APRIL 2012

On The Road 05 April 2012

Dear Reader,

Get set to hit the road with Spark’s April 2012 issue—

with some wonderful fiction, non-fiction, art, photog-

raphy and poetry, as well as two interesting interviews—

one with Rocky & Mayur, popular anchors of the food

and travel show, ‘Highway On My Plate’ and another

with Rishad Saam Mehta, Author of ‘Hot Tea Across In-

dia’. We also have a guest column by Kiran Keswani,

Bangalore-based architect.

And oh yes, we get started with ‘The Lounge’ segment of

Spark this month. We have some lovely articles up there

too, for you to sit back and enjoy!!

Happy, happy reading, we will see you again next

month!

Editors

COVER PAGE DESIGN : Vasundhara Vedula

CONTRIBUTORS:

AMRITA SARKAR

ANJANA PRABHU

ANUPAMA KRISHNAKUMAR

CHIDAMBARAKUMARI PONNNAMBALAM

GAURI TRIVEDI

JEEVANJYOTI CHAKRABORTY

JESSU GOODFELLOW

MAHESWARAN SATHIAMOORTHY

PARTH PANDYA

RAM V

VANI VISWANATHAN

YAYAATI JOSHI

GUEST COLUMN:

KIRAN KESWANI

VOICES OF THE MONTH:

ROCKY SINGH & MAYUR SHARMA

WRITER OF THE MONTH:

RISHAD SAAM MEHTA

CONCEPT, EDITING, DESIGN:

ANUPAMA KRISHNAKUMAR

VANI VISWANATHAN

INSIDE THIS ISSUE

SPARK : APRIL 2012—ON THE ROAD On the Road—Poetry by Anjana Prabhu

No Seat for “Young” Man—Fiction by Jeevanjyoti Chakraborty

Interview with Rocky Singh & Mayur Sharma : Voices of the Month

Journey—Art by Amrita Sarkar

Visiting “The Wonder”—Non-fiction by Gauri Trivedi

One Road to Freedom—Poetry by Jessu Goodfellow

In the Middle of the Road—Guest Column by Kiran Keswani

The Many Moods of the Road—Photography by Maheswaran Sathiamoorthy

Interview with Rishad Saam Mehta—Writer of the Month

The Road—Non-fiction by Ram V

Horn, OK, Please!—Poetry by Parth Pandya

SPARK |THE LOUNGE—APRIL 2012 SLICE OF LIFE |Pizzas, Poopy Diapers and Post-partum Depression by Chidambarakumari

Ponnambalam

THE MUSIC CAFÉ |Of Cassettes and Ilayaraja by Anupama Krishnakumar

STORYBOARD|FILM FREAK| Agent Vinod : Clichés and Caricatures Galore by Yayaati Joshi

THE MUSIC CAFÉ| Tuning In to Different Times by Vani Viswanathan

SLICE OF LIFE| The Ton of Joy by Parth Pandya

On the Road

Poetry by Anjana Prabhu

On the road, I feel lost.

Though I know the road so well.

On the road, I stand and stare,

Though I know I need to be home.

On the road, I sit with rags,

Though I know my home is so near.

On the road, I stare at wheels,

Though I know I can ride the wheels.

On the road, I am at crossroads,

Though I know I can't stand and stare.

On the road, I lay wide awake,

Though I know I could be trampled.

On the road, I stand and stare,

At the wild, where no road is there.

So, on the road, I stand and stare,

Picking the rags and so off I leap,

Into the wild, off the road,

To find a path, but not a road.

No Seat for “Young” Man

By Jeevanjyoti Chakraborty

FICTION

A man experiences a strange hollow within him and once he

figures out what bothers him, he tries to beat the emptiness by

taking a bus ride on a familiar route. What happens next?

Jeevanjyoti Chakraborty’s work of fiction will give you the answers.

Read on.

“Of course, no seat! Now, keep standing. Fine day

this is.”

He was not very sure where he wanted to go alt-

hough he did have his mind made up on what

“stop” to tell the bus conductor. He even had the

change ready in his shirt pocket so that he did not

have to reach for his wallet and put on a balancing

act while the bus swerved and sped. Old habit.

Like so many other little things which come silent-

ly through the boring efficiency of routine every-

day use. And boy had he used the bus! He had

often wondered exactly what fraction of his entire

life he had spent inside that metallic receptacle of

passive human traffic. Day after day, on that very

same route – from home to office; then back

again.

But this day was different. It was late evening on a

Saturday. And, he was not returning home, cer-

tainly not going to office. In fact, he was not going

to any place as much as he was getting away from

some. Rather, some thing. To be sure, nothing re-

ally serious had happened at home. His wife’s

mood had not been particularly caustic. Just the

usual venting, the usual sour reminders of things

he had forgotten to pick from the market place,

and the usual complaints and worries of their

son’s TV watching “problem”. For that matter,

even his son had turned off the TV when he had

asked him to. Yet, in that routine drama which un-

folded every day in the hour following “Dad’s back

from office”, there was a hint of a strange loneli-

ness. Passive thanklessness he had come to ac-

cept. But there was something harsher and more

acute he had started feeling recently. Perhaps it

was a feeling of indifference he sensed from

them. Probably not. Something even sadder per-

haps.

As the familiar motions-to-go-through-in-the-

evening had progressed, he had not been able to lay

a finger on that strange hidden hollow he felt inside.

Even as his wife had poured out a gossipy tale of one

of their neighbours, he had tried remembering if the

source of his strange feelings was something from

the office. Nothing there. Then, without warning,

from that distant voice of his wife sitting near him, a

bunch of words had fallen like an innocent pebble

on that pool of dark hollowness he had not been

able to see for so long. And the ripples had run him

awash with a realization he fought hard to deny. She

had started talking about his coming retirement - he

was growing old.

It had felt stifling. All the usual talk which he usually

soaked in with a practised indifference seemed far

too dry. He had tried watching the news but that

certainly had not helped. He had to get away from

all that even if just for that moment. He had hoped

that the stream of life outside would perhaps make

that hollow feel less lonely. It hadn’t. Everywhere,

on all those familiar streets he walked, in the shops

he used, inside the cars he detested, he saw faces –

younger faces – bubbling forth in that stream of life.

Like he once himself had. Once?

He had to get away even from that. So he had taken

the bus on that familiar route of his. There, he had

been greeted by seats full of passengers. And as far

as he could see – for he just couldn’t stop noticing

now – most of them younger than he was: the set of

chirpy young girls, some of them intently talking into

their mobile phones, the ladies with their kids re-

turning from tuition, the set of young men with tired

faces and neat dresses, the college boys, a couple of

older men – but still younger than him - discussing

the elections, the always-to-be-found-on-buses arm-

chair cricket specialists, and the rest of the non-

descript miscellany.

By Jeevanjyoti Chakraborty

FICTION

mahin

He was a proud cog in the big machinery. Not any

more soon. He was ready to be thrown out. He had

never minded not being appreciated. But he always

knew that in one corner, he was necessary. He knew

that he mattered. That would be no more.

His thoughts were interrupted by the sudden ap-

pearance of a vacant seat in the front row, courtesy

the getting down of a gentleman – perhaps the only

one in the bus who was positively older than he was.

“Great! Just great! Of all, this one had to become

vacant” – the front row was meant for Senior Citi-

zens. The only other “contender” for that seat was

the young man standing next to him. Looking the

“kid” squarely in the face, he knew this was a no-

competition. How could he hope to win against this

jeans-clad youngster in the duel to forgo that quota

meant for senior citizens? Swallowing all pride, he

resigned to that seat. As he sat there, the last vestig-

es of his denial stamped out by this seemingly innoc-

uous turn of events, that stifling feeling returned to

him. There was no escape. He seemed to drown in

the hollow sadness inside his very own stream of

life.

Or, was that stream even his own anymore? As he

had inherited that seat from the older gentleman,

probably the chirpy, worried, tired younger faces

sitting behind him had inherited his stream of life.

Even the thought that he would return next Monday

on that same route, towards his office where he

would matter, brought little respite to this strange

sadness that he had never felt before. Why had he

not realized this earlier? The stories and the jokes

about retirees came biting back to him. No amount

of sighing seemed to ease the strangle hold of that

dark hollowness ... And he felt a drowsiness over-

coming him.

His sad reverie was suddenly broken by the conduc-

tor’s gentle jab at his shoulder: “Sir, please leave

your seat.” He looked up and noticed a very old

man, bent with age and perilously holding on to the

handle-bars, standing half-drooped over him. In that

one confusingly magic moment, a spark flickered

back into his eyes and a flush of that old familiar

chivalry beat back the rippling sadness of his dark

evening. He triumphantly scrambled up and gallantly

offered his seat to that old withered man – even

helping him along to settle down. As he stood there,

his heart pounding with excitement, he looked

around to see if the others had noticed what he had

just accomplished. Nobody seemed bothered, how-

ever. Come on, people! And then, it dawned on him.

Since that “mighty” act of his had seemed so natural

to so many of them, probably not many of them

took him to be a person to deserve that seat in the

first place – there was absolutely nothing chivalrous

about what he had done! That thought – their in-

difference – flooded him with a curious happiness,

and he found himself sheepishly smiling with amuse-

ment. He noticed that the fellow with the red bag, in

the second row, was faintly smiling with him. He

shook his head, looked out of the bus window and

saw the honking-screaming-scurrying stream of life

bubbling forth. The stream, he still, definitely, was a

part of!

Dedicated to an unknown middle-aged gentleman,

who, I saw, get up to give his seat to an older man,

while I was sitting behind the Senior Citizens’ row on

Bus No. 44, en route home, in Kolkata on Feb 4,

2012.

By Jeevanjyoti Chakraborty

FICTION

It’s the People Who Make Memories

Special!

VOICES OF THE MONTH

An Interview with Rocky & Mayur

Rocky (Singh) and Mayur (Sharma) anchor the award-winning, cult

food and travel show ‘Highway On My Plate’ on NDTV Goodtimes.

Their bestselling book ‘Highway On My Plate - The Indian Guide to

Roadside Eating,' based on their show, recently won a 'Best in the

World' Award at the Gourmand World Cookbook Awards in Paris. To

know more about Rocky and Mayur, visit http://rockyandmayur.in

Rocky Singh and Mayur Sharma

by Anupama Krishnakumar

What do you think makes HOMP the show so pop-

ular? What's the best compliment you have re-

ceived for your show?

Well obviously it's our good looks and our lean phy-

siques :) Seriously, though, from what we have

gathered as feedback from fans all over, it’s a few

things. The amazing range of food, vistas and peo-

ple that make our amazing country unique are all

showcased through our show. Our passion for food

and for all things Indian along with the sheer joy we

bring to everything we do resonates with everyone

who watches and loves our show. The fact that we

share great chemistry that can only come from dec-

ades of friendship also evokes a feeling of

'apnapan'. The best compliments we receive are

when we hear from people how they love to sit

down as a family to enjoy the show and how hun-

gry it makes them.

What's the sort of research that goes into each

show? How do you decide on which place to visit

and more importantly, once you get there, where

to eat?

Once we decide on a route, the production house

research team swings into action and researches

the eateries with the best food in the area. We also

draw on personal experiences from earlier journeys

and conversations with friends and fellow foodies

in the area. Last and definitely not the least, once

we get there we tap into the buzz on the street and

stop to eat at a place that is crowded with happy

eaters.

What fascinates you about the eateries off high-

ways? Is there something about them that people

in the cities (you think they) miss?

The food is prepared and served hot and fresh, the

surroundings are always interesting – be it by the

highway or on the street – and most importantly,

you will always find fellow eaters willing to share a

story, a song or an eating tip. It's always very com-

munity-oriented and it’s fun to join complete

strangers in teasing the cook or the restaurant

owner about his food, his portions or his chai. Ever

tried that in a fine dining destination?

How do you think roadside food in India compares

with what you’ve seen in other parts of the

world? Any particular favourites from overseas?

INDIA! There really is no comparison. If you weigh

the food of India on one side against the combined

cuisines of the rest of the world, Indian food still

wins hands down in every category... taste, rich-

ness, diversity, and sheer range of ingredients.

Nothing even comes close!

Tales over food - what are some of the fascinating

things about people's lives (those who run the

place and those who come to eat there) that you

have heard in the many, many eateries that you

have visited?

In an interview to Spark, popular anchors Rocky and Mayur respond to Anupa-

ma Krishnakumar’s questions on their show ‘Highway On My Plate’ (HOMP), the

book, food, their experiences on the road and dream trips. Don’t miss this inter-

view!

VOICES OF THE MONTH

Interview with Rocky & Mayur

It’s the People Who Make Memories Special!

There are always stories associated with food and

food lovers. There are owners like jovial Tony

Paaji of Tony Da Dhaba

who peppers his conversa-

tions with invective, and

rears emus to put them on

the menu. He then serves

emu meat brought in from

another farm as he cannot

bear to kill the birds he

keeps. The jovial Mr.

Rhumba of the Hot Stimu-

lating Cafe on Hooker Road

(no, we're not kidding

about the names!) who is a

huge fan of Bob Marley

with a wall full of his pho-

tos, sings reggae songs as

he gives you lessons in Mo-

mo preparation. There are

poor owners of very small

and very basic eateries who

can ill afford to be generous and yet would not

take penny for what we ate; there was also an old

man who chuckled with glee as he told us that he

pays more tax than the Chief Minister of his state.

Every eatery has a story and at many of these

your fellow diners will spin tales that can make

you laugh, cry, sing or just feel very happy to be

alive.

Talking of HOMP - the Indian Guide to Roadside

Eating, how was the experience of converting the

show to a book? Were there any particular chal-

lenges?

Us leetle deefecult Inglis so hardly to write buks!

That challenge aside, we had so many fans of the

show asking us for recommendations for food in

the places they were visiting. Finally we decided

to write a book to share our knowledge of the

amazing food, eateries and people we met along

the way. The main challenge

was that there was so much

to write and so much to

share, that editing was very

difficult. The second chal-

lenge was that of time be-

cause in the midst of writing

we were still traveling,

shooting for further shows,

and working on our other

projects. The book was

written in the wee hours of

the morning – mostly be-

tween 2 am-6 am – and it

really was a labour of love.

While we discuss food, we

are quite interested in your

journeys too. I understand

that both of you have gone

on road trips together for a while now, even be-

fore HOMP. What are some of the things that

you explore and enjoy about places, apart from

food of course? :)

We have been friends since 1976 and started our

road journeys together as far back as 1987. We

would jump into Rocky's car at a moment’s notice

with a small backpack and take off in whichever

direction seemed best at the time. Often we

would read of some place and decide to drive

there immediately, even if it was at 2am in the

morning. We once drove from Delhi to Haridwar

(a 400 km return journey) in the middle of the

night because we had decided to breakfast on hot

puri-aloo from a little hole-in-the-wall shop in

Haridwar. We went, we ate, we returned with

happy smiles.

Highway On My Plate

Interview by Anupama Krishnakumar

Besides food we prefer places which are closer to

nature – be it forests, rivers or mountains. We both

love watching wildlife and Rocky is a very keen and

accomplished ornithologist. Rocky spent over a year

driving all across India while Mayur has travelled

across more than 65 countries in search of adventure

and food. Rocky is a certified Divemaster and loves

exploring the ocean depths while Mayur enjoys the

challenge of long high altitude mountain treks. In

every place we travel what makes the memories spe-

cial are the amazing people we encounter, befriend,

share meals and adventures with and who we always

leave with a deep appreciation of India. Every time

we leave home we represent our country and we

always share our love and stories of India.

What, according to you, is the best way to explore

India?

The way we do it on HOMP. Get out there, leave

your comforts and daily routine behind. The road

and a life less ordinary are only a decision away. Do

it for a day, a week, a month, a year or a lifetime but

do it. Even home will be exciting again when you re-

turn.

If I were to ask you to tell us about one dream road

trip that you want to do together (and have still not

done), which one would it be?

After driving 80,000 km across our beautiful country

we are still excited about traveling and exploring

more of India. We may have travelled more of India

and eaten more food across our country than anyone

ever has but we feel we have just scratched the sur-

face of what India has to offer.

Besides that we would love to do a road journey like

HOMP across the continent of South America, ending

in the remote wilderness of Patagonia, which is often

called the 'end of the world.' The food, the drink and

the amazing people of this far-off continent are jew-

els waiting to be unearthed.

Lastly, the work that you do combining travel and

food has all the characteristics of a wonderful ex-

ploration. What impact have these trips had on

you?

We have a much greater appreciation for how amaz-

ing our country is. The cities of India do not do jus-

tice to our country. When you get out there and ex-

perience the love, the warmth, the welcoming smiles

of perfect strangers just waiting to become friends,

and of course the amazing food, then you will know

the India we love.

Oh, and another personal impact is that between us

we have put on close to 40 kilos of weight since

starting the show five years ago.

Now it's late and there is chocolate in the fridge. Ah,

life!

Website :

http://

rockyandmayur.in

Facebook

Page

Journey

Art by Amrita Sarkar

Visiting “The Wonder”

Non-fiction by Gauri Trivedi

Prompted by her inquisitive five-year-old, Gauri Trivedi makes a trip to the Taj

Mahal with her family where, together with her daughter, she discovers a

whole new meaning to the architectural wonder.

“Is ‘Taj Mahal’ a building?” my five-year-old popped

the question from nowhere. I didn’t have to look far

to discover the source, it stood bright and right be-

fore me: the television. Disney channel’s Little Ein-

steins were flying over the Taj Mahal in India and

though my daughter had just vague memories of her

birth country, the mention of India sparked her

attention. And for once I really have to thank the idi-

ot box for igniting the right kind of curiosity.

“It is much more than just a building. It is a very spe-

cial place and one of the most mesmerising places

on this earth,” I responded with the confidence akin

to someone who had visited the Taj Mahal a number

of times. But if truth be told, I hadn’t, not even once.

And yet those words just slipped out of me. Maybe it

was the knowledge of Taj Mahal’s distinction as one

of the wonders of the world or maybe it was the

memory of its beautiful marble miniatures adorning

many relatives’ show cases; I said it with a conviction

that relied more on hearsay and less on experience.

‘Mesmerising,’ she didn’t quite comprehend, but

‘special,’ she understood. And before she could go

on to “what’s mesmerising,” I made a deal with her.

We would plan a trip to Agra during our next visit to

India in about a month and visit the Taj Mahal. She

could then decide if she thought it was special or

not. The last part was an obvious lure to convey that

her opinion mattered to me even when it came to

something as big as a gigantic white palace (as she

later named the Taj Mahal).

montuschi

montuschi

Non-fiction by Gauri Trivedi

Visiting “The Wonder”

The month of August was not the best season to

travel in India, we were told by well-wishers again

and again. And every time I heard it from someone,

it made me cringe. “It’s our home, we are not travel-

lers.” This and many such retorts came to my tongue

before I swallowed them in. The bottle of mineral

water in our hands always made people presumptu-

ous about us, the visiting Indians. And I knew even if

I tried with all my heart I could never convince them

that other than safeguarding our health, we had no

inhibitions about our stay. They were the ones who

brought up heat, pollution, corruption and popula-

tion in conversations, the tone always defiant and

apologetic at the same time. So instead of getting

into an argument I could never win, I simply said

“Since we are going to be in Delhi around that time,

it would be a good opportunity to visit Agra”.

A friend who had been to Agra last year enthusiasti-

cally poured in some itinerary help and I vividly re-

member her mentioning the redone roads and the

free flowing traffic on the highways. But here on the

road and in a rental car, there was no sign of either.

Could it be that the rains washed the good things

away in less than a year? Apparently, it did. Needless

to say, the ride from Delhi to Agra was long and

bumpy. What should have taken four hours or so

turned into a lot more and by the time we checked

into a hotel it was after nearly six hours of sitting in

the car.

The ride and the headache suffered on account of

uncalled-for honking had not dampened our high

spirits, however. After a quick freshen up and a lav-

ish dinner, we asked for directions to the Taj Mahal

at the lobby. A short drive took us to a barricade

where two guards lazily came up to us and informed

that the Taj Mahal was accessible for night viewing

only on select dates in a month and tonight wasn’t

one of them. We returned, more tired than disap-

pointed, the fatigue now setting in.

The next morning, we awoke to a fresh drizzle which

got meaner by the time we finished breakfast. We

waited it out for a couple of minutes and soon

enough the sun emerged as if the rain had never

happened. And with the rays came back the heat,

bursting of renewed energy, any chances of the

afternoon being pleasant vanishing with the rain.

A guide was hired right from the hotel. We had

learnt from our earlier travels that in places like the-

se that relied heavily on tourism, things had a cer-

tain way of working and if you just gave in instead of

fighting the system, the voyage went smoother.

There were faster means to get around bureaucracy,

if you could afford them. The ticket counter at the

grounds of Taj Mahal looked crowded enough for

me to look around for a bench to sit on but our

guide returned with tickets in his hands in about six

minutes, the point here being paying for the services

of a travel guide, though not essential, was undenia-

bly beneficial. We stood in a long line (separated by

gender) at the entrance. The queue was long but

moved fast. There was a little bit of pushing and

scurrying as can be expected at an overcrowded

place like this one. All the pushing irritated my com-

panion, who wasn’t a non-resident like us, so much

that she had a word or two to say about it openly. I

guess a certain class of the residents were used to

and expected privileged treatment everywhere. We,

on the other hand, were just happy to be there and

didn’t mind what came along the way.

Before I get down to appreciating the beauty of Taj

Mahal, a quick mention of the things that impressed

me other than the magnificent dome itself. The pris-

tine conditions surrounding this famous attraction

made for an ideal visit and in a country boasting of

such a large population and for a spot that attracts

more than a million visitors every year, this is no

mean feat. Right from the perfectly manicured gar-

dens, to the orderly walkways leading to the shoe

racks and the gleaming marble steps taking us to the

Non-fiction by Gauri Trivedi

Visiting “The Wonder”

floors of the Taj Mahal, a little wet from the rains,

but clean and welcoming, it made me proud to see

that the structure that became India’s identity inter-

nationally and a gateway for so many foreigners to

come and visit, was being taken care of just like it

should be. Additionally, the entry fee of Rs.20 per

head for an Indian National demonstrated an inten-

tion to keep the monument particularly accessible to

the general public as well.

Back to the beautiful Taj Mahal: there is nothing that

hasn’t been said or written about this Mausoleum

built by Shah Jahan, a Mughal Emperor, in memory

of his beloved wife Mumtaz Mahal. This ‘Crown of

Palace’ (as the name translates) took 22 years to

build and stands out distinctly as a piece of Mughal

architecture filled with marble, mosaic, Calligraphy

and motifs. A lot of stories surround this stunning

creation and of all the myths, the most disgusting is

the one which says the hands of the skilled workers

who helped built Taj Mahal were cut off on the Em-

peror’s orders. There is no truth to it, our travel

guide confirmed, and we were relieved to be free of

the age-old prejudice against the Emperor whose

love for his wife became a legend.

But these are mere statistics, all on paper for anyone

to read and remember. What goes unrecorded is the

emblematic emotional journey of each traveler who

comes face to face with this symbol of eternal love.

The beauty of the Taj Mahal is like love at first sight,

it wows you the minute you set your eyes on it – its

splendour does not wait for your acceptance, its

magic does not need to grow on you, it captures

your senses immediately and stays on.

If the front view is that of absolute grandeur, the

side of Taj Mahal that opens to the flowing waters of

Yamuna exudes harmony. It is here, sitting on the

banks of the thunderous river that the marble sepul-

chre reveals a moment of serenity not quite ex-

pected. It is the kind of calm that comes when you

feel transported in time, alone in the midst of scores

of tourists, miles away from the eager photogra-

phers.

For some it is the beauty and elegance of the Taj

Mahal that surpasses everything. For many it is the

joy of witnessing an exceptional architectural mar-

vel. For me, I came back with a vision of opulence

that no camera could fully capture; in my heart I will

always remember Taj Mahal as the final resting

place of Mumtaz Mahal, loved and cherished even

after her death.

The five-year-old however returned with much more

than that. At first she was awestruck by the sheer

number of people at the monument. I could read her

eyes which seemed to be saying “Look Mom, so

MANY people wanted to see the Taj Mahal, just like

me. ”Once they moved beyond the background and

Rachel in wonderland

Non-fiction by Gauri Trivedi

Visiting “The Wonder”

on to the gigantic white palace, she had all kinds of

palpable questions like “Why are the pillars so tall?”

and “Why did they paint it white and not pink? (it’s

as if for little girls nothing is good enough if it ain’t

pink!) and a few anomalous ones like “What if the

water from the river below came up and filled up the

Taj Mahal?” to “Why does Daddy only have one

wife?” Of the whole group, she was the one listening

most earnestly to what the travel guide had to say;

Hindi was as fascinating to her as French. Once in-

side the Taj Mahal we had a hard time trying to keep

her voice low. In time, she sneaked away a few steps

behind us and we found her staring at the wall, si-

lent and intent. “I love these flowers on this wall,

they are so pretty,” she said, as I clasped her hand in

mine and started walking. It was in that plain state-

ment made by a little girl who will probably remem-

ber nothing of this wonderful trip when she grows

up, that I found my abstract; it was the apparent

simplicity of the Taj Mahal that struck a chord. From

the pallid color to its uncomplicated motifs, it was an

artistic masterpiece and yet simple enough to earn a

child’s reverence.

That night as we snuggled up in bed, weary but con-

tent with the sightings of the day, sleep did not

come easily. “So, was it special for you?” I asked the

person actually responsible for the excursion.

“Mommy, it was mesmerising,” she said getting it

right at the third attempt.

Pictu

re by G

auri T

rivedi

One Road to Freedom

Poetry by Jessu Goodfellow

There are clouds in her head

Dreams on her shoulders,

But the burdens on her back

Drown out her soul’s desires.

She lives in her misty mind,

Giving birth to baby dreams,

But the weight gets heavier,

She’s voiceless as she screams

“Look into my eyes,

See through my emptiness,

Catch a glimpse of who I am,

I am so much more than this…”

There’s a jungle growing thick

And convoluted, dark doubts

Taking deep roots in her mind.

But the chaste blood coursing

Through her veins are turning

Into a bold, roaring, raging fire.

Thick clouds are gathering

They will break into heavy rain,

She will break out of her cage

In some unexpected moment,

Her valiant voice will thunder,

“This is me, look right at me,

You will never choke me again!

I am running, I am dreaming,

I will force your eyes to see

Who I am, all that I really am,

Now there’s no stopping me.

I am running, I am dreaming

As the road unwraps itself

Before me – this is my path

Of freedom, I wait no longer

For the world’s permission.

I am running, I am dreaming,

Stop this wild hunt for my soul.

This road is mine, I will take it -

You will soon know who I am.

I am a dreamer, I am a seeker

Of things beyond your control.

I will fly through wispy clouds,

Lay hold of unearthly trophies,

I will race right out of my mind

Onto the free, unfolding highway,

My eyes set on the glorious edges

Of a beautiful glimmering horizon

Calling, inviting , opening its arms

Wide, embracing my brazen soul”.

Now the thunder stops its rolling,

The rain gently singing melodies

Soothing her raging fires, calming

Her rushing rivers – as the blood

In her veins flows more tenderly,

Her eyes light up, they brighten

To new freedom and dewy dawns

Of new experience. In a moment

She will look back to see the road

Behind her – there’d be nothing

There except a faint gold-dust trail,

A breeze dancing with the leaves.

No jungle now, no storm, no rain -

But wispy clouds on glimmering

Horizons and a road that grew

Out of her own feisty mind.

That one road to glorious freedom,

That one way street – we run and run,

Never back, never, but always forward.

Always running, and always dreaming,

So the bright road will keep unfurling

Beneath our dainty, fearless feet.

In the Middle of the Road

GUEST COLUMN

By Kiran Keswani Streets in India bustle with life and are full of rich experiences. In a guest column for Spark, Kiran Keswani offers a glimpse of life on the streets as she has seen it, gently touching upon the diverse interesting aspects, particularly the myriad paan shops. Text and photographs by Kiran Keswani.

Street life in India offers you what any good story does

– a beginning, a middle and an end. Life on the street is

as exciting as a dramatic story or an exciting film. The

beginning may be the visual chaos and the maddening

cacophony, the middle is the mass of people you jostle

against as you manoeuvre your way through and the

end is the collection of experiences you leave with.

You may encounter people, goods and autorickshaws.

Along some part of the street, there are places where

people pause, at the paan shop or at the Chai shop.

These are the full-stops in the street before the next

sentence begins. You may not be the paan-chewing

type or the cigarette smoking kind and may never need

to stop here. But then, we are often reading the story

while someone else is writing it. So, one just reads on.

Unlike a full stop, no two paan shops seem to

look alike.

As you near the paan shop, your steps slow down or at least your eyes do, as they flow over the scene in front of you, of someone reading a newspaper (right there in the middle of the road!!), schoolboys buying a packet of chips, a man lighting his cigarette, an el-derly man sipping his cup of chai. If you pause long enough and look long enough, you see this full-stop enlarge and become a page of happenings, a page of sharp detail. I think street life anywhere in India is like that.

The Paan shop occupies as much space in the city as a full-stop does on a page of your story-book .

Each of us chooses to see detail in a different way. I walked through Manek Chowk in Ahmedabad and found that every paan shop differed in its form, the space it occupied, how it positioned itself on the street and the context in which it functioned. The front views and the side views differed too. Often, in the paan shop, you cannot get a side view because it is a ‘hole in the wall’ shop and you find it embedded into a part of building that found its place here be-fore the paan shop did.

Kiran Keswani

Just as there is always a place for the paan after a heavy meal, it seems as if there is al-ways a place for a paan shop in a dense street.

GUEST COLUMN

In the Middle of the Road

GUEST COLUMN

By Kiran Keswani

This paan shop in Manek Chowk came into existence as a small stall on the roadside, selling paan or betel nut leaf and grew into the multi-tasking shop that today sells paan and much more. You can buy anything here, from cough lozenges to postage stamps. It is also the place where men “hang out” for a quick smoke or a cup of chai as they read their day’s newspaper or share the neighbourhood gossip.

In his book ‘Ways of Seeing,’ John Berger says, “Soon after we can see, we are aware that we can also be seen.” If we can see the paanwallah, we know that he can also see us. And how he defines us in this urban landscape, where we are both situated. In his eyes, we could be mere “passers-by.” Some of us are patrons of paan, some are not. Some are in a miserable hurry and others have all the time in the world. And how much time is folded into the length of a street? Perhaps only as much as each of us would give to ourselves and to the street. And when you reach the end, you could still be at the beginning as streets connect from one to the other, making walking in the city that unbounded expe-rience where we see others and others see us and where life unfolds itself as and when you find the time for it.

The Paan shop is the corner store that sells the small, everyday things too.

Kiran Keswani is an architect based in

Bangalore with an interest in Urban

Planning issues. She was a

Netherlands Fellow at the Institute for

Housing and Urban Development

Studies (IHS) at Rotterdam in 1996.

She is currently researching the

‘Informal plan of the City’ and blogs at

http://indianbazaars.blogspot.com.

Photography by Maheswaran Sathiamoorthy

The Many Moods of the Road

Road Trips in India are Never

Standard!

WRITER OF THE MONTH

An Interview with Rishad Saam Mehta

Interview by Anupama Krishnakumar

An avid driving traveller and photogra-

pher, Rishad Saam Mehta turned his pas-

sion to profession, and is a popular travel-

writer-photographer whose columns ap-

pear in major dailies across India. He de-

cided to put together his stories from his

many, many road trips across India, into a

book ‘Hot Tea across India’ – all of which

have a cup of tea whose memory he cher-

ishes, apart from the travel itself. Find out

more at http://rishad.co.in/

Drives on roads to beautiful destinations and amazing cups of chai: Anupama

Krishnakumar talks to Rishad Saam Mehta, author of ‘Hot Tea across India,’ a

compilation of road trips he has made over the years, published by Tranquebar

in 2011.

A travel writer and a photographer who has made

his passion a profession –what sparked off the in-

terest in you to take this route? Where did the pas-

sion for travel find its beginning?

It was a childhood filled with driving holidays. My

parents loved road tripping and our holidays in India

were mostly road trips. As a kid I thought that this

was the normal way to holiday. It was when I was

older I realized that

driving from Bombay to

Delhi is not considered

normal for most peo-

ple. So I started writing

about road trips to en-

courage people to go

out there and drive. My

first camera was a pin-

hole camera when I

was four years old so

photography started at

that age and I've never

been bored of it. Plus I

can write well, so it all

came together.

Tell us how the con-

cept of 'Hot Tea across

India' was born. What

made you decide that

you should write this book?

My job entailed driving to a different part of India

every month and writing about the road, the direc-

tions and the things to do there. But on these trips I

have had so many adventures and met so many

people and had so many incidents that were fantas-

tic that I decided to write a book about these trips,

a sort of loosely knit travelogue – and what better

way to sew it all together than with hot tea, the sta-

ple travel drink across India!

How did you actually go about writing the book?

What's the sort of material you looked into to

build the narrative?

I just started putting down funny incidents when I

had the time. At airport terminals, while on a flight

or just when I felt like writing.

The book is entirely from

memory. I might have cross

checked distances, heights of

passes etc., but otherwise it is

all from what I remember of the

trips.

Road trips in India –what about

them do you love so much that

they make you want to hit the

road again and again?

The uncanny knack of India to

throw surprises all the time.

Road trips in India are never

standard; you just don't know

what to expect or what kind of

adventures you'll have. And

while we all think that driving in

India is a pain, there are some

pretty awesome roads that

make road trips a lot of fun.

Having written a book with chai at its core, you

have to tell us where you have had the best chai in

India. :). What did you love about that tea?

Chai is not the core of the book; rather, it is inci-

dental to the book. The best chai I have had is at the

solitary Dhaba at Chotta Dara en route from Chattru

to Kaza in Spiti. I love the tea here simply because

An Interview with Rishad Saam Mehta

WRITER OF THE MONTH

being the only stall here, the owner can get away

with serving any kind of rubbish tea, but he puts his

heart and soul into it and the tea has been fantastic

every time I have stopped there.

Tell us one thing that has fascinated you about the

truck drivers you have shared your journeys with

during your travel adventures.

They have the best road sense and driving eti-

quette.

What's the experience of exploring the road on a

bike like, and what do you feel is the best part of

it? What's one memorable trip that you have done

on a bike?

You feel a certain bond with your bike that only long

distance bikers can understand. It is the unadulter-

ated version of road travel: in your face, close to the

land, the wind in your hair. It has to be done to be

understood. The ride from Drass to Srinagar is one I

love – it is scary and stunning and inspiring all at the

same time.

If there's a place that you would call heaven on

earth (one that almost made you wish you could

stay back once and for all!), which one would it

be?

In India, it would be the valleys of Himachal Pradesh

(Baspa, Spiti, Tirthan, Karsog). Abroad – it would be

Tasmania.

Do you enjoy reading books on travel? What are

your favourites?

I read books on big adventure like Wilbur Smith's

books. My favourites are Cry Wolf and River God.

As a writer, what does travel writing mean to you?

What are some of the things you focus on when

doing a travel story?

To share what I have experienced. If after reading

my story you feel like jumping into the page and

being there right now then I consider my job well

done.

Also, there's this subtle and enjoyable humour that

one observes in your book. How important do you

think humour is in writing travel experiences?

Very important. My book would be boring without

humour. I wrote it with the idea of having people

fall off their chairs or beds laughing and then sit up,

dry their tears of joy and plan a road trip. I thrive on

humour and laughing at myself.

Finally, what's the next one coming from Rishad? Is

it going to be another travel-related book? Tell us

more about it.

I have no idea as of now. But yes, there will be an-

other one.

An Interview with Rishad Saam Mehta

Road Trips in India are Never Standard!

Website : http://rishad.co.in

The Road

Have you thought about how many different interpretations there could be

to the word ‘Road’? Ram V gives you one perspective—a rather spiritual

one, in his work of non-fiction. The road is so many things. It is life, time,

destiny but it is also simple; a path to be walked on, he says. Read on.

Non-fiction by Ram V

Robert .S.Donovan

The Road No, this isn’t a Cormac McCarthy novel. That’s a differ-

ent road. This one is shorter and is the one I am travel-

ling on right now. It is made up of words and where it

goes, is as much a mystery to me as it is to you. But the

words are coming, and I am laying them down one after

the other, the best I can, so we’ll see.

Would you like to join me then?

Why do we walk down roads anyway? You’ll find a

great many people who will take the logical route and

say, ‘to get to the end, of course’ and you’ll find a great

many romantics who’ll tell you it’s all about the jour-

ney. Me? I say we walk down roads because we must

walk. We must go on. It is the one thing that we do, al-

ways. In good weather and bad, in good times and dark

hours, we always walk on; the story of our lives, written

one step at a time.

Someone wise once asked, “How many roads must a

man walk down?” Douglas Adams traveled to the ends

of the universe to find the answer. Bob Dylan wrote a

song about it and then said the answer was blowing in

the wind and I figure, the only way to catch up with the

wind, is to keep walking.

See, the beautiful thing about roads is the fact that all it

takes is one wrong turn to end up someplace complete-

ly new. So take that wrong turn. Go someplace new.

Live a little. Perhaps all the wrong turns will only bring

you back to an old place, but you may see it in a new

light. Then you’ll realize that life on the road is all about

the wrong turns and you’ll realize that you’ve been tak-

ing all the right turns, when all you had to do was take

the left one.

Sometimes the road can be scary. The lights are all out.

It’s raining something evil and there are more holes in

the ground than in Swiss cheese. In times like those,

you can be sure of one thing. The road goes on; past

the dark, on to drier land and higher ground and if you

keep to it, you’ll come out the other side, a little

battered, a little bruised, wet and wiser for it, just in

time to watch that sunrise you’ve always wanted to

see.

It isn’t to say that the road is without its perils. Some

roads lead nowhere. Some lead to worse. But there is-

n’t much to do when you’re on a road to ruin. You must

keep your feet and walk until the road sees it fit to let

you walk off it. There are those who will stop and walk

no more and those who will attempt to walk back to

where they came from. But it is a fool’s errand. Once

you stop you’re as good as dead and there is never any

going back; ever. The road, for all its twists and turns

only ever runs one way; forward.

Not all roads are great and neither are all of them

fraught with danger. But the road in your backyard,

down to that cozy patch of grass where inspiration, it

seems, truly does grow on trees, is no less important

and no less intimidating. We each have our own roads

to walk down.

The road is a powerful thing. It has toppled nations and

inspired us to many great things. Ernesto Guevara rode

his bike down a road that led him to a revolution. Gan-

dhi walked two hundred and forty miles down a road to

break a law. If you have the chance to walk on such

great roads, take it, keep to it and thousands will walk

the road with you. If you betray the road or worse, if

you betray yourself, you will find yourself alone and

reduced to a mere footnote in the pages of history.

Now before I lay these last words, to this road’s end, I

have one final thing to say. The road is so many things.

It is life, time, destiny but it is also simple; a path to be

walked on. So although a journey may be long and ar-

duous, leading to unclear, yet rewarding ends, all it

takes to get started on one is a deep breath, a good

pace and a far stretching road.

by Ram V

Horn, Ok, Please!

Cars from the left Cars from the right Those in the middle Steer with abject fright. Honking in the front Honking in the back Sound moves in furious circles The car freezes in its track. White is the smoke White is the sky Mouths are covered in vain Lungs are ready to die. Buses with no top Buses a story high Inside, a million dreams Float upward to the sky. Folks on the road Folks off the road Alone among the crowd Walking with head bowed. Roads to the left Roads to the right People always at crossroads With no end in sight.

Poetry by Parth Pandya

The Lounge

April 2012

Pizzas, Poopy Diapers and Post-

partum Depression

The Incidental Anger of a Reluctant Super-Mom

What really does a mother go through with the arrival of her

child or children? Is it all happiness and celebration? It’s that

and something else too. Chidambarakumari Ponnambalam,

mother of two, shares her experiences in a heartfelt piece.

Slice of Life

By Chidambarakumari Ponnambalam

When I first held my little girl Maya a good four

years ago, I felt all the reactions the million baby

guides told me I should feel – ecstatic, tired, proud

and afraid. But above all I felt an immense love for

that tiny human being in my arms, a tidal wave

which slowly filled my every sinew, every nerve, and

every thought and soon pulled me into a realm far

away from my comfort zone.

I wanted to be everything to her – the mom who

baked cookies because it was a Tuesday, the mom

who would lie down and count grass with her tod-

dler all afternoon because that was precisely what

was marked in the To-Do list, the mom who would

be around 24/7 to chase monsters and build fairy

gardens. Yet after a few months of doing just that I

started to tire of this gig. So when Maya turned 18

months I took the first job that came my way.

The night before I attended the interview, I sat in

her room and wrote a long tear-stained letter ask-

ing her forgiveness. I cried the first day I dropped

her at daycare, a little more than she did. Handling a

job and a child is easy when you have family helping

you. Appa flew in immediately to help with child-

care on the days Maya didn’t go to daycare. Work-

ing away from home invigorated my mind and soul

that I barely noticed the tired limbs when I reached

home. I cooked new recipes, took Maya out for

walks, read new stories. In short, my life couldn’t be

happier.

I was wrong.

A year later in our new home, my darling adorable

little son Arya arrived with much fanfare. The thing

with parenting is everyone who has ever spent cou-

ple of hours in the vicinity of kids deems it as life’s

important mission to teach you how to raise kids.

So from the nurse, to my grandmother and her

neighbour, Maya’s daycare provider – everyone told

me how older siblings will react to the arrival of an-

other baby and what I could do to ease the transi-

tion. Every lesson sounded valuable but I couldn’t

do all of it.

With Maya, my husband fell in love with me a se-

cond time because I gave him the best gift he could

ever ask for – a beautiful daughter. My parents dot-

ed on their darling first grandchild and the daughter

who brought her home. To know Maya is to love

her. There is simply no other way. So when Arya

joined our family, everyone did their best to make

Maya still feel loved. Amma who had come down to

help us with the new baby and the new house spent

all her moments with her granddaughter; cooking

her favourite dishes, running in the backyard and

weaving stories of trains and goddesses, all in the

same breath. Somu, my husband, disappeared for

long stretches of time to entertain his daughter and

to let her know that her Dad will always be around

while I lay alone in the hospital room making sense

of a newborn’s cries.

At home, I sat bundled up with my son in an up-

stairs bedroom while the rest of the family ran

through the sprinklers in the backyard. I changed

poopy diapers and gave baths to a newborn all by

myself while Amma and Maya ate icecream in the

Slice of Life backyard. Gusty summer breezes carried Maya’s

tinkling laughter to my wail-ridden bathroom walls.

It was not that they ignored me but to my tear-filled

eyes, the picture was always blurred. Amma

brought me food upstairs, Maya toddled in to sing

songs to her new best buddy Arya; yet to me, noth-

ing seemed enough.

I hated the huge house. I hated having to go

through a second C-section that made me sit in one

place to heal while the rest of the world had fun. I

loathed the fact that my husband felt Maya needed

more attention than I did. I loved my kids. But I hat-

ed Motherhood.

“PPD is a figment of the Western world’s imagina-

tion. Indian mothers do not get it. Indian mothers

always love their children and would sacrifice every-

thing for their well-being.” How I wish this was true.

It took a Herculean effort everyday just to smile. My

mood swings were very extreme and every argu-

ment left me more vulnerable. I wanted to kill my-

self but since I felt my husband was a no-good fa-

ther, I wanted to kill him instead. Finally I asked for

help. I told Somu and my doctor. I was prescribed

‘happy drugs’ and lots of love and attention.

Somu and I worked on getting me back to my nor-

mal self, whatever that was. He took one afternoon

off every week and took me out for lunch. He lis-

tened to my rants and however silly they may have

sounded, he never judged me. Maya was sent to a

daycare for five days and with my mother-in-law

around to help with the baby, I slowly got back to

working part-time. It wasn’t easy. But the distrac-

tion that work provided really helped. I went on

dates with Maya to reconnect; we made pizzas at

home, we baked more and we painted a lot. I

worked real hard to make her understand her mom

was still there for her. I worked harder to believe in

love itself.

I felt alone. To be fair I never told anyone but my

mom. Amma still won’t really talk about it. Or may-

be that’s her way of dealing with change. I really

can’t tell. I couldn’t talk to my friends. Somehow I

got the feeling everyone only wants to talk about

happy mothers. Tired mothers who want to crib

about their spouses, well maybe, but not sad moth-

ers filled with murderous rage. What do you tell

such a mom? So I kept to myself, faked happy

smiles every time I forced myself out and bottled it

all up. I felt ashamed. I, who had always wanted

kids, to be depressed, meant I was a bad mother.

Six months later, I was off the meds and got a clean

chit of mental happiness. I felt light.

The baby is now a running, climbing, falling toddler

and older sister is in a typical four-year old ‘why ?’

phase, both adding to more confusion to my al-

ready overrun plate. I transitioned to a work-from-

home status with occasional runs to office when my

family gets under my skin. Our couple-only lunches

have slowly disappeared and replaced with home-

made pizza evenings and screams of ‘Maya! Don’t

you dare drop that plate on his head’.

I am not completely at peace with Motherhood,

this constant nagging demand of moms to sacrifice

perfectly shaped eyebrows, of careers, of night outs

with girl friends, of quiet evenings in book shops. I

hate we don’t ask much of the Dads. We are eu-

phoric when the bloody man changes diapers and

loads the dishwasher twice a week. We sing paeans

of the ‘hands-on Dad’ when he puts the baby down

for naps or builds mammoth swing sets in the back-

yard. Err…who cooked and fed and bathed the kids

while someone was hammering away till kingdom

come?

*Sigh*

At the end of this long and arduous journey I have

learnt one thing - I love my kids. But to love myself

equally is not a sin.

By Chidambarakumari Ponnambalam

Of Cassettes and

Ilayaraja

by Anupama Krishnakumar

For Anupama Krishnakumar, cassettes always remind her of Ilaya-

raja, the extremely popular music composer from Tamilnadu. And

the maestro’s music, even today, takes her down memory lane –

back to the 80s and 90s. “Over the last few months, I have real-

ised that Ilayaraja’s music has accompanied me like a quiet com-

panion, as I was growing up,” she writes. Here’s a tribute from an

ardent fan.

Audio cassettes are now clearly a thing of the past –

they have been brushed away to dusty corners of

homes (or perhaps are even out of homes) and of

course to the dusty corners of our minds – those

plastic, rectangular devices with two little wheels

dutifully supporting lengthy strips of brownish-black

tape carrying the inscribed music from the source to

its destination. Cassettes remind me predominantly

of the late 80s and the early 90s and to some extent,

the rest of 90s. My earliest memories of listening to

tapes are of those blank Meltrack cassettes that

used to come in blue (60 minute tapes) and green

(90 minute tapes) colours which Dad used to buy. He

would then write down a list of songs that he would

like to record, take it to the small shop that used to

record songs on tapes and come back with those

blank cassettes that brimmed with soulful creation.

Apart from Meltrack, TDK and T-Series are the other

blank cassette brands that I distinctly remember. Of

course, there were the pre-recorded cassettes that

came with covers we died to look at before the re-

lease of a movie. In our home though, these cas-

settes found their ways into our racks only after

A.R.Rahman burst into the Tamil music scene. Till

then, it was the cassettes we recorded off those tiny

shops that ruled the roost – and when I remember

these, I can only think of Ilayaraja and his timeless

compositions. These recorded cassettes were my

first tryst with film music as far back as my memory

takes me, and this tryst began with listening to the

maestro’s music, starting from when I was as young

as three years old. There were a few Hindi cassettes

too, but Ilayaraja was the king who ruled our collec-

tion of recorded tapes.

There is one clear memory of a song I loved that I

heard on a gramophone record: a Malayalam song,

Thumbi Vaa from Olangal sung by S.Janaki, (also per-

formed later as Mood Kaapi in violin) and set to tune

by Ilayaraja. As a child, I loved that song beyond rea-

son! I distinctly remember the gramophone record’s

flap had the picture of a laughing woman in the fore-

ground with green stripes in the background. After

that, as far as my recollection goes, it has been all

about recorded cassettes as far as the music com-

poser is concerned.

Over the last few months, I have realised that Ilaya-

raja’s music has accompanied me like a quiet com-

panion, as I was growing up. I say this with a little bit

of surprise because all these years I have been oblivi-

ous to this very simple truth. I have never, except till

recently, consciously and truly understood how

much his music had pervaded my life through all

those years of growing up. No, it’s not just about lis-

tening for entertainment sake.

Like I have understood of late, after having taken the

presence of his songs around me for granted all the-

se years, something about his music makes me go

back again and again to those compositions even to-

day. This is probably because his songs filled my

younger years with so much music that I carried

them within me and tied his musical notes to various

instants in time. My mom often says that I was ob-

sessed with the song, Eeramana Rojaave from the

movie of the same name, as a three-year-old, that I

used to keep singing it in a loop. And then there are

those quintessentially 80s songs like Devan Thandha

Veenai, Pothi Vecha Malligai Mottu, Thendral

Vandhu Ennai Thodum, Senbagame, Ei

Orayiram,Sangeetha Megam, Ilaya Nila, En Iniya Pon

Nilaave, Pon Mane, Medhuva Medhuva and Man-

dram Vandha … ones that I remember humming with

whatever lyrics my mind could assimilate as a child –

humming them when standing at shops next to

Mom, humming them while walking and then later,

while cycling down to school, repeatedly singing por-

tions of some songs whose tunes appealed to my

mind, as I sat in the terrace, trying to study – some-

times, I remember feeling awkwardly shy too for that

gentle madness. Mind you, the entire list isn’t finding

its place here because when you begin talking of Ila-

yaraja’s music of the 80s when he literally was ruling

the Tamil music industry ripping apart the competi-

tion, reducing them to miniscule drops in the ocean

of music, you don’t talk songs but talk movies that

are fondly looked back at even today for the brilliant

music – Johnny, Nizhalgal, Mundram Pirai, Meendum

Kokila, Raaja Parvai, Sindhu Bhairavi, Mudhal Mari-

yadhai, Sathya,Poove Poochuduva, Mouna Raagam,

Punnagai Mannan, Nayagan, Karagattakaran and

Anjali... a few gems among many such others. And

one fondly remembers the 90s for films like Thalapa-

thi, Devar Magan, Chinna Thambi, Mahanadhi,

by Anupama Krishnakumar

Of Cassettes and Ilayaraja

Guna, Captain Prabakaran, Marupadiyum and

Kadhalukku Mariyadhai.

I revisit these songs and many more even today –

through dozens of playlists created on every music

player I can lay my hands on – from the iPod to iPad

to my laptop (I so love the shuffle option on all of

these) to the USB mp3 player. I should mention here

that long after cassettes died their natural death, I

still have with me some of those Meltrack tapes, with

their cases cracked due to all the travelling they have

done with me ever since I left home to study at the

age of 17. It is not until 2005, when I moved to Bom-

bay to work, that I sort of stopped listening to these

already-slowing-down-due-to-

overuse cassettes and switched

to the then fast- gaining-

popularity CDs.

I remember walking into a mu-

sic store in Colaba in South

Bombay and discovering much

to my delight, a CD of Ilayaraja’s

‘How to Name It’ – the album

that unleashes his potential to

exploit the instrument that he

truly is a Master at utilising: the

Violin. ‘How to Name It’ is sheer

brilliance – every time that I have listened to this al-

bum, it has evoked a whole range of emotions in me

– from feeling light to experiencing a queer melan-

choly that has threatened to throw the mental barri-

cades open, ushering in a rain of tears – silent and

from deep within.

And when we talk of music that moves even the

strongest of minds, how can I forget the evergreen,

outstanding and terrific title track of ‘Mouna Ragam’?

A musical piece such as this one is so hard to come

by, even after so many years. Or for that matter, the

musical ballad composition from Punnagai Mannan.

Melody is no doubt the man’s forte, and any listener

of Tamil film music will be able to pull out a sizeable

list of his ‘popular’ melody songs. My list has many of

these too – but there are these other songs too that

are extremely brilliant and perhaps not as popular. If

you get a chance, listen to Kannama kadhal ennum

kavidhai from Vanna Vanna Pookal for Ilayaraja’s

husky voice and some brilliant interlude music, to

Sithagathi Pookale from Rajakumaran for some very

interesting beats that last the entire song, to Rasave

Unnai Nambi from Mudhal Mariyadhai for the soulful

rendition by S.Janaki that brims with longing and

love, to Poova Eduthu from Amman Kovil Kizhakaale

for the sheer village rawness that pervades the song,

to Idazhil Kadhai Ezhudum from Unnal Mudiyum

Thambi for the honey-dripping melody,

to Nil Nil Nil from Paatu Paadava for its

surprisingly mood-lifting (this is one song

that brings me so much joy) music and

rhythm, to Athadi Ammadi from

Idhayathai Thirudadhey for Chitra’s ex-

ceptional voice and the pure energy of

the song, to Ninnai Charan Adaindhen

from Bharathi for Ilayaraja’s stirring voice

and the devotion in it, to Poo Malarn-

dhida from Tik Tik Tik for the way the

song seamlessly moves from Carnatic to

Western rhythm and En Veetu Jannal from Raman

Abdullah for Bavatharini’s crystal clear voice and the

song’s tune itself and lastly, to Panneril Nanaindha

Pookal from Poove Poochuduva for the phenomenal

use of violin and the North-Indian influence on the

song.

It’s true that I have listened to most of his composi-

tions, if not all. And time and again, they have filled

me with a warmth that is difficult to put down in

words. The music has never failed to tug at my heart

strings, has eased the mind, filling the being with a

very beautiful lightness. For me, it has always had

that true healing power that people say music is said

to have. There’s something definitely unburdening

Of Cassettes and Ilayaraja

by Anupama Krishnakumar

about listening to Ilayaraja’s songs.

The coming of A.R.Rahman two decades ago and over

the years, a spate of new composers, both good and

bad, have probably pushed Ilayaraja to the back-

ground. Yet, who can deny that the man is pure geni-

us? He ruled an era like a king and has given us un-

paralleled gems of musical creation – music inimita-

ble and transporting. No matter how far we have

travelled in time, his songs, joyfully soulful – are here

to enthral today and for many years to come. All you

got to have is that ear for his musical notes. And Ila-

yaraja, I bet, wouldn’t disappoint. As for me, if I ever

think I should undo the knot on my bag of treasured

memories, I definitely know where to head to.

Of Cassettes and Ilayaraja

by Anupama Krishnakumar

Pictures : Google Images

Film Freak

By Yayaati Joshi

Agent Vinod : Clichés and

Caricatures Galore

Agent Vinod is ridden with clichés and caricatures, says Yayaati

Joshi. While he went expecting something better or different

from the Bond and Bourne films that he has watched, he was

disappointed. With only these films to draw inspiration from,

it’s not surprising to catch a glimpse of the movies in this Indi-

an sleuth flick, he says. Note : Spoiler Alert!

Where would we be without clichés, archetypes,

and prototypes? How would we recreate the same

effect as the Bond/Bourne films? These are the sort

of questions the crew of Agent Vinod needs to an-

swer. Everything about the film seems to be a rip-

off of either a Bond, or a Bourne or even an Ethan

Hunt film.

The film begins with Agent Vinod being briefed

about 242—hitherto an unknown object, but the

gravity with which it is spoken about leaves no

doubts in our minds that it is a weapon of mass de-

struction. Vinod enters his boss’s room, but not

without trying to impress his secretary with flaw-

less Japanese (a ‘tribute’ to James Bond and

Moneypenny?).

Storyboard

He then goes around the world—Russia, Morocco, Paki-

stan and even London, to stop a nuclear bomb from being

detonated in New Delhi. Along the way, he shoots (not

sharply), runs (not impressively), wisecracks (not witting-

ly) and romances (not convincingly). This is where the

crux of the problem lies. In an attempt to recreate a desi

sleuth with Bond like attributes, the filmmakers mess up

both. Neither is Agent Vinod a perfect replica of Bond (so

that one can let it pass thinking “Imitation is the best

form of flattery”) nor is he an exclusively individualistic

identity (so that one can say “Wow, how different from

the rest!”). What Sriram Raghavan, the director, ends up

doing is taking bits and pieces from many films, and con-

solidating them, so that from the viewer’s point of view,

there’s almost everything that one could expect—a com-

plete package, so to say, which has some skin show, some

mafia type characters, a terrorist hell bent on destroying

the nation, and a love interest of the spy.

So far, so mediocre. Post intermission, I was waiting for some hardcore action to make up for the insipid-

ness of the first half. But here too, I was only mildly impressed. The usual referencing to the enemy

across the fence, and how both nations want peace, just that a few elements would prefer otherwise

(this was thankfully subtly stated, not in the chest-thumping jingoistic fashion of Sunny Deol) finds its

place. In the second half, we also find out more about Kareena’s character, again a stereotyped, damsel

in distress, who is at the wrong place at the wrong time, and is looking to be redeemed by Agent Vinod.

Through a series of chases and one-versus-many fights, it finally dawns on us that 242, the “something”

that Agent Vinod is after, is actually a nuclear bomb. But that’s hardly a surprise. The ‘surprise’ that

Raghavan plants for us is that the attack wasn’t tailored by a terrorist group, but by a businessman, a

sort of a war-profiteer, who sends his man to detonate the bomb (it was impossible for me to not think

of Le Chiffre and his henchman in Casino Royale). The film ends with Agent Vinod successfully diffusing

the bomb, not without the usual drama in which the bomb is diffused only a few seconds before it is

about to explode.

For the ones who watch fewer films, perhaps this might be a mildly rewarding experience; after all, the

film does have some picturesque shots of Morocco. But a seasoned film watcher would immediately re-

alise that a very similar expanse of Tangiers was shown in the Bourne franchise too.

To my mind, a better Agent Vinod could have been made if the director had steered clear of all the ste-

reotypes and clichés. People who are actually in the field of counter intelligence (like a classmate of

mine) tell me that the life of a ‘spy’ is rather boring. The only ‘action’ that happens, happens in bits and

Film Freak

Agent Vinod| Review by Yayaati Joshi

pieces, and not very regularly. Perhaps this could

have been a fine premise for the film—a crude, raw

story line, where the sleuth is not very different

from a regular policeman (and he doesn’t wear a

tuxedo). But then, who’s to say? Saif maintains his

verve and suave, and another name is added to the

already long list of charming spies. He asks for

chilled beer while being held at a gunpoint, he

speaks shudh Hindi (but grammatically incorrect)

after saving a foreign looking risqué woman, in fact

he does everything that one would have expected

him to do. Had there been an element of surprise in

the portrayal, I’d have enjoyed it. Same with Ka-

reena—the only saving grace is her mujra, which

choreographers have criticised for being unauthen-

tic.

For me, the film didn’t work at all. I have seen all

Bond and Bourne films, and all the MI films too, so I

was expecting something better, or something

different. But for what it’s worth, while exiting that

cinema hall, I heard a couple chatter: “It wasn’t that

great”. That should say it all.

Film Freak is an exclusive monthly column by Yayaati

Joshi, who, well, is a film freak. Going forward, It will

feature movie reviews and essays on various aspects

of Indian and world cinema.

Film Freak

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

Order it now at http://pothi.com/pothi/book/anupama-krishnakumar-sparkling-thoughts

by Vani Viswanathan

Tuning In To Different Times

Vani Viswanathan laments the music of today and wishes she could

have been born to spend her teenage in the 70s—just so she could

have lived through the best English music of all times.

I have always wished I was born in the late 50s or in

the 60s. Just so that I would have been a teenager in

the 70s. In the US; no actually better still, the UK.

You know, when it was ok to be a hippie, when trav-

elling the world as a teenager was simply the cool-

est thing to do, when you’d only get half-weirded-

out stares if you were a flower child. But most of all,

it was for the music. The best music the world has

ever heard, unless something revolutionary happens

to the ears of those who compose these days. The

strict Rahman fan that I am, though, I will maintain

this statement for English music only. International

music contains to be as awesome as ever, if any-

thing, getting more fans worldwide thanks to the

Internet.

I must confess at the outset I cannot claim to know

all about the songs of then or of the songs of now,

but I do know enough to compare, and to say with-

out doubt that songs of then are far more legend-

ary, classic, and innovative than most of the hits of

today.

Come on, just sample the songs that become mas-

sive hits these days – if they are not about disturb-

ingly young children singing about their lame lives

(‘Which seat do I take?’), these same children sing

about their budding dating lives (‘Baby, baby, baby,

OH!’). There is one irritating trend that my friend

once noted about the hits of today – they are all sad

(literally, yes, but often metaphorically too), and

they are mostly about breakups. Adele’s song that

rocketed her to fame (err, in my definition, a song

so popular that I happened to hear it) – ‘Someone

like you’ – has a 21-year-old singing about a man a

lady loved who happened to marry someone else.

The song that I am currently addicted to – Gotye’s

‘Somebody that I used to know’ – is about a man

being grumpy about his girlfriend moving on. There

is no innovation about the lyrics. They are a bunch

of everyday, meaningless words strung together and

put to a tune that rarely has any music in it.

by Vani Viswanathan

Tuning In To Different Times

The other painful-to-the-ear trend is how the songs

of today rely almost obsessively on Auto-Tune. And

the beat, oh my god, the damning beat. The beat

and the software make you wonder if they even rec-

orded the song at a studio or whether everything

was simply gener-

ated with a com-

puter.

Let’s dial back to

the songs of the

70s. The Beatles

were in their

prime, making the

world go gaga. The

world of Rock was

at its best time ev-

er, and here I’m

only talking about

the really known

ones, the popular ones: Pink Floyd, The Rolling

Stones, The Who, Led Zeppelin, Queen, Simon &

Garfunkel. If you are a fan of Rock, cross your heart

and tell me you’ve heard consistently brilliant music

in any of the recent years (I’ll discount the 80s in

general, they were a brilliant bunch of years too).

The Eagles were adding the American touch, The

Police (and Sting) had arrived. ABBA was still rock-

ing, Fleetwood Mac was being unique and hippie.

U2 had been formed. Eric Clapton was stringing

magic together on the guitar. You had your Bruce

Springsteen, Rod Stewart, Van Halen, David Bowie

and others sprucing up the music of the decade.

And how can I forget, there was Michael Jackson,

who, thankfully, survived another couple of decades

before falling to ruin. The names of the bands ring

in innovation. They spell something that’s worth

being heard. Today? Between the baby boy’s whose

voice is just breaking to a lady gifted with a power-

ful voice but annoys you with her crude personality,

I don’t know whom to pick.

The songs of the 70s also had a lot of character.

They spanned a lot more topics and were often hap-

py and promising. A staggering large number of the

top ones had something to do with drugs, but at

least this was masked in the name of discussing

something else. They

were about peace, ob-

session, love, revolu-

tion, challenging atti-

tudes. Lyrics prodded

you to think – they

were poems, or they

were everyday words

that you’d had to put

some effort into to un-

derstand, enjoy. Be it

The Stairway to Heav-

en, Hotel California or

Baba O’Riley, they

leave it to you to interpret it. The music has a

haunting touch – be it Kashmir’s scintillating guitar

riffs, the moods through which Baba O’Riley swings,

Pink Floyd’s psychedelic sounds, or Bohemian Rhap-

sody’s mixture of operatic and rock elements – you

see diversity, you see talent, and you see music that

is not the result of a computer’s interference.

The 80s were simply an awesome decade for music

too, with music videos coming in to make a song

memorable. The 90s were fun too. Just what hap-

pened after 2000? The boy bands left, Rock also be-

came sad (literally and metaphorically ;)), Pop just

became a euphemism for lesser clothes and raun-

chy dance moves. Hip-Hop became an excuse for

singing to eventually dwindle to mere talking and

later supplemented by Auto-Tune. I don’t dispute

the fact that many singers do have brilliant voices –

be it Lady Gaga or Rihanna or Katy Perry – but so

often their voices are drowned by instruments and

In beats that most often sound the same – or per-

haps it’s my untrained ears that cannot distinguish all

of this.

There is one thing just so wonderful about music to-

day, though – the Internet. For a late entrant into the

music of the 70s like me, there is nothing like

YouTube when it comes to discovering ‘newer’ old

music, finding the videos of the time, listening to con-

cert versions or the occasional rare videos of the

stars discussing their songs – for someone who so

wished to have lived her teenage/20s in the 1970s,

these videos provide some vicarious pleasure.

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Tuning In To Different Times by Vani Viswanathan

Slice of Life

The Ton of Joy

by Parth Pandya

Parth Pandya’s piece is a fitting tribute and a quiet celebration of the achieve-

ment beyond compare of a master batsman. Sachin Tendulkar, we are proud

of you and inspired too!

Imagine being good at something. Imagine that you

were so good you thought you could make a career

out of it. Add to it the fact that you are lucky to

have been born in India, the country with no short-

age of others to compete with. But you are persis-

tent. You’ll make your mark, you believe. You may

be the best in your suburb, your city even. But wait,

did I tell you that you would only be 16 when you

had to prove you are this good? In fact, did I tell

you that not only do you have to be the best in your

city, you need to be among the best in the country?

Actually, make it the world. And note that you

won’t have much chance to fail. You are being

watched, every step of the way. By everyone. Every

day that you represent your country in what is gen-

erously described as a cauldron, you’ll be expected

to walk on water, lift a nation sinking under the bur-

den of its own reality. You can lose your privacy,

but not your mind. You can be praised and damned,

but your dignity can’t be compromised. You are the

face of your profession, a God in flesh, a reason

why people switch off their lives and switch on the

television. You balk at the prospect? Welcome to

the life of Sachin Tendulkar.

In a match deemed inconsequential in the recent

past against an opposition deemed unfit by arm-

chair critics, that diminutive man nudged a single

on the leg side to add to his legend in an improba-

ble way. Sachin constructed Mt. Tendulkar, by

hitting his 100th international century. It was his

49th in one day internationals, to add to the 51 he

has notched up in test matches. It was coincidental-

ly, his first one day international century against the

minnows Bangladesh—but not without receiving

flak for it—so much for getting a ton against a weak

opposition. Of his 100 tons, 20, yes, 20 have come

against the best team in the world in the two dec-

ades that he has played – Australia. You get the

magnitude of the achievement when you realise

that when Tendulkar nudged the ball to the leg side

to get that momentous single, he confirmed the

existence of a statistic in cricket that did not even

exist before – so improbable was it thought to be.

The wait for the 100th century has been its own

long saga. From the time that he got his 99th ton

against South Africa in the World Cup, it was as-

sumed that it was a matter of time. A century in the

final of the World Cup at Wankhede would have

Slice of Life

The Ton of Joy

by Parth Pandya

made it a dream achievement, but it was not to be.

England followed, then West Indies and then Aus-

tralia – match after match, the century kept being

played up. Advertisers were waiting for it to hap-

pen, commemorative plaques were built and kept

and news articles with clever headlines were al-

ready thought of. But it didn’t happen. Time and

again, he crept up on the three figure number just

to fall short, often losing the battle in his mind. The

pressure kept building, especially as India got

whipped in all their overseas games. Tendulkar’s

hundred became a national obsession – a country’s

breath was literally held and it was being choked

in an unrelenting grip. Tendulkar’s critics, some of

whom are cricketers with much lesser pedigree,

and others whose qualifications involve sitting in

the luxury of their armchairs and haven’t yet and

never will score one run in international cricket,

brought their daggers out. All of this got to the

great man, who was suddenly made to look human.

This is what makes this ton so special – that a man

with 99 centuries could simply not conjure up one

century more. But he accepted the situation with

the humility that he has shown in his career and

decided to grind his way to this century. For a man

who has been asked to retire relentlessly by his

critics in the past year, the century just gave him a

reason not to.

When Tendulkar first burst onto the cricketing sce-

ne as a prodigy, his entry brought with it the limit-

less set of expectations – after all, why expect any-

thing less from a talent that promises so much? But

the chances of a prodigy delivering on his ample

gifts are fraught with the fragility of a tender flower

in a strong breeze. For it to survive, it must have

strength of character to go with the innate beauty

that it possesses. Tendulkar’s career is that flower

that has survived and blossomed. Those who un-

derstand it have unlocked the keys to understand-

ing the value of this Mount Tendulkar. Bradman’s

imperfection may have been poetic. But Tendul-

kar’s journey is, without any doubt, a pure epic.

Pictu

re : Go

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