Spark - June 2012 Issue by Spark Editor

Spark

Vol 3 Issue 6 48 pages

Spark—June 2012|Rains...

Featured Writers

Word.World.Wisdom

Rumjhum Biswas

JUNE 2012

Fiction

Sonnet Mondal

Anupama Krishnakumar

RAINS...

Preeti Madhusudhan Ram V Poetry Dhanya M Priya Mahadevan Non-fiction Parth Pandya Vani Viswanathan The Lounge Priya S Vibha Sharma Yayaati Joshi Art Amrita Sarkar

Spark—June 2012|Rains...

05 June 2012

Vol 3 Issue 6

Dear Reader,

JUNE 2012

We have a lovely issue lined up for you this month. Are you ready to get drenched in our rain of words? Presenting the June 2012 issue themed, ‘Rains…’ that approaches the lovely topic through short stories, nonfiction, art and poetry. Our featured writers this month are Rumjhum Biswas and Sonnet Mondal, two widely published writers whose works have appeared in many literary journals across the world. For the first time in Spark, we feature works of fiction and poetry by featured writers. Then, there is some lovely stuff up in ‘The Lounge’ too. Also, this happens to be our 30th issue. A reason for us to smile. So, there you go! Catch all the action and let us know what you think! - Editors

CONTRIBUTORS AMRITA SARKAR ANUPAMA KRISHNAKUMAR DHANYA M PARTH PANDYA PREETI MADHUSUDHAN PRIYA MAHADEVAN PRIYA S RAM V VANI VISWANATHAN VIBHA SHARMA

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.

YAYAATI JOSHI

WRITERS OF THE MONTH RUMJHUM BISWAS

Spark June 2012 © Spark 2012

SONNET MONDAL

Individual contributions © Author

CONCEPT, EDITING, DESIGN

CC licensed pictures attribution available at www.sparkthemagazine.com Published by Viswanathan

Anupama

Krishnakumar/Vani

ANUPAMA KRISHNAKUMAR

editors@sparkthemagazine.com

VANI VISWANATHAN

Spark—June 2012|Rains...

Inside this Issue FICTION Under the Rain Canopy by Preeti Madhusudhan

Rain Memories by Anupama Krishnakumar

Return to Innocence by Ram V

POETRY Rain of Love by Dhanya M

Celestial Games by Priya Mahadevan

NON-FICTION Monsoon City by Parth Pandya

I am Rain by Vani Viswanathan

WRITERS OF THE MONTH Rumjhum Biswas

The Day the Heaven Came Down (Poetry)

Rainbow (Flash Fiction)

Sonnet Mondal

Rains in Jaipur (Poetry)

THE LOUNGE

TURN OF THE PAGE| Review of

‘The Forest of Stories’ by Vibha Sharma SLICE OF LIFE| Parenting a Differently-

Abled Child by Priya S STORYBOARD|FILM FREAK Review of

‘Rowdy Rathore’ by Yayaati Joshi ART Rain Outside the Window by Amrita Sarkar

50 3

Sparkâ&#x20AC;&#x201D;June 2012|Rains...

Rain of Love by Dhanya M This rain falls, Through the half open window Into my heart, I think.

Rains, more often than not, create the perfect setting for romance. This poem by Dhanya M is one such exploration.

The sky showers its love for earth And I see my sky in your eyes. Your love pours to me Like this rain; My soul danced like a peacock When the first drop fell. You kissed my eyebrow and I knew

Poetry

You could see it in my eyes The eternal dance, binding me and you. The wind carries in The smell of rain with it I am confused Why do I feel it smells like your hair? The eyes are moist Why is it so?

Dhanya is currently pursuing PhD at the Indian Institute of Space Science and Technology, Thiruvananthapuram, Kerala. She loves nature, music, dance, science and the words. Her too imaginative mind sees poetry in motion everywhere around and writes down some of it that chooses to flow through her.

Maybe, when It rains outside Through the half open window It falls, all the way into my heart. May be, it is your love only And the rain I see is just in my eyes. 4

Spark—June 2012|Rains...

Under the Rain Canopy by Preeti Madhusudhan

Roma leads a quiet, secluded life, in her ancestral home that is everyone’s dream. She, however, aspires for and dreams of something different. And as she dreams on sitting in a house located amid fine deodars and firs, her life takes a turn. Preeti Madhusudhan writes a riveting story of a woman’s life, tracing the colours of change while the rains lash outside.

Fiction 5

Spark—June 2012|Rains...

Under the Rain Canopy Roma looked out of the window at the gentle fir-and-spruce-covered slope that ran down along the length of her home, ending at the narrow wild gully that you could hear when it was very quiet. The house was everyone’s dream and the envy of her cousins who worked and lived at the fashionable cities at other parts of the country. She had inherited what she thought was a cumbersome burden. She had never been pretty and had never considered education as a means to fulfill her dream, which was to cavort around trees and slyly receive a kiss from a victorious Salman khan-likesomeone who wiped his mouth triumphantly with the back of his hand.

gay tweet of the birds tempted her to put to use her father’s rifle that adorned the stone wall above the fireplace. She survived on her father’s pension which was trivial once the property tax and maintenance bills were paid off. The antique rosewood furniture and chandeliers that dotted the house in abundance, the ancient copper wired electric connection, the Victorian-era plumbing added to her woes. She yearned for the glitzy, shiny things that adorned the glossy pages of the film magazines she religiously bought every month. She would have gladly traded this monstrosity that was a noose around her neck for one of her cousins’ tiny pigeon holes and thought with black rage and jealousy of the shiny plastic furniture and bright lamps that gave out harsh light in the windowless living room of a cousin she had visited in Mumbai a long time back.

She had waited patiently by her window as years rolled by, rendering her parent-less, wrenching away her youth, the heir to what she called a dump. Cousins and acquaintances invited themselves to annual vacation to the quaint old hill-home till her dour and acrid temperament finally drove away the free-loaders. Here she was now, blinking at the disgusting deodars, disagreeable firs and the disdainful spruce. The scene that a cubby-hole owner in Mumbai would have described as serene and heavenly or an author as ethereal, revolted her. The trees on the slope taunted her. The gentle gurgle of the gully was a mockery on her despair and the

“What a relief that must be! Not to look at the god damned deodars every moment of one’s life,” she thought. The foulness of her temper increased as a thunderous, heavy downpour began. “Bahadur!” she bellowed, calling out to the Nepali cook who was also the gardener, the housekeeper and the odd-jobs-man. The tinny Bollywood music that had been blaring from a dubious radio ended abruptly as 6

Spark—June 2012|Rains...

Under the Rain Canopy Bahadur scrambled to the study.

torrential downpour began. After it became apparent that nothing other than a mild concussion was to be expected from all that drama, Bahadur brought Roma and the firangi some tea with biscuits. Unabashedly taking off his wet T-shirt, the American noisily slurped his tea and looked around the house with what Roma perceived as disgust. He was middle-aged and bald-headed, tall and gaunt, but very fit. The American, Tom, wasn’t very talkative, seeing how uncomfortable he made her. Could he stay there as a paying guest? He promised not to be in her way and expected the same from her. Before she could open her mouth, (not that she would have said anything intelligible as she hadn’t recovered from the shock, or anything intelligent, as she wasn’t used to that), he proposed a certain amount as rent per week, which left her open-mouthed.

“Tea, Memsahib?” Bahadur stood pretending to listen as obscenities poured forth from his mistress’ mouth. After a five-minute rant, she puffed her face a beetroot-maroon and threw up her massive arms in frustration and rage, uttering an unlady-like blasphemy.

There was a deafening clap of thunder as though in response to her profanities. She jumped up involuntarily as the window panes clattered in their rosewood frames, a glass on the grand piano shattered and the one on the portrait of a dour family ancestor cracked. Before cognition dawned, she had hit her knee on the Burma-teak writing desk while attempting to rise from the leather arm-chair and bumped her head on the tall lamp (or torch of death as she called it) which promptly electrocuted her. She The backpack was all he had and it wasn’t passed out as a whirring energy passed much except a camera with a bunch of through her. lenses that he fished out of a dirty canvas Bahadur and a tall, white figure with golden rucksack from the backpack. He ate what he hair peered at her as she painfully opened was served without questions, and left the her eyelids. “So this was how it looked and house quite early and came back after dark, the tall, iridescent form is God?” she won- and sat with a cigar in his mouth in the porch listening to the rain or the occasional dered. cuckoo when it didn’t rain. Roma needed It apparently was an American, a backpackthe money, and Tom, if that really was his er who while trekking through the silly deoname, stayed clear out of her way like he dar and the likes had run for cover when the promised he would. He was gone in a 7

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Under the Rain Canopy month, and with the money he paid for his time there, Roma refurbished the entire house with glee. She tore out the “darned” teak wood floorboards and wall paneling, replaced the “senile” rosewood furniture with glitzy new ones from a cheap contemporary furniture shop that produced tens of thousands of such each year. Gone were the “grandma” electric layout and “great grandma” plumbing. She was proud and happy of her horror by the hillside.

Roma’s study table before getting back to his radio. Roma tore open the wrapper with excitement as she never got a courier. It was a book, by a Tom Swift( so that was the American’s last name), “Backpacker Haven”, and listed third out of a total of ten in Asia, Roma’s own rat-hole, as she used to think of her old home. It was described as a charming, Dickensian cottage and also addressed it as the one of the last few perfect bastions of the Anglo-Indian hill-station cottage that had in the state of excellent preservation, turn-of-the-century electric layouts and plumbing that were unparalleled. Within a fortnight, Roma received 12 applications for stays at various seasons, from all over the world. She never replied to a single one and seldom ever stirred from the shiny, white steel chair in her new study.

It was another rainy afternoon. The dingy deodars were still visible through the new, gold printed rayon curtain sheets of the study room window. Bahadur answered the door after being yelled upon by Roma who didn’t want to discontinue her perusal of the recent showbiz. A testy courier boy handed Bahadur a small package that he left on

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

Spark—June 2012|Rains...

Writer of the Month Rumjhum Biswas Rumjhum Biswas’s prose and poetry have been published in all five continents. She won first prize in the Anam Cara Writer’s Retreat Short Story Competition 2012. 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. She won the first prize for a poetry review contest hosted by Cha: An Asian Literary Journal in October 2011. Her short story for The Verb Magazine’s “Looking at You Contest” won honourable mention and an excerpt was posted in the October 2007 issue. Her poem in Cha; An Asian Literary Journal was nominated for a Pushcart (2011) and also for the Best of Net Anthology by the same magazine. She has won many prizes in poetry contests in India. An excerpt from her story “Guitar” was shortlisted in the Art House Competition in August 2010. A poem by her – “March”- was commended in the Writelinks’ Spring Fever Competition (UK), 2008. One of her stories – “Ähalya’s Valhalla”- was among the notable stories of 2007 in Story South’s Million Writers’ Award (USA). She was one of the participating poets at the Prakriti Poetry Festival, December 2008, in Chennai. She was a featured poet at the Poetry Slam organised jointly by the US Consul Chennai and The Prakriti Foundation in December 2009. She was an invited poet for the Hyderabad Literary Festival (2010) organised by Muse India and Osmania University Centre for International Programmes. She is one among ten Indian poets to feature in an exclusive forthcoming anthology edited by Jayant Mahapatra and Yuyutsu RD Sharma. She blogs at: http://rumjhumkbiswas.wordpress.com/ and http:// polyphagous.wordpress.com. and has a monthly column (Rumjhum's Ruminations) at Flash Fiction Chronicles. 9

Sparkâ&#x20AC;&#x201D;June 2012|Rains...

when we thought the world would die and there would be no redemption. At all. Ever after! So imagine my surprise when Heaven came down and scooped you up in copious soft-as-cloud arms and took you took you took you away. That day

Poetry

is awash in my memory. Awash with rainbow streaked sunshine. The abundance of tears pooled deep beneath eyelids and

The Day the Heaven Came Down

That grieving wet monsoon day

the remembrance of your soft-as-petals feet.

A wet monsoon day is also a day of loss. Hereâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s a poem by our Writer of the Month, Rumjhum Biswas.

Your feet that never touched ground. Never stepped down. All those years that you lay serene and accepting 10

Spark—June 2012|Rains...

The Day the Heaven Came Down on your iron bed My darling

Poetry

I celebrate that day.

Rainbow She’s down watching the little fat brown birds that have so much to say to each other and the squirrels too, but disapprove of humans. She’s the only one they tolerate, she claims. And I believe her, because I’ve seen them sitting on her sill many a time.

Another of Rumjhum Biswas’s works that we feature this month— a flash fiction that has at its core, the beautiful rainbow.

Then I hear her shouting. “Mamma, mamma! Come down! See the rainbow!” I’m happy to hear her voice but disgruntled nevertheless to be made to get up and leave my chores. “Come to my bedroom window at least,” she begs. “You can’t see it from yours!” I go to her room and look out. I can’t see anything in the sky. But when I look down I see my rainbow alright; the tomato red T-shirt and gray slacks, and her hair halloing the afternoon breeze. When she yells again, I tell her that I saw my rainbow but not on the sky. And she laughs. Her laughter sounds like church bells against my dry ears. “Come down. Come down! Mamma. See mine!” 11

Flash Fiction

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So I go down. And finally see the rainbow that she’s been wanting me to see. It’s a quiet layer of seven colours; a single muted arc across the eastern sky with white clouds sliding down its back. She’s standing there, head tilted to one side ever so slightly, and squinting. I look when she points, and watch the colours for long moments, with her. The air is a mist of saffron and the flowers are shy beneath her rainbow. The afternoon is a hush, awash with soft light. Even her brown birds are silent as they watch us.

like ice cream set out on a plate on a warm day. And I’m able to inhale the faint sweet aroma of contentment without reason. The wind carries her voice to places where songbirds compose their songs. I carry it back to my room now, in a pocket in my heart where I store my precious keepsakes.

“Wait for your mates,” I say. “Show them your rainbow.” “You bet!” she says, nodding like a sunflower in the wind, and then she laughs from the sheer joy of it. The sound of her joy sinks gently into my being, sending undulating ripples of a tender emotion. A stone in my heart seems to melt

WANT TO BE PART OF THE SPARK TEAM? GET IN TOUCH WITH US AT editors@sparkthemagazine.com VISIT www.sparkthemagazine.com FOR MORE DETAILS! 12

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Monsoon City by Parth Pandya Arun Yashwant

Non-fiction If thereâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s one Indian city that comes to your mind immediately when you think of rains, it is Mumbai. Parth Pandya talks at length about what it is to experience monsoons in Mumbai and what rains mean to the die-hard Mumbaikar or the Bombayite.

Spark—June 2012|Rains...

Monsoon City Mumbai is a sin city. Let no one tell you otherwise. It may never have put a clarion call to welcome the tired and the huddled masses into its arms, but the oppressed and the oppressor have nevertheless made their way and staked their claim on the seven islands. Day after day, the city extracts its pound of flesh for the chance to survive in it. Each year, the crimes pile on, staining the fabric of everyday life in the metro. Each year, the purge arrives in the form of the rains. As millions of drops beat down at the same time, the city gets a clean coat, a clean slate to write on. Like everything else in Mumbai, the rains are also nothing short of dramatic. Half measures are not allowed and drizzles are frowned upon by the rain Gods. Why drip when you can pour? The darkening of the skies, the trembling sounds of thunder and the cooling of the air build up the suspense to the event. The mood is grim and exciting at the same time, the senses tingle in expectation, as if this were a Bollywood movie where you know that a gloved hand with a knife is going to appear to do its deed. People stare up, trying to gauge if it is just a threat, or if they erred by leaving the house without an umbrella. Everyone trusts their internal rain gauge, until it fails them miserably one day.

And then it comes, the initial droplets and the quick acceleration to the final downpour. The pounding begins and it is relentless. Did you learn the nursery rhyme about the ‘pitter-patter raindrops’ as a kid? You’ll know what the pitter-patter is all about as the rhythmic fall of the raindrops on the coloured and black umbrellas makes that sound. The umbrella holders trudge through, managing their belongings with the other free hand. The foolish bravehearts who left their home with nothing to cover them, protect their heads with various concoctions – a set of books, a plastic bag, an office briefcase—and scamper into the nearest building they can find. It is not unusual to see a bunch of folks lined up at the tiny entrances of these buildings where they give each other and the old circuitry company. Slowly but surely, the water starts to accumulate on the roads. If you are in an autorickshaw, you curse the fact that even the most stringent velcro-strapped curtains won’t protect you from getting wet. When you are getting off the bus, you feel the intense pressure of opening your umbrella in the micro-second, after which, more often than not, you’ll be emptied onto the road with your precious body left to ravage in the rain. Those inside their houses scamper to get the clothes off the clothes line, lest they get wet in the downpour. If you are in a lo-

Spark—June 2012|Rains...

Monsoon City cal train, you pray that the tracks aren’t in- many a time, they combine spectacularly to undated and that you can reach home safely. make the monsoons memorable in Mumbai. The rains might be a great source of joy and Which resident of the city hasn’t got memoexcitement, but in a city like Mumbai, the ries enriched by the rains? You can’t be a after-effects sometimes are not. The city Mumbaikar (or a Bombayite if you prefer shouldn’t clog up with the pace that it does, that) and not feel the romance of the rains. but, unfortunately, nothing short of a quick filling up of water ever happens. The city’s drainage system is antiquated, there is lot of unplanned development, especially in the northern suburbs, and to make matters worse, the mangrove ecosystems have slowly been replaced with construction. No one relishes the news that the Powai Lake is about to overflow or that the sewage system will be overflowing and that housing societies need to add chlorine to their water tanks. All this and much more happened in recent memory, in July of 2005. It was a perfect storm, with record rains pounding Mumbai relentlessly and the inherent drawbacks explained above contributing to the catastrophe. People’s houses were flooded, there was significant loss of life and property, and even essential services were disrupted. July 26th became a landmark day in Mumbai’s history. Bollywood, never shy to miss out on an opportunity, made two movies ("26 July at Barista" and "Tum Mile") on the topic.

Ever watched the splashing of waters on Marine Drive during the rains or prayed hard as a kid that the rains wouldn’t stop so that the nullah on the way to school would overflow? Ever kicked a soccer ball around in the slush with your building friends or walked on the beach with rains and a strong breeze for company? Shared an umbrella with someone knowing fully that neither has a chance of staying dry? Walked your way from Andheri station in knee deep waters? Known that Milan subway would flood up quicker than a blazing century from Tendulkar? Decided to walk up a long distance in water to surprise your sweetheart knowing fully well that Bruhanmumbai Mahanagar Palika (Municipal Corporation of Greater Mumbai) has most likely left a few holes open along the way for you to magically avoid? I know I have. At the end of day, this Mumbai boy looks at the rain outside his house in Seattle and knows that it is a poor imitation of the rains he once embraced with arms open wide. Maximum City, as There is the fury of Mother Nature and Mumbai is called, is anything but maximum, there are the frailties of human nature; Yet, when it comes to the rains! 15

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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.

Do you own a copy of our anthology, ‘Sparkling Thoughts’?

Order it now at http://pothi.com/pothi/book/anupamakrishnakumar-sparkling-thoughts 16

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Writer of the Month Sonnet Mondal Sonnet Mondal is an award-winning Indian English poet and has authored eight books of poetry. His latest book is Diorama of Three Diaries (Authorspress, New Delhi). He was bestowed Poet Laureate from Bombadil Publishing, Sweden, in 2009. His works have appeared in more than 100 international literary publications including The Macedonian Stremez, The Penguin Review of Youngstown State University, International Gallerie, The Istanbul Literary Review, World Poets Quarterly, The Journal of Poetry Society of India, Holler of Princeton Poetry Project, Friction Magazine of New Castle University, Foliate Oak Journal of University of Arkansas and Other Voices Poetry Project (endorsed by UNESCO), to name a few. He was inducted in the prestigious Significant Achievements Plaque at the museum of Bengal Engineering and Science University, Shibpur in 2011, nominated for Pushcart Prize in 2011 and was featured as one of the Famous Five Bengali youths by India Today magazine in 2010. Sonnet is the pioneer of the 21 line Fusion Sonnet form of Poetry. At present he is the Managing Editor of The Enchanting Verses Literary Review, Editor of Best Poems Encyclopaedia, Poetry Editor of The Abandoned Towers Magazine and the Sub Secretary General of Poetas Del Mundo. Details of his works can be found at www.sonnetmondal.com

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What really happens when rains decide to visit a place like Jaipur where sand and heat dominate for much of the year? Sonnet Mondal, our Writer of the Month, brings on the spirit, mood and colours of rains in Jaipur through his poem.

Which lay tranquil and calm, lump together In the fear of the roaring black sky. The market shades act as umbrellas and Small tea shops turn club houses with Incessant fluttering sound of playing cards. Pink houses forget their colour turning light, Gulping the waters through their thirsty walls. The footpath dealers drench till fever without a shirt

Poetry

For their clothing cover their livelihood, Protecting it from the sightless rain.

Rains in Jaipur

The clouds seem to chide the sands of Jaipur

Spark—June 2012|Rains...

Poetry

Fumes in chimneys seem to wrestle with Their saved heat with the cold winds And uncountable drops dripping from above. The thought for shopkeepers are not to close And drink contentment from the shower, They do not ponder waiting for it to stop But how to secure customers with free cups of tea. Only ‘Ghagras’ spread as the plumes of peacocks A group of children dance to their latest Bollywood songs. Days ago when the sands flew with loos And sang their hissing songs, the children Sat without clothes looking at drying wells. Now, the bizarre weather shares its land of time With the rains; and the sands sit waiting for another Dry time when rapacious desert storms Would regain their lands in the circle of sharing periods. We are just dolls of muscle, skin and bones Dancing to the symphony played by the weather.

Rains in Jaipur

Circle around the spot, rotate with mad joy and

Spark—June 2012|Rains...

Rain Memories

Fiction

by Anupama Krishnakumar The rains arrive and with it Rekha is drawn into a whirlpool of memories. In the end she is left with a question. Anupama Krishnakumar writes a short story. It was about three in the afternoon when the first few drops of rain began to hit the cement footpath outside. The drops, as Rekha observed from her bedroom window, were strikingly large to begin with, making huge, almost circular blotches on the grey, and stirring the smell of wet earth elsewhere, where they touched down on mud. Soon, the frequency of the drops increased and to her artistic eye, the drops connected together and now looked like a million silvery threads dangling from heaven. The hissing sound of what had now become a spectacular downpour felt like a severe admonition from an agitated mother to her extremely naughty kids. The scene in front of Rekha’s eyes now transformed into something rather ethereal, with the rain adding a coat of mist to the world outside that her window framed – a compound wall painted a serene off-white quietly hiding behind a line of elegantly tall Ashoka trees. The trees were bending dangerously though, unable to brave the appal-

ling attitude of the ghastly companion of the rains – the wind that was blowing almost maniacally. The rain cast its magical spell, as Rekha, beyond her conscious control, began to go whirling down a spiral of nostalgia. A victim trapped in the quicksand of unheralded thoughts. She thought of paper boats tottering dangerously within blackish-brown puddles with crooked, weirdly-shaped boundaries, with stones that settled at the bottom, with ants floating and worms crawling, the wicked rain beating down on the flimsy paper. One of those mindless yet frothing-with-fun games played in the company of giggling friends and bawling-loudly older cousins. Childhood memories were unleashed. Then she recalled cycling at maddening speeds with a bunch of friends, getting wet from head to toe; the whole point had been about proving something –one’s own potential. She knew and felt that feeling that very moment, as sharply as an unexpected pin prick. The typical kick or high that a spirited teen-

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Rain Memories ager loved to soak in - the need to impress fellow girls and boys. With raindrops sticking like pearls to the ends of her enviable curls as she raced on her cycle cutting through the rain, she had been there, done just that and felt that priceless pride. And then there were those memories of music, samosas and hot chai – those Kishore Kumar and Mohammed Rafi songs she would listen to as a quiet twenty-something on rainy weekends, with piping hot tea and spicy samosas for company. Imagination used to be her most loyal companion as she would sit with her eyes closed, smelling the combined aroma of chai and rain, with just the right music to lift her moods playing in the background. The dangerous imagination, she remembered, would run unbelievably wild. Now, this instant, as Rekha sat gazing dreamily at the torrential downpour outside, she thought she vaguely saw a face appear – like those million black and white tiles that are arranged to form a pixelated image – and then disappear. And she knew that stubble, the slightly long chin, the fine nose and those teasing eyes that flickered with intelligence, amusement, mischief and love. Somehow, she also thought she sensed that looking-into-the-distance-beyond-her sort of vacant look in them now. Oh, perhaps she was

imagining, all over again! Those eyes belonged to the man who had once told her that her love filled him completely - the man who had told her he would make love to her so beautifully when it rained. There was a particular sadness, a strange despair that clung steadfastly to this piece of thought, one that surfaced without fail every time it crossed her mind. A gnawing monster that hid in one of the dark crevices of her clouded mind. And she shuddered now. Here was a story that was not meant to be. Here was the face of a man that was not meant to belong to her. Here was a memory that was meant to dissolve in the rains, although all it always did was to rear its intoxicating head every time it rained. A loud thunder and Rekha broke free from her reverie. Suddenly she thought of her family. Her teenaged girls would be back anytime now. She prayed they should reach safe, she wondered if the school bus would get stuck in some very-possible-now traffic jam. She worried about her husband, the man who in many ways – both positive and negative, had influenced her life in the last 20 years. And then all of a sudden, she remembered the clothes she had hung in the clothes line outside the balcony. She panicked, jumped off her chair by the window and ran. She saw that the clothes line was empty and the clothes were dumped in a

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chair nearby. Rekha heaved a sigh of relief and turned. Her father-in-law smiled understandingly from the drawing room. She smiled back. She wondered what he would have thought. Had he called out to her? Had he softly reminded her that she had to quickly bring in the washed-and-dried clothes? Had he asked her for his evening tea? She didn’t know. She didn’t know at all. All she noticed now were the little raindrops that were holding on delicately to the plastic clips hanging on the clothesline. And she couldn’t help thinking that her memories

too hung on thus to her tired mind. She didn’t know what these memories meant to her – did she need them as a source of solace just as she would seek out her mother’s lap at times of utter boredom or distress? Or did she want the memories to be swept away out of her mind and out of her life because they did turn out to be nauseating, blatantly pointing out to her how far she had come from those days? The clear answer escaped her mind yet again. She couldn’t find it. It crept away, leaving her with the uncertainty, the plastic clips and the little drops clinging to them.

Rain Memories 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! 22

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Celestial Games by Priya Mahadevan The humid day stretches languidly Not a single sign of things to come As the Sun beats down full force But this scenario changes in a flash Of lightning yonder Heralding the storm His blaze gets feeble As the Sun beats a quick retreat Hiding from the onslaught Of dark and ominous clouds Revving from the distance Setting the stage Let the games begin! The wind arrives unannounced too Blowing with reckless abandon

Poetry

Tress sway, and leaves tremble People run for cover Birds call to each other Flying frantically Faster and relentless, the clouds roll Until theyâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;ve canopied the sky In entirety Bringing with them

At a time when the Sun is reigning supreme and the day is humid, the dark clouds and cool winds arrive, setting the stage for summer showers. Priya Mahadevan writes a poem.

Their gaming equipment 23

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Luminous lightning

The last ribbon for the Earth

A blinding bolt

That not just survives the celestial combat

Harkens to the sound that follows

But basks in it, in gloriously fragrant renewal.

Deafening thunder The lights flicker Electronics around the house beep

Poetry

The pungent smell of phosphorous wafts As people light their candles Their armour of defense against darkness The first drop is sharp and loud The second and third follow fervently

Priya Mahadevan is a writer and food blogger with a background in Journalism. She was a political and feature correspondent for a prominent Indian newspaper in the 90s before moving to the U.S. She lives in Virginia with her husband and three beautiful children. She now dabbles in poetry writing, travelogues and is currently working on a series of children’s picture books. You can find her world of vegetarian recipes at http:// priyasnowserving.blogspot.co m.

Like belligerent soldiers they surge Ahead of the millions that follow Pulverizing the earth with sharp arrows Culminating the celestial games Like a thunderous applause Long raining ovation Thins out like the crowds Until the last of them is gone The Sun reappears to reign supreme Summer Shower’s come and gone Leaving blades of grass glistening And sagging blossoms Kissing the ground A rainbow appears Seven ribbons of honour One each for Sun, Wind and Clouds Lightning, Thunder and Rain All victorious 24

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I am Rain by Vani Viswanathan

Non-fiction What if rain spoke to you and told you its story? Vani Viswanathan gives the rain, a human voice. Text and pictures by Vani Viswanathan.

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I am Rain You have heard many stories in your lifetime. Narrated by a myriad of people. Animals, maybe, and the occasional thing or two too. Has Rain ever told you a story? Today, I will.

Different cities react differently to me. Some whoop in joy, some accept me mutely, some grumble and some are angered. I’ll tell you today about three cities that are my favourites. Their myriad reactions, how they Of the many tales I can tell – for, of course, let me enter their lives, and keep me cosy I’m all over the earth – I will choose to tell for the few months I’m there. you about the rains in India. It’s one of my The first has to be Chennai. It has to be, I favourite places in the world. World over, say, because for the way her people wish I they want me, they pray to the skies for my got there sooner and wish I would solve visit, they despair when I overstay my wel- their issues of water, they give me a fairly come. All of this happens in India too, but unceremonious welcome. No, no, do not why I like this land more is because rain think I don’t like them – I like them in my means something there. It’s not a by-the-bye own, weird way, not unlike that uncle or event; in this land, rains are celebrated not cousin you don’t like having at your home just in folklore, but in contemporary life. If but who is entertaining in their own way. not, would they sing about me in their tradi- So this is the thing about Chennai – through tional forms of music revered to this day, sweltering summers, they crave for me. I allotting certain twists of notes specifically taunt – if you can, imagine me with a sly for inviting me? Don’t you agree that noth- grin on my face – and let a light drizzle trick ing but the deepest emotion would have them into momentary happiness. Of course, stirred me to pay heed to the croons, shed the drops on the ground dry up even before my obstinacy and indulge them with sweet, they realise it was a drizzle and not a springlorious rain? Or would they spend bucket- kler or an air-conditioner vent leaking. loads of water in depicting rain in their pop- Through June to September they sit high ular movies, where they dance in joy, in ro- and dry, hoping for respite from the weather mance or longing, teasing the eye of the that has definitely subdued but is still hot, as viewer with a rather skimpily clad lady en- they hear of rains pouring in their neighbouring states, as they get the benefit of joying in the rain? I think they love me. clouds passing over to other states with a Well, almost. sudden shower. Nothing sustained. They 26

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I am Rain give up in frustration. Then in October, as they begin to decorate their houses with a display of dolls arranged on steps oddly numbered, I make my first appearance. I must say I play a little unfair with them. But something makes me want to play with these guys. Like ruining their beautiful Deepavali by drenching it, making them unable to celebrate with fireworks. Or pouring down on their festival of lights, called Karthigai Deepam. For days together in November, I make their days gloomy and damp, so much so that the desperate-forrain-ers begin to wistfully look for the sun every morning and sigh when all they see is me hogging the skies. They pull out raincoats, the less tolerant among them pull out sweaters and scarves when temperatures touch a mere 20 or 23, and they tie clothes lines that zig-zag across living rooms and bedrooms. They dread me like the plague, taking shelter under trees, under sunshades, running into shops, parking themselves under the bridge. They mutter under their breaths, swear, discuss me and the ‘depression’ in the Bengal sea that is making me more and more vicious. I don’t pity them – their infrastructure can in no way handle my ferocity, and whatever said and done, however much they complain about the summer, they are essentially sun-loving

people. They want their sun shining brightly, they want their sea breeze and evenings by the beach with their varied snacks, ice cream and games such as where they shoot little balloons. By the time I bid goodbye in midDecember, they are just so relieved to see me gone, and begin dusting off their silks for the December music season, when, ironically enough, at least one singer sings my praise. Mumbai, the second favourite, is a little different. If the children of Chennai had to live here, they’d grumble incessantly, and rightly so – I visit there from mid-June and stay on till September, when, with cries of ‘Ganpati Bappa Morya!’ they send off huge statues of the elephant god Ganesha into the seas. With Ganesha, I usually decide to get back to the seas and plan my next sojourn in Chennai. The Mumbaikars have to go through a lot of trouble, thanks to me. But I like them because they don’t complain. They know that’s who I am; it’s like you put up with a parent who gets on your nerves all the time, but you can’t say or do much because it’s your parent. For four months, I torment them, flooding their roads, railway tracks, seeping into their houses, not bothering whether they are rich or poor, ruining their grains – in general, making life miserable for one and all. But they go on, mostly unperturbed, for they are prepared, and they

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I am Rain have seen it coming for many, many years. For months together, I go on unabated, and they go on with their lives, sometimes stacking sand bags to prevent water from entering their homes, wearing Wellingtons, managing their train timings, covering their heads with plastic bags. Umbrellas of so many kinds adorn the roads. Fungus, snails, worms seep through the walls into homes. They put up. They know it’s a welcome relief from the horrid humidity of March, April and May. They are a very resilient kind, the children of Mumbai. It makes me want to test them further, it also makes me proud. My favourite of the lot, though, is Ahmedabad. Visiting the place just sends me into whoops of delight – imagine being the cousin from the place of delights, whose visit is being so eagerly looked forward to. When I visit for the first time after a particularly horrid summer, mothers willingly send their children out into the streets to play in the water, sometimes joining them, as the kids splash about, run, fall and roll in the waters. Traffic moves unhindered, and riders of two-wheelers tie a handkerchief to their heads as they embrace me with joy. I am, after all, bringing them the gift of a respite from the scorching sun. I am the guest they can enjoy until the cruel winter sets in, temperatures dipping into single digits mak-

ing them shiver through the day. Trees, dusty green from the summer, turn a brilliant green. Dusty red soil in parks turn a deep, throbbing brown. I love these people because they want me so much – they perform prayers, marry frogs to each other – and of course, while some of them do hate me – that happens anywhere, you see – they are, for the most part, happy to see me there, unless I play truant and stay on for longer than expected, or am particularly savage. Reading these tales, you might ask why, when I love them so much, I choose to be especially barbarous in how I treat the souls in these cities; after all, one does come across reports of incessant rain, deaths, flooding and loss of property to an extent it breaks the lives of thousands of them. And what of those who aren’t even lucky enough to have a roof over their heads? Their pavement dwellings, under-the-bridge residences, are rendered useless by me, and already starved and living unfulfilled lives, they are dragged further down. Think of it like this. Like every one of the humans, I am also under a strange influence – of the creator, the source of power, whatever you choose to call it; I wonder why, sometimes, I am expected to be savage, and why, sometimes, I’m expected to be scarce.

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I am Rain However, I have realised one thing – whatever I do, humans are never satisfied. I’m either in excess or insufficient, always cruel, always ruining days, always making life difficult. I have accepted it. That’s why you see me, still indulging you with a surprise on a

weary, dry summer afternoon, or giving you the chills on a wintry evening. And I have accepted it, because no matter how I behave, you really need me. Really, really, need me.

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.com 29

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Return to Innocence

Fiction

by Ram V S’watha hasn’t visited earth for a thousand years now, thanks to the callous attitude of mankind to exploit the most valuable resource that was available to it. And now, it’s a little boy who holds the key to S’watha’s return. Ram V writes a story that will make you think deeply – a story that shares a beautiful message, “A new world is not built upon regret. Life often seeks no apology, only a return to innocence.” Read on.

“It comes from the sky, Jargo!” The old man’s wiry hands reached up into the air and waved around in convulsive gestures as the grey pupils of his blind eyes darted around randomly.

is clear unlike the poison and he tastes of pureness. Do you understand?” Chapa’s jaw quivered and his brow furrowed into a frown.

“No! That is poison! It comes from the sky of man with its black clouds and awful smells! You listen to me and you listen well, foolish boy!” The old man pulled firmly on the tuft of white hair that grew in unruly spindles from his chin.

go! Show it to no one and keep it from the burning stare of Ra’wah!” The old man pointed a skeletal finger to the red sun in the sky.

The boy nodded, wide-eyed and slack“I’ve seen it, Chapa! It is misty and it burns jawed. The blind old man did not see him, to touch!” The boy refuted old Chapa’s wild but he didn’t have to. claims. “What you have found is very precious, Jar-

Once again the boy nodded and carefully tucked the little ivory box that he held in his “The true S’watha comes from the sky of hand deeper into the leather bag that was Gods, which flies above the sky of man. He slung at his waist. 30

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The boy did not understand but he nodded anyway. “Until one day, S’watha left us. He turned away from us and said, till you learn of real thirst, I shall not return. Till you learn to value life, I shall be gone. And then there was the great draught – thousand years it has been since S’watha was seen. Now, we can only dig up what is left of him, from the deep places of the earth, and steal S’watha from the plants and beasts when we can. Oil and gold lie scattered in disuse and we wage war over what was once most abundant. Men’s skin has turned to leathery hide, all things that take root grow only with thorns and the only constant is the rasping of dust, forever.” The old man ended with a decisive “Long before the ground turned to dust and nod. the sky blackened, S’watha used to roam the earth. He was everywhere all at once for he “Were you there, Chapa? Have you seen was life itself! And all things grew and flour- S’watha?” Jargo mumbled his question at the old man, who answered with an annoyed ished at his touch.” frown. Jargo stared wide-eyed at the old man’s story. It was hard to believe that anything could “A thousand years ago? I’d be dead now and possibly grow in the desert; not just survive my bones would be dust! Of course not! But this story has been told by my father to me like they did, but grow and flourish. just as he heard it from his father, in the “We dug into the earth and made it bleed, hope that one day, when we have thirsted with monstrosities that drilled deep. We poi- enough, we may plead to S’watha to return soned the oceans with things we didn’t need and he may take pity on us.” The old man and warmed the air, burning everything. So stretched out a hand in the general direction callous we were.” The old man looked of the boy and beckoned with his fingers. downcast. “Come now. Describe it to me!” “There were signs but we continued undeThe boy nervously pulled out the ivory box terred, for ours was a thirst for power.” 31

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in his hand and opened it.

“It smells ...”

“It is thin and slender.” He looked up at the “Like what?” The old man jutted out his old man hoping that he knew what it was. lower jaw in impatience. “Go on ... go on.” The old man nodded fer- “Like newness.” Jargo smiled at his own anvently. swer. “It sprung forth from the dust.”

“Huh?” Chapa pulled at his beard franticalThe old man rubbed his jaw and frowned, ly. before asking. “You know how old things smell? Like the halls of broken buildings? Like the sand that “What colour is it boy?” never comes out of your shoes? Like hunger The boy looked down at the thing in the that never goes away?” the boy paused long box. It was a colour he had never seen, deep enough for the old man to nod. and intense. He had no word for it and no “Well, this smells the opposite of that!” Jarway to describe what he saw. go declared, mightily pleased with himself. “I don’t know,” the boy finally declared, The old man only grumbled under his own much to the anger of the old man. breath in response, before speaking again. “What do you mean you don’t know? I am the blind one here. You have two eyes in “Keep it sheltered, Jargo, and listen well.” your head, don’t you?” The old man grum- The boy quickly returned the box to its hidbled his annoyance at Jargo. ing place and leaned in intently. “I do! But I have never seen this colour be- “You must travel far, but only by night – for fore.” Jargo frowned at being admonished. in the day, the sun is unforgiving. Travel “Bah! Very well. How does it smell?” Chapa quietly and stop for no one. After seven nights, you will come to the mountain of leaned forward and poked his nose out. Cherap; the only crag that has not yet turned Jargo held the box up to his nose and to dust. Once there, you must climb the breathed carefully. Mostly he smelled dust – mountain, through the poison mists and the same dust that flew everywhere and above, where you may touch the sky of brought on the cough and wheeze. But there Gods.” Chapa raised his hands in reverence. was a different smell. It was subtle and new, but noticeable, and it made Jargo smile for Jargo stared up at the sky, awed by the task set in front of him. some reason. “Will you go with me Chapa?” The boy 32

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asked sheepishly. Chapa only smiled and shook his head. “I am too old, Jargo, and all dried up inside.” He pointed to his heart and the boy frowned for he didn’t quite understand what the old man meant.

He told his Ama and Pah that he was walking to the Lost Lands – running errands for Chapa. His parents did not suspect anything. It was the norm for the younger ones in the tribes to travel to the Lost Lands in search of scrap and metal.

He had never been this far out of the settlement before. He had heard stories of The Lost Lands – remnants of some long gone civilization, broken buildings and empty places being their only remaining legacy. “When you are there, speak into the sky – This was his first time actually seeing them. speak kindly. Show Him what you carry and say we are sorry – tell him that we under- He saw metal birds that lay on the ground, stand now what thirst truly is and tell him a wings outstretched and noses pointed at the world without S’watha is a world of dust – a sky, baking in the sun. Perhaps they had world without hope.” The old man’s voice flown once, but it had been a long time ago. The birds had not rusted – not many things crumbled into little whimpers in the end, and he cried but tears did not come. There rust in the dry desert. The metal had however, eroded under the patient work of sand, had been no tears for a thousand years. leaving gaping holes in their bodies. Jargo hugged Chapa and they both said nothing. The old man stroked the boy’s Even though the wind howled at night, he matted hair in silence, save for the rasping did not take shelter inside the metal birds, for they smelled of an eerie emptiness that whispers of the desert wind. made Jargo nervous. When he awoke in the *** morning, there was a layer of sand covering Jargo set out on his journey at sun down. He him. It was everywhere, in his ears, stinging carried a loaf of hard bread for food and his eyes and leaving the dead taste of drycuts of desert cactus to chew on, so he may ness in his mouth. He looked around and quench his thirst. He carried no other pos- the world had sunk into the sands by anothsessions with him, for fear of attracting er inch or two. thieves. The one precious thing he did bring In the days that followed, Jargo walked along was inside the ivory box, tucked away through the cities of old, where great buildwithin his sack, hidden within his food. ings of stone and iron towered on either “No. You alone must go there, for you are a child and there is hope in your words yet.” Chapa nodded, agreeing with his own wisdom.

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side of him. They were all broken, now rising only partly to the heights they must have touched in their time. Their tops had crumbled, exposing the twisted iron bars that lay within. They reminded Jargo of the bones of half eaten animals in the desert. Inside these buildings, there was neither light nor any sound, but Jargo had heard stories of people who feared walking into the sun, people who stayed inside these old structures and stalked their empty corridors. The boy kept his distance and quickened his pace. It was on the fifth day that he first saw the mountain of Cherap. As the remnants of old cities fell away once again to give way to the ever expanding desert, far in the horizon, partly hidden by the haze of sand, rose the giant, Cherap – the last of the peaks. Jargo could not see the top of the mountain for it was hidden far above the blackened sky, where it supposedly touched the sky of Gods, as Chapa had told him. The old man had been right. It took Jargo two whole days to reach the base of the mountain. He had run out of food and was left with the last cut of cactus, which was of no use to him because it had dried out during his travel. There at the foot of Cherap, the climb seemed that much more intimidating as he faced a seemingly unending slope that reached beyond where the eye could see. Still, Jargo would have only a day’s worth of walking to do before he reached

the top, by the old man’s estimations. Jargo’s journey onward was laborious. The sand storms and dry air had turned to clouds of soot and acid that burned Jargo’s lungs each time he breathed in. He stumbled onward through the poison clouds, gasping for air, willing his legs to drag him onward. This was the sky of man. It seemed endless, as if all the malevolence of a thousand years of thirsting for power and conquest had gathered there, hanging over the heads of humanity for years to come. But it was not endless, no. The poison did finally clear and Jargo collapsed onto the ground in front of him. He gasped and smiled to himself with relief as breathable air flooded into his lungs. It was cool and soothing, unlike any air he had breathed before. He knew then that he had reached the top of Cherap and touched the sky of Gods. *** When he had caught his breath, Jargo recollected Chapa’s words. “Speak into the sky – speak kindly.” But Jargo was a child, and he knew little of kind words, so he did his best to call on S’watha. “I have brought you something precious and I wanted to say we’re sorry...” But he didn’t quite understand what he was sorry for and he didn’t know why what he carried was precious and he knew least of all why he

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was talking into the air at no one in particular. For a while his words were only answered with the quiet calm of the mountain top, but soon he heard a voice behind him.

am to show it to no one!” “Very well, I will not see it. I shall turn away and you may describe it to me.” Saying so, the stranger turned aside and closed his eyes.

“What are you yelling about? What are you When Jargo was convinced the man with doing here? And why are you sorry?” sky-coloured eyes was no longer looking, he Jargo turned, startled, and caught sight of a opened the box and looked inside. man behind him. “It is long and slender and it sprouts from At first sight the man seemed a little strange to him. He was dressed in clothes made of dried leaves and bark and his eyes were the colour of the sky of Gods, another colour the boy did not know the name of. The man’s hair was dark and heavy but still floated wisp-like in the air.

the dust. It smells the opposite of everything old and it is a colour I do not know of.” The man nodded with his eyes still closed and smiled.

“It is a blade of grass and it sprouts from soil, not dust. It smells like life and growing things. And the colour you seek the name “Who are you?” Jargo mumbled in refor, is green!” sponse. “How do you know this?” The boy asked “Do you always answer questions with one wide eyed, but the man ignored this quesof your own?” The man asked. His voice tion. was like a gentle rustle and he smiled with a kind of mischief that Jargo had seen only in “When you came here you said you were sorry, but you did not know what for.” little children. “I was sent here by Chapa of the Westfolk The boy nodded and the man did not see, tribe – to talk to S’watha and show him but he knew. what I have found.” Jargo finally relented. “A new world is not built upon regret. Life “Also to say we are sorry ...” he paused “... often seeks no apology, only a return to infor what, I do not know.” He stared down nocence.” at the ground a little embarrassed. Jargo turned to look at the man, but only The man chuckled and sat down by Jargo. found himself looking into the sky. The stranger had disappeared from his side. “May I see it?” Jargo held the sack close to his chest. “No! I “Wait! Where do I find S’watha? How do I ask him to come back?” Jargo shouted into 35

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the air to no avail.

did not feel proud, nor did he feel a sense of He cast glances all around him, searching accomplishment for having done that which frantically for the man. His breath choked in no one else had, in a millennium. His was a his throat, and Jargo felt distressed. At that much simpler feeling—he just felt happy. very moment he felt an electric chill on his He stretched his arms and laughed and then palm. He jerked his hand back and tumbled screamed and cried like a mad boy. His eyes backward. The box with the blade of grass ached at first, unable to contain his joy. He spilled from his hand on to the ground. cried and laughed, and touched his eyes in Jargo stared at the back of his palm in shock as tears burst forth and streamed shock. A single wet patch had formed and a down his face, falling on to his tongue – clear drop of water snaked down his arm. crisp, tangy, yet salty and wet. Then there was another on his forehead and another on his leg, on his arm on the back of his neck. Cold, crisp and playful – the drops fell from the sky. Jargo looked around at the ground, where a pattern of wet spots had begun to form. With each passing second, the pattern grew darker and heavier. Then all of a sudden, the smell of wet earth lifted into the air and it was sweeter than anything he had ever smelled. It rose up into his nose and swelled his lungs, intoxicating his mind as it coursed through him. The pattering of drops rose to a steady hiss of rain. Jargo smiled as the drops now drummed steadily on his face. He smiled as he felt the cold trickle down through his matted hair and on to his head. In a thousand years no one had seen such a sight – S’watha had not come down from the skies and the world had thirsted for life. Now, as the cold rain trickled down Jargo’s body he

He turned his eyes to the blade of grass that had spilled from the box and on to the ground. It danced to the rhythm of drops pelting it with life, as the earth below the grass transformed from loose dust to wet, muddy soil. The blade of grass shone in the sun, an intense green, and Jargo smiled even wider. Far away in the lost cities, the dark dwellers huddled in the shadowy corners of their world. The rain drops beat upon their empty buildings like a great assault on the stone and concrete. Fear gripped them as water trickled onto their floors and began to pool. They had never seen such a sight – the water snaked along the ground and coalesced and conspired to corner them. The bravest and most curious of them—mostly children dared to touch the water and when they felt its cold soothing wetness, they laughed with joy. Soon, the children even dared to put their hands out of the windows and feel the rain on their arms.

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The drops that fell on the empty metal birds was music to the ears of an old blind man, outside, created a loud drumming sound as who sat alone upon a sand dune and felt the rain impinged on to the hollow metal. It hope falling out of the sky. was a sound that was heard far; a sound that

Ram is a fibbing child turned writer, who has kept his love for concocting tall tales alive despite being warned against it! His short stories have appeared in fantasy and sci-fi publications and he is currently authoring a graphic novel. When he isn’t writing, Ram spends his time with books, film and music or generally wondering about everything.

ENJOYING THE ISSUE? SEND US FEEDBACK! WRITE TO feedback@sparkthemagazine.com Up next—THE LOUNGE—Spark’s non-fiction special segment.

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The Lounge

June 2012 38

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Turn of the Page by Vibha Sharma

Ashok K. Banker’s The Forest of Stories—A Review Ashok K. Banker’s ‘The Forest of Stories’ is a must-read, suggests Vibha Sharma. Banker not just narrates the stories; rather, he adorns them beautifully with drama and action while keeping it simple and contemporary for the new generation, she says.

I have always enjoyed reading the retellings of one of the greatest epics of the world the Mahabharata. In keeping with this urge to experience diverse perspectives on the epic, how could I skip reading Ashok Banker's take on this grand drama? Ashok K Banker has earned a repute of being one of the best in this particular genre with his engaging Ramayana series followed by the Krishna Coriolis Series.

sented the stories in fine detail makes one guess that this particular series is going to be a long one. In fact, if I have the correct information, there are 17 more books to follow 'The Forest of Stories'!

Reading through this book, I realised that I am familiar with some of the stories that are narrated in it; however, many are completely new to me. As Banker rightly points out, all these stories interconnect at some point like 'The Forest of Stories' by Ashok Banker is a small tributaries meeting and merging with bit like the groundwork before the actual other tributaries, finally draining into the magnum opus. The way Banker has pre- main river. 39

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Turn of the Page This set of stories is narrated by Ugrasrava, son of Lomarsana. Ugrasrava is fondly called ‘Sauti’ because he is a ‘Suta’, the son of a Kshatriya father and a Brahmin mother. The epic begins when, after a long and strenuous journey, Sauti reaches Naimishavan, where Kulapati Shaunaka and his many acolytes practice their austere rituals in an ashram. It is the same place where the great historical Kurukshetra battle was actually fought and history was created. It is a pleasure for the ashramites and inhabitants of the forest to listen to the narration of Mahabharata from Sauti, as he had the privilege of listening to the recitation from the creator of the epic, Vyasa, himself. Surprisingly, Sauti's audience expands every day and it is as though the entire Naimisha-van is listening, each tree representing a dead soul in the Kurukshetra war. They are curious about the events that led to the great It was a question that everyone hoped the war, which led to their demise. great epic Mahabharata would answer. After Here Banker very beautifully explains and all, it was called the Fifth Veda for good justifies the presence of these silent listeners reason. It not only told a great tale, but illuby saying, " If there is one question that has minated the essence of the human condition always haunted the human mind, it is this: through the events of that great tale. And What is the point of living? What is our pur- no question was more essential to the hupose here on earth? Why were we put here man condition than knowing why one existon this mortal planet? Is there a larger plan? ed." All humans come back to the same ques‘The Forest of Stories’ presents an array of tion: Why are we here? seven interesting stories that does not in40

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Turn of the Page volve any of the main characters of the great battle. There is the tale of Parashuram and his vow to cleanse the earth of the Kshatriyas not just once but 21 times. The story of Parikshat's son - Janamajaya, who conducts a great yagna so that all snakes of the world including King Takshaka get engulfed in the flames of the yagna and get wiped off the face of earth, also finds a place. Then there is a story of Sage Bhrigu and his wife Puloma, which leads to the story of Dushyanta and Shakuntala. Except Parashuram’s and Shakuntala’s stories, the rest were completely new to me. And of all the tales presented in this book, the story of Parshuram definitely scores over the rest, riding high on the brilliant descriptive style of the author. Banker has maintained the authenticity of the facts by adhering to Vyasa's text very closely and has enhanced the overall effect by his signature flair for making scenes come alive in regal grandeur. Banker not just narrates the stories; rather, he adorns them beautifully with drama and action while keeping it simple and contemporary

for the new generation. His linguistic skills are par excellence and it is a delightful experience to just fly on the beautiful words of the author to the enchanting world, unraveling the mysteries of the mythological era that he describes in the pages of this book. If you ever get overwhelmed while reading various stories and meeting the innumerable characters entering and exiting the stage, do keep this in mind - "As you hear the stories unfold, their connections will become amply clear to your enlightened mind and you will enjoy the beauty of this great narrative of Sage Krishna Dweipayana Vyasa. For it is a masterpiece of itihas, containing all the devices of poetics and aesthetics employed in their finest grain." After reading this book, I now look forward to reading the rest of Ashok Banker’s 'MBA series', and I am sure there are many more readers who are committed to do so too. It is also interesting to read how The Mahabharata became Banker's MBA. So don't miss it!

Vibha Sharma regularly reviews books in literarysojourn.blogspot.com/

her blog

http://

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Slice of Life by Priya S

Parenting a Differently-Abled Child

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What does it mean to parent a differentlyabled child? Priya S says it is about accepting reality, working hard to make the life of such a child meaningful, and above all showering lot of love. Read on.

It is very true that one can never truly understand the urgency of an issue until its impact affects or concerns us directly. And in cases like disabilities and impairments, the practical solutions and arrangements are best discussed when someone close has it, as the difficulties of the situation might not be fully comprehended unless one actually goes through the ordeal with the affected person â&#x20AC;&#x201C; for, at best one may sympathise or empathise with an offer of moral support, but the connection to the issue is very likely to be lacking otherwise. Nonetheless, these days, there is increased awareness towards these issues, and the sensitivity towards the differently-abled people is changing for the better. One important reason that has contributed to the change in attitude is increased participation by the differently abled in the society, helping reduce some of the apprehensions and misinformation surrounding them. Another important source is the media, which has been responsible for positive dissemination of information, increasing public awareness. Why am I talking about this? Well, my three -year-old son is physically challenged with a congenital deformity in his right leg. I am often asked about him and his condition and the questions that are posed to me range from whether I took any unprescribed medication to why I failed to go for advance

Slice of Life

scans, to whether I am related to my spouse. What amuses people more is why my eightyear-old daughter is normal as opposed to her sibling. Parenting is no walk in the park. Most of you will agree with me when I say that taking decisions to do with children is extremely difficult, for there is no perfect method of raising them. What works for one child may not apply to another and it is imperative for us to alternate our role as good cop-bad cop for the child to understand the fragility or urgency of a situation. The equation gets even more complex when the child in question is differently abled. Disability is of various forms: physical, sensory, mental, cognitive or intellectual, and the degree of support differently-abled people require may vary depending upon the severity of the situation. Emotional trauma, psychological concerns, physical, social and financial pressures are but the tip of the iceberg with regards to the multitude of situations that may arise in the context of raising such children. Needless to say, the way we deal with it goes a long way in bringing up these children. It is highly possible that with the right support, timely help and intervention, the child may be raised to have a confident personality and to act independently. Also, with support from family and friends, the stress of raising a differently-abled child

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Slice of Life can be reduced to a large extent.

It takes time, but remember, nurturing anger or constantly cribbing about it is not going to help you or your child or your family. So, be aware of your strengths, the physical and financial support you can muster and work towards improving the situation.

The past three years have been one tremendous learning experience, a period that has seen enough heart breaks and tears. However, it has also been a time when I have made conscious effort to break free from the web of despair and helplessness. Avoid the blame game I wish to share a few concerns that arise when you take care of a differently-abled child and some ways you can overcome the issues in order to achieve the best when bringing up the child. The foremost struggle is to come to terms with the reality of having such a child. The question “Why me/ Why my kid?” rears its ugly head every other unexpected moment and the challenge becomes even more difficult when the other kid in the family is normal. It’s important to push the questions away from your mind as self-pity is the greatest obstacle when dealing with the situation. Coping with the harsh truth is a necessity and the sooner you come to terms with it, the better. Isolating or denying this issue aggravates the situation. How do you deal with it? It is easier said than done. Talking out aloud about this with family and friends helps mitigate the stress. The nature of disability being different in different cases, the parents should strive to attain a sense of balance in tackling the changed circumstances in their lives, as losing focus aggravates negativity all around. While the support of loved ones is truly a blessing, tackling the inner demons is a quest that has to be overcome individually.

It is quite possible that caring for a disabled child brings about a distance between a husband and a wife. Dealing with an emotional partner, blame game and financial pressures of caring for the child may worsen the situation. What is imperative is to consider and mediate upon each other’s perspectives and then work on ironing the differences. Knowing and being aware that both the spouses are in it together goes a long way in avoiding the trap of blame game and criticism. Involve the sibling If there is a normal sibling at home, it is important that parents make that child understand the situation. It is likely that this child may face a lot of turmoil regarding his/her sibling’s disabilities and it is up to the parents to explain the challenges to the child. This is necessary because, in case the normal child is an older sibling, the time spent with him/her earlier as well as the nature of activities indulged with them changes after the arrival of the differently-abled child. This may create an animosity between the siblings and the only way out is to involve the normal child while taking care of the sibling. When the children are older and

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Slice of Life are more aware of reality, he/she may deal and becomes acutely aware of the other with the situation better. prowess thatâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s inbred in him/her. All he/ Having said this, it is also important to take she requires is to be constantly reassured time out with the normal child and involve that they are loved and cared for. It is in the him/her in activities in which everyone can best interest of the parents that they continparticipate. Also, encourage the child to uously work towards battling the uncertainties of future and move on. This is when pursue activities on his/her own. Make sure to develop their hobbies into something you can start being a friend, mentor and a fruitful. Besides taking their mind off the guide to your child. change in the situation, seeing them so involved in something could motivate their differently-abled sibling to shed their inhibitions. Of course it is possible that the normal child may occasionally develop a sense of embarrassment in public regarding the differently-abled sibling. Over time, these feelings may subside. Focus on the differently-abled child

Besides, many organisations have come up with unique ways of making a difference to these children. For instance, SPJ Sadhana School in Mumbai works tirelessly towards helping the mentally challenged, making them self-sufficient. Ummeed, a child development centre in Mumbai offers a complete range of clinical services for issues related to Cerebral Palsy, Autism, learning deficiency and attention deficit disorder. Ekansh Trust in Pune is working towards inclusion of people with disabilities in to the mainstream. Deen Dhayal Upadhyay Institute for the Physically Handicapped, based in Delhi, offers a variety of training and rehabilitation strategies to alleviate the sufferings of the differently abled. Similar organisations exist across different major cities in India. Tap the online world to remain abreast of the latest developments. What is imperative is to keep the mind open.

Now, here is the most important question. What can be done to make the differentlyabled child self-sufficient and independent to a great extent? A whole lot of things, actually! A wide range of activities and special strategies are being developed and constantly upgraded to make the differently abled confident and self-reliant, keeping in mind the requirements and needs of the child. Interaction with families going through the same challenges helps as this widens our perspective and brings to fore many options that may not have been thought of previ- These days, the curiosity or the insensitivity shown by people bothers me less, now that ously. my son has slowly started walking with a Above all, when the seeds of love are sown Prosthetic Leg. With constant physiotherapy again and again, the differently-abled child sessions and unconditional love, he is slowly slowly starts accepting his/her limitations shedding his inhibition and blossoming into 45

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Slice of Life a happy child. His impish smile and limitless But I constantly reassure myself with Scott curiosity, coupled with loads of naughtiness, Hamilton's quote has made me slowly ditch the past and “The only disability in life is a bad attitude.” move on, though on many occasions the enormity of the situation overwhelms me.

Priya S is a proud mother of two kids, and is someone who believes in living life to the fullest.

This month’s Spark features a lovely artwork too. See the back cover of this edition.

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Rowdy Rathore : Cheap Thrills, Gratuitous Gore Film Freak by Yayaati Joshi If you expect Irving Wallace to deliver a Salman Rushdie, you’re the fool, says Yayaati Joshi, as he discusses Prabhu Deva’s much-hyped ‘Rowdy Rathore’ that released recently. When we watch films, we carry expectations—from the actors, the directors, the musicians and the rest of the crew. In a Sanjay Leela Bhansali film, you’d expect the art director to play an important part. In Brian De Palma’s films, the special effects team and the second unit director are expected to deliver. In short, expectations from every director/ actor should be based on their collective work. The naïve moviegoer would expect the same thing from all movie directors—right from Hitchcock to Kashyap. The smart one will take each director for who he is—what his oeuvre as a whole represents, and then set

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his expectations accordingly. Or, that’s the theory I want to postulate about good viewing. Writing a review for a film like Rowdy Rathore is easy—there are glaring mistakes, egregious takes and unwanted violence. There’s also a pinch of guilty pleasure in the visual thrills—Akshay’s buffoonery, so used to it we are, that it now seems pleasant; Sonakshi’s waist— we’ve all seen the ‘before’ and ‘after’ weight loss snaps of her, and one feels good to see that exercised her way to potential stardom. But the harder part about Rowdy is not the ‘what’, but the ‘why’. Prabhu Deva, once known for his contortionist-like dancing moves,

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has donned the director’s hat lately—one that doesn’t fit him too well—except that the box office has a different story to tell. His first film—Wanted, a blood and gore affair just like his second one, was a huge success. It further strengthened Salman’s fan base, which like Akshay’s consists of the masses—the common man, unmoved by the English speaking and acting Khans and Kapoors. Rowdy Rathore is Akshay’s “Wanted”—another film that will no doubt do well enough at the box office, but will push both the actor and director one step away from creating good cinema.

tale perhaps, longer takes and more gracefully choreographed action sequences, more soulful songs, less glittering posters ones that are portrait-like and meaningful; or just when Indian Cinema’s centenary is being celebrated, a movie that could go to international film festivals and undo the damage that Ra.One did. But of course, freedom of expression is not just limited to naysayers and protestors—it includes filmmakers as well. What can one say if the director wanted his film to be a mindless action film— not even one that had the grandeur of Die Hard—but the violence and plot of SingDeva could have made a different film—but ham? like Irving Wallace, he had his audiences Perhaps I am being too critical of genres chosen. Right from the here—who’s to say that pompous posters of the Rowdy is a bad film? film, to the outlandish Trade analysts expect it to songs—Deva didn’t prenot only recover its protend that the film belonged duction cost, but cause to the Ingmar Bergman enough sale to keep the class of moviemaking. But producers counting their why? Was it the budget? money. The only thing Surely, with in-your-face that a film like this teachproduct placements of es us is that like literature, shopping malls and vests, cinema is vast—and has money was not a problem. to be viewed with a wider The intent was. Read gaze—encapsulating all its ‘problem’ in the broader forms—even the ones sense of moviemaking— that on the face of it seem with the given resources, Deva could have hollow. For who knows, 500 years from chosen the film to become a different enti- now Rowdy and Wanted could become the ty, a differentiated product—a twist in the subject of doctoral thesis—‘Rise of violence 48

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in Indian cinema: the trends of yesteryears, of the posters of the film, above Akshay and the contributing factors’. Kumar’s painted picture, the following But wait, this was supposed to be a review, words are written: “Don’t angry me” (sic). and I realise I have written an opinion heavy That’s what I’d like to say to Prabhu Deva: piece without directly approaching the sub- “Don’t angry me—with another film like ject—was the film good or bad, was it this one”. watchable? Here’s my subtle retort: In one

Yayaati Joshi is a man with simple tastes and intense beliefs. Contrary to the bling associated with the capital city, he prefers the company of close friends, an engaging book or an Alfred Hitchcock movie. His placid demeanour is often mistaken for reticence; Yayaati is a self-proclaimed loner, whose recent pursuits include his foray as a budding writer. Yayaati blogs at http://rantingsofadelusionalmind.wordpress.com

SEND US YOUR CONTRIBUTIONS TO editors@sparkthemagazine.com FEEDBACK feedback@sparkthemagazine.com WEBSITE www.sparkthemagazine.com Facebook: http://www.facebook.com/pages/Spark/240605447679 Twitter: http://www.twitter.com/sparkeditor All pictures (cover image included) where no credits are mentioned are provided by Microsoft through Clipart gallery. Pictures with Credits are used under a CC-license. More details available at Spark website. Pic courtesy ‘The Forest of Stories’ and ‘Rowdy Rathore’ - Google Images 49

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Rain Outside the Window

Art by Amrita Sarkar Amrita Sarkar is an English literature graduate from Kolkata. She has also completed her Post graduation Diploma from the Asian College of Journalism, Chennai. As for her interests, her love for cartoons, drawing, painting and stories began from childhood and continues till date. When her imagination could not be held any longer within the scarce recesses, she decided to cast them in moving shapes. This led to her completing a graduate diploma in animation and film making. 50