Spark Word. World. Wisdom November 2014
Childhood
Fiction | Non-fiction | Poetry | Interview | Photography | Social Lens The Lounge
05 November 2014 Dear Reader, It's November and we can't believe how fast time has flown this year! We hope you had a lovely festive season. We are pleased to present to you the November 2014 issue of Spark on the theme 'Childhood'. The word childhood evokes fond memories and the joys that a child can bring while also making one ponder about parenting, particularly in today's world. This issue presents many of these perspectives to you, dear reader, including an interview with children's author Anu Kumar and a Social Lens feature on providing therapy to Child Sexual Abuse survivors. Do read the issue and take a few minutes to let us know what you thought of our work this month. Happy reading!
Contributors
– Editorial Team
Soorej P
Anupama Krishnakumar Chandrashekhar Sastry Debleena Majumdar Latha Sakhya Maheswaran Sathiamoorthy M. Mohankumar Parth Pandya
Shloka Shankar
Vani Viswanathan 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.
Vinita Agrawal
Spark November 2014 © Spark 2014
Anu Kumar
Individual contributions © Author CC licensed pictures attribution available at www.sparkthemagazine.com Published by Viswanathan
Anupama
Krishnakumar/Vani
editors@sparkthemagazine.com Powered by Pothi.com
Guest Contributor Shreya Sen Writer of the Month
Coverpage Picture Ann Jutatlp Concept, Editing and Design Anupama Krishnakumar Vani Viswanathan
Inside this Issue POETRY Fashionista by Shloka Shankar The Wristwatch by M. Mohankumar
Summertime Dreams by Debleena Roy Down Memory Lane by Latha Sakhya Assurance by M. Mohankumar FICTION Ruler by Vani Viswanathan Fatherly Words by Soorej P Circle of Love by Anupama Krishnakumar NON-FICTION In Defence of Parents by Parth Pandya With Mountains For Guardians by Vinita Agrawal SOCIAL LENS Silences and Safe Spaces : Therapeutic Help for Child Sexual Abuse Survivors by Shreya Sen and the Therapeutic Intervention Team at Arpan THE LOUNGE SLICE OF LIFE | The Gali Gali Man by Chandrashekhar Sastry PHOTOGRAPHY Curiosity by Maheswaran Sathiamoorthy
Poetry Fashionista by Shloka Shankar A mother’s fashion accessories become a little girl’s source of fascination and temptation. Fashionista is the fashion (mis)adventure of that child. Shloka Shankar captures it in a poem. The perfume bottles were arranged from tallest to shortest, and thinnest to fattest,
with a note of rose here, and a hint of jasmine there.
Bindis in every hue bedecked the mirror – bright reds, browns,
rupee-sized ones, vertical and squiggly lines that snaked through mother’s forehead
blunt lipsticks and kohl pencils filled the little jute basket that sat beside hairpins and rubber bands.
I remember playing dress-up on days when I was home alone; sneaking into her bedroom
and smudging on some lipstick, placing a crooked third-eye, draping a dupatta loosely and strutting about with a pout:
a fashion disaster waiting to happen.
Shloka Shankar is a freelance writer residing in India. She is a contributing author in two dozen anthologies including, Chronicles of Urban Nomads, The Dance of the Peacock, Emanations IV, The Living Haiku Anthology, Family Matters, The Traversal of Lines, and Eastern Voices among others. Her free verse poems, haiku, tanka, haiga and haibun, have appeared in numerous renowned print and online journals.
Fiction Ruler by Vani Viswanathan A ruler catches a little girl's eye. Now how can she get her hands on one? Vani Viswanathan tells a story of longing, tantrums and a child's relationship with her parents. “Wow!” I gasped. “Where did you get it?” I eyesight). asked, breathless. The latest fixation was this ruler. My cousin gave me a wide grin. “Fountainhead,” I made the request to my father, the easier of my she replied. parents to coax into buying me something, I held the white plastic ruler in my hands, fasci- mostly because he and I had similar tastes when nated. It was a translucent white, with red mark- it came to buying things. Open a draw at home ings for the measurement. The star attraction on today and you would still find a set of 12 pencils, the ruler, however, was its two slots to hold pen- some ink cartridges and an eraser or something. cils, one clever twist of plastic that could hold an I gingerly brought it up on the way home from eraser or a sharpener. my cousin’s place, as I sat hugging my father, I needed one immediately. riding pillion with him on the scooter.
I was a fairly non-demanding child, even for those times. Call it upbringing, the times we lived in, the family circumstances, the school I studied in – but there was little that I was so adamant about having. Stationery, however, was a big weakness. To this day, I think the biggest fights I have had with my mother around asking them to buy something, all revolved around stationery. A new pencil case, a new schoolbag, a highlighter (even as mother read out research that simply highlighting lines of text made no impact on learning or retention, it only ruined
“Appa,” I started when we stopped at a traffic light, “Vidhu has this scale,” referring to the ruler as I did, back then. “Hmm…” “It can hold two pencils, an eraser, a sharpener and all… and it is also a scale!” “Is that so?” he asked.
I was disappointed. The object of my fancy hadn’t triggered any reaction from him. A book would have done something else. He would have asked me about it, the author, if I knew
the plot, and somehow, a few days later, it would land up on my study table to be seen when I woke up, with a little scribble “To Acchu, from Appa and Amma,” with a date. I’d previously asked for a Hero fountain pen and he’d gladly talked about it too, and bought me one a few days later.
be, I thought, if I could carry my pencils, eraser and ruler all in one package! I wouldn’t even need a pencil case! That ugly wide Mickey Mouse case, occupying so much space in my schoolbag, would be gone! I could simply keep the scale and be done with it! In the space saved, I could carry my WWF trump cards!
So I left the subject there for the day, and Of course, there was no way you could make brought it up the next weekend, when we were such an argument to your parent. The most you out in the main road, shopping. There was a sta- could do was to pester them, and that’s what I tionery shop. I did. For the next two tugged at my father’s weeks, I brought it up shirt cuffs. “Appa, constantly, pleading you remember that with them to take me to scale? Can we go Fountainhead to buy it, here to check if they because heck, that’s the have it?” only magical place that stocked this wondrous “What scale?” Mothinnovation. er came around to asking. Darn it, she’d heard. The voice of reason “But you take me there to buy books! Why do in the family, the one who can so neatly distin- you hate me, can’t you buy me a scale?!” one day guish between need and want, and control the I hurled this accusation at my father, through latter. The one I take after today. tears streaming down my cheeks. This was the last straw for my father. My uncle and aunt were “Yeah…” I dragged. “I saw one at Vidhu’s visiting, and they were seeing the otherwise house, and I want one too…” model child throwing a tantrum, all for a ruler. “What happened to the stainless steel ruler we He put on his shirt, took the scooter keys and got you? We hunted quite a bit for that, if you started the scooter. “Well? Are you coming or remember!” not?” he called out. I wiped my tears with the Did I also mention she had an elephant’s back of my hand, pulled my frock hem up to my nose to wipe some snot, wore my chappals and memory? ran out. We rode a good 35 minutes to reach We walked into the stationery shop nevertheless, Royapettah, to Fountainhead. I gravitated toas I also needed a political map of India. And wards the stationery section. And there it was, no, they didn’t have the scale. the soon-to-be-mine scale! And there were I kept quiet the next few days, although I white, yellow and light blue ones! I picked the thought of the scale often. How cool it would yellow. Father paid thirty five rupees, and we
were off home.
viously, carry this now-ugly scale to school anymore. I did use it when I did my homework, As I entered home, my aunt, my favourite aunt, though. flashed at me a coy smile. I didn’t smile back. And behind her, I saw my mother, lips drawn And in case you were wondering, I still have the into a straight line, throwing me a piercing “Are ruler with me today. A good 20 years later. The you happy now?” look. I shrank into a corner, gooey mess from the eraser is still there, the cacrumpling the crackling plastic that covered the nary yellow is now a dull butter yellow, and the ruler. To make me feel less guilty, my aunt pulled broken pencil holder’s sharp edge has softened me on to her lap, saying “Let’s see your new over the years that the scale has seen during its scale!” and a few minutes later, I was a little less umpteen moves from Chennai to my overseas sad. college to my hostels in India to my home today. Whether it’s because of guilt, or a reflection of The scale did draw some interest in class the my mother’s attitude – that one values things next day. A few days later, as I ran around the gotten after much struggle – I don’t know, but I classroom during lunch break chasing some felstill use it when I need a foot-long ruler. low, I accidentally slammed it hard down a desk and one of the two pencil holders came off. In the summer break of that year, I left it inside my schoolbag with the eraser in it, and when I took it out after a good two months, the eraser had melted and stuck on to the ruler. I couldn’t, ob-
Vani Viswanathan is often lost in her world of books and A R Rahman, churning out lines in her head or humming a song. Her world is one of frivolity, optimism, quietude and general chilled-ness, where there is always place for outbursts of laughter, bouts of silence, chocolate, ice cream and lots of books and endless iTunes playlists from all over the world. She is now a CSR communications consultant, and has been blogging at http://chennaigalwrites.blogspot.com since 2005.
Interview A Shared Journey of Discovery and New Knowledge An Interview with Anu Kumar, Author, by Anupama Krishnakumar Anu Kumar, Author, talks to Anupama Krishnakumar on what it means to be a children’s author, including what fascinates her about writing for children, what’s the sort of research that goes into her books, who her favourite children’s authors are and what’s her favourite from her own body of work. Plus there is a beautiful reading list that she recommends for children too.
Anu Kumar’s most recent novel, her third, is ‘It takes a murder’ (Hachette India). Her other two novels are 'Letters for Paul' (Mapinlit, 2006) and 'The Dollmakers’ Island' (Gyaana Books, 2010). She has written for older readers and also for children, and her stories have appeared in several magazines and newspapers. Her books for children include the 'Atisa Series', 'The Chola Adventure', 'Chanakya : The Kingmaker and the Philosopher', the 'Mythquest Series' and 'In the Country of Gold Digging Ants'. Anu has won awards in the Commonwealth Short Story competition twice, for short fiction. To know more about Anu and her work, visit http://anukumar.org.
To begin with, tell us what is it that fasci- styles did you enjoy? Is there anything about nates you about writing for children? their craft/technique in particular that you make sure is part of your writing style? That's a hard question to begin with...actually, I am fairly certain am not thinking of who I am I hate to begin an answer with 'too many to rewriting for when I am writing. Perhaps what I call' but yes we were honed into the classics of am hoping to aim for is to see the world through English literature when still young. There was a younger person's perspective when I am writ- Charles Dickens' A Tale of Two Cities’ with its ing and that helps. The very many ways any- vast ambition and sense of drama, and also the thing can be described, the inventive use of lan- Dumas' novels of 'The Three Musketeers' and its guage, the process of discovery, all this comes sequels, and ‘The Count of Monte Cristo’. I also alive in a different way. remember the stories of Satyajit Ray and Leela Majumdar replete with bizarre, very believable What was the starting point that made you adventures, some very clever humour and the think that you should be doing this more lovable quaintness of everyday characters, which often? is what I particularly remember of Leela MajumWhen I wrote ‘Atisa and the Seven Won- dar's stories. When I was reading these of ders’ (the first in the Atisa series), it just opened course, it wasn't with the intention, even subconup the scope for several such adventures; all the sciously, that one day I would write too. The possibilities of the 'what ifs' of history. The non- very thought then and even now would have fiction book I did simultaneously, 'In the Coun- struck me as audacious. But there's the ability to try of Gold-digging Ants' (both published by create a different world, believable in every way Puffin Books) made me realise that there's much that every writer might want to emulate. that is fascinating about the past, that the materiYou write for adults as well. How easy or al does exist and one has only to delve in to disdifficult is it for you to make the transition in cover. It’s partly a process of finding out and terms of writing style when you are out from imagining. I've had encouraging editors and the writing an adults book and move to writing a feedback from readers has always helped. children's book (or vice versa)? How do you But also, it's more than just about history; it’s tackle it? learning about the powers of the imagination, Probably this is easier said than done. When I and how as a writer, one can lead others into this am working on, say, one of the Atisa books, it’s journey of shared discovery where you trust in that I am seeing his world – the world from the imagination. Writing books for younger Atisa's eyes. And a similar thing worked when I readers (or any reader, for that matter) is really wrote 'It Takes a Murder' (Hachette 2012), that – it’s always a shared journey of discovery which is one for older readers. It’s a book that is and new knowledge. both literary fiction and a murder story. It isn't Who are the authors you really enjoyed read- that a book for older readers has to have more ing as a child? What about each of their violence, more gory or other romantic details.
Essentially, it’s always the narrator, the main narrator, who decides things. The narrator leads the writer and never the other way around. When you write children's books, how much and what kind of research do you do?
Quite a lot. Obviously for the non -fiction books, I do a lot of detailed reading and this was necessary for say, a book like 'In the Country of Gold-Digging Ants' and even its sequel that is due next year. The Myth Quest books too involved reading up on what the different texts, the Puranas for instance, in their translation, had to say about specific beings, and so on. The Atisa books are a mix of fact and fiction, and it’s amazing the kind of thinking that I realised was required to balance the elements of fiction with the historical facts I had to use. Of the books that you have written for children, which one is your favourite? Why? All. But I love the historical and the history-related writing - fiction and non-fiction that I've had to do.
been told, all these fascinate me. Atisa hasn't even travelled half that distance into the past, he could though. Today the internet and digital publishing as well as the print publishing spaces are full of children's literature of all sorts. Unfortunately, quality does take a hit. What do you think are the defining characteristics of good children's literature? Something that makes them fall deep into the story, sink into it totally. A story that has them all intrigued and curious. Something that makes them want to discover, feel the joy in the world and all that it has to offer. A book that does not talk down to them. I respect the intelligence of younger readers, and its an age when they love to be challenged. But this does not mean that one writes in an abstruse way, but you write in a way that you trust your reader and the latter in turn lets her guard down and enters your imagination. What do you believe are some great ways to inculcate the reading habit in children and make reading fun for them?
Reading to, and with children is But if you ask me to choose, it'd always a fun thing to do, and soon be the Atisa books, the three that it becomes an everyday thing to do. have appeared, the others due and I remember my daughter watched the still others that are possible. the lovely Little Krishna episodes on youtube The 'what ifs', the so many questions left unanfirst and then she wanted the stories read to her. swered by recorded history, the many marginal That's not a bad thing then! characters in history whose stories have never
Lastly, we would love to have your recom- 8. The Graveyard Book by Neil Gaiman (don't mended must-read reading list for children. go by the title!) 1. Ekkori's Dream by Mahasweta Devi
9. The Children of the New Forest by C F Marryat
2. The Kaziranga Trail by Arup Kumar Dutta (also his others such as The Lure of Zangrila) 10. Night on the Galactic Railroad by Kenji Miyazawa 3. Abol Tabol by Sukumar Ray 11. The William books by Richmal Crompton 4. The Unicorn expedition and other stories by Satyajit Ray 12. Comet in Moominland (and others in the series) by Tove Jansson 5. The Harry Potter series by J.K. Rowling 13. Tales from Shakespeare - Charles and Mary 6. Swami and Friends and the other Malgudi Lamb (there's no better introduction to Shakebooks by R.K.Narayan. Also his Ramayana and speare than this book the Mahabharata. 7. Works of Charles Dickens, Alexandre Dumas, Jane Austen, Jules Verne and Gulliver's Travels by Jonathan Swift and Alice in Wonderland by Lewis Carroll
Anupama Krishnakumar loves Physics and English and sort of managed to get degrees in both – studying Engineering and then Journalism. Yet, as she discovered a few years ago, it is the written word that delights her soul and so here she is, doing what she loves to do – spinning tales for her small audience and for her little son, singing lullabies to her little daughter, bringing together a lovely team of creative people and spearheading Spark. She loves books, music, notebooks and colour pens and truly admires simplicity in anything! Tomatoes send her into a delightful tizzy, be it in soup or rasam or ketchup or atop a pizza!
Poetry The Wristwatch by M. Mohankumar A wristwatch from childhood, bought under rather strange circumstances, continues to hold a special place, even though many costlier and flashier watches make their way into the narrator’s life. M. Mohankumar’s poem is a tribute to that wristwatch. ‘I want to see our son wearing a watch before I die,’ said my mother to my father,
and smiled at me a smile I‘ll never forget. Ill with arthritis and violent bouts of asthma, she believed that death was close at hand. I had just finished school, and was at a loose end. My father, an austere man, wouldn’t listen. But when the pressure mounted, he yielded; and I got it: a West End wristwatch white dial, Arabic numerals, grey strap. No complications. It sat pretty on my wrist. I wore it wherever I went; wore it to college and, later, from one tight spot to another, never coming a cropper. A run of good luck, said my siblings, brought by the watch. Slowly, it acquired the status of a mascot. Meanwhile, other watches came, costlier,
flashier ones, but never as dear to me. And one night they all disappeared, stolen by a hooded thief. This one still remains, now on my desk top, inside a glass case, where It lies like the reclining Buddha.
Mohankumar has published seven volumes of poetry in English. His poems have appeared in almost all reputed literary magazines in print in India. His first collection of short stories in English, ‘The Turning Point and Other Stories’ has been published by Authorspress, Delhi. Mohankumar retired as Chief secretary to Government of Kerala.
Fiction Fatherly Words by Soorej P A father writes a letter to his son, telling him things and expressing feelings he never has before. Soorej P writes. My dear son, Receiving this letter would have come as a shock to you. I had safeguarded this letter with the express command that it be delivered to you only once you had the child I was not destined to see. Much as I wished to see the child you were going to have, my illness had the final say in this regard and so I had to pen this letter, which might help you be a better parent than I was. My dear son, you have been a blessing to me. No father could ask for a better son. I know I have not been the perfect father but I could not have loved you more. Sparse with words, I may have come across to you as indifferent. I still vividly remember the day you were born – the first time I held you… cuddled you…kissed you… You became the focus of our universe and the centre of our lives. Your mother and I, as we were very much in love then, showered all our love on you. As you grew, I was proud of even the most minuscule of your achievements. Your first walk… your first words… it all gave me immense joy. You became the apple of your mother’s eye but you imbibed quite a lot of my traits too. As good as it may sound that you in-
herited my traits, you will only realise the follies in it when you reach my age. I was more concerned with being your father than your friend. I have often refrained from showing my love and affection to you… during times I should have held your hand as you struggled to face the challenges thrown by life. I know it would have hurt you, especially because you could see me showing the same love and affection to your sister. If you ask me why, I don’t have a clear answer. Maybe it is the way men are brought up in our culture-it is hard to show love and affection to boys as opposed to girls. It is not the right way and I do not want you to realise that late in life. I don’t want you to end up having to write a letter to express your love to the person you loved the most in life. I want you to live your life expressing your love. I had been raised by my father to be strong and proud – something which you have taken to heart very strongly indeed. A man should not cry, my father used to say. I can only wonder how difficult his life would have been when he tried to avoid tears. My child, life is to be enjoyed and not defeated using strength. You need
strength to enjoy life’s ups and downs and not to defeat life. Your strength should be a source of strength to the people in your life. It is not bad to feel weak in life – it is the moments of weakness which show you the value of the people around you. So, when you raise your child, let the child be free to laugh and cry at life. Pride is something which is as essential as it is not. Your pride in yourself should not go beyond your mind and lips lest it lead you to more pitfalls. But ensure that you retain pride in yourself so that your confidence is never shaken by others. So raise your child to have pride in his or her abilities and to maintain the confidence to face life ahead. It is a gentle balance to have pride without showing it but I have belief in you to be able to impart that balance to your child. Teach your child to not take life seriously at all times. You have an easy going nature which made you popular and yet as you grew, you became very goal-oriented and success-driven. This came naturally to you but it grew to the point where you missed the beauty of the little joys in life. Life is too short to worry about everything it throws at you. I know the drive which pushes you to succeed in everything you do. It’s something even I have cultivated in you. Life is not just about winning, my dear. No one can win everything in life. I won a lot of wealth and prestige while I lost moments with you. At this age I realise the triviality of what I won and the signif-
icance of what I lost. So make sure your child realises that it’s more about how life is lived and less about what is won or lost in life. And down the path of life, you will come across shortcuts (which I know we both enjoy) and instances where you need to step on toes. I failed to guide you through such situations with integrity and self-respect. Your mother’s moral sense ensured you kept the straight path on more instances than not but I recognize my same flaws in you. So, ensure that your child learns to maintain selfrespect and integrity even when offered shortcuts. And in a world filled with human beings, may your child be a humane being who values the people around and not use them as stepping stones. My fingers ache from the typing…let me rest a while… You know my illness gets my body tired even after a small exertion. And in these last days, it has become even more cumbersome to do even the smallest of tasks. I wanted to keep all of you around me, till the time my eyes closed. And that is why when the doctors gave me an idea of what my last days would be, I preferred the soothing calmness of death over days and nights of agony along with the emotional burden of being a source of pain to the family I loved above all in my life. Undergoing surgery and treatment with little assurance of success is not the way I want to enjoy my last days with all of you. It is somewhat fitting that I am writing this letter in my office room, the very room where I
spent more time than necessary, especially the time I should have spent being a part of the lovely family I was blessed with. This brings me to the last topic I want to cover with you – family. In today’s world, friends and family are very important parts of a person’s life. Make sure you never mix both and never give one importance over the other. Be very selective in making your family – they need not always be blood. You are born into a family and they will always be a part of you. But the family you build, in your life, can compensate for any of the misgivings of your birth family. Think over these lines as you are a person who has a lot of friends and if your child follows in your footsteps, make sure your child realises the meaning of these lines. I was blessed to share my life with a simple, strong and loving woman, with whom I have raised you and your sister. And it was fulfilling to see you and your sister finding strong partners who can support you in rough weather. As time goes on, keep each other close. When new people come into your life, make sure you don’t forget the old ones. Let your life be a chain connecting people in your past and present. Keep a clear conscience at all times and never contemplate an action which might bring grief to your loved ones.
Take care of your mother as she grows old. Be there for your sister when she needs you. Shower your love on your child, be it a boy or girl. Let your children enjoy life to the fullest and live out their dreams. Be the guide and friend of your child, walking along with them rather than being the dictator who continuously instructs them. I am looking at the last family picture we shot as I write these last words. Strangely, it feels as if I have all of you around me and I telling you this in person. Tell your mother, once more, that there is no one I loved more than her (she could never get enough of hearing it). Give my blessings to your wife who filled the void when I married off your sister. Tell your sister, that she will always be my little princess. Tell my son-inlaw, that I could not have found a better person to take care of my daughter. And for you my dear son, words fail me. I wish I could give you a hug to convey all the love I have had for you… all the loving words I felt but never spoke to you… all the affection I missed showering on you. Condone any of the slights you have felt while I raised you because you were truly most beloved to me, my dear child. I will always be with you, watching over you. Wishing all of you a life time of happiness…
Soorej is a banker, professionally married to numbers and now re-kindling an affair with his first love – words. Books and movies provide sustenance in life centred on his baby daughter. A supportive wife makes him chase his dream of being a full-fledged author. He plans to retire owning a library/bookshop, ensuring a steady supply of new books for him to read.
Non-fiction In Defence of Parents by Parth Pandya There are odes written to childhood, but hardly anything for parenthood. Parth Pandya talks about why it can seem so hard, but why, at the end of the day, you might just turn out okay. Childhood is the simplest time of life. To maintain the stakes of balance, parenting ends up being tough. And yet these parents, these gentle martyrs are never written about. Songs are written about the happy days of childhood. ‘Woh kaagaz ki kashti, woh baarish ka paani’ (That paper boat, those puddles of rain). Children make the best of candidates for stories. They are perfect and even when they are not, their imperfection is endearing. So, no, I am not here to celebrate children and childhood. I am here to celebrate parenthood. Raising children has never been easy, right from the time of the Neanderthals. Imagine having to worry about your toddler rolling off the rock or warning your young kids to be wary of scary strangers and large beasts. The passage of millennia hasn’t made the task any easier. Look at the current generation. It is a confused gaggle of parents who are told that every good idea that they have about parenting is not quite right. If you are too attentive, you are indulging and spoiling the kids. If you aren’t present in your child’s life every waking moment, you aren’t par-
ticipating enough. If they watch too much TV, you are inhibiting their development. But if they aren’t watching too much TV, hey, we are back to being all too present in their lives all the time. Your life has to be a living will and testament to the little monsters you have produced. But wait. The single reason we are bringing up a generation of self-indulgent is that we are spending too much time on them. There are helicopter parents. There are iPad parents. There are over-theshoulder parents. There are working-onweekend parents. There are treat-them-with-kidgloves parents. There are let-them-run-wild parents. It is as if a parent can’t be a parent without a worrying adjective assigned to them. This group is under perennial pressure and judgment. To add to it, with many migrating away from their homes for their careers, they have no village left to help them raise a child. That leaves them little choice but to figure out this whole parenting skill by themselves. Most of them fly blind. Parenting by intuition. And trepidation. For these parents, I would like to offer moral support and some simple life lessons.
The 35000-foot view Parenting is a duty towards society. You have been dealt a cocktail of genes from the human gene pool and a position in the societal structure with resources to go with it. Using this deadly combination, your task is to produce a progeny that will further the cause of the human race. Your parents did their bit to give you a chance in the pecking order of haves and have-nots. Your job is to do the same. Why this rather large context to position this problem in? Well, for starters, it will make you feel good that all those sleepless nights and patient afternoons are not for nothing. You are on a mission that will ensure the continuity of the human race. That is no less than any blockbuster Hollywood makes where a bunch of people save the earth from annihilation. You are and your spouse are heroes of your own movie. Parenting can be a sport Oh, and a parenting is a sport. A highly competitive one. This, I am sure you have realized by now. You aren’t just raising a child. You are raising a child better than your friends are. Than your cousins are. Than your neighbours are. And certainly better than all those parents of pesky classmates of your child. This is where confi-
dence comes in handy. There are no right or wrong answers to parenting. There are no firsts and lasts in a child’s growth. Take the example of when a child walks or when a child talks. It is easy to get stressed about the fact that every single kid your child’s age has begun walking and talking sooner than yours. As they grow older, it will be about how well they can read. Or solve Legos. Or build robots. And you look at your child with a mixture of pity, accusation, denial. And a plea for redemption. You sit through all those ‘Little Einstein’ DVDs with them when they are young. The least they could do is solve string theory before someone’s else child does. Oh wait, redemption arrives. No one else’s child does either. They are all going to cap off somewhere or the other. Trust me. Those ‘high-achieving’ parents? They will feel crushed too, sooner or later. It is a no-win game. What’s in a name? Picking a name is a tough ask of parents. Imagine the consequences of a name that a child will come to regret. The results can be so damning that Jhumpa Lahiri wrote an entire book about it. To aid with that process, parents turn to the most reliable of resources. The internet. The algorithm is tried and tested. Take a tour of all
the websites that suggest names for babies. If you are in a foreign country, run those names by the some locals to make sure the pronunciations are butchered like goats on Bakri Eid. These are all good things. The masses can’t be wrong. But this approach has had one unintended side effect. As I look around today, I see a lot of Arnav, Aarav, Arya, Arhan, Aarush, Aditya, so on and so forth. It is as if parents looked at the alphabet and forgot that there are letters beyond A. So, here’s a little tip: start from ‘Z’. Starting with Zoya and Zeeshan on the list and working down to Aswath. It will leave you with a higher chance of having a name for your child that starts with a letter higher up the alphabet chain and have a name that he or she doesn’t share with ten others around him or her.
ok. What they omit to tell you is that they were as clueless as parents are you are right now. Despite that, this ramshackle of a personality that you are, with all its deficiencies and inefficiencies, has made it good in this world. Whenever you feel lost in this morass of parenting and wonder how it is going to turn out, take a deep breath and tell yourself ‘I turned out ok. My kids will too.’ When you next see your kids, hold them, assure them and relish the blessing that they are. You’ll rise and fall in your own estimation as well as that of your kids as you try to deal with this imperfect science. These little bits of information here are mere crumbs of advice for this difficult job. Trust your instinct to tell you the right thing. For everything else, there’s the internet.
Well, you turned out ok Your parents will start giving you a ton of good -natured advice when they turn into grandparents. They have earned the right. They brought you up in one piece. Somehow, you turned out
Parth Pandya moonlights as a writer even as he spends his day creating software and evenings raising his two sons to be articulate, model citizens, who like Tendulkar and Mohammad Rafi. He has been regularly published in forums such as Spark, OneFortyFiction and Every Day Poets. Taking his passion a step further, he has recently released his first book ‘r2i dreams’, a tale of Indian immigrants as they work through the quintessential dilemma, ‘for here or to go?’ You can know more about the book at https://www.facebook.com/r2idreams
Poetry Summertime Dreams by Debleena Roy During childhood, summertime is all about dreams – of varied kinds. Dreams without fears. Can’t summertime dreams last an entire lifetime? Debleena Majumdar raises a desperate question in her poem.
“It’s summertime, Mummy,” She strums the guitar,
Strikes a pose, and declares herself, The latest rocking Rockstar. Next day, she ponders thoughtfully In the kitchen; oblivious to the mess, Chocolate chicken in the making, "Papa, can’t you guess?" The remote is no longer under any control, Sounds of Chotta Bheem blare. "I am just planning a new TV invention, Science research you see, shh..secret, can’t share." Then again in her shiny, new, roller skates, She balances delicately; you run to break her fall. "Watch me fly," she laughs; you cry “Baby, be careful, keep your eye on the ball.”
But when the ball drops, When the guitar string breaks, When we forget the lyrics of the song, That once lulled us to blissful sleep, When each new recipe tastes of Broken dreams and lost hopes, Aren’t we still entitled To that one crazy, forgotten, dream? Can't summertime dreams last an entire lifetime? Don't we all remember that summer, when the world was our dream?
Debleeena blogs at debleena-roy.blogspot.in and has had articles published in Chillibreeze and eZinearticles.
Non-fiction With Mountains for Guardians by Vinita Agrawal A girl of nine joins a Boarding school, and enters a whole new world, something so different from the sheltered life she lived. Vinita Agrawal recounts her experiences of childhood. I’m still not sure whether my childhood suited me or not. Oh, it was definitely a happy one because my parents were the most loving parents in the world. I was extremely attached to them. The thing is, sometimes when you’re surrounded with love, circumstances intervene and force you to live away from the ones you love. Then life becomes rather traumatic. Let me explain. When I was nine, my father was posted to a tiny village in West Bengal called Beldanga. The nearest town was about an hour away. There were no decent schools around the place. So my parents decided to put me in St. Joseph’s Convent – a Boarding school in Kalimpong. One wintry morning, my Dad and I boarded a jeep that took us on the long winding journey from Siliguri to the hill station of Kalimpong. On the way, father tenderly explained the merits of hostel life, its pleasures and fun and of course the responsibilities that went with it. Whenever he caught a look of doubt in my eyes, he reassured me that he and my mother would visit me frequently and that I would come home during the vacations. It’s hard to recall the exact emotions I underwent at the prospect of my life shifting in this way but I
guess the topmost of those emotions was trepidation. I remember the first interview I gave to Mother Tarcissus. She was a stern looking nun with penetrating blue eyes behind gold round-rimmed glasses. At my age and given my sheltered upbringing she seemed like someone straight out of the Enid Blyton’s Mallory Towers Series. She looked me over and took in the silly half-grin on my face and asked with doubt if I would enjoy Boarding life. I darted a quick look at my dad and said ‘Ya’.
Say “Yes, not Ya,”she corrected mildly. I don’t know if my dad looked more discomfited or me. But I meekly said “Yes.” “You may call me Mother Tarcissus” “Yes Mother.” It was beyond me to pronounce her name just then. After other preliminary questions were done with, we were ushered into a parlor overlooking a beautiful garden dotted with exquisite orchids.
Lukewarm tea and Marie biscuits were served in delicate bone china cups. Outside, birds were singing sweetly. My father took my hand and took me to a huge French window on the north side of the parlor. He parted the curtains and said simply, “Look!” What I saw then took my breath away. I don’t believe I’ve ever caught that breath back, even now. For there, in all their majestic glory, were the snow-capped peaks of the Kanchenjunga – the third highest range of the mighty Himalayas. They stood outlined in snow against a clear blue sky, their peaks gleaming in the sunlight, their crevices in shadows. They looked like guardians to me, someone to whom my dear father was entrusting his beloved daughter. We looked at each other and I was surprised to see tears in his eyes. I clutched his hand tighter.
Thus began my life in the hostel. I was miserable of course. The school was a prestigious institution located close to India’s borders with Nepal, Tibet and Bhutan. As a result, most of the girls belonged to those countries. Education begins rather late in these lands, so I was the youngest in my class and therefore, no match to their worldly wise personas. Later, these awkward beginnings would flower into lifelong beautiful bonds of friendship. But I wasn’t to know that then!
flakes with milk and scrambled eggs on soggy bread was not the kind of breakfast I was used to, having been brought up on a spectrum of stuffed parathas. Squash for lunch and pumpkin for dinner made things worse. I looked forward to tea though – even though it was only two slices of thinly buttered bread and some Darjeeling tea served in green plastic mugs. I complained home about the food vehemently during the letter writing hour on Saturday. As a result, I was summoned to Sister Declan’s room. She upheld my letter and reprimanded me sternly “We cannot allow you to worry your parents like this! Everyone here including us teachers, eat the same food. Vegetable produce is low in hilly regions like these. So we have to make do with whatever is easily available. Complaining to your parents will only make them anxious.” Without further ado, the letter was torn to shreds before my eyes. But bless Sister Declan for the kind soul she was, she in fact got in touch with my parents on the side and asked them to send me some tucks till I was more appropriately adjusted to the meals offered at school. Plus, she arranged with them, at a small extra cost, to have a glass of milk offered to me during the ten o’ clock short recess.
Now this glass of milk was mightily symbolic of a precious nutrition offered to select students who were ushered to a grassy clearing to the left of the refectory. And there, against the backdrop of the breathtaking Himalayas, Thapa poured First things first – I missed home food. Corn out milk into tall plastic glasses with full dra-
matic impact. I took the glass and while pretending to drink it, surreptitiously poured its contents into the grass. I couldn’t stand the taste of milk and offered it to the soil without compunctions. But in hindsight my action now causes me deep pain and regret. I wasted precious food which would have done good to my body as I was to discover a few months later. Besides, I disrespected the fact that my father had arranged this for me specially – out of extraordinary concern for my well-being.
basket filled with mulberry leaves for my project. Yes – that I did reasonably well. Months passed and almost a year later, I developed fever. It had been a heavy misty week with intermittent rains. Perhaps I hadn’t bothered to stay dry or some such thing. But the next thing I knew was that I was admitted to the infirmary with a very high fever. There were two other girls also admitted there. One of them was a short stout girl who wore blue tinted glasses. Her glasses fitted over her cheeks so tightly that whenever she removed them they left a thick white pinched line on her skin. Somehow the sight of those glasses almost vacuumed to her face has never left me. Let me tell you why.
However my grouse against hostel food lifted enormously when my dear friend Sheila who was a Day Scholar, brought me delicious crisp chikki pressed between two sheets of paper or a steaming alu dum in a bowl made from banyan leaves In my condition, I was being given appropriate or hot momos or better still a string of churpis – medicines by the nurse at the infirmary. But dry yak cheese strung on a cotton thread that maybe the fever was running too high. After took a full day to chew once in the mouth. about three days, I became delirious. I did not One of the other things I struggled with in my understand what the word meant then but I do new school was learning Nepali, which was an distinctly remember ‘leaving myself’ – and enteralien language to me. It was difficult to grasp its ing a stupor like state. I lay listless on the dark grammar. And last not least, I floundered with blue checkered bed sheet unable to think or feel sports. Everybody seemed good at basketball or absorb anything. Perhaps I looked dead. For, and hockey and athletics. But I could manage one afternoon, the girl in the blue glasses clamnone! All I managed to do reasonably well was bered down her bed and stood peering down at singing carols and raising silk worms in a woven me.
Vinita is a Mumbai based writer and poet. Her poems have been published in Asiancha, Raedleaf Poetry , Wordweavers, OpenRoad Review, Constellations, The Fox Chase Review, Spark, The Taj Mahal Review, CLRI, SAARC Anthologies, Kritya.org, Touch- The Journal of healing, Museindia, Everydaypoets.com, Mahmag World Literature, The Criterion, The Brown Critique, Twenty20journal.com, Sketchbook, Poetry 24, Mandala and others which include several international anthologies. Her poem was nominated for the Best of the Net Awards 2011 by CLRI. She received a prize from MuseIndia in 2010. Her debut collection of poems titled Words Not Spoken published by Sampark/Brown Critique was released in November 2013. Her poem was awarded a prize in the Wordweavers contest 2013.
Photography Curiosity by Maheswaran Sathiamoorthy Big-eyed, looking ahead or focussed... children are just curious! Maheswaran Sathiamoorthy captures the curiosity through his lens.
Maheswaran Sathiamoorthy graduated with a B.Tech degree from IIT Kharagpur and is a Ph.D. from 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.
Social Lens Silences and Safe Spaces : Therapeutic Help for Child Sexual Abuse Survivors Guest Column by Shreya Sen & the Therapeutic Intervention Team at Arpan Therapy for child sexual abuse survivors is an aspect often ignored when it comes to responding to abuse. However, therapy can help navigate the various trying circumstances a survivor faces, such as in the case of incest. Shreya Sen, with the Therapeutic Intervention team at Arpan, an organization that works to prevent child sexual abuse, talk about the various ways therapy can help heal. Addressing an issue as prevalent as child sexual abuse is often a daunting task. The patriarchal structure of our society is such that those lower in the power hierarchy (in this case, on grounds of their age) are often faced with a greater risk of sexual violence. This structure also supports and perpetuates an environment of fear and silence around this issue; so much so that the idea of community honor has come to be strongly associated with it. As an organization working towards the prevention of child sexual abuse, one of our biggest struggles is to challenge this culture of shame and social stigma attached to it so that the victim-survivors of sexual violence, and
their families, choose not to keep the abuse a secret for the fear of losing social standing. This culture of silence is often internalized by the victims themselves. A lot of survivors talk about how difficult it was for them to disclose their abuse to their support systems because they felt ashamed and guilty about what happened to them. For survivors to be able to share their stories, it is imperative to create and acknowledge spaces with a safe, compassionate and supportive environment within their immediate surroundings (families, schools, neighbourhoods, etc.). Thus, it is important to work towards
greater awareness at a societal level, stressing on the wide, prevalent existence of child sexual abuse and how it ties into our social fabric. Persistent and unrelenting work on this would gradually take us towards the larger societal attitude changing in favour of being more acceptable and open to addressing the issue. Additionally, having an atmosphere where sexual abuse is openly talked about allows for survivors to share their stories with each other and build a support system that allows for disclosure in an empathetic space. Through our work, we have found that people often make their own disclosures after witnessing other survivors share their histories of abuse. At the same time, it is also essential to increase access to safe spaces beyond immediate support systems. Counselling therapy and support is one such safe space that needs to be made available to survivors for their growth and healing. In the present social context, survivors usually have to cope within a dichotomy where their abuse is being either wholly dismissed and/or ignored, or their entire personhood is being built around their experience of abuse. Therapists work towards providing survivors with stable, secure, affirmative relationships which give them a space to feel the way they want to and to help them make meaning of their experiences in their journey of healing. Furthermore, therapists are able to help survivors recognize and acknowledge the significant and seemingly insignificant coping mechanisms that the survivors may have subconsciously adopted to rebuild
their lives. Unfortunately, the stigma around child sexual abuse is matched by the prejudices against its impact on mental health. At our organization, we spend a lot of time addressing the anxieties of survivors and their families that makes them resistant to the idea of therapy. Educating guardians on the meaning and methods of counselling helps reduce some of the resistance since some of the myths and misconceptions they hold against therapy get addressed. For most people, therapy is not as important a form of intervention as some others like legal support or rescue and rehabilitation programmes. But counseling/therapy is often one of the most productive way of helping survivors cope within their existing situation. For instance, in some cases of incest, the abuser may be the primary care taker of the child upon whom the child is dependent for his/her financial, physical and even emotional needs. In such cases, the survivor’s sense of helplessness and loss of control gets further reinforced because they see no escape from their situation. Here, once again, the therapist is able to empower the survivor by helping them recognize and implement their own coping mechanisms, while also being able to strengthen alliances with other trusted/ helpful adults (such as a non-offending parent, a teacher, a neighbor, etc.) who can support the child and ensure a greater degree of safety for the child.
It is crucial to acknowledge the short-term and long-term mental health impacts that sexual abuse can have on a child. Trauma, in the context of sexual abuse, can be all pervasive and it may (or may not) affect various aspects of an individual’s life. To what extent it will affect someone depends on several parameters such as the age of the child, available resources, support systems, severity of abuse, relationship with the abuser and so on. The relationship established between the therapist and the survivor can often become one of the first truly egalitarian space for the survivor to regain a sense of power and control. Therapy helps survivors overcome their guilt by attributing accountability of the abuse to the perpetrator instead. Additionally, therapists can help survivors cope with issues like depression and anxiety by helping them set long term goals and envision a life beyond and outside of the abuse.
we believe them in return. These are some harbingers of a relationship that the child will treasure forever! If we were to think of a child being violated of her/his basic integrity like in sexual abuse, respect, belief in the child, communicating with them openly/honestly, making them feel heard and understood become more important than ever before. These can be overwhelming times not only for the child but for their entire support system. A therapist who is trained in work with children and families on this issue can be a person to validate collective feelings of concern, help the family navigate through this challenging patch and make visible the strength, resilience and hope, which was always present, but is now shaken up due to such trying times! We always urge guardians to never hesitate to access help – it is only a measure of the hopes and dreams that they have for themselves and their children.
Children need to be respected, heard, spoken to (softly, openly, honestly). Their curious questions need to be answered creatively, genuinely and playfully. They believe in us and expect that
This article was written by Shreya Sen and the ‘Therapeutic Intervention’ team at Arpan. Arpan is an NGO in Mumbai that works towards the prevention of child sexual abuse and providing therapeutic assistance to those affected by it. They also run a counselling helpline for child and adult survivors of child sexual abuse and their support systems. The helpline can be accessed on +91 98190-86444.
Poetry Down Memory Lane by Latha Sakhya A visit to her childhood home brings back memories of innocence, fun and carefree days. Latha Sakhya pens a poem on the journey down memory lane.
Going down memory lane, I came to my old homestead Where, for seventeen summers I was nurtured.
The old rambling house, with its spacious rooms; The sweeping land; the gigantic tamarind trees Four great pillars - sentry like Guarding the terrain.
The second one, nearest to my homestead Our favourite haunt! My siblings And I, with childish enthusiasm, played Making doll houses and keeping house.
The old rambling house, with its spacious rooms; The sweeping land; the gigantic tamarind trees -
Four great pillars - sentry like Guarding the terrain.
The second one, nearest to my homestead Our favourite haunt! My siblings And I, with childish enthusiasm, played Making doll houses and keeping house.
Oh, it was such fun then! No care, no worries, Only, innocent mirth and grief. But alas, gliding years,
Weave a nostalgic dream Unwinding the spool of yearning, To regain the golden days of childhood.
Latha Prem Sakhya is a poet at heart and a teacher by profession. She is very passionate about painting. Latha has published two books, MEMORY RAIN (2008) – a collection of 64 poems and NATURE AT MY DOORSTEP (2011) – a medley of her reflections, poems and paintings.
Fiction Circle of Love by Anupama Krishnakumar Children fill our hearts with love and longing and our lives with meaning like no one else can but what does the world give back to them? Anupama Krishnakumar writes a work of fiction. Sukanya and Kumar sat on their favourite bench at the community park. The park was a tenminute walk from their home and the retired couple made it a point to go down there every evening, no matter what. The ritual, they believed, somehow brought about the muchneeded colour to their otherwise grey lives. Watching many little children play filled them with hope and happiness and kindled memories. Of their own child and grandchild.
And though she didn’t really express her thoughts on Kumar’s comment on the boy looking like Biju, she did think so as well. It reminded her of her grandson. She wished she could go down this instant to Pune and visit their daughter and the little brat. Sukanya couldn’t believe she had turned this sentimental. After all, she had been the more rational and practical of the two when it came to raising their daughter, Neeraja. Today the twinge of longing for her grandson that she felt made her wonder if these “Look at that one there,” said Kumar, pointing were really symptoms of old age. in the direction of the swing, “the one with the orange cap on, isn’t he new here?” Kumar, in the meantime, had already pulled out his mobile phone and was in conversation with Sukanya peered intently trying to discern the their daughter. face that was half-hidden under the locks of curls emerging from beneath the cap. The boy “Molu, give the phone to Biju, I long to speak to on the swing was the perfect picture of freedom him.” that only childhood was entitled to enjoy. Sukanya realised that he had already spent a “He reminds me of Biju,” continued Kumar good ten minutes talking to Neeraja, while she reflectively. was sitting and gazing at children in the park, lost in thought. Sukanya turned towards him. “Yes, he does seem new here, this kid. I haven’t seen him in all She couldn’t help smiling when she heard Kuthese years.” mar carry on a conversation full of words twist-
ed this way and that to sound funny and appealing to a child. He did have a way with children. Seeing him laugh, she laughed a little too and in a rare display of affection, pressed his wrinkled hand, gesturing him to hand the phone over to her so that she could listen too, to the adorable childish chatter of her three-year-old grandson.
spend Sunday evenings with her family, particularly her daughter?
Her phone beeped to life, breaking her reverie and the red light on her Blackberry flickered invitingly. It was a message from Ridhi, her boss who had recently moved to their office from Bombay. But more than a boss, she was a close friend.
décor.
“Sure,” she messaged back, albeit a little hesitantly. What could be the reason for this sudden plan?
“Perhaps, it’s nothing; maybe, she just wants to talk something about work,” Neeraja tried reas*** suring herself, even as she absent-mindedly gathNeeraja sat on the couch with a book on hand, ered Biju on her lap. She kissed him on his forewhile continuing head and tickled to throw glances him gently. It defull of love and lighted her when pride at her threehe chuckled and year-old, rattling put his arms away blissfully to around her, rubhis grandparents bing his nose over the cordless against hers. This phone. She was love that she thought of her could die for. own childhood – a She decided to much more discileave the little boy plined one but one behind with his dad while visiting Ridhi. that didn’t have as many worldly constraints and worries inhibiting the freedom of a child. But *** one thing was unchanged no matter how many Ridhi’s house was as beautiful as ever, capturing years had passed – it was the unconditional love Neeraja yet again by the sheer minimalism it disthat one felt for their child. played in terms of structure, arrangement and After usual pleasantries were exchanged with Ridhi’s husband and her mother, Neeraja followed Ridhi to the balcony that they usually sat in and chatted away.
“Your new coffee table looks beautiful, Ridhi,” Neeraja’s voice dripped with adoration. “I love Neeraja was surprised. A coffee invite from it.” Ridhi on a Sunday? Didn’t Ridhi always prefer to Ridhi smiled in return and said, “Yes, it’s a par-
“Coffee at my place at 4 in the evening?”
ticularly attractive piece.” “So,” asked Neeraja, “what brings me here?”
achiever in her own might. I have always thought she is going to be fine.”
Neeraja watched Ridhi intently and let her conRidhi paused, took a deep breath and held tinue. Neeraja’s hands. “Sit down, Neeru. I will tell you.” “Today, I left her in the car for a few minutes while heading back from her dance class. That’s Neeraja caught the expression in Ridhi’s eyes. because I forgot my phone and rushed back in She saw anxiety. Or was it despair? Whatever it to collect it. What I saw by the time I came was, this definitely wasn’t looking good. No, not back…” Ridhi choked and her eyes were full of on Ridhi. Ridhi, the epitome of courage. tears that streamed down uncontrollably. “Neeru, it’s about Suki. But before that, tell me. “I saw the driver holding her hand and caressing Do you worry about your child? Why do you her….” she paused unable to describe further worry?” and burst into fresh tears. “She is a child, Neera“I do, Ridhi. I worry about his safety and his ja! No matter what her biological age is. She will health. I wish all the time that nothing happens be a child forever. What do I tell her? What does to him. It’s not a really safe world out there, she know? “Have I failed in keeping her safe? right?” Did I let someone abuse her by being careless?” “Strangely, for the second time since I came to “Ridhi, I know, it isn’t ok. But please calm know of Suki’s condition when she was born, I down,” Neeraja said, “what did you do with the am beginning to worry. Or in fact, I am begin- driver?” ning to panic,” Ridhi sounded low. “We have fired that guy and filed a complaint Neeraja could understand Ridhi’s concern. Suki against him,” she continued, calming down. was diagnosed with Down’s Syndrome at birth “I understand it’s tough, Ridhi. But we are huand she remembered how Ridhi had described mans, and no human is perfect. You are a wonto her the shock and grief she experienced for derful mother, have been one always and Suki months together before coming to terms with couldn’t have found a better mother than you. reality – that she had been entrusted the responBe glad that you could nip this at the bud, before sibility of bringing up a child with special needs. it got worse. It’s a lesson learnt and learnt well. I That was probably the only time Neeraja had know it’s easier said than done but if you can’t, heard Ridhi sounding low about Suki. All the no one can. Keep telling her about being safe. It other times after that, it had been cheerful, posimight be a slow process for her to absorb the tive and heart-warming updates about the girl. reality of it but you are never the kind who “You know, Neeraja, I have always tried to bring would give up. Are you, Ridhi? And whatever Suki up as I would if she had been a normal rests in our hands about her safety, we will do it. child. Yes, she does need attention when it Won’t we?” comes to certain things, but she has been an
“Yes, you are right, Neeraja. But what after me?” that had come to her after a call when she was in asked Ridhi, pain weighing down her already Bombay, about two years ago. It was a call that muffled voice. she had disconnected the moment she came to know who was on the other end. It was the man Neeraja held Ridhi’s hand and said, “For every who had made her childhood such a forgettable problem that we think there is, life will offer a phase of her life, a phase in which she and her solution sometime. We just need to flow with it. mother waded through a road called life full of That’s the beauty of our existence.” miserable potholes, a phase that had nothing to Ridhi smiled and patted Neeraja’s head. “You even mention about the father-daughter relationare such a wonderful person, Neeru. So much ship, a phase in which society threw ignominy younger to me and yet, so much more mature. It and insult on their faces. only speaks of your fine upbringing. Thank you “Got your number from a friend of mine who for everything.” was your neighbour. I saw your mother in a pho“Oh,” said Neeraja, “you are such a brave moth- tograph he had and learnt about you two. I need er, Ridhi. I have no doubts that it was your to talk to you. I know I can’t force you. Please mother and father who inculcated it in you. Take call me when you feel you should. I will wait. – care. Suki will be fine.” Dad.”
*** When Neeraja left, she hadn’t caught the distant look that came over Ridhi’s face. Ridhi lay down near Suki who was fast asleep, oblivious to the troubles that surrounded her in the world that she had come into. Ridhi picked up her phone and began scrolling down messages in her inbox and a good 200 messages down, reached to the one she was looking for. It was the talk about upbringing that made Ridhi recall the message
She read the message that she had not deleted for some reason and after taking a deep breath, dialled the number of the man who had left her and her mother behind, when she was six, for another woman. She waited listlessly as she heard the ring go. Elsewhere, the phone of a retired man who had just returned from the park after an evening walk sprang to life.
Anupama Krishnakumar loves Physics and English and sort of managed to get degrees in both – studying Engineering and then Journalism. Yet, as she discovered a few years ago, it is the written word that delights her soul and so here she is, doing what she loves to do – spinning tales for her small audience and for her little son, singing lullabies to her little daughter, bringing together a lovely team of creative people and spearheading Spark. She loves books, music, notebooks and colour pens and truly admires simplicity in anything! Tomatoes send her into a delightful tizzy, be it in soup or rasam or ketchup or atop a pizza!
Poetry Assurance by M. Mohankumar The bond that a child shares with her mother is characterized by assurance – the child’s instinctive belief that there could be no safer place in this world that a mother’s arms, writes M. Mohankumar in his poem. The old man said, ‘Look at that child in the arms of the young woman. How poised it is, how assured, amidst all the fracas and loud-mouthed noise.’
‘You know why?’ he asked after a pause and, without waiting for an answer, said, ‘It is because of the indissoluble bond, the chemistry between mother and child.’
‘The child knows, knows by instinct, that there could be no safer haven than the enfolding arms of its mother, come rain or storm, thunder or lightning.’
Then, looking me in the eye, he said, ‘You too had that assurance once,
didn’t you? But you lost it on the way, tripping and falling. Want to regain it?’
‘Do no stray. Walk in the truth. Believe in the invisible arms, out there to protect you, even when a mountain rolls down to crush your head.’
Who was this old man, who said all this, leaving me dumb-founded?
Mohankumar has published seven volumes of poetry in English. His poems have appeared in almost all reputed literary magazines in print in India. His first collection of short stories in English, ‘The Turning Point and Other Stories’ has been published by Authorspress, Delhi. Mohankumar retired as Chief secretary to Government of Kerala.
The Lounge
November 2014
Slice of Life by Chandrashekhar Shastry
The Gali Gali Man Aboard a ship at anchor, an Egyptian folk magician keeps an audience enthralled. Chandrashekhar Sastry gives us the experience through his magical words. The ship was at anchor outside the Suez Canal waiting its turn for a passage when a couple of countrycraft came alongside. Some hawkers carrying merchandise climbed up the rope ladders that were let down and with them was a Gali-Gali man, an Egyptian folk magician. He was a large person with a bulging Arab robe over several layers of clothing. A shapely beard, and a cap like a frustum of a red textured cone, framed the soft Egyptian features. A black tassel, one end anchored at the top, was freely swinging to and fro. The red cap and black tassel lent his visage dignity and balance. It was quite different from the gaunt, hooked nose, stereotypical Arab profile. The large compelling eyes, under bushy eyebrows, held my attention when they turned upon me. He looked like a man who could make things happen the way he wanted them to.
A few of the European and English passengers haggled with the merchants for the pretty rugs and some superbly crafted wooden handicrafts. Queen Nefertiti in profile was the most popular image, followed by the frontal view of Tutankhemen. The Asian passengers hardly cared to look at the wares presented and gathered around the Gali-Gali man. By the time the deck trading was over we were in the front row at the performance. The Gali-Gali man was several grades more accomplished than the street performers of Bombay that I remembered, and he had no assistants. He started off with a string of Arabic abracadabra and a repeated ‘Gali Gali’, which gave him his name. Waving a wand he transformed it into a bouquet of cellophane flowers in the most impossible colours; with another wave and repeated gobbledygook he restored the bouquet to its original form of a
wand. Lifting his cap and revealing a balding head he turned it around and poured into it a stream of water, which emanated from the closely held fingers of one hand. ‘Water of the Nile,’ he said, grinning widely. He was standing against a rail on the starboard under the lifeboats. With a swift glance overboard, he tossed the water out and replaced his cap, bowing to our loud applause. He pulled out of his bag the standard accoutrement of the magician. A set of steel rings looped into one another was passed around for the front row to inspect. They formed a straight chain of five round links and he was asking us to pull it apart and test the integrity of each ring. All the while he was speaking in a mixture of good English interspersing it with what I supposed was the Arabic equivalents of mantras. He came nearer and lifting the rings and jingling them slowly with an imperceptible sleight of hand he separated them. Coming up to me he asked me check the rings, to pass them from one hand to the other, one by one. He was standing by my side and helping me along. Suddenly he took all five from my grasp and without a moment’s hesitation just jingle jangled them together and, as they rang their metallic notes, they had linked together. He triumphantly displayed the joined
hoops, each looped to the other, now in a circular chain of five links. Holding them high above his head he marched around as again the whole assembly clapped in appreciation. ‘Someone doesn’t have the time,’ he suddenly said loudly. ‘Gentlemen, please look at the time,’ he called out, and let out a peal of echoing laughter. All looked at their wristwatches and as I turned my wrist I found that my watch was missing. He was looking at me piercingly when I met his eyes. With a smile pretending complicity, he beckoned me with one hand while the other held a closed fist. His face beaming, he turned around, calling the attention of the audience, then opened his hand to reveal my wristwatch resting in his palm. ‘Ah, yes my dear Sir, I shall give you the time,’ and again applause. I knew that he had palmed my watch while I was inspecting the rings of steel with which he had juggled. Thanking him, I sheepishly walked back to my place. here followed several other feats of legerdemain, some very clever and astonishing card tricks, and we were all left expecting, any moment, the proverbial rabbit out of the conjurer’s hat. By this time we had made way for some ladies in the rear to move over to the front and
a beautiful Persian lady in an evening gown stood in front next to Ahmed, a professor returning from a sabbatical spent in Oxford. I had spent many evenings sitting on the deck chatting with him and was greatly impressed by his knowledge and erudition. The Gali-Gali man came up to her them and was waving his arms while speaking. He passed his hands over Ahmed’s head and pulled out a small white chick, maybe only a day old. It seemed to emerge from the bushy hair on the professor’s head. After a quick display it was promptly put into a pocket of his voluminous robe. The next two chicks came out of the inner pockets of the jacket of a very surprised Ahmed and were quickly confiscated into the conjurer’s pocket.
There were gasps of appreciation from the audience, which drew a wave and a flourish from the magician. The Gali-Gali man then turned to the lady in the evening gown with a modest display of cleavage. Waving his hands in front he started picking out chicks from inside the top of the lady’s gown amidst shrieks and protests till Ahmed gallantly intervened and patted him on the shoulder asked him to desist. He was immediately apologetic and the red-faced lady waved him away. With that he ended his performance and with eyes downcast in a pose of contrition he passed his hat around.
Chandrashekhar Sastry is a published author and has won several prizes for his short stories. His first book The Non Resident Indian – from Non-being to Being (Panther 1991) was a path breaking study on the Indian diaspora. His second book was a novel The Tanjore Painting (Partridge –Penguin 2014) dealing with the cultural imports that non-residents carry to their new homelands. Dr Sastry is an engineer scientist, has travelled across the world and now lives in Bangalore.
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