Spark Word. World. Wisdom July 2013
“We, the People” Fiction | Non-fiction| Poetry| Art | Photography | The Lounge
05 July 2013
Vol 4 Issue 7| July 2013
Dear Reader, At Spark this month, we decided to explore the human side of things—stir it up with people! Presenting to you, Spark’s July issue, themed ‘We, the People’! The issue is a mélange of interesting art, poetry, fiction and non-fiction and The Lounge segment chips in with something on spirituality and day-to-day life. We also have a lovely photo essay on the diversity in its peoples that India can proudly claim. We hope you enjoy this edition of Spark—we’ve been around for over three and a half years now, and we’re delighted that you’ve been a part of our wonderful journey. As always, send us your comments at feedback@sparkthemagazine.com.
Contributors Anupama Krishnakumar Bakul Banerjee Loreto M Parth Pandya Philip John Rahul Seth
We’ll see you again in August!
Rumjhum Biswas
- Editorial team
Shreya Ramachandran Shruthi Saklecha
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. Spark July 2013 © Spark 2013 Individual contributions © Author CC licensed pictures attribution available at www.sparkthemagazine.com Published by Viswanathan
Anupama
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Swati Sengupta Tirna Sengupta Ullas Marar Vani Viswanathan Vinita Agrawal Cover Page Art Swati Sengupta Concept, Editing and Design Anupama Krishnakumar Vani Viswanathan
Inside this Issue POETRY Landfill by Ullas Marar Tarpan by Bakul Banerjee A Chain of Miseries by Parth Pandya Listen by Loreto M FICTION The Book People by Philip John A Promise to Watch by Shruthi Saklecha The Shoe Millionaire by Rumjhum Biswas NON-FICTION No Country for ‘Real’ Women by Shreya Ramachandran The Creativity Principle by Tirna Sengupta To You Two by Anupama Krishnakumar THE LOUNGE INNER JOURNEY | Layers by Rahul Seth SLICE OF LIFE | Chilli Trails by Vani Viswanathan ART The Mind Maze by Swati Sengupta PHOTO FEATURE Glorious Diversity by Vinita Agrawal
Poetry
Landfill by Ullas Marar
While there is the constant cry of growing junk and garbage in the world around us, do we realise that there’s emotional garbage and pain piling up within us, humans? Ullas Marar writes a poem that makes us ponder over the darkness that fills our lives.
This city has little space to dump its waste The landfills are full and the junk is piling up. The residue of our dreary existence Is clogging up our lives.
Our whiskey glasses are stained From all the heartbreak we pour in. Different people, different stories, the same stains.
Our faces covered in our hoods Or greased over with cosmetics We all carry bruises we don’t show.
We have satin sheets that bear no creases So no one can tell A dreamless sleep from sleepless dreams.
Our songs are sad With words we wish we could speak Our regrets, our thoughts, borrowed words.
The pillows are soggy With the tears we have shed We change the covers so we can weep again.
The landfills within us pile up With debris of our broken lives We console ourselves the trucks will arrive And cry ourselves to sleep again.
Ullas Marar is a marketing communications specialist by profession. In other words, yet another corporate sellout. While that helps pay the bills, writing in the dead of the night helps him stay sane. He writes fiction, non-fiction and poetry. As a writer, he’s like a kid in a candy shop. Everything around him is a potential story. The only challenge is to build the discipline needed to bring those stories to life and he continues to work on getting better at it.
Fiction The Book People by Philip John Selina George, an avid reader and reading club member, calls The Last Goodbye to help her draft a decent suicide letter as she decides to bid adieu to the world. Philip John tells us her story, set in 2023, in a world where depression is driving up suicide rates and a group of charged people are reaching out through the internet to add meaning to their lives by creating theme-based groups. “Ms. George, welcome to The Last Goodbye. I’m Rita and I’m a life services linguist. How may I help you?” “Hi. I could use help with my suicide note.” “Sure, Ms. George, I can assist you with selftermination copy. May I ask if this is entirely your decision? “Yes. I am not under coercion.” “OK. Have you been under any medication recently, ma’am?” “Just pain killers.” “Ok ma’am. I’ll need to ask you a few questions to make sure your mind is sound. Can you tell us the day, the date, the time and the year?” “It’s Saturday, the 15th day of June. It’s two thirty in the afternoon. The year is 2023.” “Who is the prime minister of our country, ma’am?” “Our country is under emergency rule.” “What did you have for lunch, ma’am?” “I had pizza for lunch. With a glass of juice.”
“Are you in a state of despair, ma’am?” “Isn’t everyone in some degree of despair?” “I’m sorry ma’am but I’m going to need a ‘yes’ or ‘no’ answer to that question without which I cannot assist you.” “Alright, I’m not in a state of despair.” “Are you sure, ma’am?” “Yes. Definitely not in despair.” “Then what is stopping you from writing your own self termination copy, ma’am?” “I have a lot of things to take care of before I go. A clear, self-respecting suicide note that doesn’t hurt anyone takes time. I could use help.” “OK. Everything you’ve said and will continue to say from here on can be used against you in a court of law. This call is being recorded to help us serve our clients better.” “I understand completely.” “We can now proceed to drafting. Would you prefer a hard copy note or an e-mail?”
“E-mail.”
“Brave new world. Yes, I’ve got your email.”
“Ok ma’am, we encourage you to e-mail it from your personal id to a close family member. This provides authentication should the need arise. We have two broad categories: close-ended notes that specify the reasons for self termination and open-ended notes that don’t. Which would you like?”
“Alright, ma’am. I will wait for your briefing. I will let you read the note now.”
your third call to The Last Goodbye. In case you renege this time, we will be charging you a processing fee of 1000 notes. The details of how to make the payment will come to you via your personal email id. This is just to help The Last Goodbye continue to profitably do its job which is to help people say goodbye with clarity and dignity in a world where you have the right to choose ending over mending.”
“It’s a beautiful note.”
From: thelastgoodbye@gmail.com To: selinageorge@gmail.com
Subject: SR00345 | e-mail | close ended | Virginia “Oh close-ended of course. I’m all for ambigui- Woolf ty in fiction. But this is different.” Dearest, I feel certain that I am going mad again. I feel “Right. Do you want to use a template or would we can't go through another of those terrible times. And you like a custom letter? We have a new catego- I shan't recover this time. I begin to hear voices, and I ry called Celebrity. You can model your note on can't concentrate. So I am doing what seems the best real self-termination copy written by a celebri- thing to do. You have given me the greatest possible hapty.” piness. You have been in every way all that anyone could “Oh, ok. Ah, I don’t know. Would you have be. I don't think two people could have been happier 'til Virginia Woolf’s suicide note to her husband?” this terrible disease came. I can't fight any longer. I know that I am spoiling your life, that without me you could “Can you state her occupation?” work. And you will I know. You see I can't even write “She was a writer.” this properly. I can't read. What I want to say is I owe all the happiness of my life to you. You have been entirely “One moment, ma’am. Yes, we do. Would you patient with me and incredibly good. I want to say like me to email it to you? Do you have access that—everybody knows it. If anybody could have saved to your laptop or tablet?” me it would have been you. Everything has gone from me “Yes.” but the certainty of your goodness. I can't go on spoiling “We’ve e-mailed Virginia Woolf’s note to you, your life any longer. I don't think two people could have ma’am. You should receive it shortly. This is been happier than we have been. V. “Would you like to adapt it?” “The writing is somehow dark and nimble at once.” “Are those the values you would like your note to carry?” “I wonder if it’s the kind of note Mrs. Dalloway might have written if she was in just as debilitat-
ting a state as I am in now. Have you read Mrs. “Thank you, dear.” Dalloway by Virginia Woolf?” “I’ve seen the film.”
From: thelastgoodbye@gmail.com “It’s about a woman who’s preparing to host an To: selinageorge@gmail.com evening party. Then her mind wanders.” Subject: SR00345 | e-mail | close ended | Virginia “Right, ma’am.” Woolf “There’s this Christmas party tonight at our place. My husband’s invited some friends over. I’m dreading it. I used to be a delightful mad Dearest, I have come to the decision that I do not want hatter when we had guests. Of course after the to go on living. You once told me life is a gift bestowed accident, I’ve been more of a female Franken- upon us. But ever since the accident, my life has turned into a nightmare from which I can’t awake and never stein lying in bed, waiting for my feed. Hah.” will. Since I did not ask anyone to bestow this ‘gift’ upon “I’m sorry to hear that, ma’am.” me, I owe it to myself to examine my life and to renounce “But I digress. Alright, then! I like Woolf’s note. it if I find it unfavorable… which is what I am doing. Can you adapt it to convey my personal reasons Do not begrudge me this decision. We both know you are for the suicide which are freedom from this ir- far better off without my physical condition to drain your revocable physical condition and also freedom finances and your spirit, which really must be channeled for my husband so he may channel his money into writing. Take care and write that book, my dear. I and his spirit into more significant tasks like his hope to read it in another world. You have given me writing?” everything and I am eternally grateful. S. “I will work with those parameters and get back “It’s beautiful. And very precise.” to you in a minute.” “Thank you, ma’am. Is this good to go?” “You know I never really liked Mrs. Dalloway. I “Yes. You’re sure it doesn’t sound helpless or found it overwrought. But something tells me bitter?” it’ll be different this time around. I think there was a copy in the bedside drawer. Ah, here it is. “We’ve taken care of that. May I add that your Oh, that’s a pretty edition! Michael got me this acceptance of words like ‘begrudge’ and phrases when I was going through what he calls my Mad like ‘examine my life’ not only reveal an advanced mind but also indicate that your cogniWoman period.” tive functions are at their peak as we speak, a “I’ve adapted the note and mailed it to you, sign that this letter is the product of a sound ma’am. Do you have access to your laptop?” mind.” “That was quicker than usual. Yes, I do and “That’s good to hear. I suppose I have The your mail is here.” Book People to thank for that.” “I’ll wait for your feedback, ma’am.”
“The Book People ma’am?”
“Alright, ma’am.”
“Ah, they’re a community of people that still buys books. I mean hard copies. I joined them two years ago but dropped out after the accident. The only thing we used to enjoy as much as reading was finding someone to discuss the book with. It changed the way I think. Maybe I should re-read Dalloway and we should discuss it. But it won’t be fun doing it lying in bed like this.”
“I didn’t like it the first time. But something tells me it’ll be different this time around.” “Would you like an extension, ma’am?”
“Have you ever had a book speak to you? It hasn’t happened to me in ages. But when it happens, my blood does a little back flip. Can you understand that? I think I will go for an extension after all. Send me the processing fee details. Consider it an advance. And I’ll call you in a “I’m sorry to hear that. May we proceed to billweek.” ing?” “Sure, ma’am. It’s a nice day. Enjoy the book. “Mrs. Dalloway decided to buy the flowers herAnd we’ll wait for your call next week?” self.” “It is a nice day, isn’t it? Oh, I really think it’ll be “Could you repeat that please?” different this time around. “Sorry. I was reading aloud from Mrs. Dalloway.”
Philip John is currently a marketing executive with a consulting firm. His passions include literary fiction, jazz, movies, vintage art, comics, poetry and twentieth century American culture. Writers he admires include Michael Ondaatje, Philip Roth, George Orwell and J M Coetzee. Philip lives and writes in Bangalore.
Poetry
Tarpan by Bakul Banerjee
Most traditions around the world encourage people to remember ancestors on many designated days throughout the year. In Sanskrit, this ritual is known as Tarpan. Bakul Banerjee writes a poem themed on this ritual.
Framed by the proud trees tinged with gold and copper, the surface of the lake shifts beneath the gentle breeze. It shimmers under the harvest moon as the colour of the clear cerulean sky deepens. It is time for the annual honouring rites for you, father, your father and his father. I have no relics, no burial places to visit to honour you. I do not have any memories of precious last rites held by the crematoriums and funeral pyres next to vast rivers, where your friends and relatives waited for the fire to die down contemplating your life or theirs.
I make memories of my own in this manicured forest in the city. On this holy evening, I offer you the water from this glittering lake and the nodding seed heads suspended above the tall dry grasses. I offer you the songs of birds returning to their nests and honking of departing fowls filling the air. If I strain my ears, I may also hear a divine chanteuse singing ancient prayers to gods and ancestors in distant temples. Let your soul be sated as leaves of many colours drift down on the water. Hereby, I pledge to perform Tarpan, this memorial ritual, to my ancestors with the best of my abilities. I conclude my prayer repeating the ancient Mantra: Om punyaham bhabanto broobantu, Om punyaham bhabanto broobantu, Om punyaham bhabanto broobantu ||
Award-winning author and poet Bakul Banerjee, Ph.D. published her first volume of poems, titled “Synchronicity: Poems” in June 2010. Other poems and stories have been published in several literary magazines and anthologies throughout the U.S. She received the international Gayatri Memorial Literary Award for her contribution to English literature. Bakul has been featured in multiple Chicago area poetry events and presented workshops including one titled “Inspirations from World Poetry” at the prestigious Chicago Poetry Fest 2012. Currently, she serves as the chair of Naperville Writers Group. She received her Ph.D. degree in computational geophysics from The Johns Hopkins University, Maryland.
Non-fiction
No Country
for “Real” Women by Shreya Ramachandran Shreya Ramachandran tells us what’s problematic about portraying all women in Hindi movies as “good” women: it is lazy, inauthentic storytelling. In commercial Hindi cinema, the women always have to be good – and they always have to be good in the same way. They respect family, they are self-sacrificing, they are of pure character. First and foremost, they are “good girls with values”. Their being “liberated” – earning their own living, being unapologetic about their sexual choices, dressing in “revealing” ways and being comfortable with it – is backed up by explanation and justification to condone this behaviour. Priyanka Chopra in Dostana is career-driven; the male characters in the movie find her attractive. But almost all this positive character detailing – her focus on her career, her spending her own money as she chooses, all the male attention she receives – is counteracted during an emo-
tional scene in the movie, when she explains why she does not want male roommates – her parents would not have approved, and these small things matter to her. The reaction is everything – when she says this, the two male characters in the scene look at her differently, emotionally overwhelmed, they are now slowly falling in love with her. It is relevant that the two male characters only fall in love with her after this scene. She is worthy of love – the sort of love that leads to stability, commitment, marriage – because she is a “good girl”, despite all evidence to the contrary – the very evidence that made her liberalised to begin with. Deepika Padukone in Cocktail drinks often, dates many men, is open about her sexual choices, and is active in nightlife circles, but when her boy-
friend calls off their relationship, she realises that she is not the type of woman to fit into the role of a wife; she then renounces her former wild ways, finding them meaningless and unsatisfying (“Look at me”, she despairs. “What do I have?”), and attempts to change how she dresses, how she behaves; she tries to acquire “that ada” – the quaint, feminine mystique and grace, in the hope that she will become a more respectable person, someone who will be accepted as a daughter-in-law. In No Entry, Bipasha Basu plays a call-girl, and initially in the film she seems comfortable about her sexuality, even nonchalant about it. But it is revealed later that she has a husband, and he has been in a coma for many months, and is hospitalised on life-support. This is the reason she is so keen to earn as much as she can: to pay the medical bills. Her choice of career is to sustain her life as a good wife, nothing more. Female characters are always designed to conform to certain value systems and behaviours, even if it may appear that they are designed differently. Showcasing independence, “modernity”, liberalisation, showing women deciding their lives on their own terms and making their own choices, is just a superficial
way for the female characters to step out of the framework; justifying this behaviour with desperate, detailed proof that they are actually “good girls” brings them right back into this framework. It is lazy writing to depict any character according to an established trope rather than as an original, unique, clearly-defined character, whether this character is female or male. And when you consider these characters’ gender, when you consider these characters’ femaleness, when you realise the sort of expectations charted out for them – what is good, what is bad, what is accepted by the writing in films and what is punished, however subtly – then it becomes clear that commercial Hindi cinema is holding onto a fast-fading, obsolete idea of what women should be. And bearing in mind that many religious groups, orthodox sections of society and people holding onto righteous ideas are already telling women how they are expected to dress and behave, what their domestic roles and social roles are, we do not need films reinforcing the same. We expect to find in commercial Hindi films what we find in all forms of storytelling – a powerful redemption that allows for stories to be more complete, more satisfying, than they are in real life. The grand scale of emotion in these films allows us release for our own triumphs and tragedies, which we couldn’t properly celebrate or face in real life.
Filmmakers too, make these films to escape real life and create a world of space, freedom, and childish, naïve, elegantly crafted imagination; a world of destroying villains, saving entire towns, transcending distance to find love, waiting for years and always being rewarded; where problems are always fixed that can’t be fixed in real life; a world that always has time to allow for vengeance and justice and reunion and love; a world where poetic justice is found in three hours.
So why do filmmakers put the same restrictions in films that they are trying to escape to begin with? A restricted world where “correct type of behaviour” is dictated and enforced is not the world the audience looks for or that filmmakers are hoping to create. As long as Hindi films are telling this story, they are defeating their own purpose.
Shreya Ramachandran is a 19-year-old writer, student and world traveller from Madras.
Art
The Mind Maze by Swati Sengupta
Swati is a Communications, Branding and Marketing professional based out of Bangalore. Thanks to the nature of her job, she dabbles with colours, words, ideas, figures and forms. When she is not working, she loves travelling, lazing around on weekends, painting, solving sums or playing Mastermind, and will travel to the end of the world to watch an amazing sunset.
Poetry
A Chain of Miseries by Parth Pandya
There are as much miseries – vices and longings, as the number and variety of people in this world. Parth Pandya’s poem structured in the form of a chain of events involving different people, attempts to capture the dark side of human life.
The man stakes his search on the street Pace quick, lest he be recognized Eyes upward, lest he miss his catch Meanwhile, the prostitute looks away To a balcony in a distant building, wondering Which legit body must live a legit life there The woman in the silk night gown leans over And sees people below crawl like ants Her glass of wine her only company tonight Juggling his bag of vegetables, The septuagenarian heads home to his wife Squeezed in between the teeming masses The wife, a newly minted grandmother Reels out, the ways of the old Hoping her daughter-in-law heeds some
The mother of the baby changes Dirty diapers while watching Happy women prancing on the television The six-month-old stares at the fan above The ills of the world a mystery to him He is Siddhartha today, yet to walk the path of The Buddha
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.
Fiction The Shoe Millionaire by Rumjhum Biswas We fancy collecting different things but here’ someone who is different. Meet the ‘Shoe Millionaire’ in a work of flash fiction by Rumjhum Biswas.
Today he found one in front of a hospital. In this part of the city only the rich come to die or get renewed, which is pretty much the same thing. But the sandal had belonged to a humble woman. Its glittery straps carried the indelible marks of long and careful use. He turned it around with his right big toe, lanced it with his pike and tossed it into a burlap Santa sack of a bag slung over his shoulders. There’s hardly any patch of India that he hasn’t visited. He avoids airports though. They are the last places for footless footwear. There are no stories in the hurried and gusty-windy corridors of airports. He travels by road or train; takes the occasional boat with the oarsman singing to the river spirits. Occasionally shares a simple
meal of rice and salted fish and gifts a mismatched pair to the boatman. The Shoe Millionaire doesn’t remember his name. His parents’ names. The name of his village. His clan. The date of his birth. The woman he once loved. The day his right toe nail curled up, became a yellow horn-shaped thing. He has no memory of the night when the first nightmare shared his bed. Thoughts, dreams, demons, angels come and go, leaving little or no debris. The top part of his mind is pristine, like white paper waiting for a graphic artist. Beneath it are pages that he fills with his travels through the dusty-dry, muddy-watery, jungle-concrete, or glades of undulating green of this heavy bosomed country pointing a tippy toe to little Sri
Lanka. The Shoe Millionaire picks his way un- the Shoe Millionaire remained alone in his vigil hurriedly, nose twitching, pike impaling; his eyes until it merged into the scum of the water. scrunching up when he finds something. If anybody cared to ask the Shoe Millionaire Over the years, he has learnt to tell which shoe, slipper or sandal has the best storyHe knows that the most worn ones don’t necessarily tell the longest tales; just as the most mended ones don’t always tell the best. He’s learnt to recognise the signs, invisible to unskilled eyes. Stories dribble out from slippers, sandals, shoes and boots, but sometimes they come from the imprints of feet. The Shoe Millionaire doesn’t collect footprints though; that is a skill he hasn’t yet mastered. He merely listens to their stories, and at times mutters a prayer before moving on why he does what he does, he wouldn’t know again. what to say. He just does what he does, filling Once he found the imprint of a pair of lotus his sack with stories, and that’s all there is to it feet on the surface of a lake’s algae-marbled as far as he is concerned. But some day he’s waters. He gazed upon the miracle for days. going to die. And his sack full of stories is going Then he cried out to the people living there, like to come out. Right there, on the long, dusty an excited child who has seen his first rainbow. road, they’ll crawl out to haunt the world aimBut the people took him to be a mad man. And lessly. For the Shoe Millionaire won’t be there to guide them anymore.
Erstwhile ad person, Rumjhum Biswas or RK Biswas as she is increasingly known has been widely published in all five continents. In 2012 she won the first prize for her flash fiction in the Anam Cara Writer’s Retreat Short Story Contest. Lifi Publications India is publishing her novel “Culling Mynahs and Crows” and a book of her short stories “The Vanishing man and Other Imperfect men” in 2013. Her poem “Cleavage” was in the long list of the Bridport Poetry Competition 2006 and also a finalist in the 2010 Aesthetica Creative Arts Contest. Her poem in Cha: An Asian Literary Journal was nominated for a Pushcart (2011) and also for the Best of Net Anthology. One of her stories – “Ahalya’s Valhalla”- was among the notable stories of 2007 in Story South’s Million Writers’ Award (USA). She has been featured in an exclusive anthology edited by Jayanta Mahapatra. She guest-edited the April 2013 issue of The Four Quarters Magazine. She blogs at http:// www.rumjhumkbiswas.wordpress.com
Non-fiction The Creativity Principle by Tirna Sengupta Was the splendid madness of creation engendered by a Creativity Principle millions of years ago? Tirna Sengupta ponders over creative extravagance and the various forms in which it manifests itself.
The much-awaited slothful holidays tread away without much notice. It was only two in the afternoon when I bothered to know what time or what day it was. Having no History or Geography waiting for my tending, I did some channel surfing. I promised myself a little adventure. I’d split the hour into watching more than one channel. My first halt was at ‘Good Times.’ I had seen this programme a couple of times before. A team of interior designers collect information from the customers about their taste regarding renovating their house. They take their houses over for a while and hand them back decked, unleashing their unparalleled expertise in the area. For the man who loved stones, they embellished his house with all kinds
of stones – from pebbles to towers of crystals. I switched to ‘Culture.’ A plethora of expressions eddied through the green-painted banana pack on the Kathakali dancer’s face, the damp kajal around the eyes, and the thick-sketched eyebrows; his face, one clever piece, alternately turned into an angry ball of fire, a laughing monster and various other things. A spectacle of hooping balls into the basket was next on the screen with an enlivening explosion of fans’ cheers and a mighty shake of pom-poms in tune with the frills of the cheerleaders’ skirts. Tempted to find out how a story on the screen that leaves us sobbing, sniffling and laughing is fashioned behind the scenes, I stopped at ‘Film’ where they were narrating the
making of an AparnaSen film. I was amused by the risks taken and the labour put in. The concerted efforts of so many talents go into making a film! Film is a brilliant piece of creation indeed! This little game of mine set me thinking about how intrinsically creative we are. Creativity is the most elemental component of the whole universe in fact. I don’t know how the universe and all things within it were created but the splendid madness of creation around makes me wonder if it all had ingenerated from any Creativity Principle millions of years ago. Human creations are but an artistic imitation of the world at large with its myriad things of wonder. Drawing on the very objects of the world at the stroke of his brush, an artist quickens an exciting new world with a riot of colours; a dancer gracefully divulges stories through gestures and postures; a musician tells his own melodious tales through the strings and drums. Any picture painted is never a replica of the world out there but an artist’s perception of it; every story retold is a new story; every piece of music played on the same keyboard is a new composition altogether. For, we want to contribute to every existing thing and recreate it. Every human being, I believe, has the tendency to express their originality in whatever they do. An artistic mind seeks to remould everything it lays its ‘hands’ on. The thought of calling all innovation creative might be revolting, but it is
the same impulse in the human that is responsible for it. Every profession – just like an artist’s, a composer’s or an author’s – demands creativity. A minister’s job of enforcing laws may apparently be perfunctory, but I wouldn’t think so. She can leave an imprint of her originality by creating job opportunities, designing policies, dealing diplomatically with antagonistic elements, offering smart explanations to the media to defend her own policy. Development cannot be ushered in without innovation. Introducing the four-year degree course in Delhi University or the FDI policy, both being controversial issues of the day, can be implemented to great benefit only when interests of all stakeholders are straddled in a balanced and creative manner. Well, even a lover has to be creative to impress the beloved; the corn or phuchka seller down the street, to come up with an ingenious recipe giving him an edge over another hundred competitors; and a parent, to raise her/ his child to be a responsible woman or man. We create, dismantle and renovate all the way through our lives. And it begins so early! Childhood could be remembered, among other things, for the struggle to string together words to construct a sentence or build blocks, the joy of piling sand on beaches to create different shapes or for the pure delight of balling snow into a snowman. Besides the marvels we create in our adult, professional lives, we also design a schedule, personality, career and family for ourselves as we grow up. There might be some luck waiting on us, but we ultimately make our lives and help others build theirs and derive the satis-
faction that we made another day. Creation can be just as spontaneous as arduous. At times ideas crowd into a creator’s mind with an aching suddenness, urging her to construct something phenomenal almost effortlessly. This reality reminds me of how poems “come” to Ka in Orhan Pamuk’s Snow, all sewed- up and complete suddenly, urging him to grab anything to write it down on. It as if confirms the presence of someone who sends the poems down to him. Creativity is not always natural, it involves the patient and careful beading of pried-out ideas. The joy of creation is unbeatable. It is thanks to the creators’ imperative to create their craft and their immense happiness over it that we have all the meaning and glamour in the world to boast of. The world would just be a dull place without creativity. The scintillating performance of music, dance or drama, the tempting food, the up-tothe minute clothes, the gripping films, the captivating lectures, the irresistible books, the life-saver technology – everything is the result of creativity. Without creativity there would be a complete absence of art and beauty, comfort and convenience. Without it, we would even be left without the gadget we depend so heavily upon for our daily life today. There is little difference here between art and technology. Architecting an app for a mobile is not much different from composing a tala – both interlaced with creative strands.
familiar things that are so much a part of our life and no longer evoke wonder convince me that our civilization has always been creative. I still find it overwhelming to think what suddenly helped the human invent counting and start speaking. With what creativity did our ancestors fashion the languages down the ages that there are today numerous languages and dialects we have not even heard of? Also amazing are the religions that sprang up for human survival and sustenance, and all the fanaticism dancing around it, the myths that evolved and the rituals and astrology that flourished. Creativity stems from our imagination and gives shape to what we see with the mind’s eye. Our questions have consolidated in the image of God as the Almighty who ‘knows’ all the answers. We have created God in our own image and given Him an entity to embody the intangible lofty. Idols are but embodiments of the sublime human imagination. Imagining a divine image is like writing a poem. The invisible spirit takes on flesh, and the human creator worships it as something larger than this incomplete life.
The creativity principle which brings forth marvels is sure to have its negative manifestations. The good is inseparable from the evil and absolute good or evil is a myth. Our creations, like every other particle in this world, are a mix of positives and negatives. Besides the countless incredible marvels, we have developed numerous grim things, driven by the same creative Just as the tall skyscrapers and the stylish impulse that now takes a different turn. We iPhones amaze me, certain small-and-old-and-
have painted the world with hatred, devised wars and crimes, hatched dirty politics and told lies. I switched to Star News the other day and learnt how a man with a fake identity ran away with other people’s money who took him for a bank agent. I was left gaping at the man’s acting skills. A sophisticated cyber-attack downed a US drone in northeastern Iran in 2011 giving it the
impression that it was landing on a US strip. Creation and scheming, innovation and betrayal coexist. The hand that creates is the hand that destroys, too. Try as we may to keep them separate, the worldwide web of negative creativity goes along with a host of positive creations!
Tirna Sengupta is a twelfth grade student in Siliguri, Darjeeling. A Coordinator for the VOICES section of The Statesman since 2007, she has published over a dozen pieces on different issues there. Tirna enjoys participating in debate, extempore and photography contests, and has been training in Bharatnatyam for the last 10 years and plays basketball.
Photo Feature Glorious Diversity by Vinita Agrawal Vinita Agrawal pays tribute to the glorious diversity of India through photographs that capture people from the west to the east. It is by now a clichè to define India as a melting pot of cultures, but true nevertheless. At the hour of dusk, one can witness the Ganga Aarti in Rishikesh or listen to Sufi music and qawwalis at Nizamuddin's Dargah in Delhi or catch a mother and son lighting butter lamps before Buddha's statue in Dharamshala.
Such a panorama of worship is possible because Indians can and do practice the religion of their choice. This must be by far the greatest personal freedom any man could hope for. Since we are secular by constitution, we must become more secure about our personal beliefs. We must coexist peacefully; live harmoniously and grow together as a great unified nation. We the people of India have another beautiful disparity that of race. From the snowy peaks of the Himalayas to the scorching deserts of Rajasthan Indians vary greatly in facial features. The hill folk look as different from a man from the plains as chalk and cheese. Yet, on every 15th of August,
India's Independence Day, they sing the same national anthem, wave the same tri colour and feel the same sense of pride at being a part of our motherland. Another endearing example of our unity in diversity. Any ode to our nation would be incomplete without a special mention to its amazing women folk. Whether it is upbringing her child or blending duties of home and work, Indian women contribute diligently to both dimensions. Even if it means trudging up a hilly path to work in the tea gardens with their baby strapped to their backs or weaving on a hand-driven loom, for that extra income at home, Indian women do it with a smile on their faces and a song on their lips!
There is a lot that needs to change in this country - the population needs to be controlled, the infrastructure needs to improve, corruption needs to go, women need to be treated with respect but all this can only be achieved if we the people of India stand united and learn from its glorious past.
Vinita Agrawal is a Delhi-based writer and poet and has been published in international print and online journals.
Fiction A Promise to Watch by Shruthi Saklecha A husband watches on as his wife negotiates her way through a difficult life; does he feel remorse? Shruthi Saklecha tells us his thoughts. Bear the burden, my lover, and I promise to stand beside you through it. I promise to look at your shaky hands withstanding the weight of responsibilities, of hardships, of a chained life. I promise to look at the wrinkles on your forehead and the dark circles around your eyes. I could have chosen to ignore. Instead, I promise to stand right there and watch you walk through life.
The only intact earthen pot is the one you are carrying day in and day out, to and fro. You keep pressing me to buy some pots; you say you need a few more to cook, managing all the work with one pot is getting difficult. Don’t you know by now, after all these years? You are the one to look into these meaningless matters and not bother me with it. You are the one who needs to work harder.
I see your eyes following the road, but I know that your mind is back home worrying about our children’s soundless slumber. Your bare feet are pressing against the jagged stones, leaving deep impressions on your sole. You have walked miles and have a couple more to go. The heat is unbearable now. You walk in long steps in an attempt to prevent loss of water, though the sun is trying to suck it all up from your pot.
Looking at you as you walk now, it seems to me that the weight of the pot is further shoving you into the cracked land. When I married you, you had the most delicate hands. Today, they could be mistaken for a man’s hands. But then again I ought to remember; you were sixteen then – sprouting and untouched. Now you are just stale and spiritless.
I see the way you have tied up your hair in a messy bun, carelessly leaving a few strands out of it. Your discolored veil is swaying in the direction of your petite hips. Hips that have borne my seven children. And are yet to bear a boy. A boy is needed, you know that right? From all that my eyes see of you, my mind calculates the duties you ought to do. The crops that you have to reap, the ones I have sown. The babies you have to feed. The boy child you are yet to bear. The pleasure that your body is bound to give me. All of it, you must do inescapably. When we got married I made you a promise, and that was that I would stand next to you and make sure you do your duties while I would watch you through it. The path you have to walk on is a trite one. Yet it has to be walked on for years.
Suddenly, you look up, piercing into my eyes. What makes you do that today, after all these years? Only now do I see how big your eyes can get, the redness in them is jarring. They speak much without uttering at all. You make me feel shallow as you look right into the depths of my soul. And now, I am no longer comfortable.
All these years I have been watching you, your eyes had been locked to the ground and your mouth muted. I felt comfortably numb.
Shruthi Saklecha is a graduate in Commerce. After graduation she realized that she is not exactly cut out for the corporate world. Therefore, she is currently applying the famous trial and error method to life by giving writing a shot. She is a community member of the Bangalore Writers Workshop a unique, effective and interactive method of bringing a group of writers together and allowing them to study the craft of writing while receiving constructive feedback on their work.
Non-fiction To You Two by Anupama Krishnakumar Anupama Krishnakumar writes to two very important people in her life about the joys associated with love, relationships, family and bonding. 01 July 2013 I have been meaning to tell you this, but I have been putting it off because I keep wondering if you will understand. Maybe I am underestimating your capabilities, for, something like an intuition tells me that you will grasp it as effortlessly as the soft mud patch out there that soaks up the gentle morning drizzle. Five, your age, is mere number, for your thoughts are profound in ways unimaginable, so are your questions. You seem to see through human inadequacies and shameless expectations with a piercing eye and an unbelievable simplicity that makes me shiver dreadfully sometimes. So today, I decide to tell you what I have been thinking. Or what I have been dreaming about of late? I am not even sure if it is a dream. Well, dreams are thoughts too, as the more intellectual among us would say, they are evolved
thoughts deeply seated within our subconscious that are spun out in colourful threads when we hit the pillow. This, what I am talking about, is a carefully thought over fragment of a life event that is embellished with my writerly imagination, and, needless to say, with tiny revisions done over and over till the scene satisfies my sometimes insatiable quest for perfection in life. Then, there is music that I hear in the background too. See, I am not so serious as people make me out to be. I have a childish side too that even those who are close to me are hardly able to fathom. And this manifests in these small playful ways. I know I am deviating. Let me stop and tell you what I have been thinking. I see you waiting. Waiting with your father and grandparents. And I see you smartly dressed – in your school uniform which I love. I can’t see your books bag and your lunch basket but your
shoes are on. You are not really holding on to anyone’s hand. You are sitting quietly on one of the chairs, looking around, making a note of the strangers in the room and absorbing the quietness that hangs in the air. Your father asks you something and you shake your head and whisper something into his ear. You both smile for a brief moment and I think I see a wave of anxiety pass over your face which is suddenly replaced by a mix of expectation and curiosity. You rock back and forth for a few seconds, stare at your little fingers and look via the glass door eagerly.
you would do for your little brother or sister. You began telling those who asked you that it didn’t matter if it was a brother or a sister; your maturity brought a smile to my face and so did your innocence when you unquestioningly accepted my explanation to you on how the baby found its place in my tummy. Yet, for all the acceptance of the reality of the situation, you, still being a child, would come running and cuddle and sleep in the nights alongside me, sucking your thumb and also insisting that I bathe you, put your uniform on and help you with your homework.
***
***
You were one of the first few to know. I remember your father and I sat you down and told you about how there’s going to be another baby in the house. You rolled your eyes innocently – I knew for sure that a sibling wasn’t an alien concept, for most of your friends do have little brothers and sisters at home that they casually spoke about in their conversations with you at school. Even your school prayer has a line ‘Bless my brothers and sisters’ which you quite didn’t find relevant in your context.
And then I see you looking through the glass door eagerly. I somehow only want to vaguely picturise within my head what I am going through in there. It’s always a blur and definitely not pleasant, this whole process of giving birth because I felt just that way when I delivered you. All I want to think of now is the end of the process when you see a tiny little figure wrapped in a white turkey towel, sweet little eyes wide open and staring at the world and you – the little big brother who is waiting to share his small world with another little human.
It took you a while to understand what was happening around you, particularly with respect to me – schedules changed, there were doctor visits, new terms were thrown in. And then you picked up words like ‘scan’, ‘appointment’ and ‘delivery’. Over a period of time, you grew so sweetly responsible, helping me around in little ways and asking me to ‘be careful’ when I sat down and got up or when I bent down to pick up your clothes. You began sharing with me your dreams of being the elder one and all that
I haven’t really told this explicitly but I am sure you will understand as time goes by that love is perhaps the strongest bridge that would help you cross the toughest of obstacles in life and there’s no better place than the family that can nurture this beautiful and strong emotion so that you find it limitlessly, no matter the time and situation. And a sibling is just the perfect person to grow up with, sharing life and love, and as you become adults, the perfect person to
fall back on.
bold and daring and clear-headed, ready to lead, spirited and full of life.
It’s with this dream in my eyes that I look into the future or more precisely, the next few And guess what, you have arrived. My little girl, days… just a day after I wrote what I have written for your brother and on the day I began writing my §§§§§§§§§§§ first ever communication to you – the one who was yet to be born. 02 July 2013 I have heard many people say that second pregnancies are often not as closely followed or to use a stronger word, not really ‘observed and enjoyed’ in as much detail as the first one. The first thing I want to tell you is this: for me, this wasn’t the case. I have looked forward to you and watched every little milestone of yours with as much zest and spirit as the first time and in fact, more attentively and with greater awareness for I have already gone through the process once before.
It has all been a blur, the way you arrived; it wasn’t very dramatic to begin with, only the culmination was – the moment you emerged crying and dazed and I planted a tired but firm kiss on your pink and fresh and fragrant forehead. And now your Dad and I are churning up dreams after dreams just like we did for your brother, who is now waiting to live his own set of dreams with you.
Let me not burden you with too many thoughts And let me tell you a secret – I had hoped deep – we will all tell you things little by little – for within my heart that you will be a girl – a girl we have waited for you with bated breath and now, you have finally arrived to complete us…
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, 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!
Poetry
Listen by Loreto M
Loreto’s poem is about survivor’s guilt - a mental condition in which a person feels guilty for having survived when others have died. It summarises the longing of the protagonist to be in the company of a certain set of people who inspired him at some point but are now all dead. Here’s one facet of human nature.
In your eyes I have seen the fear Of the silence that follows death. Un-erasable, un-quiet-able silence. Of the loneliness that ensues And the realisation – That the dead will never return. That no matter how earnestly you try Conversations will always be one-sided And that there will be no more answers No matter how many times you Reword the question or cunningly Try to manipulate it, to suit you. That un-kept promises will remain that way And the embarrassing secret which You were saving for the next rainy day Will remain untold. Forever.
In your movements I have sensed The frustration of want. Anything, everything! To hold them close just one more time But all you can gather around Is a bunch of memories and pictures that fade. Every night you fall asleep And the faces corrode – little by little Till all that you remember Are fragmented micro-pixels of their lives All jumbled up and strewn all over. And you loathe sleep. But you can never get rid of it. In your poetry I have read The darkness of hopelessness and guilt Of having survived when clearly They deserved to live and not you. Because no matter how long you live, you will Never become even half the people that they were. And with every gasp of breath that you Pull into your lungs You wish for it to be poisoned So you could become one of them. Maybe someday... Someday you will have your way And finally I will understand the intensity Of all that you go through now.
Loreto is a performing poet, a singer, and a kathak novice. She used to be an MBA student, and before that a Botanist at an orthodox Christian college. Thankfully, neither could break nor contain her odd streak. She is part of a performance poetry band called The Rickshaw Muse (https://www.facebook.com/TheRickshawMuse).
The Lounge
July 2013
The Inner Journey
Layers by Rahul Seth Our true inner self gets buried deep within layers of external influences, and when we touch that core, we realise what a sublime experience it is to be in touch with that self. Rahul Seth pens a reflective piece.
The inner core of the self gets immersed deep within layers upon layers of outer-world influences. Our essential nature gets buried and we do not always remember what our true being really consists of, and what it truly resonates with. Every once in a while an experience penetrates deep within, touching and stirring that core, and giving a glimpse into such a pure sense of the self! But which is the real self, the real me? There are so many sides to me. Which side of me do I really want to be the real me? The side that makes me come alive and with a sense of trueness and heightened awareness of who I am. Somewhere deep within it represents the most essential part of me. When awakened its existence pulsates and energizes each fibre within me. But why has this side of me become so rarely visible or experienced? So much must be
wrong with my life today that my essential core has become so rare and hard to get to. Are the externalities of daily life so demanding and so damaging to this inner self that it barely has a chance to surface? And when it does surface, it reminds me that my essential self can be so sublime and exhilarating that it is tragic when I cannot experience its awareness any longer. I believe that this awareness of my inner core is the most essential element of myself. It needs to be preserved and nurtured. It makes life worthwhile, gives it joy, and a sense of some meaning. Even if its meaning and purpose are not clear to me today, it seems significant enough to want to preserve it. But how am I going to do that? Something will always come along to yank me away back to the “reality” of daily life. This “reality show” must change. Take me away from the trappings of the
material chase! Let it instead be in pursuit of that inward search. Divest the externalities, using them only to serve the outer layer, and search for only what is essential. The end is within me. The external world serves only as the means to get to it, and to facilitate its increased discovery. I think that’s where the core essence and meaning of life resides.
force to nourish the self-awareness or do they stifle it? Is this drive for self-awareness in conflict with the roles I must fulfill for my ou--ter world? How can the two sides of me – the inner and the outer – coexist with least turmoil? How do I learn to slide in and out from one side to another as needed?
And yes, this ‘inner core’ that I talk What awakens this pure inner about – what is it? Do I really need to core? On the path of this define it? Perhaps, that’s not necessary. inner search, I must learn to It’s sufficient to just know its existence recognize the experiences and and experience it than try to bind it by influences that bring out the some limit of wordy explanation. And inner core and those that will why would I want to ‘explain’ it? And bury it further. Some people for whom? Not for myself. I know it’s will impact me positively, in there. I feel it within me, alive and while others will have subverpulsating, even if only when wakened. sive effects. And some behavFor now I am content to just experiiour of mine will enhance the experience, while ence within its joy. Unveiling this inner core to others will kill it. Do we then have a discerning the outer world is really not that important, is it? criterion by which to judge the external influences in one’s life – do they serve as a conducive
Rahul Seth returned to India after over twenty five years in the US with a career in information technology. In India, he now pursues fully his passion for theatre and literature. He aspires to be a playwright and is currently writing plays on the human predicament. He has also acted in several plays in the Washington DC area.
Slice of Life by Vani Viswanathan
Chilli Trails Vani Viswanathan talks about the different chillies of her life.
I don’t remember when I started enjoying my chilli. A distinct memory from when I was a teenager though, is of me biting into a piece of chilli thinking it’s a piece of beans, and rushing to gulp down some water. I used to hate the deceptive chilli pieces then – who needed them in food, anyway? Didn’t we all at home pick them out and place them separately? And cough when it was added to hot oil after the mustard?
also promised me these weren’t very spicy – I discovered the magic that these chilli pieces added to my bland food. I remember how my friend and I jumped in happiness when another brought a readymade jar of chilli soaked in vinegar. We added them into every meal we made – even Maggi! In time I also learnt about the ground, minced chilli paste – although I never enjoyed this so much, they were my solace when I was so late for a meal that the counter Little did I know during those days that I would would only have vinegar with a few orphaned head to a land where food was bland in preparapieces of green chilli. tion, only to be spiced up by a dash of chilli by the side. Most of my initial forays into various My next junction in my chilli trail was the chilli Chinese food didn’t involve any chilli by the padi. Oh. My. God. I always associate this chilli side, so I took my own time in getting used to with Thai food, for only after becoming a fan of the taste. And suddenly, I realised there were cut that did I dare taste these deceptively tiny, devilgreen chillis soaked in vinegar, kept in every ishly spicy chilli. Packed with seeds potent such stall in my campus canteens. Having been enough to send you rushing to the bathroom, the chilli-mistaken-as-beans person before, I these spiced up anything. I would delightfully shrunk away from these. But egged on by a scoop these up from what I thought was soy friend who is herself very fond of chilli – who sauce at the Thai Express, and add them spar-
ingly to my food and grinning at the way it made me want to close my eyes, spice hitting my brain through my nose. I was eventually told that it wasn’t soy sauce that the chilli was soaked in – it was fish sauce – and for the (perhaps annoyingly) strict vegetarian I was, this was too much to handle. I would then confidently ask for cut chilli and be rewarded with a whole pile of them that I wouldn’t even manage to finish half of for a whole meal. I thought these chillies were primarily restricted to south east Asia, but my friend tells me of eating these by the name of ‘oosi molaga’ in Tamil – I haven’t come across these as yet, though! A very late discovery was chilli oil, served at select Italian restaurants. Made of dried red chillies soaked in olive oil for long, such that the oil itself got spiced up, these made pizzas and breads taste a few notches better.
the fact that I was having cream of broccoli and cheese soup in that restaurant after months, Quattro sent me into a tizzy for the chilli oil, for its delicious olive mix, guacamole and salsa, and for its to-die-for risotto. And the best part? It’s a completely vegetarian restaurant. I miss it in Delhi. Delhi, though, has been supportive in its own ways, as I navigate a whole range of street food. I’ve become open to biting into raw chilli or those which have been rubbed with some spice. A few days ago, I walked into my colleague complaining her mouth was on fire because of the chilli paste that came with the momos she had ordered. I had a bite, and God, I was in chilli heaven. It was the best yet I’ve had here, and I gratefully smiled at the man who was selling the momos.
Thank goodness, there’s more chilli to be disAfter moving back to India, the delights of our covered. variously-spiced Indian food made me happy enough to not want to add chilli to everything. Even so, I missed chilli padi the most. One could get vinegar-soaked green chilli and the chilli paste in Chinese restaurants, but nothing came close to the fiendishly spicy chilli padi. I asked for them hopefully at every place that served Thai cuisine, but haven’t been lucky so far. Even the posh Italian restaurants didn’t have chilli oil! One waiter in Chennai helpfully mixed chilli flakes with olive oil for me, and that was quite good, but nothing beats the taste of oil that has absorbed the spice of the red chilli. Imagine my joy when I finally found chilli oil in the Quattro chain of restaurants in Mumbai! Besides
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. Vani was a Public Relations consultant in Singapore and decided to come back to homeland after seven years away. Vani blogs at http:// chennaigalwrites.blogspot.in
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