock we are reaching. First puzzled into silence by this blatant display of emotions, he soon finds the scene peculiarly hilarious and unable to smother his laughter, though cautioned to do so by his grandfathers, he bursts into great guffaws and makes us roll in the car laughing with him. As the hunger pangs hit us, we are brought back from the spiritual plane of the Alvars to the hunger-bound earthlings we truly are. But the eagerness hasn’t died down, for tomorrow, we are about to go to the Nachiyar koil, housing the lord who initiated Kaliyan into Vaishnavism. Here Kaliyan the warrior became Tirumangaiazhwar. Here is a man, who in his own words has been there and done that. He has made a full circle in his evolution as Alvar from a mere warrior.

Insatiable ambrosia! First Lord! My body melts To be continued in love for you. You make me weep and toss like restless water. I see your resplendent form in Tirukkudandal, reclining amid fertile waters, 35

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Preeti Madhusudhan is a freelance architect/ interior designer living in Sydney with her husband and eight-year-old son. She is passionate about books and is an ardent admirer of P.G.Wodehouse. She inherited her love for books and storytelling from her father, a Tamil writer. Preeti is trying to publish her maiden novella in English.

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Sparkâ&#x20AC;&#x201D;April 2014 | Journeys