Spark Word. World. Wisdom January 2014
4th Anniversary Potpourri Issue
Fiction | Non-fiction| Poetry | Art | Photography 1
Spark—January 2014 | 4th Anniversary Potpourri Issue
05 January 2014 Dear Reader, Happy New Year! And my, what a moment for us at Spark - we turn FOUR this January, all thanks to your continued support! Celebrating our anniversary, we have put together an issue that encapsulates what we believe we stand for - variety! Presenting to you, the Spark fourth anniversary issue 'Potpourri!' As always, we have for you a delightful spread of fiction, poetry, non-fiction and some wonderful photography and art. We hope you enjoy this issue, and we look forward to your feedback. And a heads-up that our next issue is our 50th, so we have another little celebration coming up! A million thanks for your support through the months, for making Spark this wonderful journey. - Editorial team
Anu Karthik Anupama Krishnakumar Archita Suryanarayanan Hari Krishnan S Kalpanaa Misra M. Mohankumar Nandini Rajagopal Nikitha Phyllis Parth Pandya
All rights of print edition reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior permission of the Spark editorial team.
Rrashima Swwarup Verma Shirani Rajapakse Vani Viswanathan Vipin K.C
Spark December 2013 © Spark 2014
Vinita Agrawal
Individual contributions © Author
Concept, Editing and Design
CC licensed pictures attribution available at www.sparkthemagazine.com Published by Viswanathan
Contributors
Anupama
Anupama Krishnakumar
Krishnakumar/Vani
Vani Viswanathan
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Spark—January 2014 | 4th Anniversary Potpourri Issue
Inside this Issue POETRY Poetry’s Prism by Vinita Agrawal Precepts by M. Mohankumar Celebrating Another Birthday by Shirani Rajapakse To My New-born Son by Parth Pandya Sizzlers—a Miscellany by M. Mohankumar FICTION The Awkward Silence by Nandini Rajagopalan I’m Human After All! by Rrashima Swaarup Verma The Name by Archita Suryanarayanan Tonight I can Write by Nikitha Phyllis Christmas Present by Anu Karthik NON-FICTION What will You do With Your Flashback? by Kalpanaa Misra Bhaiyya, Chai, Kum Cheeni by Vani Viswananthan Looking Back and Looking Ahead by Anupama Krishnakumar PHOTOGRAPHY Beginnings by Harikrishnan S ART Krishna by Vipin K.C
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Poetry
Poetry’s Prism by Vinita Agrawal
It’s a beautiful experience to understand what poetry really is and what it isn’t when a poet describes it for you. Vinita Agrawal pens a must-read piece.
Poetry is not a mouthpiece Amplifying the beats of a million hearts like a song Rather, it is silent and anaemic like the soundless tired fall of an autumn leaf Like the voiceless bundle of sad creases on an elephant's face scrutinizing lost cover
Poetry is about the dark alleys Lurking behind false bright smiles It is like white piano keys Cowering against the brittle black
Poetry might appear dead at times But it is alive, like a wound beneath a scab Pick on it with mind's talons And it oozes fresh blood always
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Poetry is diffident like a lost scent Intimate only if you have a story of your own Otherwise like the earth's hard crust, you can walk all over it Without discovering a thing
For its real treasures lie buried deep within Revealed best against the odds of life Like the seven dyes of white light Bursting into a rainbow, when up against the sun
Vinita is a Mumbai based writer and poet. Her poems have been published in Asiancha, Raedleaf Poetry , Wordweavers, OpenRoad Review, Constellations, The Fox Chase Review, Spark, The Taj Mahal Review, CLRI, SAARC Anthologies, Kritya.org, TouchThe Journal of healing, Museindia, Everydaypoets.com, Mahmag World Literature, The Criterion, The Brown Critique, Twenty20journal.com, Sketchbook, Poetry 24, Mandala and others which include several international anthologies. Her poem was nominated for the Best of the Net Awards 2011 by CLRI. She received a prize from MuseIndia in 2010. Her debut collection of poems titled Words Not Spoken published by Sampark/ Brown Critique was released in November 2013. Her poem was awarded a prize in the Wordweavers contest 2013.
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Fiction
The Awkward Silence by Nandini Rajagopalan Engaged to each other out of the blue, a young man and woman find themselves grappling with the uncomfortable silence that persists between them. Nandini Rajagopalan pens a beautiful story on the awkward silence. I peered through the dense vegetation, looking intently, and hopeful of finding the person whom I was looking for. At a distance, I could see a rusty bench which had probably weathered a million storms. On the bench was carelessly seated, the object of my attention.. He seemed to be deeply engrossed in his handheld device, impatiently tapping his foot and humming a tune. The interspersing of the foot tapping and the faint humming made for a pleasing rhythm. Hesitantly, I trudged along the marshy ground with the little weeds kissing my ankles. I gave a faint smile, followed by a barely audible “hello”. I didn't wait for an acknowledgment. I couldn't care less. I blew away the dried leaves that had gathered on the dusty bench and sat down, dumping my bright blue handbag lazily on the ground.
er highly embarrassing formalities. It seemed as though my entire extended family was more excited than I was. I was nonchalant. So was he. Everything seemed so plastic; so sudden; so unreal. And in a flash, we were told that we would spend the rest of our lives with each other. It was not as though this was unwelcome. But maybe it was too fast. And probably, I was not ready. I don't know why I spent the following days giving unnecessary updates about my mundane life to a total stranger. I didn't care about the details he gave me either. I don't know why we religiously spent talking at a predecided hour on the cell phone. I didn’t understand why we diligently arranged for casual meetings either. I also don't know why we drained so many cups of coffee. Often we would pick a random third world topic and excitedly offer our opinions about it and debate it until it died a natural death. A few minutes of vibrant discussion would often be succeeded by an abrupt silence. I would look into his eyes, hoping for him to break the ice and probably
Ours had been an “arranged marriage”; one that had been initiated by our parents; one that had had the quintessential matching of horoscopes, the meeting of the parents, and followed by oth6
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bring up a second topic, but more often than temporary relief. I loathed confronting this awknot, I would be greeted by the same puzzling ward silence. This was probably why we dislook that I had on my face. cussed meaningless things that neither of us really cared about – to fill those minutes of lull I vividly remember our first lunch date. In spite and calm. of being an avid foodie, I was least bothered about the menu. I was sitting in a corner of my My mind wandered as I thought about our prefavorite restaurant, silently chewing my food sent meeting and the topics and strategies I had with a forced etiquette. Occasionally we would in mind to evade the silence. I had painstakingly look up and give a fake smile and then continue made a mental list of the things that I could talk staring at our plates. We would then try to en- about. Anything under the sun would serve as gross the raw material other in for me. Leanuninteresting back on ing, statistithe bench, I cal details went through about our the list in my professionhead to pick a al lives. suitable topic Our entire to start with. I lunch was could start punctuated with a routine by a conupdate on the trast of day’s happenneedless ings or I could details and talk about the periods of new movie awkward silence, where the sound of the steel that I had watched recently. As I turned towards forks scraping against the steel plate was clearly him, I saw that he was distracted. His tiny, curidistinct. I hated the awkward pauses between ous eyes were looking up in the sky. I looked in our conversations. They conveyed nothing but a the same direction to find him gazing at the sunsense of discomfort. The sudden silence that set. I’m not really a person who appreciates naerupted out of nowhere was always disconcert- ture but today was different. It seemed as ing. It was scary. It was a wakeup call for me to though nature had dipped her fingers in a palsay something. I was a lot happier playing the ette and had painted streaks of orange and yelattentive listener. But silence was deafening. I low across a blue canvas. Satisfied with her could hear me arguing with myself on what to modern art, she probably plucked some stars say next. Often, I would manage to give a weak, from the galaxy and placed them here and there, sheepish smile. This would provide me some just to please the beholder. She sent a cool 7
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breeze that ruffled my hair and chilled my spine. The flexible bamboo trees erupted in an elegant dance, swaying from side to side. Everything seemed so serene, so beautiful.
most meaningful two minutes that we had spent together since we had met. And this was the only time that we hadn't uttered a word but felt like we had had the best conversation of our lives.
From the corner of my eye, I noticed another pair of eyes looking intently at the swaying tree. I could see his eyes peering at mine, conveying Our eyes met for a split second. Strangely, nei- the same emotion. I curled my lips into a big, ther of us looked away. I looked into his eyes broad smile and continued looking into his eyes. intently, realizing that two whole minutes had This time, the silence passed by since I wasn't awkward. had arrived and neither of us had spoken a word. We had spent two whole minutes in silence. We had spent two whole minutes without having the need to indulge in petty conversations. These were the
Nandini Rajagopalan is a quintessential software developer who is looking to showcase her creativity. She has an opinion about everything under the sun and is also brave enough to express them. Her interests vary from cuddling cute bunnies to watching gory Tarantino flicks. Food is her second love, only after literature. She worships Oscar Wilde and his cynicism.
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Non-fiction
What Will You Do With Your Flashback?
by Kalpanaa Misra Kalpanaa Misra tells us of the power of memories – to give pleasure or pain, depending on how we choose to look at them – as she recounts her memories associated with Christmas. Germany, December 2013.The twinkling of fairy lights on Christmas trees proliferating all over public spaces transports me in a flash back to the Germany of the 60s. I was growing up in a country whose pine forests gave birth to fairy tales set in dense woods, from Red Riding Hood to Snow white, from Hansel and Gretel to Sleeping Beauty. Frankfurt airport is an apt threshold for my entry to this country of my early childhood. My infancy is inextricably tied up with Germany.
when I was a regular, traipsing through this airport twice a year with three small daughters and an enormous doll called BoyBoy. This could make me sad for a lost era, for a Germany more prosperous than it is now. Instead I am delighted with a German people that absorbed their East German brothers and sisters despite what it did to their economy. On a personal level, I can enjoy the peace and comfort of solo travel as opposed to Mamma travel, which is harrowing. Yes, onlookers are ecstatic with the cuteness overload and even Mamma is carried away by her own motherliness, efficiency and tolerance but the sheer physical exhaustion of roundthe-clock care for three traveling divas and their mascot BoyBoy is not something I would willingly subject myself to again. I look on with the admiration that once used to come my way, at unkempt mothers in bright inelegant clothing, a child strapped to her front, its arms and legs akimbo, a baby bag strapped to her back, wheeling a pram and dragging a bag. I assure you, this
This hub of air travel, once the byword for upto-date modernity, fascinating in its slickness, is different now. There’s a certain gentle shabbiness to it compared to shiny new Indian malls and renovated airports. I’ve visited newer airports in other parts of the world. I’ve waited in larger airports than this. And just as I compare places in different geographical locations, I compare the same place visited in an earlier decade, or century.. I have a flashback to the time 9
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is not a good flashback. You can’t romanticize travel with kids. It makes for hilarious tales which we laugh at now. Only now. Having one traveling diva knock her apple juice into the baby bag with all its contents was hardly a riot at the time.
simpler happier times you realise that it’s just your body reminiscing. The well-loved scents of childhood make you feel as though your ship has come home but you know that’s not entirely true. As I get off the plane my eye catches sight of an immense TV screen. I stop in my tracks, shocked – “Nelson Mandela is dead,” I say out loud. A blonde man stops beside me equally jolted whipping out his phone to take a photo of the television screen, recording for posterity his first reaction to the unsettling news. I experience another flashback to when I briefly met Mandela and shook his hand at the premier of the film ‘Gandhi,’ awestruck by this giant amongst men.
Nappies, medicines, bibs and the mandatory change of clothes all swam in a sticky lake of apple juice. At the time I told myself I should have zipped up the bag and not kept it open. Now I lie down on the floor laughing at the memory. The tingling scent of pine will always have a buoyant effect on me and there will never be a time when I am not transported to childhood by it. Fairy lights, chocolate Santas and candles remind me of feel-good times. Cocooned times, being taken care of, loved, home as a haven from the more menacing aspects of existence. Imagined threats to happiness never really encountered. Today nothing has changed about the aroma of cinnamon or the soft glow of candles and they evoke the same sensory feelings but not quite the same emotions. Being older does that to you, you know life isn’t as safe or as comfortable as you’d been led to believe as a child. The scent of baking apples can’t hide hard realities and when those aromas evokes memories of
Christmas is no longer a time of year when things are magically righted; the enchantment associated with Christmas is tarnished slightly. People die, lovers break up, betrayal, accidents and cancer can happen at Christmas too. Santa Claus can’t take away your troubles, you just learn to live with them, aware that sometime soon (or maybe not so soon) they’ll be sorted out. I channel the Law of Attraction, I struggle to believe in my prayers and it’s always harder at Christmas because, thanks to those happy childhood associations of enchanted Christmases with dancing snow flakes and sparkly tinsel we expect Christmas to be a
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time of happiness. As a child, I would look forward to some harmless, cartoonish, skidding pedestrians, anticipating the joy of watching people fall flat. Parents’ admonishments – ‘people get hurt, break their legs – it isn’t nice to laugh at them’ somewhat dampened our sense of humour, turning every giggle into a guilty pleasure. As we grew up we brought different dimensions to snow as disillusioned adults around us grumbled about the aggravation of winter tyres, coupled with the vexation of black ice. And the bright shiny stuff that is tinsel, that caused your eyes to sparkle as a three-year-old, is now flashy and tasteless. I suggest you timetravel to your younger self and notice again the prettiness of snow, the humour of black ice and the glamor of tinsel and you’ll recapture some of
the fascination you had with Christmas. The truth is, life is what it is and you can use the power of your memories to be transported to an age of innocence. Alternately you may rail against the passage of time and bemoan the difference in the now and the then. The power of your flashbacks and memories are immense. It’s how you use them that’s important. Albert Camus wrote, “Blessed are the hearts that can bend; they shall never be broken.” Your memories and flashbacks are what they are, it’s your associations with either pain or pleasure that turn them into something that gives pleasure or pain.
Kalpanaa Misra is a writer. She blogs at http://kalpanawrites.blogspot.in. Her twitter handle is @kalpanapster.
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Photography
Beginnings
by Hari Krishnan S
The road stretches ahead in front of our eyes...there’s a journey waiting to be made—many beginnings to be made.
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A beginning to staying positive—fight challenges and rise tall no matter what.
A beginning to remaining upbeat and see the bright colours of life. 13
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A beginning to being a class apart.
A beginning to being a kind and considerate soul. 14
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A beginning to moulding a beautiful future with our own hands.
Hari enjoys reading memoirs, and spends a LOT of time trying to understand Foucault. He likes to believe F.R.I.E.N.D.S and Shantaram are real. He loves photography and travelling, and loves landscapes and sunsets.
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Fiction
I ’m Human After all! by Rrashima Swaarup Verma Rahul Pandit is your picture-perfect gentleman who wouldn’t say one bad word to anyone or intend even the slightest harm to those around. Only that there’s something more to his personality that the rest of the world hasn’t noticed yet. Find out more in Rrashima Swaarup Verma’s work of fiction.
“Sorry, Rahul! I would have made you Team Leader on this project but nobody knows automotive steering systems the way Vikas does.” Mr. Gupta looked apologetically at Rahul and smiled sheepishly. Everyone knew Rahul had been expecting the position. “It’s okay, Sir.” Rahul Pandit smiled at his boss pleasantly and shrugged his shoulders. “Don’t worry about it. I agree with you. Vikas does have more experience in this industry than I do.” And I’d like to break his teeth for him if ever I get the chance. Look at him now, sitting there and gloating at all the undeserved credit. Shameless fellow! And you Mr. Gupta, do you really think I don’t know how partial you are to Vikas? Just because he’s your son’s old classmate! Nepotism I call it! I loathe your patronizing attitude! You have no idea how ugly you look in that yellow shirt! Mr. Gupta smiled at Rahul. “Thank you, Rahul. You’re a very generous guy. I knew I could count on you to take it in the right spirit.”
It was almost lunch by the time the meeting was dismissed. After a last round of final instructions from Mr. Gupta, everyone, including Rahul, went over to congratulate Vikas on his achievement. Rahul in particular, was very generous with his compliments and even offered to help him with the project since he’d led the pilot study. “So just let me know if you need anything Vikas,” he said, swinging his laptop bag around his shoulder “I’d be delighted to help.” I wouldn’t help you even if you were the last person on this planet! If I don’t get you fired in the next three months, my name’s not Rahul! “That was sweet of you, Rahul,” Promila Banerjee smiled at him as they all trooped out of the conference room. She’d joined the company a couple of months back and secretly felt that Rahul was one of the most agreeable people around. He was always willing to lend a helping hand and never said a mean or spiteful thing
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about anyone. “You were awfully sporting about not being made Team Leader.” “Oh, Rahul is unarguably one of the nicest people I know,’ agreed Sameer. He patted Rahul on the back and gave him a thumbs up. “Never a nasty word for anyone!” Except you of course! Don’t think I’ve forgotten how you banged my new car last month with that miserable jalopy of yours! I’ll bet you did that on purpose. I’ll get even with you some day Sameer. “Oh don’t be silly, Sameer!” Rahul waved off the compliments and even had the grace to blush a little as he did so. “It’s not a big deal! Now come on, let’s have lunch. I’m starving.” It was almost seven o’clock by the time Rahul wrapped up his last teleconference and switched off his laptop. He was exhausted and rubbed his tired eyes as he finally got out of his 15 storey office. It had been a grueling day! He got into the elevator and pressed the button for the ground floor. The lift painfully began its downhill trudge and Rahul tapped his foot impatiently on the floor as he waited. 15, 14, 13. I need to update my profile on that recruitment site. This job is thankless and boring. 12, 11, 10. Wonder what Saumya’s made for dinner tonight? If she serves me that slop in the name of Kadhi one more time, I will throw it out of the window. 9, 8, 7. She can’t cook for toffee! Maybe I should pick up a pizza on my way home. 6, 5,
4. I hope the kids aren’t cranky tonight. You’d think I deserve a peaceful evening after an arduous day like this. 3, 2, 1. I’d better finish that steel report tonight. That toad of a Managing Director is coming back from Singapore this week and is sure to ask for it. The lift doors opened and Rahul stepped out. It was raining and he hurried towards the parking area, muttering to himself. “How I hate the rain! Miserable, depressing, dismal……” “Hey Rahul! You’d better hurry or you’ll be soaked to the skin,” called out his colleague Maya, as he walked past her. “It’s pouring cats and dogs!” “No worries!” answered Rahul, with a cheerful smile. “I love the rain!” He didn’t get a chance to pick up the pizza after all. It was really pelting down by the time he touched the highway and the traffic was crawling along at snail’s pace. To make things worse, his wife called to inform him that the kids were cranky again and she hadn’t had time to cook after all and would he mind eating yesterday’s leftover Kadhi again today? “Not at all,” laughed Rahul “You know I love Kadhi.” He didn’t know why he even bothered to answer since it was a rhetorical question anyway. It wasn’t like she was going to jump up and cook a five-course meal if he told her how that awful Kadhi almost made him want to retch, was it? It was nine o’clock when Rahul finally parked
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his car outside his three-storey South Delhi house. He switched off the ignition and got out. Rahul realised that the rain had almost stopped by that time and there was just a gentle drizzle. Old Mrs. Sharma from next door was walking her dog and she smiled at him as he made his way towards his house. The dog was fond of Rahul and pranced around him excitedly, his tongue hanging out from the side of his mouth. Rahul tried to ignore the saliva that had dropped from the dog’s mouth onto his new shoes as he bent down to pat him. Stupid mutt! Drooling all over my expensive shoes like that. “Hello Rahul! Sorry about Brownie! He just gets excited when he sees you.” Mrs. Sharma smiled at him and Rahul laughed cheerfully. “Oh, don’t worry, Mrs. Sharma. He’s a sweet dog. Loveliest eyes I ever saw.” “You’re a nice guy, Rahul,” commented his neighbour then “Let alone doing anything mean, I’ll bet you never even think a negative or nasty thought about anyone.” “Well,” said Rahul as they parted ways outside his house. He could smell the disgusting Kadhi and hear his kids yelling in the background. “Maybe the odd, fleeting one now and then. After all, I’m only human,” he remarked. They laughed together and then Mrs. Sharma went on her way, the dog still barking excitedly. Rahul turned towards the door and lifted his hand to ring the doorbell. He was just about to press it when, for no logical reason in particular, he suddenly withdrew his outstretched arm and turned around. He crossed the path in rapid strides and before he could change his mind, unlocked his car and got in. It had finally stopped raining and the night air was pleasant and balmy. Rahul suddenly felt oddly happy as he turned on the ignition and pulled the car into reverse.
The pizza joint was warm and inviting. The delicious aromas of garlic and cheese wafted through the air and Rahul sniffed appreciatively as he placed his order and looked around. The restaurant was actually full since it was dinner time but Rahul didn’t mind. It was strangely comforting to be among strangers. He didn’t have to talk to anyone or do anything. He didn’t even have to pretend any more. He sighed and sat back in the comfortable chair. He was just thinking about ordering a Coke to drink with his pizza when his mobile phone suddenly vibrated in the left pocket of his trousers. He pulled it out and glanced at the caller ID. It was his wife. He took a deep breath and pressed the green button to speak to her. “Hi Saumya!” “Where are you Rahul? We’ve been waiting for you for ages!” She sounded exasperated and the kids were still yelling in the background. Rahul immediately opened his mouth to tell her that he had been called back into office for an urgent proposal and how disappointed he was about missing dinner with them. The words that came out however, were completely different. “I decided that I didn’t fancy that slop you were going to serve me for dinner tonight. So I came out to get myself something decent. And by the way, just for the record, I hate Kadhi!” The words were out before he could stop himself and he clapped his hand on his mouth as soon as he realised what he’d done. There was a long silence at the other end and it took him a few moments to realise that his wife had indeed, hung up on him. He was actually shocked at himself and it took him a minute to even believe that he’d really said what he had. He was still sitting there, wondering what in the ever-loving world had come over him when the server came
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back with his order. He placed the piping hot pizza in front of Rahul, refilled his water glass and wished him Bon Appétit. The pizza looked delicious and Rahul’s mouth began to water. He realised that he hadn’t eaten since lunch time and was ravenous. He tore off a huge piece of the pizza and took a bite. “Mmmmm! So good!” It was amazing what a slice of cheesy goodness could do to melt away the stresses of the day
and suddenly he didn’t feel quite so vexed. In fact, he actually smiled to himself as he took another bite of pizza and sat back contentedly. It felt good to speak his mind. It certainly felt good. “And what’s so terrible about saying what you feel?” he spoke aloud to himself as he tore off another slice of pizza, “I’m human after all!”
Rrashima Swaarup Verma has an MBA in Marketing. She is Senior Director - Business Development with a leading, multinational business intelligence and strategic consulting company. She has worked on numerous projects with leading Indian and international corporations and has wide experience in business writing across a diverse spectrum of functional and industry segments. Rrashima is also a fiction writer and poet and several of her compositions have been published in leading newspapers, magazines and literary journals.
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Non-fiction
Bhaiyya, chai, kum cheeni by Vani Viswanathan Vani Viswanathan traces her addiction to tea through three different cities.
It was foggy, it was cold. An orange ball of a sun, shone weakly, spreading no warmth. In the middle of a square buzzing with vendors hawking their wares – ‘laeptop laemination!’ ‘soaftwaer! Weendows 8!’ ‘kartreej!’ ‘do sau pachaas!’ – I stood, looking in all directions, digging my hands deeper into my jacket’s pockets. A teenaged boy walked up to me. ‘Madam, soaftwaer?’ he asked. ‘Bhaiyya, chai kahaan milega?’ I asked, not bothered about whether my apply-masculine-gender-everywhere Hindi was correct. He pointed to a gully between two buildings. ‘Thank you,’ I gushed, and rushed to the gully even as the boy replied with a ‘welcome.’ Walking through the gully, I saw a paratha-wala. A chaat-wala. A man selling cut papayas wrapped in red cloth. Where was the tea? Ah, there it was – in a stall managed by a boy! I walked up to him, ordered a cup, didn’t protest when he gave me a bigger cup of chai, and took a sip. The Delhi cold seemed bearable, once again. I took up drinking tea only during college be-
cause I felt I needed caffeine and coffee didn’t attract me. Even as I can get high sniffing coffee – the south Indian filter coffee, especially – I can’t handle the bitterness. I think I got addicted to tea, however, only when I was working in Singapore, when I would crave for the ‘tehc’ (teh being tea in Malay, and teh-c being tea with condensed milk) after lunch every single day, and after a point, needed it every morning to kick-start the day. I needed green tea at least twice through the day, and would go for all kinds of flavours when outside, including the fancy English Breakfast types to Moroccan Mint to apple, cinnamon and even banana-flavoured tea. Tea addiction took a different turn during college in Bombay when sitting in class without having had a cup of tea – sugary milk flavoured with tea, rather – was tantamount to torture. I would power through the first half hour of the first class in the day with my ‘Keep Cup’ full of tea from the dining hall. Oh, the memories! Tea in the evening was such an occasion to look forward to after a nap – some days of sitting
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with a noisy bunch of friends, some days of sitting with a friend or two, and some days of sitting by myself, watching TV or simply staring outside. College canteen had snacks of some sort to go with the tea every evening, with Samosa or Sabudana Vada being the most wanted, and dry bhel the least. But tea in Bombay was restricted to on -campus times; I did try the famous cutting chai at Samovar, but I have to say nothing excited me about the tea itself, other than the glass it was served in. It made me feel local in a posh place. I believe tea addiction has reached its peak only now, after I have moved to Delhi. One day without chai, and I feel like some vital ingredient necessary for me to function normally is missing. Now, the good thing about tea is that you can have it anywhere without worrying about falling sick. Not that I am concerned about having street food at all, but when you see someone stirring tea with a blunt knife that he then wipes on a rusting table to get rid of the tea dust, you could get worried. Somehow, boiling tea apparently magically rids it of any dangers. There’s a culture to drinking tea, I have come to realise. I used to hold the Indian tendency to keep drinking tea – or taking chai breaks – in contempt, because to me it felt like a convenient
excuse to shirk away from work. You go to a counter that opens at 10am, at 10.20am and you’ll find no one there. Why? Chai. You go at 3.55pm because it closes at 4pm, and you still won’t find anyone. Why? Chai, again. I do guiltily confess now that I have become somewhat of a chaidrink-shirker because sometimes you just need chai. Post-lunch chai with colleagues is an important activity, as we pick the stall to go to, order ‘kum cheeni’ chais and stand around discussing mundane things. Sometimes, it’s about waiting for your cup and taking it back to work to drink, because you’re swamped. Sometimes, it’s about getting a few minutes of warmth in the sun, and post-lunch-chai-time would find me standing in a little patch of sun that streamed through the trees, unwilling to step away from the meek warmth. During weekends, sometimes it’s about a steaming cup of chai with the friend after a nap and before an outing, standing by a busy road while others smoked nearby. Recently, though, oftentimes, it’s been about getting a cup of chai by myself at different places. Such as in the tight lanes leading to the Hazrat Nizammuddin Dargah, where I sat alone on a wooden bench while the man making tea smoked, and I watched some of the ashes fall into the tea he was preparing. Surrounding me were shops selling miscellaneous things to take into a mosque, and I watched with interest the frenzied activity that I was so alien to.
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Spark—January 2014 | 4th Anniversary Potpourri Issue
I feel distant from my days of craving for green that lovely flavour, chai, kum cheeni seems to tea and of feverish hunt for Moroccan mint. be winning. Even though I’d love to get a packet of that lemon-mint tea I got from Istanbul simply for
Vani Viswanathan is often lost in her world of books and A R Rahman, churning out lines in her head or humming a song. Her world is one of frivolity, optimism, quietude and general chilled-ness, where there is always place for outbursts of laughter, bouts of silence, chocolate, ice cream and lots of books and endless iTunes playlists from all over the world. She is now a CSR communications consultant, and has been blogging at http://chennaigalwrites.blogspot.com since 2005.
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Poetry
Precepts
by M. Mohankumar Time and again, we come across certain morals that are put across to us frequently. M. Mohankumar’s poem gives an ironic twist to these oft-heard morals.
Pithy statements, memorably worded. I remember a few, but practise none.
For instance:
1. Catch time by the forelock.
In one swift move I get hold of it but
Picture : Google Images
it glides away, leaving only a few strands in my hand.
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Spark—January 2014 | 4th Anniversary Potpourri Issue
2. Slow and steady.... Slow I am, too slow for the race. My legs unsteady, I totter, an arthritic tortoise. 3. Drink life to the lees. How can I, sir, when, half way through, the cup has been dashed to the ground, and it lies broken to bits?
Picture : Google Images
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.
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Spark—January 2014 | 4th Anniversary Potpourri Issue
Fiction
The Name
by Archita Suryanarayanan Tarun likes to imagine his own world where he gives names (and personalities) to people he runs into. Needless to say, he has imagined a whole character to the woman who was the previous owner of ‘The God of Small Things’ that he is now reading on the train. Archita Suryanarayanan tells us what happens.
A train chugged off the platform, hooting shrilly. The porters in red rushed past. A boy feebly tried to sell outdated magazines. A bright voice announced train departures, each number narrated by a different faceless woman making the effect comical and disjointed. Tarun walked wearily to his coach which was at the very end; he was well in time as usual.
site him, who appeared to be his wife judging by the way her nail-polished feet rested familiarly near his leg, became Malathi Shah.
Tarun glanced at the others – he did not remember when he developed this habit of naming everyone he passed by; he walked down a road and the people around him metamorphosed into Shruthis and Kabirs and Anishas. He hauled his luggage in and surreptitiously Though he did not know this, his instincts were scanned the ages on the passenger list. He was often, actually always, wrong – his Shruthi was disappointed–everyone in his vicinity seemed often Kalpana and Kabir was Ramesh. above 50. But today it didn't matter, he sat at The artistic lady next to his Malathi had a powthe window seat, with a pleasant thrill of anticierful personality, he thought, what with the pation–a seven-hour train journey, a book to Khadi sari she wore and greying hair tied in a read, pleasant climate, green landscapes outside loose bun. She was writing in a little diary and the window. Tarun decided she was writing aplay and named The coupe was already full, and Tarun mentally her Mrinalini, omitting the surname as she named the people in the compartment. The seemed beyond linguistic groups and communibearded man near the aisle reading The Econo- ties. The others in the compartment were a mist became Dilip Kumar Shah, the lady oppo- fussy couple and their baby, the mother he 25
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named Varshini, who was force-feeding the child a banana while the father Arun Kumar watched the remarkable spectacle worriedly, giving his wife instructions if she went too fast.
stop, the wind blowing her curly hair around her face. She wore a long beige sweater and carried a cloth sling bag with a pattern of elephant. Her feet were encased in bright Rajasthani slippers.
Tarun settled into his seat She was probably a literature and took out his book, student, one still idealistic The God of Small Things. enough to be able to sit on a He had tried to read the park bench for hours. Which is book when he was in high where she was heading, in his school and vaguely reimagination. She walked past membered feeling an odd the jogging couples in branded kinship with the twins, sportswear and the old man and finding the language walking his dog, the kids in intriguing and strangely roller-skates and the accompaunsettling. He had abannying mothers exchanging doned the book midway, lunch box recipes. She stopped being in the phase when to watch a squirrel scamper he preferred fast paced past the bushes. She reached plots over long intricate an empty bench and sat with descriptions After recently her legs crossed, opened the reading an excerpt howevbook and took out a green pen er, he was captivated and from her bag. She wrote her went into a second hand book store the same name and the date on the top right corner and day and bought a copy. held the book back to admire the effect. Then she began reading the book. The copy lay in front of him, smelling of what old books smell of, a small green ink stain on He imagined her a few years later, packing up the back cover near the bar code, the cover her bags to move from the city. She had books clearly crumpled like a book read and re-read. strewn in front of her, and frowned in concenHe opened the book. In a neat cursive hand- tration trying to decide which to take back and writing, it said on the top right–Subhashini R, which she would have to leave behind. To pick 16-12-2008. the Somerset Maugham or the O Henry? R K Narayan or Arundathi Roy? Finally she would An image formed in Tarun's head. A tall girl sort the books into two neat piles. And walk to walking into a bookstore, probably in Calcutta. the store with the pile that had the green-inkBrowsing through Dickens and Kafka.And fistained The God of Small Things. nally walking to the billing desk with this book. She held the book to her chest and stepped out She would then maybe move to Bangalore to of the old bookshop. She walked to her bus work in a publishing house. Which would be 26
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next to his campus. He would see her everyday when he is returning from the tea shop when she waits at the auto rickshaw stand. He imagined secret glances and unsaid words. One day they would strike up a conversation, and begin sitting in the cafe daily talking for hours. About their favourite books and movies. She would talk about the pain of selling off old books. That is when he would suddenly remember she has the same name as the green-inked scrawl on his copy of The God of Small Things. He would gift her the book the next day, and she would look at the name in pleasant shock. It would be the beginning of a beautiful friendship. "Ticket, please."Tarun was shaken out of his reverie. He was back in the train compartment, the book still open on the first page. His copassengers were looking at him in amusement.
The day I got a raise.And walked out of office with a spring in my step and a resolve to splurge on myself for a change. I bought this book, two fountain pens, a new handbag and on a sudden rare whim, a bright printed silk sari that I would wear only once. And of course, toys for my little Anu, she was all I had. Was it only five years back? When I was happy and content. When the smiling face made me forget all my worries, when the games of Ludo would make me feel light as a child. This was before my life changed forever, before I went into a daze. Before I knew that the smiling face would not be around for much longer. Before I left the city with half my possessions and left suitcases full of books and clothes 'accidentally' in the bus stop. I didn't want to carry back anything from the city that gave me six beautiful years with my little Anu. I wanted the memories to go away with her. I wanted to start fresh, wanted to start with nothing, since I had nobody.
The baby cried. The parents got busy. The lady with the diary went back to writing while the bearded man returned to his Economist. He had forgotten the names he had given them through the course of his imagined story. He sighed. And now I see the book and I am reminded of Reality. He opened the book and began reading. the day I returned home laden with the shopOpposite him, Subhashini watched him as she ping bags and gifts for Anu. The squeals of describbled into her diary. She saw his dreamy light. Feeding each other ice cream. The long expression and envied his carefree youth. She game of Tumbling Monkeys that followed. And watched the book, watched how his eyes hov- watching the Lion King DVD for the twentieth ered on the top right corner of the first page. time. She wrote. It is a happy memory. And surprisingly, I am "I can see the green spot. I know it is mine. He not saddened today. I feel like sharing my story, has been staring at the name on the first page after all these years of silence. This young boy for the past half hour. I wonder what he is with the book seems sensitive and I feel an inthinking. I can picture the name, the circle over tangible connection with him because of the the i, the two lines under my initial. I can imag- book. He might be interested in listening. And I ine the day I got the book as if it was yesterday. might feel lighter too. I will take the leap today." 27
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Tarun had closed the book by now. The countryside was making him dreamy and he sat gazing outside the window and thinking of the girl in the sweater. "Excuse me," said the lady who was writing in the diary. He looked up with a start and found that she was looking at him intently. "Yes?" he asked and smiled. She paused. Her eyes were pained and she seemed to be struggling with her thoughts. Then a mask
seemed to fall over her face, and her expression became distant. "No, it's nothing," she said, a little sadly. "I thought you were someone else." They went back into their own private worlds.
Archita Suryanarayanan is an avid reader and aspiring writer, a student of journalism and an architect. A mixture of opposites, for her, the mundane often becomes magical. She hopes to capture through writing, those fleeting moments that make everything else worth it. Archita blogs at http://thecityrhythm.wordpress.com/
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Spark—January 2014 | 4th Anniversary Potpourri Issue
Poetry
Celebrating Another Birthday by Shirani Rajapakse
A man who loves variety in life celebrates yet another birthday, but is everything alright? Shirani Rajapakse’s poem has the answers.
Layers of coloured cake sandwiched with fruits; pineapple stewed just right, kadju in between the dark chocolate like stars in a moonless night sky. A myriad shades lining the sides, icing drooling at the candles in different hues burning proudly at the top. You blew them out one by one laughing at the way they refused to give up their light but rising from the ashes like a phoenix. You were embarrassed by their gesture knowing that I knew you 29
Spark—January 2014 | 4th Anniversary Potpourri Issue
took your love to town, peddling it around on street corners, ‘variety is the spice of life’ someone said. You couldn’t be satisfied with what you had, a multitude was what you needed to feel loved, wanted. Age took over, highways ran across your face crisscrossing, merging, mingling in a rush to get to wherever. The greys on your head peep out from under the fading bottle-black turning orange-brown reminding you the days are numbered. Pain wracks your Shirani Rajapakse is a Sri Lankan poet and author. She won the Cha “Betrayal” Poetry Contest 2013. Her collection of short stories, Breaking News (VijithaYapa 2011) was shortlisted for the Gratiaen Award. Shirani’s work appears in Cyclamens & Swords, Channels, Linnet’s Wings, Spark, Berfrois, Counterpunch, Earthen Lamp Journal, Asian Cha, Dove Tales, Buddhist Poetry Review, About Place Journal, Skylight 47, The Smoking Poet, New Verse News, The Occupy Poetry Project and anthologies, Short & Sweet – an anthology of Sri Lankan Hint Fiction (forthcoming 2014), Music Anthology (forthcoming2014), Poems for Freedom, Voices Israel Poetry Anthology 2012, Song of Sahel, Occupy Wall Street Poetry Anthology, World Healing World Peace and Every Child Is Entitled to Innocence. She blogs rather infrequently a t h t t p : / / shiranirajapakse.wordpress.com.
frail body, the diseases have no cures, gifts from lovers that loved you too much. There isn’t enough money to pay for meds, coloured pills like the colours of your lust. We sit inside the old rented house and stare up at the fairy lights strung on the walls. Another year over, how many more candles will you live to see?
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Fiction
Tonight I can Write by Nikitha Phyllis
A writer goes through a torturous bout of writer’s block. And suddenly, the words begin to flow. Nikitha Phyllis tells us how the words came back to the writer.
THEN
the curtains. I shift my attention to the dust motes in the light. I wave my hand, disturbing “There is a void within me. A black hole of the pattern and watch them go into a frenzied nothingness. Tendrils of darkness swirl around; dance before they settle back. its slender threads a sleek black, squeezing out every happy thought and emotion. I fall into a dreamless slumber. When I wake, I find I’m drenched in sweat. The fan has Zombie-like and hollow I wander, not knowing stopped. I sigh, turn over, and drift back to what I seek or where I go.” sleep. When I showed him the latest entry in my diary, When I wake next, the room is aflame with the he sighed and diagnosed me with depression. colour of the setting sun. Any other day, I I chucked the pills in the bin when I reached would’ve been moved to write. Not anymore. I home. I wasn’t depressed. I woke up one day continue to lie listlessly, ignoring the rumble of and found I couldn’t write anymore. The words my stomach. just refused to flow. I felt like a dried-up old Crumpled balls of paper litter the floor, eviwell. Uninspired. Dead. dence of my recent failed attempts… NOW It gets dark outside. I drag myself out of bed Numb. That’s how I feel these days. and lean out the window. The gulmohar tree All morning I’ve been lying in bed, staring at the stands like a silent sentinel at the end of the snail-like pace of the ceiling fan. Sunlight road. A car honks somewhere in the distance. A streams in through the window; I can feel it lone streetlight comes on outside, illuminating a scorching my skin, yet I do not get up to draw small patch of the pavement. I take it all in 31
Spark—January 2014 | 4th Anniversary Potpourri Issue
distractedly, not particularly noticing anything, wards. But someone shoves me from behind staring out into nothingness. and I fall headlong into the whirlpool. I spot a figure at the edge before the limbs grab me. It Then I saw it — a pale red shaft of light that was the spitting image of me, standing there, appeared out of nowhere in the centre of the watching, as I sank lower and lower into the street. Curious, I go downstairs to take a closer inky mass. look and step out into the street barefoot. The light moves a few paces and hovers, as if waiting That was my last thought before darkness took for me to follow. over. I run, engulfed by AFTER a childlike thrill in I hear a loud scream, and wanting to catch my eyes fly open. It takes the light. me two seconds to realize It’s faster than that the scream came me. Soon enough, from my mouth. Then I I’m out of breath remember and look and clutching a around wildly for limbs stitch in my side. and smoke and the figure Yet I keep going, that turned out to be me. fearful that if I All my eyes encounter is stop to rest I would lose sight of it. my own room. The ground beneath my feet turns rocky and I Was it just a dream then? find myself scrambling up a steep cliff. The light stops at the very edge and shines steadily like a Relief spreads through my body, replacing panbeacon. My legs are raw and bleeding by the ic. time I get there.
My mind is in a whirl. I think about what I saw in my seemingly irrational nightmare and yet… But the light has vanished. Was it my mind’s way of telling me to snap out I decide to cautiously peer down the cliffside of my deathly stupor? and nearly fall off with surprise. Instead of a sheer drop, I find a whirlpool of furiously swirl- A gentle breeze wafts through the open window and I take in a lungful of fresh air. On an iming coils of inky-black smoke. pulse, I go over to my desk, open my notebook I stare hard for a few minutes and that’s when I and begin to write. I feel a sense of release rushsee them. Decapitated limbs floating in the ing through me, as I fill page after page. smoke, reaching out to me. I could almost hear the silent pleas of the people those limbs be- Seems like my dog days are finally over. longed to. Horrified, I begin to crawl back32
Spark—January 2014 | 4th Anniversary Potpourri Issue
Nikitha Phyllis is studying at the Asian College of Journalism, Chennai. She is a twentyyear-old bookworm, music lover and movie buff (ranging from foreign movies to animated ones). A writer, though with periodic bouts of writer’s block. She dreams of being a travel journalist someday.
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Art
Krishna by Vipin K. C
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Fiction
Christmas Present by Anu Karthik
With 2013 behind us and a brand new year ahead, Anu Karthik believes that one has to cherish the chaos of everyday life, the comfort of a snuggle, the joy in knowing the house is messy and there are things that never get done on her list. Because through this all, life reminds her that she is alive, that she has a lot to be thankful for. For one knows not what he has, until that is no more. She shares her thoughts in this short story.
There is a slight buzzing sound. It seems distant, yet very real. It is constant. After a few seconds, Varsha realises it is her iPhone alarm buzzing – telling her it is time to start the day. Groggy and wanting to grab a few more minutes of sleep, she hits the snooze button and snuggles close to her son, Sachin. A few minutes later she is up and starts getting ready for the day. As she comes out of the bathroom after her shower, she is greeted by her second born - 16-month- old Veer. Smiling sleepily at his Amma he stretches his arms wanting her to hold him, carry him, and allow him to nurse one more time. Varsha reaches out cooing to her little one, careful not to wake Sachin, who is still asleep. Lifting him up, she heads down to the kitchen to pacify her growling stomach and cook something for the long day ahead.
boils the milk for coffee and gets breakfast and lunch ready. She gets busy, constantly opening and closing the refrigerator, taking boxes out, stuffing rotis into the lunch bag, preparing cereal for breakfast and omelette and fruit for Sachin’s school lunch. Thankfully, Veer got food at his day-care so that saves her a good ten minutes in her hectic morning routine. “Amma,”screams Veer. Varsha turns to notice that he has split milk all over his outfit and needs a change. She grabs him, turns off the stove and runs up to get him a new set of clothes and also to wake up Sachin and get him ready for school.
Somehow much to her own amazement, she manages with two hands and with Veer on her hip, to get Sachin up and on the bathroom counter to get his teeth brushed. Yet she is unaShe seats Veer on her kitchen counter as she ble to manage Veer who has already gotten 35
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down, pulling down her hair bands and comb, messing up the floor. In a fleeting second,Varsha decides that the mess will have to wait till the evening to be cleaned, when the kids are in bed. Amidst a lot of chatter, a few screams and some grumbles, she gets the boys ready. “Chocolate Waffles, Amma,”says Sachin as he goes to say his prayers. Thanking that he had not picked pancakes on a day when she was already running late, Varsha heads down. She restarts the stove and hopes to get her coffee soon. As she puts breakfast on the table, she does a visual check to see what is left for her to get ready before she can grab the kids and head out.
yet, Veer decides to wipe his mouth on her shirt sleeve. “Veer!” cries Varsha. Frustrated, she grabs a wipe to clean most of it off; at least enough for her co-workers to not notice. They grab their jackets, hats and gloves and somehow rush out the door to start yet another day in their lives. Coffee will have to wait until later.
As they drive, Varsha looks lovingly through the rear view mirror at the two children snuggled up in their car seats – looking out the window. She looks forward to the few minutes in the car as she talks to them about the upcoming day. “Sachin, have you written your letter to Santa? What have you asked him?” she asks her older son eagerly. Sachin looks at her with a longing, desolate look Thanks to technology and Curious George and in his eyes. “I did Amma. I asked him for our Funny Pingu, the kids are done with their break- Appa.” fast. As she puts the dishes away, sighing that there is just is no time to unload the dishwasher
Anu Karthik is a passionate person with a strong sense of will. She blogs at http:// anu4karthik.blogspot.com
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Spark—January 2014 | 4th Anniversary Potpourri Issue
Poetry
To My New-born Son by Parth Pandya When a child is born, there are many thoughts that run in a father’s mind. Among them are those about their future together. Parth Pandya sheds light on some of these thoughts through a poem.
You may be Of you mother’s womb But you are of my brow And my sinews and bones And that mind that never ceases To wonder about you Is life’s irony writ On your crinkled little face That a man of thirty years Searches for himself In a boy of thirty days? What August rains And striking days of summer in May Await us While we bide our time? Growing, inching forward, you and I
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What unuttered words, smiles and tears, What careless pronunciations Of words we hold dear, What blistering scraps for Beliefs we differ on, Lie ahead of us? How goes our journey together, From inception to conclusion? The start: You, light as a feather, Cradled in my arms The end: I, lighter than you Hoisted on your shoulders.
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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Spark—January 2014 | 4th Anniversary Potpourri Issue
Non-fiction
Looking Back and Looking Ahead by Anupama Krishnakumar Anupama Krishnakumar looks back at 2013, the year which, through a varied set of experiences, changed the course of her life and also taught her some lessons. While the usual responsibilities are sure to keep busy in 2014, there is something more she wishes to do in the new year. Read on.
Each year brings with it experiences that spawn new hopes, exciting opportunities and tough challenges. In the end, I believe, we emerge a little wiser and a little stronger. When I look back at 2013, I would like to believe that I saw it all. The Joys of Being Busy The first half of 2013 was literally the period of the baby bump. There was a lot to look forward to as the year began. We were getting ready to welcome another member into the family. Things this time, however, were markedly different from the first pregnancy. I quite didn’t have the same relaxed phase I had back then. This time around, clinging to me, was a young one – my son, with large anxious eyes, waiting to be attended to, to be taken care of, to be dropped at school, fed, nurtured, taught and
loved. Little did I realise that the second pregnancy could be as hectic. I remember being as busy as a bee – running around, getting the house going and of course managing Spark. This, I believe, was indeed a blessing in disguise, for, an idle mind, especially under such circumstances, could be the perfect breeding ground for all types of anxieties to take the mind under siege. And so there I was, spinning around, literally like a top, writing, editing and designing, doing up models and charts for school projects, cooking away, walking diligently and attending birthday parties! I really discovered the joy of being busy and saw time tick away second by second and vanish before my eyes!
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Stealing the quieter moments
tired though I was.
But what happened during those quieter moments? In the afternoons? I had conversations – conversations with the little one, as she kicked and turned and floated around inside. Conversations. Real ones. Telling her of the world she would come into. Of my anxieties. Of my deadlines. She was the listener who never spoke yet reassured me with her kicks, telling me that she was right there, waiting to come and be with me.
Lying there, minutes after delivering, I dreamt of how much I could shop for clothes and accessories now! I dreamt of so many things we would do together! And as months have passed, it’s hard to put in words, the oneness I feel with her when she spreads her arms, crying and cooing for me to pick her up and hold her tight, when she smiles a toothless smile of recognition that sends me into a dizzying state of happiness and when she wraps her tiny fingers around mine as she falls asleep securely in my arms. I see so much of myself in her in some inexplicable way and I let out a sigh when I think how much this precious little one has altered the emotional boundaries of my life.
The nights, though, were different. It was as if confidence and optimism disappeared when the light of the day faded away; and synonymous with darkness, strange fears kicked themselves into action. I would toss and turn, worrying about nothing in Life isn’t without challenges particular, worrying all the same and wake up We have all heard it enough but at times, life with a disturbing grogginess that would eventustill has the knack to throw some very rough ally fritter away as the day bloomed in full glory. ones at us that we are thrown off balance. EveThe Daughter that I wanted rything around us crumbles. Just like what happened when my six-year-old son suffered an Here is a small confession: I really didn’t know elbow dislocation and fracture when he tripped how desperately I needed a daughter till that and fell at home, two weeks after my daughter moment I first held her in my arms. I seriously was born. What made it worse was the fact that didn’t know. To all those who threw at me the the whole incident was such a freak accident. same question when I met them, “do you want a The little boy had to undergo a surgery while I daughter or a son?” I just shrugged and replied was at home, nursing my two-week-old daugh– Son or daughter, it doesn’t matter, all I want is ter, unable to be by my son’s side when he a healthy child. Yes, I said that; but when she needed me the most. These were probably the arrived and I learnt that I had given birth to a worst moments of my life – the helplessness daughter, I let out a cry of joy, unbelievably was unbearable, it ripped me apart and there 40
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wasn’t a single moment in those two days that he was in the hospital that I hadn’t shed tears. I was heartbroken. I wept as my husband described what our son was going through there as he waited outside the OT. I wept when my tired boy (still under the effect of anaesthesia) asked me if I could come over and be with him during the night at least. I learnt that it’s such a terrible thing to see your children suffer and even worse when you can’t do anything about it.
out to be, we just had the perfect vacation to conclude the year, visiting my parents. There I was, in the house that I grew up in as a child, with both my children. It was such a special feeling, a rare experience. I also visited the small temple that I would run to often as a child and sat with both my little ones in the same place inside the temple where I would sit down as a kid. There was something extremely poignant about doing that and something very dream-like. It didn’t feel real yet it was. It was unbelievable. Goose-bump moments Mind blowing. History, it seemed, was repeating But as they say we learn to move on. And so we itself. Goose-bump moments. did. Since he had an injury in the right hand, he Looking Ahead – Reconnecting with couldn’t write for six weeks. And that’s when I Friends encountered something that gave me the goosebumps. My son showed me what determination It’s not like I have literally been out of touch is when he mastered writing with his left hand in with my friends. But then, I haven’t been greatly a matter of five days and matched the handwrit- in touch either. This New Year, I was simply ing that he would produce with his right hand. amazed to see so many of my friends taking a All this because he hated sitting simply in class conscious effort to get back into the connecting and watching others write! The physiotherapy mode. This is something I hadn’t seen in the last sessions were gruelling and unnerving for him few years. This time, I ended up chatting/ but he persisted, struggling (for the lack of a talking with a few good old friends and what a better word) to get his right hand back in action. wonderful thing it was to do. It really lightened And how! My heart sank seeing him struggle me up so much that I, for a brief while, moved and move his hand back and forth to ease the out of the family woman mode. Not exactly elbow. He howled and cried and ground his owing to the sort of discussions we had – we teeth but finally did it! Yes! His amazing mental weren’t talking shared memories from college strength taught me so much about how not to days. We did end up discussing children, work, give up on anything and how one should actual- vaccines, sleeping routines and how life had ly push the boundaries to get where we want to. dramatically changed over the years from when He was thrilled to bits seeing his hand back in we were teenagers to thirty-somethings. We shape. I shivered with pride when, a few days ended up passing hi’s and hello’s to our better later, he drew at the school art competition with halves. But what really made the difference was his right hand and came back with the prize for the realisation that we were still together bethe best entry. Goose-bump moments. cause of our shared experiences, no matter how geographically apart destiny had placed us. For the hectic year that 2013 eventually turned 41
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These are my friends over the last fifteen years or more and forged at a time when we were raring to go and burst into the world with such effervescence and optimism. College friendships – my closest ones. These, at least for me, are relationships that I had formed for a lifetime. This year, I am keen on staying connected with them as much as possible. Spark It is always good to not focus our energy on just one aspect of our lives. And that applies to children or work or anything that takes up a significant share of your time. For me, Spark is that alternate handle. I wonder how 2013 would have been if Spark hadn’t been around. It was my creative respite, my much sought alternative among doctor visits and scans and bringing up my son and managing home. The bubbling stream at the end of a long walk up hill. The rainbow that brightened up my day. The journey that though was tiring midway eventually was indeed fulfilling.
This year is an important one for Spark – we complete four years of non-stop publishing and step into the fifth year. The 50th issue too is on its way. It will be published in February and will be one of the most significant moments of my life as a writer. It hasn’t been an easy task sustaining Spark, bringing it out without fail every month and that too on time every single time. But we have done it for the sheer love of what Spark was created for – the desire to connect with like-minded people and create something of literary value that can be cherished again and again in as many dimensions as possible. As always has been the case each year, the ideas to sculpt this creative effort further are aplenty. Needless to say, among the many things in life that would need my attention including my children, I earnestly look forward to keeping Spark going and making it better. If not for anything else, for the fact that it is really hard to imagine what life would be, without Spark.
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!
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Spark—January 2014 | 4th Anniversary Potpourri Issue
Poetry
Sizzlers—a miscellany by M. Mohankumar
Through five little poems, M. Mohankumar presents a humourous take on some oft-heard phrases and words in our lives.
1. FOOT IN THE MOUTH Whenever he opened his mouth, he would put his foot in it. It has always been so. Except once - when he was sitting on the dentist’s chair, mouth wide open, the dentist pulling out a decayed tooth. 2. WERE YOU NOT.. ‘Were you not the civil servant that you are, what would you have been?’ 'Surely not so civil Not so subservient, Minister.’ 3. RETIRED Google Images
I was tired, so I retired. 43
Spark—January 2014 | 4th Anniversary Potpourri Issue
What a treat this retreat! 4. DIGGING HIS OWN GRAVE There he is, hard at work, digging, digging. I wonder why he is doing it himself, when there are others, ready with the spade, waiting.
5. THE PARAMAHAMSA Look at the two cranes, flying so gracefully in the cloudless sky. Seeing such a sight, the Paramahamsa fell into a trance. We remain unmoved.
Google Images
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.
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Spark—January 2014 | 4th Anniversary Potpourri Issue
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Spark—January 2014 | 4th Anniversary Potpourri Issue