Spark june 2013 by Spark Editor

Sparkâ&#x20AC;&#x201D;June 2013 | Facets of Nature

05 June 2013

Vol 4 Issue 6| June 2013

Dear Reader, As the monsoon sets in across the country, we are happy to give you another chance to celebrate the end of the torturous summer - Spark's June issue, themed 'Facets of Nature'. We have a lovely collection of poems this time, drawing on many aspects of nature such as greenery (or the lack of it), the animal kingdom and weather of all kinds. These are wellsupported with a medley of fiction and non-fiction as well as some digital art and photography. The Lounge fills in with the usual dose of non-fiction on movies and books. We hope you enjoy this issue as much as we enjoyed working on it while the breeze blew and the first drops of rain fell. Till we meet you in July, enjoy the pleasant rain before it starts making life tougher! - Editorial Team

Bhargavi Ravishankar Bob Bradshaw Dhanya M Gauri Trivedi Maheswaran Sathiamoorthy Neelanjan Banerjee Parth Pandya Prashila Naik Preeti Madhusudhan

Ruth Morris Shirani Rajapakse Swati Sengupta Vani Viswanathan Vinita Agrawal

Spark June 2013 © Spark 2013

Wilda Morris

Individual contributions © Author

Yayaati Joshi

CC licensed pictures attribution available at www.sparkthemagazine.com Anupama

Bakul Banerjee

Priya Anand

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.

Published by Viswanathan

Contributors

Cover Page Design

Krishnakumar/Vani

Harish V

editors@sparkthemagazine.com

Concept, Editing and Design

Anupama Krishnakumar Vani Viswanathan 2

Spark—June 2013 | Facets of Nature

Inside this Issue POETRY Visiting the Elephants by Bob Bradshaw Sounds Wide Open by Vinita Agrawal Mother by Ruth Morris Centripetal by Bakul Banerjee Colombo by Shirani Rajapakse The City and Nature by Parth Pandya A Walk in the Woods & At Nightfall by Wilda Morris FICTION The Seed of Every Story by Bhargavi Ravishankar Jackfruit of All Trades by Prashila Naik Trees From Her Backyard by Preeti Madhusudhan A Pot Full of Love by Gauri Trivedi Himsa and A-Himsa by Vani Viswanathan NON-FICTION On the Run by Neelanjan Banerjee Monsoon Musings by Dhanya M ART Dusk in Summer by Swati Sengupta PHOTOGRAPHY Nature, Up Close by Maheswaran Sathiamoorthy THE LOUNGE TURN OF THE PAGE | Review of Death Comes to Pemberely by Priya Anand STORYBOARD | FILM FREAK “Falling Down” by Yayaati Joshi 3

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Poetry Visiting the Elephants by Bob Bradshaw Elephants are a delight to watch, more so when you visit them in a family outing. Bob Bradshaw’s poem portrays one such experience that’s filled with little yet interesting observations about a group of elephants. Family trips to the zoo inevitably lead to Pachyderm House. My daughter Katie steers Grandmother in her wheel chair right up to the rail

where Grandmother leans over waving with Katie and my wife to the 'old girls' as if they were relatives whom they haven't seen in years.

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Katie's favourite is always the newest baby in her baggy pants, shuffling around, swinging her trunk.

When elephants age their thick skin takes on deep wrinkles. Arthritis flares in worn out knees. Nails crack and molars split like stones.

Yet they always have each other-An old cow becomes confused, and a younger one gently leads her to the group's watering hole.

In the wild elephants will even stop at a spot where a family member died years before,

Bob lives in California, a state drifting slowly towards Asia. Bob is reading Asian poetry and studying the Japanese Tea Ceremony in preparation for the docking. His work can be found at Cha: An Asian Literary Journal, Eclectica, Slow Trains and many other publications.

the females becoming as sentimental as old ladies holding babies, touching tenderly their daughters and sisters and aunts with their long hands.

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Fiction The Seed of Every Story by Bhargavi Ravishankar A seed resists coming out of its comfort zone, but its innate nature pushes it out into the glorious world anyway. Is this the story of, well, every story too? Bhargavi Ravishankar pens a piece of flash fiction. To push up roots, to break free of the soil. Or to remain within, locked inside the outer shell of my macrocosmic seed. The question doesn’t really need answering, my comfort zone means everything to me. Why then is everyone urging me to “let go”, to “blossom forth”, to “give it a shot”? I’m happy where I am, my world is brown and black, snug and welcoming, it’s mine after all. But. But. What if? So I let go. I blossom forth. I give it a shot. My head shakes itself free of the brown. The wonderful, warm brown. The beautiful, protecting black. I feel a slight wind caress me, and I am surprised. Is this not the world that I’ve

heard spoken of before? The one that is cruel? The one that threatens, bullies, takes away and doesn’t give back? That is what I have always heard said, and what I have always believed. Why then, is this gentle breeze cooling me with its teasing fingers? Why then, is a glowing, happy sun warming me with its shining arms? Why indeed? I am afraid. I can’t look up. What if the wind turns into a gale and uproots me? What if the sun gets angry and scorches me? I can live all my life just looking down at the earth. My earth. And I can be happy where I am, my world is green and brown, moist and nurturing, it’s mine after all. But. But. What if? So I look up. 6

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I see the blue expanse all around me, waiting for me glad. I will be happy where I am, my world me to reach out my tendrils and touch its soft- is colourful and vivid, beautiful and promising, ness. it’s mine after all. I see the greenery of all my elders and betters, grinning down at me and whispering softly “Move along, now, you have quite a long way to go”. I see the colours of the flowers, red, pink, orange, violet, preening and swaying, calling out to me “Look at the ground, and how will you ever get to be as stunning as we are?” I smile. The wind will be my friend. My treefriends will reach down to pull me up. The sun will smile at me, willing me to smile back at him. The flowers will taunt me into becoming the most astonishing creature I can ever become. I can see my future welcoming me and it makes

Bhargavi Ravishankar is an advertising copywriter, now freelancing and working as a creative consultant while being a full-time mom to a mischievous two-year- old. She finds creativity in all the world around her, from travel to reading, from interior design to cooking, from watching movies to inane discussions on the meaning of life – everything is a source of interest and beauty to her.

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Non-fiction On the Run by Neelanjan Banerjee Neelanjan Banerjee tells us of his interaction with nature as he runs on one of his favourite routes, the backyard of an ancient fort. Picture by Neelanjan Banerjee. I wore my quick dry shorts and T â&#x20AC;&#x201C; shirt and laced up my expensive Nikes. Switching off the light behind me I moved towards the door when Polki raised her head and started wagging her tail. I patted her spotted head and opened the latch to move out of the house. While closing the door I saw her returning back to her slumber. At 5 am it was still dark outside. The cool morning air caressed my face while mosquitoes hummed along. The trees out in the garden swaying with the gentle wind seemed to be greeting me a good morning. I walked with exaggerated long steps to shake off the sleep till the gate of the society, keeping a watchful eye on the barking street dogs lest they planned on giving me a chase. The guard gave me a nod

with a sleep smothered face. I broke into a light jog as I left the gate. The road was nearly empty, with a few trucks, buses and auto-rickshaws rushing about to their respective destinations. I was to run today in the backyard of an ancient fort, a moderately hilly path, as part of my marathon training. The distance to the start of this beautiful trail was a tad more than a couple of kilometres, enough to get warmed up properly. I approached the bus stop where a few sleepy-eyed folks were waiting for their ride. An auto driver was trying to coax people at the bus stop to give up waiting for a bus and join those already sitting in the auto hoping the driver gets his passengers quickly. The bus stop bore the evidence of a busy previous day with empty plastic tea cups and bags, 8

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paper plates, and lot of unrecognisable trash lying around. The sweepers would get to work any time now. I need to pick up my speed, I thought, glancing at my watch and looking ahead to the imposing flyover. I should to be careful here, I reminded myself while looking to my right and running up the flyover. The first rule of running on the road is to run in the direction opposite to the traffic. The flyover, thankfully, was well lit for anyone to see me running towards them. While coming down the leeward side, my pace increased as I saw the entry of the trail on the other side of the road. The entry was inconspicuous with a mosque sitting beside it peacefully. I was already dreaming about the beautiful scenery waiting for me like a newly wedded bride. Another 500 metres and I would be in heaven, thinking and smiling to myself. The start of the trail didn’t hold much promise to any unsuspecting passerby – it is narrow and full of bushes. As I entered the trail, the colour of the sky was changing rapidly. From dark black, it was now transforming into a hue of purple. I seemed to keep running into cobwebs spun across the tree branches. The air was cooler and felt pure within a few hundred feet inside the trail. I kept filling my lungs greedily. The sand was loose in the beginning. I was wait-

ing for it to come. And it came: the long, winding and steadily-rising stony stairway. It seemed to be greeting me with arrogance. I gritted my teeth and start jogging up with baby steps. The boundary wall of the fort had started on my left. My heartbeat reached an unacceptable intensity by the time I reached the top when I saw the fort standing at far distance and inviting me into its abode. I kept running to shake off the lactic acid building up in my legs. The trail broadened from this point.

The ground was a firm grassy pitch after the daunting stairs. The trail ran all along the boundary wall of the fort. The boundary wall was made up of 13th century stone slabs with a jagged surface and small openings at symmetric intervals in the middle for soldiers to fire their rifles. At every 300 – 400 metres canons were placed on high structures to bombard the enemy. It was approximately a two kilometre loop of hard trail with many ups and downs. A typical four kilometre route would not have taken me more than 20 minutes but this trail always tested me for over 35 heart- and leg-pounding minutes. The ultra thin and flexible Nikes, the latest in running, gave a feel of running bare9

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foot. I could feel every pebble, stone or tree root while running in them, of course to an acceptable pain threshold. Since the time I bought these shoes, I felt like I was deriving energy from the ground, as if it gave me the strength to run to my heartâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s content. The sky was now painted a mix of light purple with an orange tinge. The sun was finally waking up. The boundary wall of the fort ran on my left with thick foliage of undergrowth, while a small pond and a huge banyan tree decorated my right. A small mausoleum adorned with numerous green coloured chaddar and flags, was built under the tree for the dead. I kept my eyes on the track to watch out for any obstacles. I was nearing yet another winding, steep, stony staircase which was mercifully taking me down at the moment, though it would be there to challenge me on my way back. I was covered with sweat and cobwebs and had fine gravel in my shoes. I kept pushing forward as my lungs and legs screamed for sympathy. I needed to get back in time to get ready for office. I kept wiping the salty sweat off my face until I reached the base of the fort which was just getting brushed with the first rays of rising sun. I stood there for a few moments to admire the majestic aura of the fort and had a view of the city coming back to life. I turned back after feeling bit rested. The air was still cool with a hint of the impending heat

that would inevitably build up during the day. The sun had raised its orange head and was greeting the world with its warmth. A few fellow runners could now be seen strewn all over the trail. After tackling the second stairway which went up this time, my legs had turned to jelly. I kept jogging like an old man and breathing hoarse like an asthmatic patient and reached the first stairway. It was my turn to look down upon it. I stopped and turned left to give a last longing look at the fort which was now covered with soft morning sunlight. I ran down the stairway with a contended look on my happy face. The bus stop had become busy. Buses came and went with people hanging out from it. The number of auto-rickshaws coaxing the waiting passengers had increased. The number of vehicles spewing black cancerous smoke had amplified and it was only a few minutes past 6 am. People gave me appalled looks when I crossed them. I was grimy and pongy but in high spirits. The guard at the gate had changed by now. He gave me a crisp salute with the click of his heels and I nodded my head in reciprocation. I opened the gate of my house and saw fresh new wild roses. After smelling them, I plucked one to give to my wife, sleeping peacefully beside our tyrannical two-year-old son. The door creaked open and I found Polki looking towards me and wagging her tail.

Maj. Neelanjan Banerjee has donned the olive green for the last nine years. He blogs on health and wellness at http://neelanjan-banerjee.blogspot.in/. He enjoys running, scuba diving, reading, writing and travelling.

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Poetry Sounds Wide Open by Vinita Agrawal Nature has its own beautiful way of communicating to the world, only if you would care to listen, says Vinita Agrawal in her poem that captures the different sounds of Natureâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s varied creations.

The squeal of butterflies flitting from flower to flower The slurp of pigeons drinking water at the bird bath A sparrow's placid tweet as it homes in at dusk The huff of a light evening breeze.

The sigh of water evaporating in the sun The trumpet of a rainbow conquering azure skies The hum of memories in dry flowers The stutter of mimosa leaves when touched.

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The explosion of jasmines one fine morning The whispers of the terrace wall to the rose climbers The pitter patter of first rain on my face The hiss of raindrops on a sun-scorched verandah. The ribbit of frogs in the rapidly filling monsoon ponds The chatter of peas ripening happily in their pods The groan of dead leaves as if in a mass funeral The warble of injured roots when brutally stamped. The caterwaul of the north wind in the thick of a storm The chortle of airborne twigs and sticks The cackle of whiplash lightning on the world below The grunt of the oak tree, weathering it. The roar of the sea captured in a sea shell The silence inside an ageless stone The gurgle of chlorophyll in the veins of a plant The speech of an uncovered fossil. Sounds are nature's words Time's own dialect Sometimes soft, sometimes loud if you would only strain to hear.

Vinita Agrawal is a Delhi-based writer and poet and has been published in international print and online journals.

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Fiction Jackfruit of All Trades by Prashila Naik Mohan surely thinks he knows it all. An ‘assignment’ to fetch a jackfruit from the forest however makes for an interesting encounter that, quite like the jackfruit, might prick – his pride. Mohan patted his wife’s waist the very instant his mother turned around; the young woman whimpered in a tantalizing manner reserved solely for such impromptu occurrences of their generally non-existent intimacy. But as he followed up the pat with a loud thump on her back, she whimpered with discomfort. “How many times have I told you not to interrupt me when I am talking?” She turned around, disappointed, angry; this was one of those deliberate and cruel displays of his unpleasant disposition which she was unequipped to deal with, even after six months of their marriage. “I was just telling you to not get into a fight with Shantaram. He is a goonda.” “You think I am scared of him”, he scowled, daring her to challenge his assertion of his own

fearlessness, ready to pounce on the remotest sign of her resistance. But she only stood there, a weak smile on her lips, as if she was unsure of whether the question was meant to be rhetorical or not . That silence pleased him, as did her conceding smile. “You should listen to me when I tell you something”, he said, resisting an urge to thump her back for a second time, if only to drive home the point he was trying to make .“Mother never interrupted father. He would have beaten her to death“, he added, an element of unmistakable pride in his voice, as he touched her hunched shoulder. She nodded in response and lowered her eyes to look down at his fingers, as if she had just become aware of their presence on his body that had now extended onto her own 13

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body, an extension that even in all its reality was nothing more than a vague realisation. “Now go, help mother with the cooking.” “The jackfruit. You said you will bring jackfruit from the forest today” she said, as if she had just recollected this important fact. “I know. You don’t have to remind me. Now stop staring at me like a fool and go to the kitchen. “ He watched her turn around to go to the little room where she would join his mother, in her elaborate preparations for that day’s lunch. He had nothing to do with these domesticities; they all constituted a woman’s world, a world he had been effortlessly shielded from all through his existence. The only time overlaps occured were the times he made a demand that the women could not satisfy without his assistance. One such demand for jackfruit patoli led to him offering to head to the adjacent forest and pick out a ripe jackfruit from what was considered to be the ‘best’ jackfruit tree in the whole village. He had forgotten about that offer, his mind still reeling on the possible ways in which he could initiate an argument with his obnoxious neighbour Shantaram so that he could get that opportunity he was eagerly waiting for to push the man down on the ground and punch him right in the middle of his ugly face. He tightened the knot of his lungi, hitched it up against his waist and picked up the rusted but cunningly sharp sickle and headed towards the forest as if he were just headed to the well to draw a pitcher of water for the morning prayers. He took pride in his familiarity with the forest and fondly reminisced all those evenings he had spent there as a child, hunting for wild berries, shrieking with terrified delight every time a

snake slid past them. Unlike his friends, the vast expanse of that forest that extended well into the neighboring state of Karnataka had never stopped him from venturing out into the allegedly dangerous parts of it, where one could possibly come face to face with some wild animal or another. As he made his way through the familiar trails leading to the tree, he flexed his arms in a display of blatant self–appreciation, still dreaming of how he could employ their prowess in destroying Shantaram’s pride and if possible all his bones . The statuesque tree stood in all its glory, decked in jackfruits of all sizes, shapes and ripeness. “Son of a bitch tree getting so fat and having so few fruits,” he muttered to himself and hitched the already folded lungi higher up against his thighs in preparation for the climb. He put his right foot on a branch and held onto the tree’s trunk to put the left foot on another one. He touched the jackfruit nearest to him in an attempt to gauge if it was ripe enough to be hacked down. And it was somewhere through the second tap on the jackfruit that he first heard the distinctive sound of a rustle that could only be attributed to some form of movement caused by one or more pairs of limbs trampling on it . He looked around, waiting for the human form to emerge – it sounded like it came from close by – and almost lost his grip on the branch he was holding onto for support. The rustle stopped with a suddenness so unexpected that he could feel his heartbeat shoot up in yet-to-be -acknowledged dread. Holding on to his breath, he craned his head to look beyond the tree in an attempt to ascribe some source to the strange movement. He could only see the bushes, 14

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cluttered, unorganised, settled into their mundane existence. Their chaotic presence calmed him, almost made him think that he was over analyzing the situation; but just when he was about to look away, he spotted the patterns, strangely camouflaged by all the foliage surrounding them . For a few seconds, he was certain he had lost his mind. The rustle, the patterns, their obvious owner, none of it made any sense to him. It had to be one of his mind tricks. But just then the patterns moved. The animal was way too real to be attributed to be the creation of even the worst form of insanity. His grip on the branch tightened as he struggled to hold in his breath, worried that even that faint sound would make him all the more conspicuous to the animal which by now was clearly moving, as indicated by the rustles that had resumed. Terrified beyond any measurable amount, he then recollected the fleeting rumour he had heard from his friend a few days back. The rumor’s originator, a tailor from Uttar Pradesh – or was it Bihar? he could never quite differentiate one state from another – had sighted a tiger near one of the small ponds in the forest. He had laughed at his friend’s terrified face and his refusal to enter the forest, instantly concluding that the tailor must have been sloshed, and was an out-of-his-head donkey who could barely distinguish between a tiger and a cat in his drunken haze. But now with the impending danger barely at a distance of forty feet from where he was, he could clearly apprehend his

friend’s terror. The rustles got louder and he was certain, getting increasingly closer to where he was. He bit both his lips in a desperate attempt to contain the dread, even as he hopelessly let out that long -held breath. Would the tiger spot him? Had the tiger already spotted him? But since he was perched on the tree; the tiger couldn’t possibly reach him. Had his grandmother not told him that wild animals like tigers and lions are not capable of such maneuvers? That long lost childhood memory made him want to weep with relief, but only till he made up his mind that there was nothing he could do if the tiger did manage to get to him. He closed his eyes, not wanting to witness his own death, leaving himself at the mercy of factors that were completely out of his control. He let himself breathe in a muted form of terror, focusing on the rustles which fluctuated with startling unpredictability before eventually fading out. This time his heart skipped a long line of beats, certain that the animal had finally found him. Any second from now he would hear that blood curdling growl and then… he opened his eyes as if waking up from a bad dream. He was all alone in that vast expanse. The wind blew harmlessly and the sun rays were steadily making their presence felt stronger. Unconvinced, he looked towards the bushes, trying hard to spot the dreaded patterns, but they seemed to elude him altogether. Maybe he was 15

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safe after all. He looked around again, there were still no signs of the animal’s presence. He decided he had two alternatives, he could continue to be perched on the tree for an indefinite amount of time or he could climb down and run away to safety. The latter option had an element of risk that he was not willing to take. He decided he would stay on the tree for a little longer. The animal would get bored and eventually leave him alone. Convinced that this would be the sanest thing he could do at that point of time, he closed his eyes and let his head rest on the gorge between the two branches. His father and some of his neighbours, Shantaram included, found him much later in the afternoon, asleep, with his face pressed against the branch’s bark, his lungi half open and one of his legs dangling down the branch. It took him a few seconds to register their frantic calls and recall the whole scene and when he did that, the words tumbled out, embarrassed, slurred, hurried words that he soon realized would do more damage than any repair. Trying not to think of the haughty smirk on Shantaram’s face, he let go

of the branch that now seemed to have become a part of his palm, and climbed down the tree. ”You scared us all so much”, his wife said to him the minute he stepped inside his house. “Everyone was telling me I should have not allowed you to go that forest in the first place. Come now, have food, you must be hungry”, she added. “I am not hungry and I did not get the jackfruit”, he responded, refusing to look at her face. Don’t worry about the jackfruit. I already made the patolis.” “You made the patolis?” “Yes. You were getting late, so I asked father to go to the market and buy some jackfruit. He got it really quickly because Shantaram offered him a lift on his bicycle. He was heading to the market himself.” He pulled his fingers into a fist. How nice would it be if he could lock Shantaram in a cage with a tiger?

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

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Art Dusk in Summer 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. 17

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Poetry Mother by Ruth Morris It has been a rather tough battle between the human race and Nature as mankind’s obsession with development threatens to destroy Nature’s creations. However, it is the Mother who ultimately turns out to be the superior one. Ruth Morris’ poem describes this fierce battle.

With tears like waterfalls weeps into the oceans bleeding rusty water veins into the tributaries of her life skin like grassy plains once soft and lush flake with bits of splintered metal amorous green breasts of hills torn away by concrete jungles where steel beasts breathe their poison collapsing her lungs only arid air can escape

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bright eyes of colourful rainbows crusted over in a dirty film begin to itch

Ruth Morris is a stay-at-home mom for two wonderful boys. She is a member of a variety of poetry groups and continuously strives to grow as a writer. Ruth's passion for writing was first fueled by the tragic death of her oldest brother Christopher when she was 10 years old. In order to cope with this loss she began writing in a journal. During adolescence this hobby turned into writing poetry. She plans on self publishing her first collection of poems by December 2013.

choking she spews back acid her body shaking spasms crumble the mountains waves of neglect crush the infection it never seems to let up, her extinction the game of Russian roulette that you and mother play but you are out of bullets and the smoking gun is no longer pointed at her...

Picture : Mario SĂĄnchez Nevado 19

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Fiction Trees From Her Backyard by Preeti Madhusudhan The greenery that Arya grew up with plays an important role in her life even as she moves far away from that home. Preeti Madhusudhanâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s story tells us about the relationship in her story. Arya woke to the shrill cries of birds. Her thin frame jerked off the bed when the next sharp aviary inflection was accompanied by what sounded to her like the cacophonous gurgling of a pack of hyenas. The room looked strange, the bed lower; almost near the floor, she realized, as she stumbled and almost slipped when the coarse coir mat caught her feet just in time. "Arya! This is the Panch National park and those are just birds outside, shouting good morning", mumbled a sleepy but clearly amused Sam. "I know and I woke up for a walk." She smiled, thanking God that Sam understood her so well. Reaching across the bed she gently kissed his stubbled cheek and shuffled to the bathroom, relishing the coarseness of the floor-mat as she went. She was in a pair of boxer shorts and a

cotton t-shirt. It made her feel naked to be walking in boxers in India, though this was a luxurious resort and spa and she slept this way every night at New York. The foliage that framed the wooden deck outside the room seemed to filter in pure golden drops of the morning sun. With a smile on her face, Arya could identify and name each tree that lined the deck and the pathway beyond. As she walked rapidly and then slowly picking up speed, began jogging through the serene resort, she couldn't help but wonder at the contrast the place presented with her environs at New York. An editor at a leading publishing firm, her time was spent in the subways and the impersonal marble, granite, glass offices. She had crammed in as many potted shrubs and plants as was humanly possible in the tasteful yet compact town 20

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home they lived in. She had a penchant for staying organized and neat that bordered on neurotic and it never ceased to amaze her that Sam put up with it and even participated in her quirks. Through her work and home chores, she regularly watered and pruned her plants and shrubs and always hired a gardener during her vacation. Where other people had decorative objects and paintings she had plants. They were everywhere, but always unobtrusive. In a way it looked as though she was trying to re-create the greenery of her home-town. Arya's father, a journalist at a leading national newspaper, was the only liberal in a rigorously conservative family. Even as a child the conflicts within her family were tangible to Arya and were her consistent reality. Her name was the only aspect of her life that Arya's father Sambasivam or Samba to his friends, reluctantly conceded to another person, his mother. He was immensely delighted when she, as a child, abridged her name to Arya, unable to roll her tongue through its entire length. In a clear departure from the norm of his family, her father had encouraged the girl's natural inclinations towards sports and books. Through her adolescence, if she wasn't at practice, she was reading. Her mother, grandmother and the large family's extended set of relatives and friends knew better than to instruct her on domestic chores. "Don't we have maids for these things?" He would hiss with ill-concealed fury at the sight of his only child doing or being made to do anything other than the elegant things he deemed suitable for her. "Don't you want your daughter to be eligible?" his mother would plaintively start, to which he would retort, "For what? If that's all a girl child

needs to know, any man will be better off marrying his servant-maid!" She had kept her long hair to satisfy the women at home, but would always wear it in a long pony tail to please her dad. "No oiled plaits for my daughter." She would wear the traditional long skirts and blouses for her grandmother's sake, but only in light cotton prints that her father ordered from the person who clothed most of the social elites of the day. She would chant slokas but learnt French, would sing classical music but played the piano. But for all the seemingly confusing signals she was receiving, what with the constant encouragement her father would offer to try anything novel and new, she never yielded to peer pressure and always seemed to "know" what she wanted and that was never inappropriate. From her first moment each morning till her last waking moment, whenever she looked out or up from her sport or book or a warm moment with her mother or grandmother, she would be accosted and engaged by the lush greenery of her home-town. The old banyan and neem trees in her backyard used to be two of her best friends. Her peculiar upbringing had ensured that she was friend-less and quirky, but she always found solace and joy being near those trees. Somehow their strong roots and their sturdy friendship gave her warmth and firm ground to stand on. She was the first girl in the family to travel alone for a sports tournament. She was the first one to stay in a hostel in the distant Delhi, to pursue a degree in English literature. No one was surprised when she applied to and gained admission with scholarship at an American university. 21

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It would have been shocking only if that didn't happen. So when Arya politely asked to be married before she left the country for higher studies, there was a sharp intake of breath or rather breaths, as the entire extended family and set of friends and acquaintances immediately heard of it and waited with bated breath. They had all been waiting for some news of an embarrassing affair or an elopement, for they could attribute a college degree and free upbringing as being directly proportional to the increased possibility of family disgrace. What no one knew or rather was informed of was that Arya not only wanted to be married to travel to the States but specifically to Saminathan or Sam, their neighbour's son. Though the two families had lived next to one another for generations, they knew nothing about Sam except that he had migrated to the States a few years back to pursue his higher studies and was now an investment banker with a leading bank. It seemed like Arya had always known Sam, even if she hadn't spoken to him once. Perched atop her banyan or neem tree, she had seen him since he was a wee boy in a pair of shorts, pretending to play soldiers, practicing his marbles skills, tops, kites, cricket and everything in be-

tween. He preferred the clump of banana trees near their well as his favourite spot in their backyard. Sam’s banana ‘forest’ was always dense despite their leaves being voraciously cut down for every meal, their stems cooked up to a stew and whole trees being uprooted and planted in the front-yard to announce every wedding in the family. Her folks were pleasantly surprised at her wisdom in requesting an arranged marriage and her parents secretly thrilled at her choice for they knew that Sam's parents had been looking for a suitable match for him. She almost certainly knew he would say yes. She smiled and didn't feel silly thinking that the trees would have talked to each other across the moss laden compound walls. He acquiesced with elegantly-expressed passion and so, it was as Sam's wife that she left India to pursue her higher studies. The tree-lined avenue they lived in, the vibrant flora at the campus, acutely reminded her of the greenery she had left behind. Though she enjoyed connubial bliss and the very successful career she worked hard at, she couldn't look at a tree without a sigh. Sighting difficulties at maintaining the large rambling homes at their advanced ages, both their parents had sold their rambling houses and 22

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moved into apartments in the city. When they failed to conceive a child after five years of marriage and with Arya's sighs becoming audible, Sam suggested they move back to India as they had "made their money". Arya somehow couldn't conceive the notion of a home that was other than the tree-laden ones they had grown up in. It wasn't home to her anymore. Which was when, quite by accident, she happened to stumble upon an article on this lush resort and spa in what was previously tiger country. Thus began their annual pilgrimage to the resort in the national park at the junction of the lush forest region of three states. What was at first a hopeful yet sceptical visit, soon became an annual norm. When they had an event to celebrate, a personal milestone to gloat over, they came there. She waited through the year, savouring every moment of the wait to arrive and bask in its green air. She had brooded over the passings of their parents in the jungle outside their suite. She felt strangely at peace and comforted. And every year when they had to leave, Sam would ask her, "Why not just move back ?" though by now he knew her reply. The place was a novelty, the prize at the end of an arduous task or the monotonous routine of everyone's everyday lives. If it became her everyday existence, then it would become part of her everyday monotony. She wanted to thrill in the first touch of her bare feet in the coir mat atop the cool red-oxide floor. She wanted to

peek lustily at the alternating tiny and vast glimpses of the green leafy canopy through the car window as they drove till their lodge/suite with the smell of fresh earth and leaves in the air. She wanted to tear through the pathways touching every tree bark as she jogged her way through the property every morning of her stay. She wanted it to be as fresh, delightful and unattainable and thus covetable as the first time she saw it. He knew it all, yet it pained him to see the pain in her eyes as she said good bye each year. As she jogged through the tree, shrub-lined mud path, she paused at the by now-familiar gaping holes in the rows. The property seemed to have shrunk in the last few years, and seemed a little sparse. That was the fifth plane that had passed overhead since she left her room. The resort's website had announced the new airport that had sprung up, connecting the place with other busy cities of India. They had still preferred to take a train till the nearby town and hire a car from there as they had always done. Somehow, something was different. She could almost point at the places where there had been trees before, she could even remember what trees they were in most cases. It was as though she had come upon a graveyard. Standing at the middle of the track, she absentmindedly massaged the spot in her chest where her left breast had been till two months back. That was their excuse for this year's visit, the removal of a cancerous tumour.

Preeti Madhusudhan is a freelance architect/ interior designer living in Sydney 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.

Sparkâ&#x20AC;&#x201D;June 2013 | Facets of Nature

Poetry Centripetal by Bakul Banerjee Bakul Banerjeeâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s poem focuses on one of the key natural forces at work inside earth, namely the Centripetal force. The poem is structured in the form of a Pantoum.

As time goes by, a center I seek Around the center I build a solid base Tethered to the base I fly and I shriek I do have a net below just in case Around the center I build a solid base My Ferris wheel gains great speed I do have a net below just in case The sport is dangerous. I do concede My Ferris wheel gains great speed The speed is maniacal. I am in a daze The sport is dangerous. I do concede It is true. I am certainly a crankcase

Sparkâ&#x20AC;&#x201D;June 2013 | Facets of Nature

The speed is maniacal. I am in a daze I pray to the force of gravity and freak It is true. I am certainly a crankcase I have yet to learn the life’s mystique I pray to the force of gravity and freak Tethered to the base I fly and I shriek I have yet to learn the life’s mystique As time goes by, a center I seek

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. 25

Spark—June 2013 | Facets of Nature

Non-fiction Monsoon Musings by Dhanya M “What do you feel when you see the first rain cloud of the season adorning the sky?” asks Dhanya of the land of the official onset of the monsoon, Kerala. Read on to recollect your own monsoon memories as she tells you hers. “Like a rain-cloud of July hung low with its burden of unshed showers…” ~ Gitanjali, Rabindranath Tagore What do you feel when you see the first rain cloud of the season adorning the sky? What do you feel about monsoon? The hopeless romantic in me calls monsoon as nature’s poetry. A friend says she feels romantic. Another remembers seeing rain falling over the sea. Yet another goes into the mood to write poetry. But there is one who says she hates the dampness. Someone chips in with ‘moody’. There can be many, many more moods associated with monsoon. Monsoon thus becomes a shared experience and at the same time a very individual emotion. It is the one phenomenon that connects the whole

of India, north and south, east and west, the bustling metro city and the quiet little village. Rain traverses the subcontinent like the seasoned traveller it is, visiting places and events and peopleevery year. And what about us? We wait through the scorching summer, looking out for forecasts about the rain. And we enjoy the warm smell of the earth when the first drop falls. We get soaked in a sudden downpour, like the coy heroine of a movie. (Unlike the heroine, what awaits us will not be a song and dance routine and the eventual rendezvous with the hero, but a possible rendezvous with the flu virus) Then – when the road gets clogged, the drains overflow, trees fall and block the road, the cloudy sky dampens everything including our 26

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spirits – rain becomes that annoying friend who shows up at the most inconvenient of times. We slog through the rain, pulling our clothes up, trying to ignore all the germs that come from the muddy water, changing plans to accommodate the schedule of rain. And on the odd Sunday afternoons when luckily at home, we enjoy the rain, munching on crispy hot samosa (or pakoda or whatever), staring dreamy-eyed at the falling rain with our favourite music playing on… And finally, after never ending traffic blocks and clammy evenings, misty winter mornings slowly start appearing and we miss the rain again. As someone who is from the state where the ‘monsoon onset’ officially occurs – Kerala – I have always felt awed at the aptness of comparing the monsoon cloud to an elephant. Have you seen the majesty of the approaching first rainfall of the season? The western sky starts to get dark. Slowly, but steadily, the colour changes from a bluish grey to deep grey, to a near-black. There is a deep rumble of a far-away thunder. The wind blows, from the west, slowly pushing the mammoth cloud. The cloud gets deeper, thicker, more menacing every minute. People scramble looking for cover, women rush about pulling clothes from clotheslines, shopkeepers try to push their display wares as far away from rain’s path as possible, children play even more frantically and the air fills with a kind of electrifying anticipation. And suddenly, so suddenly you forget to blink, the first raindrop falls. The first few drops fall hesitantly like a first kiss. Those who are out on the street cover their heads with whatever they have in hand – umbrella, bag, file, plastic cover – anything. The drops start falling faster, faster. Then suddenly

the tempo increases as if the inhibition has ended. There is no point in slowing down now. It pours. It just pours. No finesse. No slowing down. No patience anymore. The rain just falls. If you are near a field or an open space, you get to see the curtain of rain moving with the wind. In seconds the first puddle gets formed. The thirsty, parched earth is gone. The drains swell and while you are looking, the road starts filling up with muddy water. The first flow washes everything it finds. Wind accompanies rain in the heavenly symphony. The tempo increases still and the rain lashes out holding hands with the mad wind. Then, slowly, the rain stops. The last notes of drizzle are heard. A clear, golden yellow sunlight fills every place. The air feels washed, clean. The leaves are burdened with diamond-like drops. The water is still flowing on the road, and a faint rainbow appears on the sky, like a new bride’s blush. Vehicles are splashing water everywhere. People are discarding the safety of buildings and coming out. Umbrellas get folded. Dust is gone. Dirt is washed away. The monsoon has majestically arrived. For me (and many others like me), memories of monsoon in Kerala are intricately laced with memories of school. We could ‘predict’ the onset accurately. Because, rain always showed up at our doors the day school reopened after summer holidays. If school reopened on the first of June, the monsoon started on the first of June. If the reopening got delayed by a few days, the monsoon also waited and punctually arrived as we got ready for the first day of a new grade. The adult in me says this must be a case of selective memory, but I don’t remember starting a school year without the accompanying opera of monsoon. One would get fully wet by the time 27

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one reached class. The smell of new uniform, new books and bags mingled with dampness… I am sure you also have your own monsoon memories – in one way that connects me and you. So, let me come back to my original question. What do you feel when you hear the word ‘monsoon’? Right now, while I write this, the sun is mercilessly glaring outside, with no sign

of rain. The air looks dusty and dry. My new umbrella and I are waiting… hopefully, by the time you read this, we would have gone out in the first showers of the monsoon season this year.

Dhanya is currently pursuing her 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 she writes down some of it that chooses to flow through her.

Spark—June 2013 | Facets of Nature

Fiction A Pot Full of Love by Gauri Trivedi It has been proved that plants have life, but do we think of them and treat them as living things? Gauri Trivedi’s short story is about someone who gets attached to the little plant she brings home and will stop at nothing to help it grow. In the end, her wish does come true but whether it was her conviction that worked or the forces of science is anybody’s guess! Picture by Gauri Trivedi. “Mom, it’s a miracle! Just a month back, this plant looked like it wouldn’t see the light of another day and look at it now! It has grown so beautifully.” It made her happy to hear this from the kids. “And I must admit, it does add to the beauty of our home. It is just the perfect addition which was missing all these years!” coming from their father and a certified plant-hater, it was an even bigger compliment. “But how did it happen?” they were curious. “Did you get some special manure or soil or some kind of a ‘grow your plant in 30 days kit’?!

It must have been the change in place; this spot must have the right amount of sunlight and air for it to grow.” “That might be true to an extent, but so did all the places I put the pot earlier at. The wonder that worked came from inside of the house!” Anu smiled as she went on to explain. “Anu, what is this in our bedroom?” His tone sounded more like a command and less like a question. It could have very well been “Why is this in our bedroom?” “Oh, this! It’s just a plant I picked up at the store today” she feigned ignorance. 29

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“I can see that, but what is it doing here, near our bedroom window?” “That spot is just perfect with lots of fresh air and sunshine, don’t you think?” she gave a determined response. You know I hate plants inside the house, they are meant to be outside, in the garden. We never wanted any of them inside all these years, what is it with you now, suddenly?” “Well, YOU never wanted them inside, but I always thought they added to the homely feeling and gave a unique touch of warmth to any room. Besides, this is just a single pot, it’s not like I am growing a garden in the room.” “Whatever it is, it can’t stay here.” “It’s my house too.” The war had suddenly assumed territorial proportions! “Fine, put it somewhere else, not in the bedroom.” He turned his head away in such disgust as if he had spotted a snake. “Don’t make such a face, plants can sense hostility.” She shot back, half hoping he would rescind. ******************************************** “Anu, Anu… Anu… the bathroom is a part of a bedroom, in case you didn’t know.” Out came the flower pot before the door slammed shut. In the days that followed, the pot with its tiny green resident toured the whole house, searching in vain for a welcome corner, not growing even by an inch. After being ousted from the bedroom, it was given refuge in the kids’ room. Anu made a small speech about how plants gave life and were nature’s biggest gift to mankind before placing the little sapling near the desk. The kids weren’t too excited about the preposition, but at

least they let it be there. However, it wasn’t the pet they desperately wanted, neither was it their favourite toy, to be treasured and handled with care. After it was toppled over a couple of times and its meagre leaves plucked out and strewn around, Anu decided the pot was probably better off somewhere else.

The only other room in the house was the bonus room, which was kind of an extra and occupant-less, most of the time. In the meantime, the green sprout stubbornly refused to grow up. It was as if it had taken the rejection to heart and had no desire to live in this house. 30

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Anu browsed through gardening books like a doctor consults encyclopaedias in matters concerning a very sick patient. She changed the soil twice, measured the water to precision before sprinkling and went as far as changing its position twice or thrice a day so that the pot fell in the path of sunlight as it moved. Nothing worked. When the first move happened within a few days of its arrival in the house, the plant showed promise. The tiny leaves held potential to blossom and spread their pleasing presence covering a larger radius. The transfer to the kids’ room was rough. An infant itself, it was totally unprepared for the bumpy treatment meted out. But it was the shift to the empty room that kind of nearly killed the plant. “What is it that I am not doing right?” she asked herself again and again as the only plant she fought to get inside their home in years, showed no signs of life and continued to wither. “Of course!” she beamed as if she had stumbled upon the magic potion for the plant. It needed to be cared for, tenderly and lovingly. Food and

drink are physiological nutrients that are needed to survive but it is the feeling of being loved and wanted that all living beings require in order to thrive. The little plant had battled rejection and rough weather from room to room but when it came to flourishing in difficult surroundings, it could not handle abandonment and indifference. “I was the one who brought it home, to nourish and watch it grow, so why leave it to the approval of those who didn’t care much for that kind of pleasures? “The place where it will be met with a loving gaze every once in a while, the heart of our house where happy voices collide with each other in a hurry to report the occurrences of the day, a corner that stands witness to the most memorable events of our lives, has to be the most appropriate abode for the vessel carrying this plant.” Confidently, she carried the pot downstairs and placed it in the centre of her kitchen, right across the dining table, behind the sink, near the window.

Gauri Trivedi is a former business law professional who makes the law at home these days. A Mom to two lovely daughters, her days are filled with constant learning and non - stop fun. All of her “mommy time” goes into writing and finds itself on her blog pages http://messyhomelovelykids.blogspot.com/ and http:// pastaandparatha.blogspot.com/ and if she is not writing she is definitely reading something!

Spark—June 2013 | Facets of Nature

Poetry Colombo by Shirani Rajapakse Hot days are a common phenomenon in Colombo, lasting almost the entire year. Shirani Rajapakse pens a poem that brings to life, the reactions of the environment to the blistering heat. The old bougainvillea is tired, it’s been up all night trying to grab some dew falling from the sky. Too tired to lift its branches up to sway to the beat of the wind blowing hot, jeering at the bougainvillea’s inability to move. Last night’s dew disappeared the moment it touched the air. Leaves groan in dismay but stand back and wait wishing the sky would open up the umbrella of white clouds early today. 32

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Sunshine’s all around. My skin melts like ice cream slithering down my neck and arms chocolate brown tasting salty. The garden seat under the shady mango tree is no respite. The sun’s long fingernails pierce through leaves to tap on my head and shoulders. The grass gave up last week, changing colour from green to ugly brown, crisp to the touch like pencil shavings, while the earth cracks open

Shirani Rajapakse is a Sri Lankan poet and author. She won the Cha “Betrayal” Poetry Contest 2013. Her collection of short stories, Breaking News (Vijitha Yapa 2011) was shortlisted for the Gratiaen Award. Shirani’s work appears in Earthen Lamp Journal, Spark the Magazine, Berfrois, Dove Tales, Buddhist Poetry Review, About Place Journal, Skylight 47, The Smoking Poet, New Verse News, The Occupy Poetry Project and anthologies Poems for Freedom, Voices Israel Poetry Anthology 2012, Song of Sahel, Occupy Wall Street Poetry Anthology, World Healing World Peace and Every Child Is Entitled to Innocence. She blogs rather infrequently at http:// shiranirajapakse.wordpress.com.

to let in some air. It’s boiling inside like a kettle ready to be poured out for tea, a volcano churning to spew out. Rivers run dry, pushing sand up to the top. Fish huddle behind rocks too hot for comfort while I move indoors to sweat it out under a swirling fan and wonder when the madness will end. Dust flies like butterflies around town but no one’s amused. There’s no time for joy. The day has just begun.

Spark—June 2013 | Facets of Nature

Fiction Himsa and A-himsa by Vani Viswanathan Deepu was shamelessly mortified of insects, but today, she takes pleasure in killing them – and maybe doesn’t even have to kill them every time. Vani Viswanathan tells you how that transition happened. “Ammaaaaaaaaaa!!!” I remember screaming as I ran through the length of the house, from the backyard, to reach my mother standing at the door speaking to the neighbour. Tears were streaming down my face as I held my left arm, folded at the elbow, close to my body. “Deepu! What happened?!” my mother asked, and then looked at the folded arm. I wailed even louder as she came to examine the arm. I had touched an innocent wicker basket in the backyard – a basket she put things in and took things out every day – but when I tried pulling something out, out had flown a bee that gleefully stung me. It hurt like hell. There was a red, inflamed patch right above the elbow. My uncle – Amma’s younger brother, who had been visiting – scooped me up and tried to calm me

down. He rubbed sacred ash on the inflamed patch, and while I don’t know if it helped the wound, I stopped crying (it might have also been the packet of colourful Gems he seemed to have magically found for me at that moment). Insects and I have always had a strange relationship. Perhaps a year or so after this incident, I was bitten by a centipede and developed a rash that saw me scratching uncontrollably in school for days altogether I viciously fought my way in a debate with a swollen lip, caused by a particularly vicious ant. A startled, large worm once crawled out of my white school kameez, making me jump in fear in school every time I felt any movement around my back. Mosquitoes find me and bite with a viciousness that my friends 34

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are usually spared from. Little red ants always find their way into my most well-sealed food items, and large, dirty moths seem to prefer my room over any other. For a very long time, I was scared of insects. It made me feel like a stereotyped girl who squealed at anything remotely scary. I hated it, but the very sight of a cockroach made the otherwise bold me stop at my tracks. These days, I wonder if it was disgust rather than fear; I wonder if the reason I fled the room if I saw a small worm crawling on the wall was my disinclination to voluntarily, knowingly harm another living animal. Well, whatever it was, it all changed. These days, I mercilessly squash anything that annoys me, or let it live if my nonviolent side shows up – crawl up my arm if you want, and maybe, pretty worm, I’ll admire the beautiful ridges on your back. How did it happen, you ask? I wish I could spin a wondrous tale of bravery which saw me getting myself – and other affected people, for more drama – out of a sticky situation. Alas, I’ve not had such remarkable instances of life-altering incidents – all I can offer is a series of everyday episodes which simply put me in situations where I emerged stronger. Perhaps the first was when my 80-year-old grandmother tottered into my room as I was screaming after finding the worm in my kameez. “Deepu?!” she said, her voice quivering with

concern. I was huddled in a corner of the room, behind the door, in my white vest and brown pants, halfway through getting dressed for school. As I told her of the calamity that had befallen my only dry and clean kameez, she tried not to sigh, walked up to where the kameez was hung, picked up a stray piece of paper and wheedled the worm to crawl onto it, and flung it out through the window. I stood there, ashamed, a 13-year-old scared of a worm, while the 80-year-old handled it with nonchalance. Could I ever try to be like her, I thought, in my partially-dressed state. That very second, a chill ran through my spine and I shivered; just the thought of a worm was enough to unsettle me. Providence saw me thrown into a hostel flanked by a jungle on one side – the side my windows faced. No matter how tightly I shut the windows and switched off mosquito repellents, I would wake up with mosquito bites all over my body – all this while my roommate woke up fresh-faced and unperturbed by those demonic miniscule beasts. It was during these times that I was once sought to help chase a vile, black lizard out of my friend’s room. She herself laughed at the irony of it; I had dropped my pen in fear when she mentioned the lizard, but there was no one else in the wing, and the damned thing wasn’t moving off her mouse-pad and she needed to sub35

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mit an assignment. Armed with a broom and a dustpan I went there, and tapped endlessly at the table with the broom. It didn’t budge. Standing as far away as I could, I stretched my arm to its fullest, and tapped on the lizard itself with the tip of the broom. The lizard burst into life. It scrambled on to the broom, at which point I gave a blood-curling scream and dropped the broom. My friend and I leapt on to the bed and watched the creature run out of the room. We were halfway through our victorious hi-five when I noticed the lizard turn right – towards my room. I dashed out with as much speed as I could muster, and ran into my room, and shut the door, only to see it casually come in through the gap between the door and the floor. I clambered on to my bed and cursed my friend heartily. Thankfully, the maid came in at the moment and prodded at the lizard and it left for the grassy patch a good few metres away from my room. I broke into tears of relief, and realised at dinner that evening that I had chased the lizard out of my friend’s room – a fact she thankfully, benevolently acknowledged to the others present at the table when they laughed at my mentioning the incident. Perhaps what made me less non-violent towards the creepy-crawlies was watching my 18-yearold roommate squash a bug that was stubbornly refusing to stop buzzing around my tube light.

She deftly took a magazine and closed its pages around the flying bug, and gave the magazine a squeeze. A few seconds later she opened the magazine with a wide grin on her face – there was a splotch of unnameable colours and a flattened-out body with legs and broken wings sticking out. I controlled my urge to retch – it would have been rude. All the same, I was awed with the ease with which she had solved the problem. I realised I didn’t feel a rush of sympathy for the dead creature; I was glad the pest was gone. Since these days at the hostel, I have made a magazine my best friend when it comes to tackling these creatures. Of course, mosquitoes still bite me with an especial vengeance, but they are tackled with a more straightforward brutality, and I grin if I kill one; I look at the thin, red blood and feel nothing. I watch worms that invade my bathroom during the rains shrivel up and die as I throw salt on them. I pick up snails on strips of paper and flush them down the toilet. when I felt a pinch on my right arm the other day and looked down to see a breathtakinglybeautiful bug – brown, with red rings on its back – crawling up and down the arm, I smiled at it, for it was proof of the various little pockets nature decided to store its beauty in; as its sting got a tad more vicious, I blew on it, and it fell gracefully on a green leaf. 36

Spark—June 2013 | Facets of Nature

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

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

Order it now at http://pothi.com/pothi/book/anupamakrishnakumar-sparkling-thoughts 37

Spark—June 2013 | Facets of Nature

Poetry The City and Nature by Parth Pandya The city hates Nature, says Parth Pandya, in his poem that highlights the constant struggle going on between the two. The city hates nature It clunks its hatred from its viscera, Of gurgling pipes fuming at their mouths. It blows steam and smoke and anger At the overarching blue sky The city hates nature Like a man who encroaches on someone’s land And deludes himself into thinking it’s his Mangling the land to make sure There are no traces of yesterday The city hates nature And yet, can’t keep it out completely Life seeps through its tight crevices On the sides of brick embankments In the birds circling the harbour

Spark—June 2013 | Facets of Nature

The city hates nature Yet its denizens can’t help but flee Like refugees past its borders Into the lap of the gurgling water Where the light filters through trees The city hates nature Crusades are fought to bring one to life Greed and lust its two greatest generals Bending nature to adapt to its will Fighting till only one survivor remains

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.

Spark—June 2013 | Facets of Nature

Photography Nature, Up Close by Maheswaran Sathiamoorthy

Sparkâ&#x20AC;&#x201D;June 2013 | Facets of Nature

Maheswaran Sathiamoorthy graduated with a B.Tech degree from IIT Kharagpur and is currently a graduate student at the University of Southern California. His interests include counting bokehs and taking out of focus shots. He also likes being unpredictable, random and enjoys coffee and 0000FF sky.

Sparkâ&#x20AC;&#x201D;June 2013 | Facets of Nature

Poetry A Walk in the Woods & At Nightfall

by Wilda Morris

In two poems that evoke images of varied elements of nature, Wilda Morris talks about a walk in the woods and a scene during nightfall. A Walk in the Woods I walked the path to the footbridge, seeking the soothing sound of bubbling water, the crinkling laughter of a rock-strewn brook. All I heard was a pair of robins grubbing in moist mulch, and three ground squirrels chasing like children across dry leaves in the old creek bed. That was enough. 43

Sparkâ&#x20AC;&#x201D;June 2013 | Facets of Nature

At Nightfall Somewhere beyond the tree line the sun sinks behind gray clouds. I sit in a silent clearing. Nothing moves, except swaying leaves and bats, their choreographed ballet silhouetted against pastel sky. If I could fly with them, circle and turn, dart and spin, would I learn to love the dance of dusk?

Wilda Morris, Workshop Chair for Poets & Patrons of Chicago, and a past president of the Illinois State Poetry Society, is widely published in print and on the Internet. Her book, Szechwan Shrimp and Fortune Cookies: Poems from a Chinese Restaurant, was published by RWG Press. Wilda Morris's Poetry Challenge at http://wildamorris.blogspot.com/ provides a poetry contest for other poets each month. In addition to poetry, she writes an occasional nature blog for the Bolingbrook Patch, an online newspaper.

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The Lounge

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Sparkâ&#x20AC;&#x201D;June 2013 | Facets of Nature

Turn of the Page

Review of PD James’ Death Comes to Pemberley by Priya Anand

A sequel to the classic Pride and Prejudice, ‘Death Comes to Pemberley’ is a vapid read, capturing the magic of its successor only in parts, says Priya Anand in her review of the book.

Death comes to Pemberley, by PD James, a sequel to Jane Austen’s much-acclaimed Pride and Prejudice, is a difficult book to slot. A muchawaited read, at least for me, it turned out to be less of a mystery and more of an insipid rehash of Austen’s novel set in Victorian England. However, to an avid Austen fan, who has read and reread Pride and Prejudice and other sister novels such as Sense and Sensibility, Emma, Persuasion etc., it can be a nostalgic revisit. How are the Darcys and what is happening in their lives? Set six years after Pride and Prejudice, the novel begins with the happily-married Darcy and Elizabeth who are now the parents of two young children. Their tranquil and content life is, however, affected by a murder in the vast woodlands of Pemberley. The suspect is none other than the infamous Mr. Wickham, the charming se-

ducer of young women, the deceitful cheat who is almost, always in debt. We expect a complex plot with the twists and turns typical of Austen’s earlier books, and a protagonist worthy of Adam Dalgleish, the dark and brooding detective from James’s earlier novels, but it does not happen. Perhaps James is a little lost without the characters, tools and scenarios that her previous novels are famous for – a clever unassuming detective, a committed police force, state of the art forensic labs, the protagonist’s angst so well-demonstrated through his poetry, and the contemporary English setting with rough urban edges that at times alternates with a traditional old fashioned ambience. With ‘Death…’ she is confined to an alreadyestablished setting that is Victorian and restrictive. In attempting to remain true to Austen’s style of narration, the narration is weighed down

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by a weak storyline and a whodunit that falls when Jane fell sick, and in Rosings with Colonel flat. Fitzwilliam?) are nowhere to be seen. Darcy is at his introspective best. His turmoil and unhappiness in the wake of the murder and of Wickham’s unwanted intrusion into their lives, his passionate love for Elizabeth and their children – which is at odds with the norms that rule Victorian society – and above all his concern that this incident would besmirch the reputation of Pemberley and all that it stands for, are well rendered. Surprisingly Elizabeth is portrayed as onedimensional and insipid. As mistress of Pemberley, she must concern herself with managing a vast household with a retinue of servants. She rises to the occasion with the help of Mrs. Reynolds and manages to hold her own in a society – "Despite 'her unfortunate antecedents', Elizabeth, with the help of Mrs Reynolds, manages to hold her own in a society which is waiting to see her stumble and become unworthy of the position she holds as Mrs Darcy." She is also of course the mother of “two fine sons”, which goes a long way in winning acceptance from her peers. Elizabeth, weighed down by responsibilities, rarely speaks her mind, and as a woman does not of course participate in important scenes or conversations that focus on the incident (the ghastly murder), the analysis of evidence or the inquest and trial that are described in fine detail. Her role is confined to comforting the affected and aggrieved, supervising arrangements for the ball and later cancelling them, and visiting families of staff living on the estate. Her liveliness, outspokenness, quick wit and even physical agility (remember the long walks she took in Meryton, her quick hike to Netherfield

Surprisingly Wickham is the most interesting character in the novel. Almost as many pages are devoted to him as to Mr. Darcy. As in Pride and Prejudice, one’s feelings towards him remain ambiguous until the very end. He is a victim of circumstances, much of his own doing, a man of contrasts – a gambler, an alcoholic, a seducer of women, yet a hero who had distinguished himself in the 1798 war against the Irish Rebellion. As Darcy himself puts it: “I cannot believe that the Wickham I once knew, despite his faults, would be capable of a brutal murder.” All other characters are cardboard cutouts, making their brief entry and exits – Georgiana, Lydia, Jane, Bingley, Mr. Bennett, Lady Catherine De Burgh are swiftly dealt with, they have nothing much to say and do not contribute to the storyline in a substantial manner. Colonel Fitzwilliam makes a promising start and there is an inkling of a parallel storyline, but it is soon aban-

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doned and what starts with a promise of a bang ends with a fizzle. Passing references are made to Mrs. Bennett, Charlotte and Mr. Collins. New characters are introduced, but with the exception of Mr. Alveston (a lawyer and close friend of the Bingleys and a potential love interest for Georgiana), they add no weight to the story. There is none of that sparkling wit or the extraordinary etching of memorable characters like Mrs. Benett and Mr. Collins. The language is precise and exquisite, and the detailing is flawless, mimicking the inimitable style and prose of Austen. Pemberley as always is perfect with everything working like clockwork, but here it takes on dark sinister overtones. James excels at describing the working of Victorian English law – its process and procedure are explained in detail and it is accurately followed in determining the facts of the case and

the fate of the accused. Ultimately it is the tame climax and the lack of intrigue that lets the novel down; murder, even in Victorian times, should and could set the heart pounding, as seen in Arthur Conan Doyle’s Sherlock Holmes novels. Fans of Austen and Pride and Prejudice of course will be able to revisit their favourite characters and discover what happened next. But disappointment awaits, for there are few romantic scenes between Darcy and Elizabeth and none of that fiery dialogue we so want to read – in fact almost none – where the two principal characters interact. They want to and you want them to, but alas, there is a household to run, balls to prepare for and a murder to solve.

Priya Anand has an MBA in Marketing from Wright State University, Ohio. She is a freelance Consultant who works with non -profits on programme development, research and communication. She is based in Bangalore, India and writes in her free time. She loves to read and travel and a few of her travel articles have been published in www.experienceheritage.co.in, an online platform on travel and heritage sites in India. She recently attended a creative writing course with the Bangalore Writers Workshop. She has written several short stories and dreams of embarking on a novel soon.

Spark—June 2013 | Facets of Nature

Storyboard | Film Freak Falling Down: The Character Might be American, But the Frustration is Global by Yayaati Joshi

Falling Down is the tale of the unpredictable antics of a man with misplaced ideologies and a subtle commentary on the society’s descent into chaos, says Yayaati Joshi.

From the first fifteen minutes of the film, it is easy to mistake Falling Down (1993) as a precursor to movies that “celebrated” the angst and xenophobia of the American: say, American History X or 25th Hour (just an uncanny coincidence that both the movies feature Edward Norton). But the distinction about Falling Down is the unabashed portrayal of the frustrated character as a self-made vigilante. It is a story of exaggerated frustrations and blown-out-ofproportion emotional externalities. But it is also a fine tale of how a man fed up of all things in life begins to vent his spleen against whomever he finds unacceptable. Falling Down is the story of William Foster (Michael Douglas) and his short stint with the expression of his uncontrollable rage against the society. And as much the cool-headed, peace-

promoting types would want to revoke Foster’s license to kill, an unbiased viewer would find it hard to ignore the mounting pressures of the minor irritants that life throws at him. That he chooses to still maintain a morally correct stand throughout (the “I won’t start a fight unless I am instigated” policy), does help him find currency with us, as we see him take down one by one, the “scum” of the society. But when you see Foster terrifying a restaurant employee and the other diners because they won’t serve him breakfast at half past eleven, you know that he is no vigilante. As the day progresses and Foster’s list of atrocities gets longer, the cops are frantically looking for him. One of them, Robert Duvall, on the last day of his duty, is looking to tighten the noose, except that Foster’s movements are so

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predictable that catching him by using the police manual is impossible. But the running theme of the film is not one of a cat-and -mouse game—it is of a society that is as troubled with both the decadence of the many and liberalist progress of the few. As Foster loiters around the city, he comes across a black man holding a poster that says “Not Economically Viable”, later he meets a shop owner who would not attend respectfully to a gay couple. Foster watches all this with a philosopher’s resignation. We might be confused about Foster’s true motivations, but he himself is not. He refuses to identify himself with a neo-Nazi supremacist, and galled by his antics, ends up killing him. So then, our sympathies keep waxing and waning as the events unfold.

not know how to operate the equipment. Who teaches him, then? An unassuming black kid—straight out of the ghetto, who asks him what’s the name of the movie Foster is working for, and upping the humour ante, Foster replies: “Under Construction”. By now, we know the predictable arc that the plot is likely to take. There’s only so much damage that you can do without getting caught. If you can set aside the minor quibble of not giving Michael Douglas a powerful, Al Pacino -like monologue, then there are plenty of good reasons to watch the movie. Other than the unpredictable antics of a man with misplaced ideologies, this movie is a subtle commentary on the society’s descent into chaos. Seen differently, this is the best pre-emptive apology, and the most Scorsese-ish one that Joel Schumacher could have given for making Batman kitschy and campy.

The finest moment of the film comes in a situation that’s as saddening as it is comedic. Having acquired a rocket-propelled grenade, Foster threatens a construction worker. But he does

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.

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