Spark - September 2014 Issue by Spark Editor

Spark Word. World. Wisdom September 2014

05 September 2014 Dear Reader, As temperatures cool and the season of festivities begins, Spark is delighted to present to you our 'Mosaic' edition! In this exciting potpourri, you will find some wonderful poetry and fiction, some beautiful art and photography, and non-fiction. We hope you enjoy the issue!

Contributors Anupama Krishnakumar Bakul Banerjee Beena Nair Girija Murali

We earnestly hope you enjoy this issue and welcome your feedback. Mail us your thoughts to feedback@sparkthemagazine.com. We wish you a fabulous month ahead!

Jeevanjyoti Chakraborty

-Editors

Parth Pandya

M. Mohankumar Madhan SK

Ram Govardhan Shravya Gunipudi

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.

Shreya Ramachandran Sushanta Sarma Barooah Vani Viswanathan Vinita Agrawal

Spark September 2014 © Spark 2014

Coverpage Picture

Individual contributions © Author

Carol Simmons

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

Anupama

Concept, Editing and Design

Krishnakumar/Vani

Anupama Krishnakumar Vani Viswanathan

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Inside this Issue POETRY A Cracked Masterpiece by Shravya Gunipudi Across the Disputed Land by M. Mohankumar Dawn by Vinita Agrawal Across the Space Apart by Bakul Banerjee I Won’t Compare Your Face... by M. Mohankumar FICTION A Study in Platitudes by Parth Pandya Forbidden Happiness by Jeevanjyoti Chakraborty Another Day by Beena Nair Seeds of Suspicion by Ram Govardhan NON-FICTION Weighty Adventures by Vani Viswanathan An Affair With a Study Table by Anupama Krishnakumar Remembering Grandfather by Shreya Ramachandran THE LOUNGE INNER JOURNEY| Understanding My Religion by Sushanta Sarma Barooah PHOTOGRAPHY Colours of South East Asia by Madhan SK ART Flower Girl by Girija Murali

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Poetry A Cracked Masterpiece by Shravya Gunipudi

From the time the earth came into being to now, life has transformed drastically. These aren’t days of peace and happiness, but they aren’t entirely lost either. Shravya Gunipudi writes a poem on the cracked masterpiece called life. First came the vastly lush green lands, of high plateaus and smooth plains, Then emerged clouds in the blue sky, to nourish the parched earth with rains.

Slowly, small bushes began to sprout, and the swaying trees soared high, to fill the impure air with oxygen, and welcome the tired birds flying by.

Soon the clear brooks bubbled beautifully, merging with rippling rivers and silent seas, encouraging the fresh fruits and flowers, to blossom in nature's calming breeze.

Then humans descended on Earth, their progress initially timid and slow, 4

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But as Adam and Eve began to mate, their population found a way to grow.

Later came terrible wars and bloodshed, bringing destruction, tears and separation, The world split into innumerable parts, and each one called itself a nation.

Soon discrimination started spreading, with it, caste and religion were born, This gave rise to poverty and greed, every trace of humanity was torn.

Every day we witness horrors, Animals are extinct and birds have died,

Shravya Gunipudi, a 21-yearold CA and CS Final Student, wishes to combine her skills of accounting with her passion for fictional writing. It is her dream to merge her creative side with her analytical one because writing, for her, is the best form of expression that she hopes to pursue for many more years to come. She has a blog titled ‘Fictionally Inkspired’ (http:// shravyagunipudi.wordpress.com ) and a Facebook Page called ‘Shravya Gunipudi’s Inkspression’ where she pours her heart out in the form of words.

Water is drying up, the trees are gone, Compassion has been pushed aside.

But then life goes on, amidst such pain, traces of joy and peace can be seen, The world is one, strongly united by life, by death and by the journey in between.

But in the end it all comes together, bit by bit and part by part, I begin to realise that we are mere, pieces of Life's Mosaic Art. 5

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Fiction A Study in Platitudes by Parth Pandya

An unlikely family comes together to be part of a very likely activity of a type of Indian immigrant family in the US. Parth Pandya brings their story to life. Jamuna ben realized that the laces of her shoes had come off. Shoes were an inconvenient truth of her old age. She didn’t like them, but couldn’t find anything more comfortable to walk around in. On a hot July day like this, with her family circling around her, there was no choice but to put on those green colored Nike shoes her grand-daughter had picked for her and soldier along. Her knees would give way after every hundred steps she walked and her eyes would scan for the nearest seat.

even she had heard all about the immigrants lining up at Ellis island, with the promise of a better life, with the promise of freedom, and the pursuit of happiness. Was she free? Happy? Growing up in the bylanes of Jamnagar, she had never thought of coming to America. The immigrant life was not of her choosing. Her husband too, was a suggestion her parents had forced her to accept. From the reticent bride of a man immigrating to the United States, she had grown to be her own self. With limited education and halting command over English, she had survived Ashit rolled his eyes when he saw his mother over two decades in the suburbs of New Jersey. slow down. It was tough enough being a dedicated father. Being a model son was taxing him. Their kids, Niti and Hiten, followed their parHe wasn’t sure why he had brought his mother ents at some distance. Neither was jumping up out today. He knew she hated it. He knew he and down in excitement about this particular hated it. But he also knew that neither would soiree. Niti adjusted the earphones on her iPod, admit it. The pilgrimage had to be done. He ad- letting the vagrant beats of the latest hip-hop justed the fanny pack on his stomach, wiped the star transport her away. She was fending off a sweat of his brow and lugged his pot-bellied fresh hurt from the morning. Jalpa and she had a body forward. Today was going to be a long day. fight over this trip – she insisted on Niti’s presence, which cued loud protests from her. Ashit’s Jalpa looked into the distance with a blank stare. word had prevailed in the end. Niti’s rebellion Her gift for appreciating history was limited. But was like a cup that always managed to fill the 6

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brim but rarely spilled over. Her brother Hiten accompanied the group with the least degree of dissonance. At the tender age of nine, he had nothing to lose and everything to gain. Every exposure, every incident, every trip, every interaction was a welcome visitor in his palace of curiosities.

They all sat around in a circle on the mattress. Jalpa took out a bunch of Ziploc bags, within which were theplas bunched in aluminum foil. The alu sabzi was neatly laid out in a bunch of plastic containers. The pickle, soaked in oil, stained its container a deep blood orange. The spoons, forks, water and sweets were brought out, one after the other. They sat patiently, peerThe group ground to a halt as Jamuna ben gave ing at the ground. A ritual steeped in habit was her troubled knee a rest. The sun was beaming soon underway. down from the afternoon sky onto the courtyard in front of The Statue of Liberty. The pigeons Jamuna ben took the food because she could held a conference in front of them, feeding off have no other. Her constitution, attuned to sevthe grains scattered on the floor. It was a cue for en decades of home cooked food had found no the family. comfort in America. The only thing They all naturally that worked for her gravitated todiet, her diabetes wards the only and her didactic corner of the notions of eating, courtyard that was what Jalpa was covered in would make for shadow. The her. Ashit took the earth was cool meal without quesand welcoming to tion, taking it as a the family in sign of his duty need. The collectowards his mothtive trespasses of er, proxied through the day were to his wife. He would, ready to take a break, spread their legs on the big while eating the theplas, eye the hot dog stand on mattress that Jalpa laid out and sate their hunger the other side of the courtyard. The kids took an with the wholesome meal that this family would apathetic view of the whole business of eating. partake in. Their sensibilities were finely attuned to the In the wee hours of the morning, when all was switching of worlds. In one moment, Indianquieter than usual in the eerily quiet suburb of American, and in the other, American-Indian. Piscataway, New Jersey, Jalpa got up to make a The ritual did not embarrass them, though the sumptuous meal of theplas and alu sabzi for the futility of it amused them. Why their rather rich hungry horde that would accompany her on the family would not spend a hundred dollars on a trip later that day. meal but choose to engage in sitting around and 7

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eating this meal to the curious stares of strangers and walked towards The Statue of Liberty. A was something they had never fully understood. Caucasian tourist with a pair of goggles and a rotund belly was handed a point and shoot camAnd so the meal proceeded in slow harmony. era. Conversation found its way out in as the morsels of food disappeared. A smile here, a laugh there, The man stared at the screen at the back of the a comment here, a question there. The family camera. Bit by bit, they filled it up. The grandconversed, softly to begin with, loudly to end mother in the center, Ashit and Jalpa behind her, with. Oblivious to the heat, to the teeming mass- the two kids flanking her sides. On an ordinary es that were building around, to the history of day, in the full capture of a glorious photogthe immigrants that had once landed there, to raphy, in a very ordinary way, the Patel family their own story of displacement from their na- came together, fulfilling yet another cliché. tive lands. When the meal was done and the trash was deposited and the hunger Gods sated, they got up

Parth Pandya is a passionate Tendulkar fan, diligent minion of the ‘evil empire’, persistent writer at http://parthp.blogspot.com, self-confessed Hindi movie geek, avid quizzer, awesome husband (for lack of a humbler adjective) and a thrilled father of two. He grew up in Mumbai and spent the last eleven years really growing up in the U.S. and is always looking to brighten up his day through good coffee and great puns.

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Poetry Across the Disputed Land by M. Mohankumar

An attempt at making truce is met by hesitation and later, rejection. A poem on disputed land by M. Mohankumar. The metes and bounds,

then stretched his hand

measured and remeasured,

slowly towards me;

stood in my favour; but he would not accept

And as I waited for the expected handshake,

and threatened to sue.

suddenly he withdrew

I dreaded the prospect.

his hand and walked away.

I was willing to meet him more than halfway.

And one fine morning, I held out my hand, across the strip of land, hoping he’d grasp it readily.

He was no doubt surprised,

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.

stood motionless there, 9

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Non-fiction Weighty Adventures by Vani Viswanathan

Vani Viswanathan talks about her latest (mis?)adventure – the gym. I’m covered in sweat, and I’m taking long the chubby side. And thankfully, now that I’m in breaths. my late 20s, the baby fat – what I think my chubby cheeks were due to – has finally started “Aaarrrnnnhhhh!” reducing. But the gym workout is the result of I wipe my face on my sleeve. months of a psychological battle with my husThis guy just lifted 115 kilograms, working out band who, being a marathon runner and sports his rear deltoid. Another ‘aaarrnnhh’ later, he enthusiast, seemingly couldn’t digest how I gets up and nods at me. He’s done with his ‘set’, couldn’t care less about fitness. And well, after and I can go now, and he’ll wait till I’m done months of half-hearted online searching for a with my set. I go and change the weight to good pool near where I live, so I could put to 11kgs, giving him a sheepish smile. This guy just use the only exercise I care about, I wanted to lifted weight more than twice what I weigh. I’m try the gym. going to manage maybe what my 1-year-old Before I joined here, I’d only been to a gym niece weighs. twice. Once in Chennai in my beautiful apartI’ve been working out for two months now, and ment complex where the only machines I could this is my story from my gym. Not all about me, identify were the treadmill and the cycle, and but also some about the many fascinating people another time in Mumbai in my college, when my awareness about gym equipment had grown to I meet there. include the cross trainer, dumbbells and the The first thing everyone asks when I say I go to twister. The first time I didn’t work out, I had the gym, is “For what?!” Then follows a string accidentally gone into the gym on my way to the of you’re-slim-good-metabolism-if-I-had-a- ‘games’ room. The second time I tried the cycle figure-like-you type of statements. I’m just trying and the cross trainer for a grand total of 20 to be modest here, but most of it is true – for minutes and came back and decided jogging was the amount that I eat, I am blessed with good much better. metabolism, and so far, I haven’t swung much to 10

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So you could say that joining the gym here and signing up by paying for three months was a significant step forward. And in this short span of two months, my respect for male film stars with six pack abs and female stars with flat tummies has gone up manifold. I will never, ever, think they are doing anything frivolous again. And after a long time, the gym has given me fodder to make up stories. New things to take note of, a whole new planet of people to observe and try to understand.

lady I’ve seen around. A little on the older side, long hair dyed orange-brown, with a fringe. Wrinkles on the face, but a proud I-don’t-give-adamn-er. Not to be ageist or anything, but she turns up in the gym with clothes I wouldn’t ever consider, only because I wonder how easy it is to work out in those. Say, a mini skirt. Anyhow, to each her own. She works out in her own state of zen. Eyes closed, she freely lets her arms fly about as she lifts those 1-kg weights. She pauses after each set for a good couple of minutes. Sitting on the pectoFor instance, there’s the person ral fly, she rests her chin on the I call the little man. He looks seat with her eyes closed (and one young enough to be a college day I embarrassedly tapped on student. He’s in the gym pretty her shoulder to ask if she was much every time I go. 6.30 in done and I could use the mathe evening? He’s there. chine). She also tosses her long 7.45pm? Yup. When I leave at hair about every now and then, 8.15pm? You bet. Heck, he’s even in on Saturand spends a good few seconds scanning the day mornings when I go early. He knows everyroom with her large eyes. Interesting, I think one there, and he’s one of the ‘aarrnnhhh’ers. every time I see her. Every time I see him, adding those extra kilos to whatever he’s lifting or pulling, or increasing the There are the typical loud show-offy boys, and speed on the treadmill till he’s making a racket girls who work out with their beautiful long running on them like a sprinter, I wonder why tresses undone and in halter neck tops (I don’t he does this. Why is the fitness regime is so im- even…). There are sweaty boys who forget to portant that he’s there day in and day out, clean the seats after they’re done and kick-ass spending a good couple of hours everyday? Is he girls who run on the treadmill full-speed for half trying to impress someone? Maybe he wants to an hour non-stop. All around, there are people look older and more mature, and be taken seri- who are pushing the limits everyday, making ously? Ah, maybe he’s a sportsperson and needs friends, and gaining confidence. to stay fit to play whatever it is! Every few What do I do, you ask? Well, I’ve progressed. minutes, in between my workouts, I try to see From the days when 1-kg weights made my what little man is up to. arms ache, through to when lifting a 5kg dumbSpeaking of interesting, I cannot forget the new bell meant I had to do a little jig with my left 11

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arm, I’ve now come to the stage where I can lift a 5-er with relative ease, and the 2.5kg has become a pfft-er-‘bhaiyya-yeh-bahut-halka-hai’ weight. I look at the rows of ceiling lights and scan them one by one instead of counting down to 50, so that the number doesn’t seem far away. Doing the leg extension – or where you lift weights from near your ankles while a horrible weight presses just above your knees – I quickly finish each set with a swear word accompanying each count: “10, holy, 11, s#!t, 12, f*&$, 13, f$! k, 14… 15… f,f, f” – set done!). I have been progressively fighting my battles and can’t help a proud grin when I can do some exercise with relative ease, or my husband makes note of tiny changes in strength. My biggest battle left is the

damned chest press. I ashamedly can’t move theop;[ handle more than an inch – all strength, any little practice, just vanishes that moment. But as they say, if it were this easy, it would mean nothing. I just have to look at that little man for inspiration or the skinny girl who lifts the 5kg dumbbell with ease, to know I’d get there too. If I just stick to it, and push myself (or something) up or down, one ceiling light at a time, one swear word at a time.

Vani Viswanathan is often lost in her world of books and A R Rahman, churning out lines in her head or humming a song. Her world is one of frivolity, optimism, quietude and general chilled-ness, where there is always place for outbursts of laughter, bouts of silence, chocolate, ice cream and lots of books and endless iTunes playlists from all over the world. She is now a CSR communications consultant, and has been blogging at http:// chennaigalwrites.blogspot.com since 2005.

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Art Flower Girl by Girija Murali

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Fiction Forbidden Happiness by Jeevanjyoti Chakraborty

A bratty kid, his tired and impatient mother, and a woman and her husband who have made an entreaty that isn’t keeping them happy. Jeevanjyoti Chakraborty writes a story that explores people, relationships and life. Everyone looked up. Well, almost everyone. And then, quickly, but without the hurriedness of embarrassment, they all went back to what they were doing. The man in the suit to his newspaper; the younger man in a hoody to his tablet; the pretty girl to her – oh wait, sorry, she was not among those who had looked up; the beautiful – because, obviously, newly married – couple, back to chatting with each other; the oldest gentleman back to his dozing-off; the woman in the glasses to her. So, yes, life settled back to the lazy normalcy expected in an airport waiting lounge. The sharp, undramatic violence perpetrated by a young mother on her bratty kid is far too mundane a public incident to deserve any extended period of attention; it is especially boring if the kid doesn’t cry. Two eyes did not need to go back to anything else, however. They had been watching that bratty kid ever since he had slipped out of the protective reach of his mother and started playing with his monster truck toy. They had watched him gingerly taking bold steps away

from her – farther and farther until he had strategically placed himself in a fairly open floorspace, free to build his imaginary dirt-tracks, invisible trucks, and other necessary monstrosities. They had watched him skillfully verbalizing creative whooshing sounds to complete his mental spectacle of a raging, crashing, mad truck race. And, they had watched him carelessly forgetting the invisible tether of his mother to lie belly down, cheek touching, nose rubbing on that oft-trampled carpet with its international, invisible dirtiness – a carelessness which culminated in that mundane, boring violence and a teeth-gritting “Neel, how many times do I have to tell you not to … ?” As the young mother yanked her boy away from all that dirt, and went back to restart her wait for the flight, bundling him into a more protective, very visible angry clutch on her lap, those eyes looked on. And, the lady – who was clearly in her late thirties now, and to whom those eyes belonged – clutched a little tighter, the only thing that was on her lap – a handbag: expen-

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sive, obedient, unmoving.

about it again. She had kept her promise. And he had made Guilt his compatriot. He had conHer husband had been watching too. Not the vinced both of them that he just did not have it kid, though. He had followed her gaze all right, in him to love someone else’s child as his own. to see the boy playing, and caught a glimpse of She knew that she could. He knew that more. that snap drama between him and his mother. But he was intently following the changing ex- His unforgiving guilt came rushing back from pressions on his wife’s face. He had seen them that silent entreaty. He had to look away. If only before. And, every time it wrenched his heart. A his heart would just acquiesce in her wish. He hint of gentle wanted them to warmth to be happy. But, begin with, as forced acceptance her otherwise doesn’t beget that indifferent – not when it is gaze suddenly done for life. caught sight ----of some kid The engines had playing or steadied into the prattling, folroaring purr of lowed by a cruise mode. Dinsteady period ner was done. The of forgetful lights had involvement – even if only from a distance – that seemed to dimmed. And most people, now back after the tease her with a vicarious happiness, and then a flurried use of restrooms, had started settling sudden jolt-like break back to the reality of bar- back into invisible, stuffy cocoons of private ren emptiness. But this time he saw something loneliness. Routes adopted by individuals to forelse too. The invisible tethers of her momentary get a continuous nagging compromise for legpossession now snapped off, she had turned to room, or a jostle for elbow space, or to get closlook at her husband. And he saw in her eyes a er to something preferable like sleep varied: a roving, beseeching entreaty that was pregnant book here, a glass of sparkling water there; some with the kind of potency which only ultimate white wine, some red wine; some orange juice, some apple juice; some movie, some song. The despair spawns. children, however, did not compromise nor did He knew what that entreaty was. They had they have a particular taste for loneliness. So, talked about this, fought over it. It had, at one they either slept, relieved that the ear-blocking time, almost ruined their marriage. But they had pain inflicted during take-off had finally subsidpulled through. And he had been grateful that ed, or grew emboldened by the pampering they had. Finally, they had decided never to talk feigned smile of the pretty stewardesses. 15

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Smile or not, our bratty kid had, of course, grown emboldened again. So when the mother had to go use the restroom, he had to get into “action”. The flavour of the day being the monster truck toy, and the punishment of it being taken away being such an impelling motivation, there was only one choice of action for him. Get up, reach the upper baggage compartment somehow, and salvage the toy. Achieving the “somehow” was where all the boldness was necessary. With time pressing against the imminent return of Mother Forbidder, the solution presented itself to the kid quite clearly. All he had to do was get on the arm-rest by the aisle, stand up carefully, lean against the baggage compartment, flip it open – just the way the adults did it – and voila, have the toy back! Of course this was never going to work; but try telling that to the kid. Try telling “it’s never going to work” to any kid. So he tried. He got up shakily – but boldly, of course – on the arm-rest, steadying himself somewhat by holding on to the seat top. Then, drawing the attention of a few fellow adults who were still not done trying to fall asleep, he began to reach for the baggage compartment with one hand. There is a certain benumbing sensation – even without the wine – in a flight cabin which foists a lulling inertia among all - children excluded. And so it was not surprising that none had jumped out yet to stop this kid. And thus his mission continued uninterrupted. But, it still was not going to work – which is exactly what he found out momentarily after he had let go of his other hand from the seat top. Instead of being able to lean against the compartment, his body swerved the other way round – backwards into the narrow aisle space. But, even as he instinctively stiffened at this alien danger of falling

on his back and, more importantly, had an instinctive realization of the implications of that, he suddenly found himself being lifted up by a pair of strong arms. No, not the mother! He clutched at the man’s shirt and with a real terror that had swiftly dissipated all boldness, he looked at the stranger’s kind face. Within moments, terror turned to grateful relief, and he allowed himself the safe luxury of putting his arms around the stranger’s neck, and burying his face on his secure shoulder. The stranger twitched a little, and then a few seconds later put him back on the seat. The fear of physical pain now gone, a more important fear gripped him: Mom! The only thing he could do with a frown writ large on his face was to put forth a beseeching entreaty, “Don’t tell Mommy. Pleeease!” The stranger smiled, nodded, and went back to his seat. Mommy returned. And true to the honour of that nod, the stranger didn’t tell. And bratty kid, now really safe, went to sleep. The stranger, however, didn’t. He couldn’t. His wife was asleep. She was tired, indifferent to easier compromises. He had to go to the restroom. He didn’t need to. But he needed to get away from something or may be to something else. Once liberated inside the privacy of the cramped restroom, he stood there staring at the platform for changing baby diapers. He rubbed his neck, thinking, staring, and remembering. Then he caught his reflection in the mirror. And, he saw a smile. He looked closer, still holding his neck, still smiling. And he noticed that something was finally missing in the reflection after a long, long time. His old compatriot, Guilt, had suddenly become invisible.

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He used the flush hearing the blast of air sucking in the dirt that never was there to begin with. Thus completing the ritual of cleanliness, he went back to the empty place beside his wife.

panion. She was still unsure whether this was something to be enjoyed yet, even as she couldn’t help dreaming about the surreal possibility of a happiness that she had always known to be forbidden. She frantically hoped, with the cau---tious thrill of uncelebrated triumph which each She woke up - bleary eyed and indifferent. And passing moment brought, that in the next mofound her fingers clasped in his, in a strange, ment she would not find that shroud, again. She long-lost warmth. He had a faint glint of happi- didn’t. Ever again. ness in his eyes. She knew that look from a distant, forgotten memory. But he was not looking at her. She followed his gaze, and found that kid grinning at him shyly from an aisle seat couple of rows ahead. And then as she looked back at her husband’s face, her roving eyes searched for that ever-so-present shroud of his invisible com-

Jeevanjyoti Chakraborty is a Postdoctoral Researcher at the Mathematical Institute in the University of Oxford and works on the modelling of lithiumion batteries. Prior to this he finished his PhD at IIT Kharagpur. Jeevan prides himself as one of the earliest contributors to Spark even though he has not done much by way of contributions in recent times! In terms of story ideas, he loves the wacky and the improbable. He adores delightful twists, clever wordplays and ideas which turn conventional wisdom on its head.

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Poetry Dawn by Vinita Agrawal

Morning, is a tree that gets tangled in its own branches as the day goes on, says Vinita Agrawal. This poem tells you why. By morning, the restless sands lie in neat pleats pinched by night winds crimped into columns, each one breathing a sun of its own.

Morning gathers the night to its bosom like a cranky baby. Silences its sobs.

Diverts the mind from dreams to reality; to earth - now freshly dressed in a pleated skirt of orderly sands.

It unites darkness and light, flour and ants, grain and birds swabs and wounds, thirst and ponds, fresh blood and old pulse beats.

Renews wonders - how perfect strangers meet and then cull friendships from the empty air of extended palms.

How faces, never seen before, enter our wombs and slice our hearts with their first cry. 18

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How, when we sing, animals listen and plants grow. How the sight of eggs in abandoned nests crushes us with sorrow.

And how, when we stumble upon stumps of axed trees, we are hacked by the pain of something precious snatched away.

Morning is like a tree...tall and straight when it starts until it gets tangled in its own branches as the day goes on.

Vinita is a Mumbai based writer and poet. Her poems have been published in Asiancha, Raedleaf Poetry , Wordweavers, OpenRoad Review, Constellations, The Fox Chase Review, Spark, The Taj Mahal Review, CLRI, SAARC Anthologies, Kritya.org, TouchThe Journal of healing, Museindia, Everydaypoets.com, Mahmag World Literature, The Criterion, The Brown Critique, Twenty20journal.com, Sketchbook, Poetry 24, Mandala and others which include several international anthologies. Her poem was nominated for the Best of the Net Awards 2011 by CLRI. She received a prize from MuseIndia in 2010. Her debut collection of poems titled Words Not Spoken published by Sampark/ Brown Critique was released in November 2013. Her poem was awarded a prize in the Wordweavers contest 2013.

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Non-fiction An Affair With a Study Table by Anupama Krishnakumar Anupama Krishnakumar’s long-cherished dream of owning the perfect study table is now a reality. She can’t stop raving about just how brilliant it is and how she is loving the experience. Read on. Let me begin by saying I am living a dream, a dream of many years. I am sitting and writing at my new study table that arrived just two days back. Ever since this piece of long-desired furniture arrived, I am roaming around the house totally charmed by her ravishing beauty. I love the way she gleams in a brilliant brown that is reserved only for Mahogany. It’s a colour that makes me go weak on my knees, makes my heart melt like gooey deep brown chocolate. From handbags to shoes to kurtas to fashion accessories, I have invariably melted at the sight of objects of this colour. So a study table in this colour isn’t an exception and it has haunted me persistently over the years. In fact, I sneaked in small descriptions or made passing references to the writer’s desk of my dreams in some of my stories which had author characters. But the complete picture was something like this: A huge, solid and spacious study table which has a beautiful table lamp in the corner. It has a combination of brass and dark brown wood for the base and a pale olive

green shade. An artificial plant is placed diagonally opposite to that. Adding to that are all writerly-and-bookworm-specific paraphernalia spread out tastefully across the generous length and width of the table, while other things find their places in the draw and cupboard on the side. My dream is now a reality. The table of my dreams sits majestically with all the nuances in place just the way I had imagined it to be. Every time I steal a look at her, I understand how the phrase ‘killing me softly’ rings so true. It’s like the sort of love that enslaves your senses and punches your heart gently, one that makes even sadness seem so beautiful. It’s a very writerly affair because there’s something absolutely mesmerising about sitting here and writing to your heart’s content in the soft yellowish glow of your favourite table lamp. The lamp illuminates the occupants of the table in a romantic fashion, casting perfect shadows and bringing an ethereal feel to the entire setting. Add to that a dash of scintillating Yanni music in the background,

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powered by a speaker that ensures it plays out every little sound distinctly for you to hear and cherish; there could be nothing more magical for a writer. I spotted this dream table on an online furniture store a few months back and was horribly dejected when I saw the tag ‘Sold Out’ mercilessly sticking to the table’s picture. Since that day, I would diligently visit the site every day to see if that tag disappeared. It didn’t and over the days, I gave up and decided that I should be sensible enough to shrug this madness off my brain and heart. But what I didn’t know was that the Husband has been keeping a tab on it too and one fine morning, he discovered that his wife’s obsession was back in stock. In one swift move, he got it ordered. The two weeks that I waited for the table to arrive would perhaps qualify as one of the longest and most restless waits, only next to the few frantic days of wait before my son and then a few years later, my daughter, were born (and also when I waited for my first ever twowheeler to be delivered). It is amazing how we choose certain things to brighten up our days, how these things make you smile to yourself and feel totally good about your life. They make you look forward to waking up and living the rest of the day because their presence is going to make a difference to your life, in a big or small way, that day. They are

around to make you feel complete and define who you are as a person. I don’t know if it sounds crazy but I sense a dizzying happiness when I see my striking brown study table alongside my two bookshelves stuffed with books of all sorts on one side and a wall filled with bookish posters and a soft-board full of reminders on the other. It’s just the perfect picture of how I would want my world to look like.

Strangely, especially when I am nose-deep into work and left alone, I would like to imagine that my entire world is just this small setting that I have built around myself and the rest of it is a blur that eventually fades into nothingness. The only thing that is boundless is imagination powered by words from the books you read sitting at the table and that which powers your words as you write away furiously. I am not sure if this is a typical Piscean trait, being torn between reality and imagination. But this imagination is so alluring that I wish I can plunge into the depths of its blue waters (somehow, I imagine imagination to be blue in colour!) and create endlessly. Wouldn’t it be such a fulfilling process especially when you have the perfect setting? While Time would provide me an answer to that, I am sure of one thing now. Life feels good. Real good.

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Anupama Krishnakumar loves Physics and English and sort of managed to get degrees in both â&#x20AC;&#x201C; 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 â&#x20AC;&#x201C; spinning tales for her small audience and for her little son, singing lullabies to her little daughter, bringing together a lovely team of creative people and spearheading Spark. She loves books, music, notebooks and colour pens and truly admires simplicity in anything! Tomatoes send her into a delightful tizzy, be it in soup or rasam or ketchup or atop a pizza!

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Poetry Across the Space Apart by Bakul Banerjee

Bakul Banerjee writes about the growing space between two people in love. What happens to the feelings then? Her poem tells you more. On the slippery stones at the edge of the rushing river, swollen by the melting snow, a memory of the faraway mountain, we tried to stand still barefoot, balancing ourselves to avoid falling over, holding onto each other. We played games of counting white wavelets skipping from my feet splashing onto yours.

Or was it the other way around? Was I standing downhill from you? Without any goodbye, you ran uphill in your long strides away from me toward the fiery sky lit up by the glowing setting sun. Ever since, I kept falling and falling behind as the space between us kept growing. The bitter taste of that moment is still on my tongue.

Days, months, and years went past. We would never feel our hearts beating in unison or would splash 23

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pure water to each other again. We aged, became sick, maybe sick at heart. Burying those feelings, avalanches from the heartache-mountain came tumbling down. I thought they could not be recovered. You were gone.

But wait! When mimosas bloom by the river filling the air with their sweet scents, I reach out to you across the expanding universe, raising my cup of love for an undefined sacrament.

Award winning author and poet Bakul Banerjee, Ph.D. published her first volume of poems, titled “Synchronicity: Poems” in 2010. For the past fifteen years, her poems and stories appeared in several literary magazines and anthologies throughout U.S. and India. She lives near Chicago and received her Ph.D. degree in computational geophysics from The Johns Hopkins University, Maryland.

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Fiction Seeds of Suspicion by Ram Govardhan

Sandra and Raju’s adventures in the mango orchard lead them to Ismail Bhai, who catches them red-handed with sackfuls of mangoes one day. But the three of them begin to share a very interesting relationship. Ram Govardhan writes a short story. I was trembling and Sandra was dazed when Ismail Bhai caught us in the mango orchard on the outskirts of our village. I was eleven, she ten, and both of us measured four-seven. But I looked a little taller given my skinny build contrasting her chubby one. Ismail Bhai was the only caretaker of the sprawling grove. He was too tall and towered over the dwarfish smallbreed trees. He lived alone, never spoke to anyone and never stepped out of the orchard. Although he was old enough to be a grandfather, or even a great-grandfather, he was always known as Ismail Bhai. “I am six-three even at sixty three,” said Ismail Bhai. “So I must have been taller in the prime of my life.” We did not understand what prime of life was, nor did we ask him because we were in dread of the looming punishment. We were never caught because we always entered and escaped through the porous northern end, while Ismail Bhai watched over the reinforced southern gate. Yet, most thieves pre-

ferred the southern one because making their escape into the village across the road was easier. But Ismail Bhai had his own ways of catching them and the punishments he meted out had gained such notoriety that there was hardly anyone to take him on. However, taking advantage of his mid-afternoon slumber, few foolhardy youngsters ripped off mangoes, but the occasional bashings they had to endure deterred a hundred others. Thus the number of attempts invariably decreased by the season, but Ismail Bhai’s ailments multiplied by the year. Unlike the four previous summers, spread over several of our sorties when we could walk away with bagfuls unscathed, this time, Ismail Bhai caught us red-handed with a dozen plump mangoes stuffed in each of our haversacks. As we and our backpacks shivered, Ismail Bhai sat us down with a wave of his hand and asked our names. We looked at each other before answering as if we needed each other’s consent to reveal our names.

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“Raju,” I said. “Sandra.”

and curled up inside when it rained. We couldn’t see anything that can be called a bed, rolled or unrolled.

“Ismail,” he said and extended his hand, I “I don’t even use a pillow, forget bed,” he said. clasped his big hand instinctively. That was my first handshake in a sitting manner. He asked us to wash the mangoes clean under a tap that was in the far corner of a bambooEven if he was in his regimentals, his unshaven, fenced forecourt. Next to the tap, there was a rugged looks eased us a bit for such unkempt square, roofless plastic-sheet enclosure that we indiscipline was agreed must be his incapable of exbathroom. acting severe costs of our As we entered, we wrongdoing. And saw him dusting an then his disarmelectric juicer that ing smile instantmust have been ly relaxed us. lying unused for, Sandra guessed, at Appreciating our least ten years. wan smiles, he “Otherwise, it canasked us to put not accumulate so our backpacks much of dust,” she aside. He then whispered. I agreed. asked us to pluck half a dozen melIsmail Bhai cut the low mangoes he ripe ones into piecpointed to. We followed him to his thatched es and put all of them into a jar. And he asked us shack that was a kilometre away, at the other end to pick one raw one. He cut it too and put the of the orchard. Our heads could only reach up pieces in the jar and said, “The secret of great to his waist. He was sauntering but his paces tasting mango juice lies in adding an unripe one were so big that he was always ahead of us even to half a dozen ripe ones...for a heavenly taste.” as we ran, puffing and blowing. As we enjoyed the juice, the village butcher deIt was a dirty, stuffy hut, things strewn all over, livered mutton in a black polythene bag and left and there was not an inch to sit. But he insisted without saying a word. I am not sure what it was that we sit even as we began removing utensils, – but Ismail Bhai seemed to sense my discomtumblers, plates, leftovers, transistor, tubes of fort. “Are you a vegetarian?” he asked. I nodded. toothpaste etc. It was too small for him, he told He instantly , , kept the bag aside, and brought us, and he never stretched his legs fully while down a wooden casket from attic that had potasleeping. He preferred sleeping outside the hut toes. 26

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“We will make Aloo Biryani,” he said with a smile that exposed his green-yellow teeth. As he was washing the potatoes, a woman in burqa entered the hut. She began loudly cursing Ismail Bhai. “Get out from here,” said Ismail Bhai.

When we walked into the village, many were shocked to see us with bagfuls of mangoes. Seldom had any one, they said, ever emerged out of the main gate unscathed with stolen mangoes. Every villager had several anecdotes to narrate, many of them, gained by first-hand experience.

From then on, we visited Ismail Bhai every sum“We will not be peaceful until you come home,” mer and, over the years, we could see him growshe said. ing fond of us. He would treat us with sweets, “Take my body home when am dead…now get force us to have lunch with him, each time preout from here,” he said. paring a different sort of Aloo Biryani, and gift us She threw the potatoes and the spice-casket out sackful of mangoes. And we could see his moistened eyes while bidding goodbye. of the hut. One day, just before lunch, he asked us whether we knew swimming. He insisted that both of us learn swimming. There were four wells in the orchard and he took us to the largest one. It was full and we couldn’t see the masonry lining the circular well as the water touched the stone bor“This is my daily routine, don’t be frightened… der. Ismail Bhai sat on the stone rim, held us by let us make Aloo Biryani,” said Ismail Bhai and his long hands and, over two weeks, we became brought down two more caskets with potatoes consummate swimmers. and spices from the attic. As we grew into our teens, we could see him Despite the dirty surroundings, he kept vegeta- growing dumb and, to some extent, deaf too. bles and ingredients clean and safe in the caskets And, within a few years, we saw his condition which, when opened, had several chequered deteriorating. He would gesture to ask whether chests. we had passed our exams, whether we got good Contrary to what we knew about him, he was grades, and whether were are happy. We wontoo sweet to us. After lunch, he stuffed a few dered as to why he always asked about our hapmore mangoes into out backpacks before seeing piness since, those days, we were always happy. us off by saying, “Keep in touch.” By the time we finished our college and realised Angered with her behaviour, Ismail Bhai, catching her by hair, shoved her out and threw the mutton bag onto her. Picking up the bag, the potatoes and the spice-casket, she went away crying and cursing him out loud.

At that age, we did not understand what he meant by saying keep in touch. For over three days, we argued that it may actually mean that we must be in touch with truth and should not steal.

that we loved each other, we saw Ismail Bhai was confined to bed, an elderly hakeem by his side. And then whenever we visited his hut he was too unwell even to get up, even to talk to us. The hakeem told us that Ismail Bhai was not just a caretaker but the owner of the whole orchard.

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A few years later, by when we were married to each other, we went to the orchard to take his blessings. We found Ismail Bhai’s wife, Wahida, the woman we had seen fighting with him few years ago, cooking under a mango tree. She bluntly told us that Ismail Bhai had passed away a few months earlier. She rudely waved us away ordering us not to ask any more questions.

When we asked as to why Ismail Bhai’s wife is in the orchard now for no fault of hers, he said, “She is punishing herself because, even though she was faithful to him all her life, she thinks she was responsible for creating grounds for him to suspect her behaviour.”

Realising that we were man and wife too, he had a word for us, “Don’t ever sow seeds of suspiDuring the six days we spent in the village we cion...within no time, the monster will devour heard too much of gossip but, in the end, the your lives.” hakeem told us that Ismail Bhai lived in the orchard for more than twenty-five years punishing himself for suspecting that his wife was unfaithful to him. “The day he came to know that she was actually not unfaithful to him, he excommunicated himself by cutting off all contacts with the world,” he said.

Ram Govardhan’s first novel, Rough with the Smooth, was longlisted for the 2009 Man Asian Literary Prize, The Economist-Crossword 2011 Award and published by Leadstart Publishing, Mumbai. His short stories have appeared in several international literary journals. He lives, works in Chennai cursing the deadly humidity all the time.

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Photography Colours of South East Asia by Madhan SK

Cambodia, of serenity, humility and surrealism

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Medan, of stunning hues

and Ijen of blue fire! 30

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Marvel at futuristic trees, reaching the sky

Pause at the power of devotion in Singapore

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Ride in the 'cool' tuk-tuk in Boracay

Or simply forget it all at the edge of the world!

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Fiction Another Day by Beena Nair It’s yet another day in the life of a man and woman completely in love with each other – a day full of expectations and smiles. Beena Nair writes about love of a different kind in her story. Another day! She woke up, stretching lazily, with a smile on her lips. She had decided early on in life to keep it there, no matter what. And the smile had remained there, through all the hardships. That was one of the things she could do, she thought. Something that was still in her hands.

savouring the tenderness that came with living together. Quite suddenly, a she jumped out of bed. It was time for the morning rituals - lighting the lamp, the morning prayers and then coffee and biscuits. No early morning shower for her, though. She hated the thought of having to shower first thing in the morning. She always liked to think that being forced to wake up like that. there was enough time for that, and that it could be done slowly and enjoyably.

She couldn’t say the same about very many things. She always wondered about people who could say that everything was in their hands. What gave them the confidence? Why did she never feel so? Did those people really believe in There were so many thoughts going through her their words? head. But she brushed them aside as well as her Today, she knew what lay ahead. It was going to hair that was hanging all over her face, pulling it be a long, long day – she had to get into the tightly into a bun. This was something that alkitchen first and set afire the warmth for the ways helped her keep her thoughts in check. day. It was a special day. She loved all special Whenever she did that, she imagined sweeping days and made an effort to set them apart. up all her thoughts and keeping it in a safe place whenever she was busy or when it threatened to Slowly pushing the covers off her, she touched play havoc with her life. Later, when she was his warm hands. She could hear him breathing, alone she would let them out one by one and rhythmic and relaxed. She looked up and found resolve issues or just watch while the thoughts his eyes on her. They smiled - losing themselves, flitted by. 33

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She poured coffee into the mugs and set it on the table. The smell of coffee as the boiling water hit the coffee powder was the first thing she enjoyed every morning. Strong coffee with cream and sugar for her. Black coffee without sugar for him. She was waiting for him as she usually did. Seven years of togetherness. She wondered if he would remember their anniversary. She had to remind him every year. It would be no different this year, she mused. There was a predictable yet comfortable air about him. She loved that. He never remembered birthdays or anniversaries Valentineâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s Day was something he could not even be bothered about. He loved her with that immense, unconditional understanding. Nothing else mattered.

where did they go? Tears streamed down her face. She wanted to just let go and wail loudly like she had seen some women do. But no. She had never been able to do it. It was just the tears that rolled down. Always the tears. Hot tears without a sound. Not even a tiny sob. And at the end of it all, a hole deep in her heart that ached and ached so much. She glanced quickly at his portrait. She could not bear to look up at him. There was sadness in those eyes. Eyes as black as coal. Filled with compassion. She could drown in them. Somewhere, sometime, she had known the bliss of drowning in them. The breathless ecstasy, the rapture of love. She felt her hair stand on their ends, a chillness settling down all around her, and fingers caressing her hair, her face. He was here, still here. How much longer could she torture herself like this? When would she let go? It had to end. She knew that. Soon, she told herself. There was always time for letting go.

He came in all dressed and sat down beside her, the smell of aftershave strong around him. Nothing about him had changed, she thought. He looked into her eyes and smiled. The smile that melted her heart and made her knees wobble. She lived for moments like these; Moments which stood testimony to a love that transcendBut for now, it was another day. Another day! ed everything. No words spoken. Just a glance, a Now she would get ready for work and would flicker of a smile and the heart filled up and bubwait for the next morning. The morning that bled over, like champagne in a glass. brought with it promises and warmth. The smell She was just getting up to peck him on his cheek of aftershave. The champagne bubbles. That was and wish him. But he was gone. Just like that. what she lived for. Seeing him, feeling him and She cursed herself for having rushed into the waiting. Waiting for another day. moment. Oh, wouldnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t she give anything, just anything, to relish his lingering smile for a few more minutes? She wanted a little more time to look into his eyes that spoke to her without words. Just a little more time. She fought hard to hold back her tears. Rushing back to the bedroom, she felt the chillness engulf her. All the love and warmth she had felt, 34

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Beena Nair is a teacher by profession and a writer at heart. She lives in Kerala, India. Spirits, ghosts and the other world that we know nothing about is what interests her. This story is her first publication.

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Poetry I Won’t Compare Your Face by M. Mohankumar

There are two reasons why someone’s face couldn’t be compared to the moon. One before the volte-face and one after. M. Mohankumar’s poem tells you more.

Even before the volte-face, I would not have compared your face to the moon. Because it is a cliché.

Now it would be unfair to the moon, so steadfast, revolving round the earth, though far-flung, and sometimes invisible,

for no fault on its part, yet coming close, as close as it can, for one brief night, beaming on- the super moon.

But you? In one shocking move you flew off into a strange trajectory, and remain out of sight, incommunicado.

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Non-fiction Remembering Grandfather by Shreya Ramachandran Shreya Ramachandran fondly recalls memories with her grandfather and writes about things that made him special. This, she says, is a story that she has been longing to tell for a long time. This personal story is one that I have been trying to tell since 2006. Eight years since Thatha, my grandfather, died. I have told bits and pieces of the story before, of course. I have described to people how my grandfather died, chosen select portions to tell friends and relatives if they asked about my grandparents or those who asked me whether anyone close to me had died. I even attempted writing about him for a non-fiction class during a writing workshop. But I have never properly and cohesively put down all my thoughts about him in one place and created something formal and structured. This is my attempt at finally telling his story. My family and I lived Madras until I was 14, and Thatha was living with us then. He had his own room in our house. Six of his siblings lived in a family house on Sarangapani Street in T. Nagar, and he would often visit them in the evenings, at least four times a week. Every morning and evening, he would go for a walk, unfailingly. When I was starting to learn how to cycle, I would see him on the roads, in his white full-

sleeve shirt and white veshti and black chappals. He drank coffee in the evenings. He walked all the way to Suriya Sweets sometimes on his evening walks, and came back with packets of cornflakes mixture and kai murukku, and occasionally ghee poli for himself, though he was diabetic. He always put sugar in his coffee too, sometimes one or two extra spoons. Sometimes, he brought home theratti paal from Aavin Milk, and Britannia orange cream biscuits. In the nights, he would eat curd rice in a steel bowl, with a bright coloured pool of lime pickle or vethhakozhumbu from the afternoon. Both my parents used to work, and my sister and I would be home alone after school. Thatha was there usually, and he used to help my sister with her homework. He’d let her take long breaks during her work, with a progressively longer break between “each homework”, as my sister would say, and then after she finished, “the longest break of all”. She would slide on the silver foot-scooter through the house while I unpacked my bag and came to terms with

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Maths, the History test, the English questions I had left over from classwork. He would take afternoon naps lying on the floor of his room, and for a pillow he would use his red towel. He always wore the red towel on his shoulder, along with his banian and faded veshti with maroon and green borders. He used to wake up at the smallest sound; he was a very light sleeper, and sometimes if I just shuffled past his room with slightly louder footsteps than normal, or said something near his door, he would wake up. In the evenings, I’d be watching TV and he would come into the room to say hello before he left for his walk. He wrote Shri Rama Jayam, the prayer, on one full page every day in his diary. He taught me how to write it, in Tamil. In the early mornings, he would meditate, sitting on his chair and closing his eyes. He had books to fill an entire shelf in his cupboard, and enjoyed reading a book or sometimes a Tamil magazine. He knew every single mythological tale and story about Gods. He would tell me and my sister these stories sometimes, when we would be sitting in his room, and sometimes these stories would blend into stories of my father and uncle growing up, and then come back to Rama and Vali and Sugreeva. He’d listen to the radio –

Carnatic music and conversations too fast for me to understand - and sometimes the TV in his room would be on, though mostly it was only on in the background while he was sleeping or reading. He fell ill when I was 13; he was on an evening walk when he slipped and fell down, and broke his hip. After his hip replacement surgery, he needed physiotherapy and medications for other complications and he continued to be ill, for the rest of his life. When Thatha was ill, he used to find it difficult to walk, and his body would hurt after physiotherapy. His room always smelled of harsh medicine and chemicals, and he needed a nurse to take care of him. He always felt pain, and his body was weak and his mind was exhausted. He was ill in a permanent and lingering way,one that could not be fixed by time or medicine or anything. He changed. He never wore his gold spectacles, his reading glasses, anymore. They were folded and lay on the bedside table behind his bed, along with a stack of books and sheaves of paper. A few weeks before he died, Thatha was sitting up in bed one early morning and looking out of the window. He was finally wearing his spectacles again. I walked to his room, and when he saw me, he smiled and asked me to come in.

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He told me, when I asked him how he was, that he was feeling fine, and that he was fine with dying. He said everyone’s life goes up, and up, and then has to come down. He was fine with his life coming down.

way you miss storybook characters after the book ends. You know you’ll always have them, but you want more, you want them to be able to eat lunch the way you are eating lunch, and feel the rain the way you feel the rain.

My mother was in the kitchen, and she said, One day, when my sister and I were at home “I’m cutting apples, ask Thatha if he also alone and Thatha was sitting in our room with wants.” us; he told us a story about Krishna and Balarama, and then in the middle of all our questions I went into Thatha’s room, feeling like I was about the story, he said, “How much I love you talking to the old version of him before he was both, you know?” His question rang through the sick, when this could have been any day, any years after he died, eight whole years, and I nevmorning. “Thatha, do you want apple?” er have had any answers. I tried and tried to “Is it available?” he asked. write about him but never could. I tried to describe how much he meant to me, how much I “Yes, Amma is cutting.” liked him, how without him in the house, every“Then yes, please. Will you also take?” thing felt different. I thought of that conversation many times later. I don’t know why my Spark article, which origiEach time, it was as if Thatha was telling that to nated as a piece on my mother, eventually beme all over again. It was like a consolation, like came about my grandfather, or why I had to him reaching out through all that distance just to write this now. But this story is my attempt at an say it. I never felt bad about his death, because answer. he didn’t feel bad himself. I just missed him, the

Shreya Ramachandran is an undergraduate student at SOAS, majoring in South Asian Studies. From a young age she has enjoyed writing, and it has stayed in her life through thick and thin. She enjoys masala tea in the rain, writing about personal stories, and semi-academic analyses of Hindi films.

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The Lounge

September 2014 40

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The Inner Journey Understanding My Religion by Sushanta Sarma Barooah What does Hinduism stand for, with its multitude of repressive practices and seemingly regressive ideas? What is the ‘Hindu’ way of life? Sushanta Sarma Barooah talks about an experience that gave him some answers.

It was the mid-80s, and it was a particularly hot summer noon. Sitting under a tin roof pandal before the sacred fire of a homa, my father covered him and me under a dhoti to whisper into my ears the Gayatri mantra and adorned me with a sacred thread, a symbol of spiritual discipline. By then, I had a vague sense of what spirituality was and what religion was. It seemed to be mostly about doing good to others and praying for the well-being of, firstly my grandparents on both sides, then my parents and finally all other living beings. In my every journey as a child my head automatically bowed at the sight of any structure with a dome or a steeple, be it a temple, mosque, Gurudwara or a Church. I’d also overheard my grandfather explaining Brahma and Parambrahma, and the concept of the soul according to Hinduism, to an older cousin. My father of course said his prayers regularly. But

deeply influenced by Dr. Radhakrishnan’s classic, “A Hindu View of Life”, he’d tell us tales from history rather than mythology, insisting that Hinduism was indeed a view of life and not a religion. My introduction to formal religion started with the sacred thread ceremony. For a year, I sincerely performed the rituals wearing a dhoti after a bath in the morning and evening as I was told to do. There was also a nagging tension within me about the true significance of the rituals and as I grew up to be in the last year in school, I quietly abandoned them, sticking only to a silent prayer of the Gayatri Mantra for a momentary connection with my soul and the oversoul. t was after graduating from school – exactIy two years from the ceremony –when I formed my decisive opinion about religion.I was travelling

Spark—September 2014 | Mosaic

with my family to various places in south India beginning with Thiruananthapuram. Our first day started with the famous Padmanabhaswami Temple, where lord Vishnu is worshipped in his bed of eternal sleep. Overwhelmed by its golden masts and general opulence I was eager to enter the temple and offer my prayers, but the temple authorities did not allow my father and me to enter, as we were wearing T-shirts and Trousers. We were asked to change into a dhoti and also asked to give up our vests and wallets. My mother was allowed instantly without her purse because she was wearing a saree. However, my younger sister, then in sixth grade, was wearing a frock and was not allowed to enter the temple. Not to leave her alone among strangers we went in to the temple one by one, albeit with a heavy heart. We then went to Kanyakumari and saw the temple of the virgin goddess, and then on to the temple towns of Madurai and Rameswaram. In all these places, our whole family was allowed to enter without any question. What happened in the last leg of our journey, in Chennai, stays with me to this day. As part of an organised tour, we visited a temple where the legend was that two

birds came for lunch from Varanasi every forenoon, but after climbing 545 rocky steps bare foot under the blazing sun of September we could not see the birds, we were too late for the darshan. We also went to other places like Kanchipuram and Mahabalipuram. A British couple from London were also travelling with us in our tourist bus. While the gentleman preferred to stay back in the bus at religious places, the lady would eagerly visit each one of them and try to understand everything the guide has to say. In the Kamakshi temple of Kanchipuram, all of us queued up to enter the temple, and the British lady was right in front of me in the queue. As we neared the entrance, a stout young priest, standing guard with a thick wooden club, pointed to a signboard reading “NonHindus are not allowed”. The British Lady only said “I consider myself a Hindu,” and she was allowed to enter the temple. Within a span of hardly ten days I learnt about and understood the religion I was born to in its most conservative and most liberal forms, and how both could co-exist. It also dawned upon me why people from various cultures could feel at home in our great country throughout the ages.

Sushanta Sarma Barooah was born and brought up in Assam and is a practising law in the High Court at Guwahati. He finds literature a diversion from ratiocination in legal literature but only find time to read more about literature than literature itself. He also likes to travel and occasionally writes on social and environmental issues.

Spark—September 2014 | Mosaic

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Sparkâ&#x20AC;&#x201D;September 2014 | Mosaic