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Contents Preface - Pritam Majumdar & Merrin Abraham Why is it called Article Nineteen? - Soumya Mishra Akbar - Pushkal Shivam The Cell - Amala Devi Morning Blues - Vaishali Prasad Watery Sunshine - Smita Mujumdar Bleeding Words - Amrutha K Into the Woods and Blue Mountains - Ardra Manasi The Smell of Turmeric - Veena Vimala Mani Hovering Castles - Asmita Ghosh The Perfect Husband - Kanishk Bandhopadhyay The Accustomed Itch - Darsana Vijay A Journey through my Self - Sumayya Hassan Illustration by Urmika Sinha Colors - Soumya Mishra In Search of Poetry - Soumya Mishra I will love you like they say it in poems - Urvi Shah Illustration by Urmila R The Cairo Diaries - TP Kurian Insurrectionist Ingredients - TP Kurian It was a Filipendulous Thing - TP Kurian The Green Dot - Anu Joshy Illustration by Urmila R Feminine Vine - Rakhi S Kumar Plato’s Nemesis - Vaishali Prasad Love - Sneha A Illustration by Urmila R Shangri La - Aparajitha Cremation - Anand Sreekumar You Fought Against Racism - Smruthi Bala Kannan The Passover - Vanya Rachel Illustration by Urmila R Running Out of Words - Aswin Vijayan Kammalamma - Srilata K Epilogue - Soumya Mishra

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Illustrators

Ashraya Why is it called Article Nineteen? | Akbar | Watery Sunshine | Bleeding Words | Into the Hills and the Blue Mountains | The Smell of Turmeric | Hovering Castles | An Accustomed Itch | In Search of Poetry | I will love you like they say it in poems | It was a Filipendulous thing | The Green Dot | Feminine Vine | The Passover | Kammalamma Ganesh The Cell | You fought against Racism Saba Morning Blues | The Cairo Diaries | Running Out of Words Sanjana The Perfect Husband | Love | Cremation Suma A journey through my Self | Colours Marva Insurrectionist Ingredients Sofia Shangri La Gerleo Plato’s Nemesis Preethi Epilogue

   

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Preface  

Ten years is not a long time in history but it is enough for us to look back and                                     celebrate the existence of this unique liberal arts program in an elite technical institute                           in India. As a part of this celebration we want to highlight the creative outbursts of our                                 highly accomplished seniors in this commemorative edition of Article19. It is an                       attempt to reclaim the forgotten past lost on some nondescript webzines and present                         it to our juniors in this ‘time-capsule’ which will take you on a journey to the collective                                 memories of our department.  

It is our pleasure to thank our whole team, especially Ashraya, Naomi, Hathim, Akshay                           and Basima who have selflessly worked towards the completion of this edition. We                         would like to thank our guest illustrators Saba, Suma, Ganesh, Gerleo, Sanjana, Sofia                         and Marva for brightening these pages with their colourful ingenuity. We also thank                         Soumya (founder editor of Article19) who in spite of her tight schedule managed to                           write for us. It would be fitting to mention the undying perseverance and assistance of                             our official illustrator, Ashraya, who single-handedly coordinated and managed to get                     all these illustrations done in time. And a special mention to Vineeta who originally                           brought up the idea of a commemorative edition of Article19 to us. 

Finally, it is a humble tribute in remembrance of the forgotten memories of our seniors                             lost in the corridors of HSB. We hope it would rekindle the past and continue to shine                                 its resplendent presence in future. 

 

Regards, Pritam and Merrin  

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 Why is it called Article19? 

 In our fourth semester, Akhil, Prasoon and I decided to start a magazine. During one of the                                 constitution classes we had a break for a while and the three of us began discussing about                                 the magazine with regard to its content, its name and so on.   All of a sudden, Prasoon sprang up from his seat and began to frantically search for his D D                                     Basu book. He flipped through the pages of the book as Akhil and I listlessly stared at him. We                                     thought that he was trying to figure out something about the class work. Rather, he gleefully                               pointed at the page on Fundamental Rights and declared ‚ Article19. That’s what we should                             call it..‛   And all of us thought it was a brilliant idea. It was so clear and obvious in its purpose and yet                                         sent a strong message.  So, that is how we call it Article 19.   

 Soumya Mishra 

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 Akbar 

PUSHKAL SHIVAM

 

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  Earlier this year*, the Time magazine named Akbar as one of top 25 political icons of all times.                                   It said ‘At his capital city of Fatehpur Sikri, which he built according to astronomical                             coordinates, he championed a melding of Hinduism and Islam known as the din-i-ilahi or the                             ‘divine faith.’’ While the creed no longer lingers, the ethos of pluralism and tolerance that                             defined Akbar's age underlies the values of the modern republic of India.  Akbar did not imbibe the ethos of pluralism and tolerance suddenly. He confessed ‘We by fear                               and force compelled many believers in the Brahmin religion to adopt the faith of our                             ancestors’. He made another confession, this time with a sense of remorse: ‘Formerly I used                             force upon men to conform to my faith and deemed it Islam. As my knowledge grew, I felt                                   ashamed of my deed. Not being a Muslim myself, it was unfair to compel others to become                                 such. What constancy might one expect from those who converted under duress?’ Akbar did                           not shift to rationalism immediately. It was a gradual process which culminated during                         1578-82, characterizing these years as a period of transition.  Islamic theology was an important source of legitimacy for Muslim rulers. Given the role of the                               Ulema in the administration, Akbar had to demonstrate to them that religion, as interpreted by                             them, was the source of his policies. He could hardly outgrow their influence. Out of devotion                               and faith, Akbar believed in the interpretations and decisions of the venal Sadr Abdu-n Nabi.                             The emperor’s reverence put the Sadr above the law. Akbar used to bring and unlace the                               shoes and took lessons from him in the Quran. Under the influence of Abdu-n-Nabi, Akbar                             grew intolerant and gave orders for murder of the unbelievers. Thus Akbar became a‚ silent or                               active party to persecution until the Mahzar of 1579 rid him from the shackles of the orthodox                                 elements. The conquest of the Rajput fortress of Chittor in 1568 was proclaimed as victory of                               Islam over infidels and Akbar killed thousands of peasants along with their families while                           practicing the ‘Chingisid Code’ of massacring or enslaving all the inhabitants of a conquered                           territory.   During the same period a farman of Akbar directs Qazi Abdul Samad, the muhtasib of a town                                 called Bilgram, and other officials of the town‚ to prevent the Hindus of that pargana from                               practicing idol-worship and take such other steps as might help in eradicating the                         manifestations of heresy and deviation from that pargana. After its temporary suspension for                         a period often years in 1565 , the Jiziya was reimposed in 1575. Given Akbar’s policies during                                 the period being referred to here, it is not hard to explain there-imposition of Jiziya. Again, it                                 was finally abolished only in 1579-80. To explain the developments during this period of                           transition (1578-82), it’s important to trace the origins of Akbar’s outlook. Akbar was born in a                               Hindu household while his father Humayun was on the run. His line age can be traced to the                                   two greatest houses of Central Asia, that of Chengiz Khan and Timur-Lang.   He imbibed the qualities of his ancestors. Chengiz Khan‚ believed in God and not in Dogma,                               respected all religions and was often present at all religious ceremonies of his subjects, for,                             from the state point of view, he found it useful that the people under his authority should give                                   evidence of their faith in God. The Timurid cultural ethos, which did not favour religious                             bigotry, also contributed to the development of Akbar’s outlook. The climate of religious                         tolerance in Timurid polity persisted down to the time when Akbar came to the throne.   During the second battle of Panipat, Bairam Khan presented to Akbar the wounded general                           Hemu: ‘This is your first war: prove your sword on this infidel, for it will be a meritorious deed.’                                     The young emperor refused to do so saying, ‘He is now no better than a dead man; how can I                                       

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strike him? If he had sense and strength I would try my sword.’ Although Akbar was unlettered                                 (possibly due to dyslexia), a tutor had left a deep imprint on his thinking. The name of the tutor                                     was Mir Abdul Latif Qazwini. He was a man of liberal outlook and was influenced by Sufi                                 ideas. Under his tutelage Akbar studied the work of Persian poet Maulana Rumi one of which                               especially appealed to him. According to it, God told the Prophet Moses that he had been sent                                 to unite mankind and not divide it. Akbar was also deeply influenced by the poetry of Hafiz                                 which reflected a liberal outlook. The foundations of the concept of Sulh-i-kul (absolute peace)                           were laid during these times. Another great influence on Akbar was of Shaikh Mubarak and his                               sons Shaikh Faiziand Abu-l-Fazl. The buildings of Ibadat-khanahor ‘Hall of Worship’ at                       Fatehpur Sikri were completed in 1575. Over the last few years Akbar had expanded his                             empire with remarkable victories. He had taken a liking for the society of ascetics and spent                               much time in discussing the Word of God and the sayings of the Prophet likewise devoting his                                 attention to problems of Sufism, science, philosophy, law and similar matters. Sitting alone on                           the stone bench near the palace, Akbar used to spend the early hours of dawn in meditation.   Akbar is reported to have suffered from occasional fits of depression and melancholy down to                             1578. The last fit of such nature came during a hunting expedition when it seemed as if he                                   was dying. However, such fits are not reported after crystallization of Akbar’s worldview                         identified with Sulh-i-kul.   The first phase of discussions in the Hall of Worship or the Ibadat-khanah was confined only                               to the shaikhs, Ulama and Sayids of the Sunni creed. It was only after the second phase of                                   discussions, when Shias were included, in the Ibadat-khanah that the place was opened to                           intellectuals from across the different sects and religions. The discussions radically altered                       Akbar’s world-view. In Muntakhab-al-Tawarikh, Abdul Qadir Badauni writes about Akbar, ‘Doubt                     accumulated upon doubt and the object of his search was lost. The ramparts of the law and                                 of the true faith were broken down, and in the course of five or six years not a single trace of                                         Islam was left behind in him.’ However, Badauni’s work surfaced after Akbar’s death and,                           being an orthodox Muslim, he pandered to the interests prevailing at that time. The                           development of Akbar’s world view had begun by around 1571 by his exposure to the                             pantheistic Sufi documents. Sometime after 1575, Akbar even tried to learn the art of                           concentrating on God while suspended head down in a well for forty days and forty nights.   The Mahzar of 1579 elevated Akbar to the position of the Imam-i-Adil or Lord-just and in case                                 of a difference of opinions among the mujtahids, he can select any one opinion. Even Badauni,                               Abdu-n Nabi and Abdullah Sultanpuri signed it. The Ulamas agreed that ‚the rank of                           Sultan-i-Adil is higher in the eyes of God than the rank of Mujtahid (jurist). The document was                                 also a challenge to the Ottoman pretensions. Akbar did not want to admit the legal supremacy                               of the Ottoman sultans, nor was he willing to permit his own Muslim subjects to owe an                                 allegiance to anyone but himself and especially not to a rival sultan. The document released                             Akbar from the shackles of sectarianism and lent to the Mughal empire an attraction which                             would draw intellectuals throughout the world of Islam. The Mahzar of 1579 was one of the                               factors which established Akbar as ‘Akbar the Great’. Moreover, Akbar’s uniqueness stems                       from the fact that he succeeded in making his subjects feel that they were an integral part of                                   his empire. His own personality played a vital role in that process.   *2011 

 

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The Cell                         AMALA DEVI

Pip is awakened by the prodding. He drowsily opens his eyes. The next thing he knows, he is                                   dangling in the air and swinging back and forth. Pip squeaks. And then he falls down with a                                   thump, just behind his cellmates. There is a burst of laughter. They have been watching all                               along as the two giant white fingers lift Pip up by his tail. It isn’t every day that a new inmate is                                           caught sleeping. The new ones are usually alert. And the old ones have ingeniously developed                             their own radars that can sense the assistant in a fifty centimeter radius. But not poor Pip,                                 who still sits flat on the ground in the position he has landed on, looking dazedly around. The                                   

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assistant moves on, grinning with the other inmates.   Pip is extremely tiny, even by mouse standards. He has a shock of thick white hair that covers                                   the better part of his face and too long a tail on which he himself sometimes trips over. The                                     rest of his face is mostly a perpetually twitchy nose and thick whiskers, both of which now                                 quiver as he peeps through the glass cell for his giant attacker. Thankfully, he has moved                               away, his white coat flapping around his ankles as he makes his way to the next cell. To scan                                     carefully with his bulging eyes for defaulters.   Everybody has settled down again. Pip recognizes the monotony that had made him (he                           thought) fall asleep in the first place. It is pretty quiet except for the soft whirring of the ceiling                                     fans, and that droning voice singing something in the background. Pip had heard someone                           mention that they are all supposed to be making sense of what that song is. But surely, why                                   would any laboratory of national repute want to waste its time and mice with experiments like                               these? Maybe they are analyzing the comprehensive capability among pure breed white mice?                         Well, it seems pretty low then. Pip can spot at least a twenty in their cell itself staring blankly at                                       the pale cream walls. And another twenty struggling to keep their eyes open besides the                             radared ones who are happily dozing off. Speaking of which, he himself is getting drowsy                             again. Something seems very wrong.   “Squeak there!”   Pip jumps and looks around. It is a rather chubby mouse sitting right beside him. Pip smiles                                 sheepishly and says,   “I didn’t know we could to speak in here!”   “Hush, not so loud. We cannot. You seemed pretty worried about something. Are you okay?”   “Oh! Am fine. It’s just that I don’t know exactly what I am doing here. This is my first day and I                                           was given my name tag and asked to sit here and do nothing else. And then, I simply fell                                     asleep! Which is again very weird since I almost never sleep! It is almost as if I was…”   “Drugged?”   And he chuckles, looking at Pip with twinkling, but slightly droopy eyes.   “I am guessing you missed the orientation session, didn’t you? When they mentioned that they                             will be drugging us with some heavy dose anesthetic? All you have to do here is to remain                                   awake and resist the drug and….”   He abruptly stops talking. The assistant is coming. Pip waits for him to go away. But he stops                                   just near their cell and peers again, his bulging eyes almost popping out. Pip is desperate now.                                 He so wants to ask his chubby neighbor about the song in the background. About the radared                                 veterans. And about how to not feel sleepy. Like he is feeling now. Very sleepy. The assistant                                 is still there. He struggles to keep his eyes open. But can’t stand it anymore. He plops down                                   

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and gives a gentle snore.   Pip is awakened by the prodding. But this time he jumps, alert against an impending attack.                               There is no one around. Did they all go when he dozed off? Two white fingers pick him up. He                                       can now see more of the assistant than the white gloved fingers and bulging eyes.   Fat. Dark. With some papers in his hand. A list of 700 mice. He takes one look at Pip’s ID and                                         puts a tick in his list.   Name: Pip Tumbledown ID: 120   In fond remembrance of the third semester, a multitude of Pips in blissful slumber in their                               ‘Ecology and Environment’   

Morning Blues     VAISHALI PRASAD  

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‘Every morning’, she began, ‘I wake up at 5, refreshed and ready to take on the world.’ 

‘Every morning, I wake up to the shorts and jogging shoes I lay out so meticulously the                                 previous night. Today we shall go jogging, I promise myself. We will exercise furiously and                             become so fit and positively glow with health, as we creep out of Sharavati in stealth.’  ‘Nothing stops me, I’m good to go. The music I want to listen to, the splendid morning breeze,                                   the empty roads I can visualise, which smell oh-so-heavenly of thyme and camphor, or some                             such smell which I can't identify. The familiar route, State Bank of India, Kendriya Vidyalaya,                             Delhi Avenue, Bose-Einstein Guest house, Led Zeppelin, Judas Priest, System of a Down, Back                           Street Boys. When the world sleeps, I rule the roads.’ 

‘Back Street Boys?’ he asked. ‘That seems a little out of place, don’t you think?’ 

‘Well, I don’t know.’ she admitted. ‘Sometimes I guess you do things which you wouldn’t                             normally do, dance to tunes which aren’t your own. One can’t completely turn one’s back to                               the world, rebellion always comes with a tinge of conformity, doesn’t it? Sometimes, one feels                             compelled…to accept what society pronounces as good music, what popular opinion deems                       worth listening and sometimes…it does become a part of you. Despite one’s self professed                           individuality, popular opinion does matter, at the end.’  ‘Nonsense’, he snorted. ‘Some high-handed explanation, that. You listen to Backstreet Boys,                       because you want to listen to them, because you enjoy their music. Society can only define                               the norms, you choose whether you like them or not. At the end of the day, you do enjoy                                     American pop music, though you constantly try to deceive yourself there.’  ‘And is that wrong?’ she wanted to ask. ‘Is it wrong if I growl with Rob Halford one moment                                     and croon with Harris Jayaraj the next? Is it wrong to have eclectic tastes, to refuse all too                                   convenient labels – emo, headbangers, punks, indies?’ But she remained silent.   ‘Continue’, he said after a while.   ‘Excitement makes my teeth rattle. The prospect of five classes at a stretch during the day                               doesn't deter me. I imagine the oxygenated blood pumping within me, from the aorta to the                               arteries and all the glorious calories dying a slow death. This is just too good to be true!’.Z  She smiled, albeit very faintly and went on.   ‘And then I did the unthinkable. My eyes fell on two people sleeping peacefully in another                               corner of my 4X4 room. Two faces which radiated absolute bliss. Two pairs of legs and two                                 pairs of hands well tucked into two blankets. I can feel my bare arms freezing. An adrenaline                                 rush, possibly.’  ‘I sighed and crawled back into bed, my head just too glad to hit the pillow. At once, I                                     experienced bliss, like a million bells were ringing in my head and like I was floating on the                                   

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clouds, like I could smell hot melting chocolate and other such experiences which define bliss.                             For afterall, I had two more hours to sleep.’  She paused. ‘And that’s why, sir’, she said, ‘I was late to class today.’ 

Watery Sunshine SMITA MUJUMDAR 

 

I never really understood the meaning of the term 'sun kissed'. To personify a large helium ball                                 and then imagine it pouting and leaning towards the earth is a scary thought, if you ask me.                                   But then one day, on a road trip from Jabalpur to Mumbai, I finally got it. While the car                                     threaded through the forest, the late December view on the other side of the window was                               simply beautiful. The trees looked happy and the sun shone off of them. It was exactly the                                 right amount of sun anyone would want.  This was the sight I had in mind as I looked out the classroom door. But the scene that met                                       my eyes was in loud conflict with the one in my head. The Sun was not just kissing the Earth,                                       she was forcing herself on her. Violently, brutally, and mercilessly raping her. And the Earth                             offered no resistance. It was as if she had already accepted defeat. And where could she have                                 gone? Who could she have run to? Everyone in the fucking 'solar' system was tied to the Sun,                                   depended on her. The Earth had no tears left to cry. Her body was bruised and scarred. She                                   was dying, bit by bit, but the sun would not let her. The Sun, a sadistic goddess, nurtured life as                                       much as she drained the Earth of it. May be it is the fault of mankind. Stripping the Earth                                     naked of herself and provoking the Sun to attack. Provoking, hmph! As if it was the Earth's                                 

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fault she was getting assaulted.  Thinking of the injustices heaped upon the earth was so much more engaging than the class I                                 found myself in. It wasn't a far fetched thought, really, because I felt I was equally victimized. I                                   am a winter lover, and the summer has never been kind to me. It is a cruel joke indeed that I                                         find myself destined to spend five years of my life in Chennai. March and April are absolutely                                 wicked months to spend here for someone like me. I would not be exaggerating if I told you I                                     start melting every time I step out in the heat.    The sweat snake slithering down my spine was spoiling my already sour mood with its poison.                               Now, the mind likes to repress bad experiences. Psychology 101. And so my mind refused to                               let me suffer the pain that was beating down its door. I could not bear to think of the heat any                                         more. My mind drew me to cooler places, happier times. Why I could not remember snow                               covered mountains is beyond me; maybe the Sun had my mind on a leash and would not let it                                     stray far from where I was. Sadist, like I said. And that is when my mind tiptoed away to the                                       beach, taking in the salt and sand, and the inviting smell of something I could not correctly put                                   my finger on.  I guess Chennai's only saving grace is the beach. Perpetually pleasant weather. There is the                             added advantage of finding absolute privacy in a thoroughly crowded place. I think it is the                               water.  I know the beach symbolizes stability for many, but for me, it means change. Nothing remains                               the same. Everything gets washed away, and everything changes. There is always another                         chance, another day. Sometimes, I like knowing that I'm nothing more than a miniscule speck                             in this whole wide, what shall I say, world? And one day, I will get washed away too. Takes                                     away from the dull heaviness of life. Everyone makes mistakes, but they can all be washed                               away. After all, mistakes only lie in memories, and memories are only too easily erased.  I think the Ocean has seen something in me that I have never seen in myself. And he has                                     shown it to me. He has taught me that everything can change, I can change. He has taught me                                     to let go. To hold on. To love. To live. May be I am partial to him. Perhaps, it is because no one                                             has ever made me feel the way he does.  I talk as if I have lived near the water all my life. I never have. And yet, I feel some how deeply                                             connected to the ocean, to the waves that come and go. I always feel that they are coming for                                     me. I think water has the power to cool everyone, everything and every situation. That is, of                                 course, the reason I am drawn to it If the Sun is a sadistic torturer, the Ocean is where I get my justice.  Hmm.I felt better. Thinking of the Ocean, the water, made my mind fluid like the water itself. It                                   was dissolving in the water. Being led to happier memories. Memories of the water. Now it                               was the Ocean showing me its memories of me.  We had been sitting at the water's edge for an indefinitely long time, staring at the moon on                                   the water, like cheese spread on bread. Every wave upon the sand soothed my troubled mind                               as much as the beach itself. I do not know when, or how, we had moved so close. May be                                       there is something in those laws of gravity. Our fingers sought and found each other in the                                 sand. I nestled my head upon his shoulder. It came so naturally, as if that was how it was                                     always meant to be. There we were, two specks of nothingness, but it meant so much more                                 than nothing. I found it funny and it made me laugh. Only the Ocean knew why I laughed. 

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Bleeding words     AMRUTHA K  

 

Ten in the night. Her table. 

She stared at the blank page in front of her. She knew what she had to do. 

It was simple. At least, that's what others told her. "Ha!" She thought to herself." 'Easier said                                 than done’ to them all! What do they know anyway? They've never had to think. Gah! "She sat                                   

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there, looking around her room for ideas; for inspiration. She gazed at the picture frames on                               her table- heart shaped ones, self-decorated ones, ones with her; with her parents; with her                             friends; and her favourite- the one with Ronald McDonald. That one was taken when she was                               six. She loved that day. But that didn't matter now; didn't matter at all. She looked at her Mac,                                     in sleep mode; her phone, switched off. She didn't need messages flooding into her inbox                             dozen to the minute demanding her attention. No, that wouldn't do. She knew what they'd be                               about anyway. "Are you done yet?", "Today's the last date", "What's wrong with you?" yada yada                               yada yada. Bored, her gaze shifted to her CD collection- Buble, Presley, Kylie, King of Pop,                               Rolling Stones, SOAD... 

"It would be easier to write a song", she thought and put her head down on her table. After                                     sometime, she swivelled around, only to find the TV running pointlessly, clothes strewn                         around, Plato, Spinoza, Crichton, Rowling and Blyton lying around cosily on her bed, some on                             the floor, and the table fan whirring away.  

It was all just a huge, confounding mess to her right now. Just like her life. Out of desperation,                                     she turned to the ceiling and found nothing that could help her there either. Just dingy, old,                                 blue paint. Exhaling loudly, she closed her eyes and mouthed a small prayer. "What am I                               doing?! Ugh. I've to finish this today." She thought, disgusted with herself, and faced the table                               again. She fingered her application form for the scholarship and read (for what she thought                             was the thousandth time) the last line: 

Please attach herewith a handwritten composition on how you view "Speech". You will be tested                             on your ability to put across your ideas within the limit of five to ten sentences. 

She stared at it and cursed herself. All said and done, she knew she had to do it, and now at                                         that. So she got down to it. 

Shakily, her hand reached out for her pen, "accidentally" dropping it back in twice. She set it                                 down on the paper and slowly wrote:  

SPEECH 

Then she put the pen down again and took a deep breath. She knew she was needlessly                                 over-dramatizing, but she didn't know what to write. And so, for the first time, she sat back and                                   thought. After two minutes, she slowly picked up her pen again and put nib to paper.   

Speech is a comfort, nothing more. It improves communication but is not necessary. It is just a                                 vocalization of thoughts. Undoubtedly, without speech, the civilization we know would not exist,                         but civilization still would. Life may not be as simple, but life would go on. After all, my life has                                       been going on, and I haven't been able to speak in eighteen years. 

She took her pen, closed it and read what she had written once again. Calmly, she kept the                                   forms aside and got up. She could feel the anger rising in her slowly. By the time she'd                                   reached her bed, all she could do was fling whatever was on her bed onto the floor and throw                                     herself on her bed. She made an awkward moaning noise and, for the first time in a year, she                                     cried; cried about the unfair ways of the monster she thought Life to be. 

 

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 Into the woods and       blue mountains 

ARDRA MANASI  

 

The scorching Chennai heat. The fear of end-semester examinations that I would prefer                         measuring on a grade point Richter scale. That was April for me, the 'cruellest month', at IITM.                                 Even amidst these negatives vibes, I could sense a surge of excitement within me. The mere                               thought of my summer internship project at Attapady!  

The exotic smell of wild flowers....the pristine music of the gurgling streams....the                       subterranean whisper of the mountain winds....the melancholic shadows of clouds that lazily                       drift across the blue mountain scapes...Maybe these were factors that inherently drew me to                           the hillock. 

Attapady is located in the Palakkad district of Kerala. It is the only tribal block in Kerala and                                   belongs to the Nilgiri Biosphere Reserve. I had my internship at AHADS (Attapady Hills Area                             Development Society), an autonomous body under the Kerala government whose                   development projects are funded by Japan.  

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I was working on a project that aimed at assessing the socioeconomic impact of Total Hamlet                               Development Programme (THDP), a participatory housing programme initiated by AHADS.                   The field work generally included hamlet visits and interactions with members from those                         tribal communities. It is widely observed that anthropologists view tribal societies as                       self-sufficient units since they have their own social cultural religious and political institutions.  

I could precisely see this' theory in             practice. Even today, the customary         institutions of social order are         prevalent among many tribal       communities. At Attapady, such       indigenous institutions are constituted       by Oorumoopan (the tribal chieftain)         Kuruthalai (the Junior headman),       Bhandari (the treasurer), Mannukkaran       (the soil-agriculture man), and       Jaathikaran (the one looks after         marriages and death ceremonies.) It         reminded me of a mini parliament in             action. 

Interestingly, all tribal hamlets at         Attapady construct houses facing the Malleswaran mountain peak. Malleswara is the Shiva                       God worshipped at the Malleswaran temple which is famous for Shivarathri festival. An array                           of beliefs, customs, and traditions. Indeed, I could feel the bliss of being lost in a land of                                   stories. It was yet another monsoon day. The mist gradually descended in the woods. The sky                               had dark clouds impregnated with rains to come. We were heading towards Thadikundu, one                           of the in-accessible hamlets of Kurumba tribal community. Kurumbas are the most                       

inaccessible as well as primitive tribal groups at               Attapady. The other groups being Irulas and Mudugas               who are economically and educationally well off             compared to Kurumbas.  

The dilapidated state of bamboo and brick settlements               and unhygienic surroundings at Thadikundu reiterated           the same. Another surprise awaited me there. The               people from the tribal hamlet spoke volumes about their                 former tribal chief (Oorumoopan) who passed away             recently. He had the title of 'Buddhamoopan'. He was                 known to be an expert on tribal medicines and black                   magic.  

 

It was said that the man once stopped a wild elephant                     which came to destroy their crops using his magical powers. The best part of the story was                                 that he had 26 wives and 107 children!! 

'We do not see nature with our eyes, but with our hearts. 'I have been haunted by these lines                                       ever since my schooldays. I now realise that it took me all these years to understand the                                 

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essence of those few words.  

I first met Pappal in one of the Joint Forest Management sites of AHADS. From the ways he                                   spoke, I could figure out that she was educated. Later, she told me that she had completed                                 10th standard equivalent in the open school exam conducted by AHADS. JFM is the                           participatory forestry 

Programme initiated by AHADS with the objective of afforestation and biomass conservation.                       Pappal was introduced to me as the JFMC (Joint Forest Management Committee) secretary.                         The sense of deep attachment with which she spoke about each tree in the JFM site surprised                                 me. I could see her eyes being blinded by tears when she went to narrate how a forest fire                                     recently struck the place and destroyed her beloved trees. The death of a tree equally                             perturbed her like the death of her kin. The ultimate brotherhood of man and nature!!!  

Shockingly, I happened to hear later that Pappal was an unwed mother. A victim deceived by                               the mirages of immaculate love! Her life seemed too filmy. Pappal had fallen in love with Babu,                                 a settler. She fell for his marriage vow. Soon she conceived a child.It was only then that she                                   came to know about the man's family elsewhere. The man confidently proclaimed that he was                             not ready to accept the mother or the child. She never complained; never regretted too. I saw                                 Pappal putting her signature as Pappal Babu. Perhaps, nobody could deny her right to the                             emotional security that she experienced while signing the same. On another visit, I got an                             opportunity to meet her son. A cute little kid who stood waiting for his mom. Pappal kissed                                 him on his forehead .Even while rejoicing at that sight of blissful motherhood, a painful                             reminder struck me that he was the illegitimate child of the hamlet. 

Later, during my course of field visits, I encountered similar stories. The story was the same                               everywhere. Maybe only the names of shrewd villains and helpless victims were altered. But I                             was sure that the pain of dejection and humiliation that followed was something which was                             common to all of them. Stories need not always speak about exploitation. They can also                             weave signs of hope and empower men. When asked about the greatest social evil tormenting                             their lives, women in most of the tribal hamlets unanimously stated that it was nothing but the                                 consumption of alcohol among their men. 

It is evident that alcoholism has most adversely affected the womenfolk, often creating a                           hostile environment within the family. Women are often at the receiving end when it comes to                               violence. What struck me was how women reacted to such a devastating menace in their                             lives. They formed corrective social action groups called Thai Kula Samghams (Mother's                       groups). There are 111 Thai Kula Samghams at Attapady. They spearhead various anti-liquor                         campaigns and organise frequent raids against illicit liquor brewing. One of the TKS members                           recollected an incident where a daughter had tied her drunken father to a coconut tree. He                               was freed only once he took an oath before the leaders of Thai Kula Samghams that he would                                   never even touch liquor again.  

Memoir writing is an interesting exercise indeed. The sole reason being the fact that we never                               have the dearth for memories. Attapady, in a way, gifted me with an anthology of memoirs.                               AHADS has played definitely played a crucial role in empowering the tribal communities at                           Attapady through its various People's Institutions (PIs) like Joint Forest Management                     Committees (JFMCs) and Tribal development committees (Ooru Vikasana Samithis - OVS)                     and User Associations (UAs). Unlike the generally perceived notions of Attapady being                       associated with rotten existence and underdevelopment, I could see people with self-esteem                       who now uphold the belief that education for their children forms the crux of well being.                               

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Memories of underdevelopment may be a story of past in Attapady. Indeed, there are waves of                               new beginnings with its crests and troughs.... All I can wish for is a sustainable crest. 

The Smell of Turmeric VEENA MANI 

 

I imagined this in a very different way. I thought I will love marriage. After all I was brought up                                       in the discourse of grihasthashrama, saptapati, sumangali and nirvana. There was not an idea                           of a happy marriage because it was a value-neutral natural thing you do when you grow up.                                 Wait! When did I grow up? 

I was woken up at 5.30. Athai gave me manjal and nallennai for the elaborate pre-wedding                                 bath. I love the smell of turmeric. It reminds me of our snake grove we had at our backyard.                                     We had to remove it. They said we cannot keep it as we were not those who did poojas. I used                                         to pray in front of snake images when I was little. I prayed that Appa would not cut my hair this                                         time. I wanted to keep it long. Like women do. My beautician and camera man had a tug of                                     war on me. She needed more time and so did he. Athai and Ammamma wanted me to fall at                                     the endless line of family elders. Everyone was fighting for my time while I was not given any. 

I was thinking about the old tamarind tree when I got in my brother-in-law’s car. He and my                                   sister were asked to take me to the mandapam. They were instructed to stop nowhere on the                                 

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way (I was wearing tonnes of jewels!) but only at the temple for the last pranam as a maiden.                                     The stage was filled with smoke from the holy agni. I scanned the audience to see whether                                 any of my friends turned out. We used to gather around at the back of the hall at weddings                                     and comment on each and everything.  

I wanted to tell them it is not really that fun when it is you who is getting married. It is a dull                                             thing and all you want is to get done with it. Athai reminded me to keep my head bent down.                                       My literary mind laughed at the unintended pun.I had to change four sets of saris before it got                                   over. Nobody cried as I expected. I thought people cried at weddings. Isn't there something                             like I do not belong to my own house anymore but to a different family? Maybe it is a natural                                       parting that happens when you grow up. Wait! When did I grow up? 

 

Hovering Castle  ASMITA GHOSH

 Her kohl-lined eyes stared at the window every few seconds, excitement too obviously                         plastered upon her face. She tried to contain the hysterical laughter than bubbled up within her                               ever so often, but couldn’t; and after a while, she didn’t bother trying. Screw caution. She’d                               spent enough of the last two years worrying, worrying about the slightest bit of good fortune                               or luck that came upon her. She had this theory, you see. She believed that the smallest piece                                   of happiness, the tiniest bit of good luck, would be recompensed soon enough with some                             minor grief. So she didn’t allow herself to dream of better days, didn’t build gorgeous white                               castles miles high in the air where she would live the perfect life. She stored up her happiness                                   deep inside her where she couldn’t reach it–bottling it in for the day where she would be                                 

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allowed to dance around in joy with no qualms, when misfortune didn’t seem to hover in the                                 future at every step, as it did now. And today was it. Today, in a few hours, she would be                                       happier than she had ever been before–she could hardly believe the day was finally here. All                               those years of prudence in emotion, they’d paid off!   She tried going about her everyday chores, as usual; but it wouldn’t work. The house was                               spotless, she’d been over it twice, attacking every speck of dirt she could find. The cutlery                               gleamed on the perfectly set table, the napkins folded into pristine triangles. The honey-glazed                           chicken, the one she loved, sat bubbling in the pot in the kitchen. She’d planned the day down                                   to its minutest detail–from the CD that they would dance to after lunch to the scented candles                                 in the bedroom to where she would lead him later. It had been so long, she wondered if she                                     even remembered all the things that he loved. Hell, she wondered if she remembered the                             things that she loved.  She wandered about the house, impatience etched on every step she took–bouncy and                         carefree. Happy sighs punctuated the silence of the house, silent because she had wanted it                             to be. Jerry had called yesterday, she remembered dimly, at the break of dawn, as usual. He                                 wanted to have a barbeque, like the old times. Lila and him, Tommy and her. May be call                                   around a few of the neighbours if she wanted a crowd. But then the four of them had always                                     been happier amongst themselves. She remembered the early days, both couples so in love.                           Then things turned sour, Lila moved out; and things had been awkward for a while. But Jeremy                                 was willing to reconcile for a couple of hours, just for ol Tom's sake.‚ Let’s throw him a party to                                       remember, eh Annie?‛ But she’d refused. No. This day was to be hers, and hers alone.                               Barbeques were for tomorrow, or the week after. One exclusive day was all she yearned for.  Her restive steps found her at the landing, and here she paused briefly. Pictures dotted the                               wall, but she focused on only one. Her in her creamy ivory, the lacy veil thrown back in a                                     mirthful laugh; him in his resplendent uniform, shiny medals dotting his breast, standing                         straight as a rod as only a soldier would, looking at her with an expression of wonder. Every                                   time she glanced at this picture, she wondered what he had been thinking about whilst looking                               at her like that. Every time she asked him this, he claimed that he could not remember, but he                                     must have been marveling at her beauty. She would scoff at this, calling him an irrepressible                               flirt, using compliments to aid him where his memory wouldn’t. That picture was four years                             old. How much had changed since then, she wondered. How many more medals would he                             don after this stint? With a flush of shame she realized she had never asked him too much of                                     his military escapades. But he’d never dwelled on them either; she supposed that both of them                               knew that it would only add to the worry. His letters had always been light-hearted, coming                               once a week nearly like clockwork. Jokes the boys shared, Slip ups during drill, these were the                                 only sides of Iraq that she knew, apart from the bombing, the constant bombing she would                               read about in the papers. But sometimes his letters were serious; sometime she couldn’t help                             but admit that he was scared. She never overreacted when these little confessions were                           made, or else she knew he would stop making them. Tom was a private kind of guy, he didn’t                                     confide in too many people. She was sure that it was only to her that he even spoke of these                                       things, and he needed her to be strong.  She had kept every one of his letters. She shuddered to think it, but they could be the only                                     remembrances he would have of him if her worst fears came to pass. Those worn letters                               contained the very essence of Tommy, or what his essence had dwindled to over the last two                                 years. There were the hastily scribbled notes–I’m okay, love you. Tommy. There were ones                           that traversed pages, where his feelings overflowed with surprising eloquence on the page,                         where he spoke of happier memories, whether for her sake or his, she knew not. There were                                 

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the ones that were nearly illegible now, his slanting writing smudged where both his tears and                               hers had mingled over the ink . And then, there was the last one. The one that she clutched in                                       her hand right now, it's creases worn thin with the number of times she’d read and reread it,                                   folded and unfolded it, in her irrepressible excitement.  Babe, Don’t want to excite you too much, but I’m coming home next week. Probably will land up in                                   front of you next Tuesday, so you better have my chicken ready for me!  Gotta go now, but I’ll see you soon!☺ I love you. Tom.  She remembered reading it for the first time (oh, it seemed like such a distant memory now!)                                 and just staring at it in disbelief, not comprehending the magnitude of his words. It took two,                                 three, four subsequent readings for it to finally sink in that he was actually, finally, coming                               home! The week had passed by in a combination of agonizing impatience, and crazed                           excitement; and the day was finally here.  It was nearly three in the afternoon. What was taking so long? Anne went into the kitchen to                                   check on the chicken. It looked delicious. She had just stuck a spoon in to taste, when she                                   heard the bell ring. So many emotions rushed through her at once, that she couldn’t decide                               which one she would let overwhelm the others. Calm down, she told herself, as she patted her                                 skirt and put the spoon away. She walked towards the door, checking her hair as she did so.                                   Anticipation rose up within her like bile, and she opened the door.  There were two men in uniform outside her door, not one. She didn’t understand. What? They                               carried a box between them and laid it on the porch. ‚Mrs.Cooper? ‛Yes, that was she. Where                                 was Tommy? ‚We’re extremely sorry ma’am.‛ The world began to dim around Anne. She tried                             to stop listening, but couldn’t block out some of their quiet, steady words… sudden                           scrimmage… totally unexpected… grenade. No, it couldn’t be true. No! Anne dropped to her                           knees as the tears began to form, and her hovering castles came crashing down. 

 

The Perfect Husband  KANISHK BANDHOPADHYAY 

She giggled, aiming the gun at my             forehead. 

“I’m gonna fuckin’ shoot you through           the eyes, you son of a bitch!” 

I stared into the icy blackness inside             the barrel. A drop of familiarly cold             sweat trickled down my neck,         

23

seeping silently into the collar of my torn sweatshirt. The stench of alcohol in her rasping                               breath numbed my senses further, as she dug the cold metal into my skin, her abuses flowing                                 in short, excited wheezes. 

“Get down on your bloody knees and apologize, you filthy scum!” 

Funnily enough, I could still hear the wall-clock ticking away in the distance, measuring out                             whatever remained of my wretched existence. For a moment, just a fleeting moment…our                         eyes met. I gazed into the dismal, murky depths of her olive-green eyes, searching for my                               answer. Like always. The cruel disgust that they exhibited, however, made me look away. Like                             always. 

Damn, I could hardly believe that I’d fallen in love with those same green eyes…fifteen years                               ago. 

“Alice, baby, don’t move…or Mommy will kill you.” My violently drunk wife snarled sweetly at                             our ten year-old daughter cowering behind the LCD TV. The words of protest formed a weak,                               helpless lump in my throat, held in check by the gleaming knife in her left hand. I stepped                                   forward. 

Oops. Really shouldn’t have done that. 

The initial expression of shock and disbelief gave way to one of wild anger. The knife slashed                                 out at my arm, leaving a slowly thickening line of fresh blood in its wake. Her shrieks of delight                                     rent the air, as my foggy brain registered the excruciating pain shooting up my shoulder. 

She was not done yet. 

“I’m sorry honey, but you won’t really like what’s gonna happen now.” 

I felt the renewed sensation of metal against skin as she got ready to end my misery. For the                                     last time, I looked at her eyes, set in the only face that I’d ever loved. And then at Alice’s face…a                                         face that I would never love enough for the rest of my life. I closed my eyes. 

When I opened them, the bullet had torn through my daughter’s body. 

Just another of those sickening nightmares that have been haunting my sleep for eleven                           years. You know, the really ugly ones which make you sit right up in your bed, beads of                                   perspiration dripping off your oily forehead. Oh c’mon, I’m sure you’ve had them once in a                               while or something. 

Guess what…I have them too. 

Every single goddamn night. 

While the rest of Manhattan sleeps, a fifty year old loser lies awake, staring at the ceiling of his                                     twentieth floor apartment. Finally, he lifts himself off the creaking bed, and wanders around                           the dark, empty rooms. He stops in front of the gleaming bathroom mirror. Stares back at the                                 dull, sunken eyes. Runs his fingers through his greying hair. And wonders where the hell his life                                 messed up. 

24

Say hello to Jitesh Patel. The man who lost everything he ever cared for. 

Not that the world thinks of me in that light, of course. I mean, with a job that most men would                                         kill for and an NRI tag to boot, there isn’t exactly much to crib about, right? 

Well, some facts never change. My ex-life as a battered husband is one of them. 

One of the dozens around you at this precise point of time. Like that random guy in your office                                     who shows up with a broken jaw and says that he fell down the stairs. Or your friendly                                   neighbour who smiles at you politely in the morning, fully aware that you heard his wife                               slapping him the last night. Or the fellow drinker at the pub who wears torn (read: cut up)                                   clothes every other evening, and boasts about how loving or caring or whatever darn thing his                               wife is. 

I wish I could give it a good try like him. I can’t. 

Come to think of it, I should’ve realized the symptoms the day Sarah punched me in the eye.                                   Hard. Later in the night, I listened patiently to her loud sniffles, my arms comforting her                               heaving shoulders. As I wiped the snot from her pink nose, she looked at me with bloodshot                                 eyes.  

“I can never forgive you for the way you looked at me when I…h-hit you.” 

“How did I look?” 

“You looked shocked and hurt…and a-angry, Jee-tesh.” 

“How should I have looked after you hit me?” 

“I needed for you to understand how I was feeling at that time, damn it! I needed your support,                                     not your anger.” 

Now I know why she didn’t apologize even once during the four years of our marriage. 

So that was when things turned seriously bad. I guess the rot had already set in when my                               fashion designer wife began to come home at dawn from her several high-profile parties, her                             beautiful silver-blond hair reeking of tobacco and cannabis. She stepped things up a little by                             locking me outside the house into the freezing Manhattan winter, such that I had to spend the                                 night at Steve’s. And soon my wife (if I could still call her that) took the concept of rage to a                                         whole new level altogether when she began to hurl anything within a one-metre radius at me,                               including a Swiss knife and a marble rolling pin. 

Wow. Things couldn’t be better, right? 

Oddly enough, it was around this time that I met Sonia. 

Funny how you end up meeting the wrong people at the wrong time, isn’t it? Sometimes, in                                 hindsight, I wish my long-suffering car hadn’t finally given up that fateful monsoon evening.                           That I hadn’t entered the phone booth to call up the mechanic. That I hadn’t observed through                                 the misted glass, the muddy waters lapping at the heels of her shiny pointed stilettos. That I                                 

25

hadn’t allowed my moronic eyes to wander uncontrollably up those translucent, incredibly                       seductive stockings, right up to her rounded hips. 

Damn, that I hadn’t given in to pure, sinful lust. 

Unlike most others of her type, she did not flaunt a cigarette between her glistening red lips,                                 but stood timidly just around the corner, shy, even embarrassed, waiting for the next                           customer. The fearful uncertainty in her smouldering eyes, however, made me wonder                       whether it was her first time in the business. An unfound fear, a delicious vulnerability, which                               became pronounced in those deep hazel eyes whenever a blade of lightning streaked across                           the American sky. 

It was the first time that I’d seen a woman so terrified, so defenceless, so…susceptible. And                               believe it or not, it turned me on. Literally. 

Not that I made any real advances towards her, of course. Surely, whatever happened to the                               goody-goody husband who loves his spouse completely and helps her out with the gardening                           and all that crap? And so, along with my daily routine of slaps, punches and abuses was                                 thrown in a refreshing dose of eager excitement every evening on the way back from office. 

The girl with the scared eyes. Same time, same place. 

Now don’t ask me why, in all this time, I didn’t even think about pressing assault charges                                 against Sarah. I mean, c’mon, one look at my swollen, bleeding lip and she would’ve spent the                                 night behind bars, right? Surely, this is the proud nation with the Statue of Liberty, symbolising                               justice and other nice things, right? We live today in a glorious era of gender equality, right?                                 Right? 

Wrong. If there was someone who spent the night behind bars, it was me. 

“Dude, what the heck!” My easily excitable lawyer friend told me later. “You gone bonkers or                               something? Like, you actually called up the police? Like, seriously? What exactly were you                         thinking? That the cops would arrest your wife and not you when she claimed to be only                         defending herself against domestic abuse?” 

It was only then that I realized the deep shit I’d gotten myself into. 

The year dragged away. And then another. The funny thing was, she did remember our                         wedding anniversaries. Each and every one of them. We spent lavishly on booze parties to                             celebrate another year of my filthy slavery to her. We grinned widely at the guests to prove us                                   as one of those picture-perfect couples who were still crazy about each other four years down                               the line. And at night, as she lay down beside me (yeah, we still slept beside each other), she                                     leaned in slowly and whispered in my ear….. 

I love you. 

Of all the lies she ever told me, I hated this one the most. 

26

I hated it with every inch of my being. I hated it with a disgust so vile, sometimes I wondered if                                         its putrid stench would reach my wife sleeping next to me. No, not because it was an outright                                   lie. Not because she didn’t care enough to show it. 

But because it was the only thing in the world which made me believe that maybe, just                                 maybe…she really did love me. 

As always, I was proved wrong the next morning. 

There wasn’t anything much different about that cold, wet morning either when I left for office                               after a particularly vicious scuffle and a dark bruise fresh on my chin. C’mon now, what was                                 the big deal about it? Just another day in the life of a battered husband, right? 

You know, sometimes I wish the sun hadn’t risen that day. 

As I drove back from office, people turned to snigger at the prominent dent in my car’s bonnet,                                   an ugly souvenir of my wife’s outburst last week. I chose to ignore them. 

But it was too late. 

The thoughts had begun pouring in, like little ants ready to feed on a chained prisoner.                               Impossible to swat away, hungry, persistent. They slowly engulfed my mind, triggering an                         endless chain of thoughts which branched off everywhere…and met nowhere. 

Did I really deserve this? Why was I even putting up with this? Was this all I’d ever lived for?                                       The unasked questions that had always been buried away somewhere at the back of my brain                               began rearing up insolently, like horrible, disfigured skeletons popping out of an old, dusty                           closet. ‘No,’ I tried to clear them in vain, ‘Go away…please…’ 

And it was then that I saw her standing at the corner. 

The girl with the scared eyes. 

Tentative, docile, a little jaded after nearly three years in the business. It suddenly seemed                             liked I was seeing her again, after all these years, on a wet, rainy day. Come to think of it, I’ve                                         never really known, to this day, what made me do what I did. Maybe it was the alluring appeal                                     of a submissive woman, a woman I’d never found in Sarah. Maybe it was my own way of                                   rebelling against the wretched life I’d been cursed with. Or maybe I was just bored… 

“Hey there, what’s your name?” I found myself pulling up beside her. 

She turned, the relief of bagging a rich one palpable in her eyes, “Sonia.” 

“Get in the car, will you?” 

We drove to her apartment block. It was a small, grungy building, with mounds of garbage                               dotting the surrounding lanes. We climbed the narrow stairs to the second floor. Reached the                             landing outside her apartment. And as she fumbled in her handbag for the keys, I pushed her                                 against the wall. 

27

I guess that was when I committed the second big mistake of my life. 

The handbag fell. She looked up, startled, but did not protest. Just the way I liked it. Her slow,                                     ragged breath brushed across my lips, as she allowed my hands to move up her waist, her                                 pulsating neck…to her face. I moved a wet strand of hair away from her forehead, and our eyes                                   met, for a brief moment…as I leaned in…closer…. 

The clock had begun chiming when I entered my apartment. It was midnight. Sarah sat                             reading one of her fashion magazines on the sofa. She lowered her reading spectacles to                             scowl at me furiously. “Where the hell have you been, Pea-Brain? Do you know what time…” 

And suddenly, she knew.                       

She knew it from the pink lipstick stains on my cheeks and shirt, glaring evidence of my                                 infidelity. She knew it from the drained, guilty, but blatantly rebellious look in my eyes. A look                                 which said, clearer than words that, after long last, she’d been defeated. Finally. 

She drew closer to me. I waited for the screams and punches to begin. 

“I’m going out. When I get back, I want you outta this house.” 

Excuse me? I stared at her, certain that I hadn’t heard it right. Wasn’t she missing out on the                                     teeth-breaking session? What about the abuses that usually flowed copiously by now? Even a                           slap would be somewhat inadequate in this situation… 

I raised my eyes to look at her properly for the first time in three years. She seemed way older                                       than when I’d married her. Her face was gaunt, expressionless, fine lines running across the                             stretched skin. Maybe she’d never expected this to happen in the first place. Or maybe she’d                               seen it coming. All along. 

“Forgive me Sarah.” 

She staggered past me in a daze, as if all the wind had been knocked out of her lungs.                                     Reached the door with slow, heavy steps. And turned. 

“You know something? I am gonna be the mother of your child.” 

I could feel the words sinking into me, but could do nothing about them. Nothing at all. The                                   emotions simply refused to flow. There was no pang of regret, no spurt of joy. Just a deep,                                   hollow emptiness. And yes…guilt. Raw, painful guilt, gnawing at my insides like a starved                           animal. 

I crouched over, unable to bear the anguish. 

When I looked up, she had walked out of my life. Forever. 

Maybe I shouldn’t have done what I did. Maybe I hadn’t been the perfect husband. But it wasn’t                                   really much of a choice, was it? Leave…or get killed. The choice was simple. I’d made it, and                                   was set free. Yet every freedom demands a price. And I’d paid mine, too. 

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I’d paid for my freedom with the joy of fatherhood. 

Every month, I do actually get to meet my daughter. More often, I dream of my wife shooting                                   her. But the funny part is, even after ten long years, Sarah and I are still in touch. We aren’t                                       officially divorced or anything yet, but I’ve heard she’s seeing this new guy who may just take                                 my place as Alice’s new daddy. 

Sometimes, as we talk, I can hear her smile ruefully on the other side. 

“You’re the only person who ever understood me, Jee-tesh.” 

The face I see as she speaks is still the one who held the knife. 

The Accustomed Itch Darsana Vijay 

“I’ll never risk my neck trying to save you.”  “Like I asked you to” “No, I’m just saying, you should know that about me. See, I find life a lot more bearable when I                                       know that I can share a cup of coffee and cigarettes with you, but… What I am trying to say is                                         that like every other love, this too is rational and conditional on wish-fulfilment.”  Theo looked at the cold eyes that stared blankly at him and braced himself for the impact, for                                   

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the realization to sink in. Iris is no more. Dead. ‘Suicided’. The only unsettling fact about that                                 weighty observation for him was its grammatical inaccuracy. “Committed suicide”, he                     murmured as Miss Fey scowled at him. Could we read a tinge of accusation into the way she                                   regarded Theo? What does she know, anyway? No one knew, except Iris and Theo, of the                               simple promise (or was it an agreement?) they began their 17 year long ‘romance’ with.                             Reassuring! Never in these many years had he ever had to rethink the choice of words, never                                 did he think that it would matter. It did not matter to her, for she had shrugged then, turned                                     away and went to sleep. Or did it?  History is always in the process of being written and right now, in Theo’s mind several editors                                 were highlighting lines in red, one kept punching the backspace key over and over again with                               professional boredom. Vinyl papers were being bought and imprints were being made. The                         aim is to preserve the memory, to hallow Iris’ hollow name. Vintage filter, Monotype Corsiva,                             brown ink. Theo hated such projects, but what could he do? He could feel the glare of every                                   eye in the room hit him only to be hastily averted. Theo, despite all his convictions and surety                                   was shaken too.How easily had she become dust, like a bitter dispersible pill being ravished by                               water. There is no doubt that she was mental, positively ugly, could not string together a                               coherent argument, let alone creative writing.  So Theo found himself obsessing over the one line that he chose to utter, lying next to her,                                   satiated, when it came crashing down on him that from that point on, she would be part of his                                     life. It is too important to omit altogether. It would not be ethical to alter it. He never had a                                       penchant for lofty words or emotions, but how rash can a man be? He could have sighed,                                 turned over and slept. He could have told her that he loved her? Theo scoffed. Nobody can                                 love Iris. One chooses to put up with her irrationality. You succumb to the fatality of the filling                                   up of her innumerable gaps and attempt to find peace with the inevitable failure that                             accompanies every such attempt. A slippery- slope if there ever was one. The ladle-shaped                           bruise on his shoulder whined.Witness statement: “I solemnly vouch for the fact that Iris was                             an abusive life-partner who could never get a grip on theory. In fact, my origins can be traced                                   back to the day when Theo tried to explain a bit of Levinas to her. She made me his enmeshed                                       other.”  Dumb and ugly is a bad combination. You would feel irritated just by looking at her frizzy                                 unkempt hair, the unwaxed arms, the wench-stache, the pitiful, dead grey eyes. What was her                             one redeeming quality? Theo could only think of one – she never apologized for being who                               she was. It is like how you never get used to a tablecloth until it gets a coffee stain.  Yes, Iris was the stain that signaled that Theo was home. The unmistakable and near-lethal                             conflagration of odors – nicotine, coffee, dairy, paint and deli meat. Theo could not think of a                                 time when she did not irk him. He ruled out proclamations of love and admiration. “Thanks”?                               For opening him up to the possibility of being wounded or for subjecting him mercilessly to all                                 the whims and fancies of a hysteric, manic-depressive sadist? Theo often wondered what                         people meant by the ‘wonderful journey that they had embarked on and managed to survive’.                             Survived, yes. At least he did. The month Theo had been posted at Cairo, she had managed to                                   send a mail every day of the first week. The last one began as a lament on his neglect towards                                       her and escalated into a suicide note. (The emergency phone call that pulled him out of the                                 

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conference did not leave much room for suspense, though.) He had cared then, to worry, to                               mop and plead. Then he learnt how to tune Iris out until she became a shapeless blur that                                   emitted static.  ‘Coming home to your wife’. It was not a rosy picture for Theo. Her recumbent form would                                 quiz him on his day at work, ask for things to be explained, contested it with her half-wit and                                     uninformed postmodern blabber. Then it would become physical. She would tug at Theo’s hair                           in a way so crass that it was unbecoming of a human being. (Of course, Iris would wail about                                     how he had hit her first, but who can tolerate such ignorance, such hideousness?) And her art!                                 Ribot, Rosseau Manet and Millet would bleed paint and die again if they were to chance upon                                 the atrocity that she termed art. Eighteen blotches of brown- she called it ‘Desire’. It all made                                 sense to Iris, of course. The pretentious snob! What killed her was the fundamental                           contradiction in her- an egotistic praise- junkie who begged to be critiqued. Theo could have                             saved her. Motivation capsules: dosage- as frequently as required; to be administered with                         extensive suction of the bottom. Theo had a dick, self-respect and a life. So he let her paint her                                     monochromes in burnt sienna.  The rhythm of the tambourine-manacles and the accompanying chant “I’ll never risk my life                           trying to save you” That had always been the truth and it would anchor Theo. That was his                                   hope. He had to believe. No, there was no element of coercion, it was his choice. Damn choice!                                   Why would he have to choose? The truth was essential and inherent, it was not a question of                                   believing, but of being. Being for Theo meant drawing lines to guide Iris by. Those coffee and                                 cigarettes encounters where sage-like he would dispel her uncertainties, her ignorance,                     transform the tabula rasa she was into a work-in-progress masterpiece: that was the space he                             had excelled at, had come to define himself by. A space that was factually hers but belonged                                 more to his prowess than to her agency.  “I’ll never risk my neck trying to save you”. Yeah, Theo stands by that. But at some point, there                                     was no Iris. Every explanation, every word he uttered for her benefit was only enhancing his                               brilliant features. Project Self-Actualization. Slaving away among molded books waiting for                     someone to abandon their googling for a while atleast, Iris was his only hope. Charity? No, it                                 was more than that, it was the excitement of living a life of informed mediocrity minus the                                 boredom, minus the angst and with the addition of the pleasure of seeing something crumble                             in shame at the face of Intellect. A god-parasite. Yes, that was Theo. Everything was him, all                                 meaning was by virtue of his existence which was incumbent on his exploitation and                           celebration of her lack, her innocence. The vacuum that Theo perceived and fancied to contain                             his boundless knowledge.  Iris had to go for she had questions that he could not answer. Iris could not bear the thought                                     of being in a world that failed to fit in his grasp. Even in death, she had no grace, Theo thought.                                         Marble, alabaster, snow… No. Pastel – that was her; an air of sophistication which is just a                                 bland excuse that makes stuff of backgrounds. Iris would not contest nor question. The one                             favor that she had done for Theo in 17 years, in exchange for his forbearance – absolute                                 silence. Theo was thankful. But there was something in the silence that penetrated and lay                             him bare, pinned him and cut him open, spread-eagled and flattened; a frog with a still-beating                               

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heart waiting desperately to be sown back up. The chant that reverberated now, choking him,                             was her last word – “Why?” 

A Journey through my Self 

SUMMAYA HASSAN 

‘Hey, she is a pakka         Muslim in her     headcover’, yelled   one of my friends. I         was playing with my       mobile, and they     were curiously   watching even as I       stared at a picture of         a man with six pack         abs! My friend     thought of me as an         orthodox girl, and     she didn’t want to       disturb my   conservative conscience with that     picture. Another   friend, a boy     commented ‘You   wear a muftha in IIT!!’     To which, I replied ,         ‘This is what makes       me what I am. This is           an expression of my       belief that I value and         

hold wherever I go.’ Some of my friends even asked me, ‘You talk of feminism, while you hide                                   yourself in an attire which is an expression of suppression?’   I wish to travel back to the stage where my self started to develop. My father is a man of                                       preached values and ideals in his life and contrary to the fact that he was a fifth standard drop                                     – out, he values nothing but acquiring knowledge. He works abroad and usually spends                           around two months of unlimited fun in a year with us. My mother, the talkative one, with her                                   sunken eyes and cheeks, which reflect her anxiety, is soft spoken but determined. I used to                               

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see her in the Namaz’s white dress, eyes and hands raised up in devotion, tears running down                               her face. Unlike my mother, my grandmother, or ‘matyemma’ (the other mother) as we call her,                               was a lady of less words. I lived with my grandmother during the two years of my pre-primary                                   education.   Staying in a maternal joint family with uncles and their family, I missed my mother, who stayed                                 in my father’s house to supervise the construction of our new house. Everyday I would come                               wearied of school calling ’Matyemmaaaa…….!’She removed my socks and shoes and fondled                       me while feeding me with tea and snacks. She never allowed me to watch TV with my                                 cousins, but took me wherever she went. Story books accompanied me to all those places                             that fuelled my dreams of Alice in Wonderland and so on. This gave me a feeling that I was in                                       a room of my own, which I soon realized that nobody else could understand.    At the same time the ‘we feeling’ of a joint family benefited me a lot. We were always engaged;                                     everybody had a role to play. For me it was going to school, getting vegetables from the                                 vendor, collecting the old plastics and paper that I could sell to the man who often came to                                   collect these... In this way, I earned my pocket money.   When I moved to our newly built house, I was in first standard. Mother and I were the only                                     occupants of that house. I had friends, and we played the game ‘Little Home’, by constructing                               a small house and taking on the roles of father, mother and children. Boys collected the                               materials to build the little house and girls were engaged in cooking. We even invited other                               friends and gave a miniature feast. Now I know that it was also a conditioning of something                                 that a girl has to follow in her later life.   Every day we marched together to the nearest river. All the fun would disappear in the water                                 where the boys played ‘hide and seek’ with our clothes. They make the placid river dirty with                                 their reckless jumps from considerable heights. For them it was to make an impression, but                             for us it turned out be a form of suppression.   We girls were assigned the task of washing the clothes, which the boys were not. I felt as if my                                       freedom was taken away by Surf Excel. Apart from that I was also accused of not cleaning the                                   floor. These were not assigned to boys. It was again an anticipatory move for future roles to                                 be taken up by a woman, I understand now.   When I entered adolescence, I looked at the mirror, and worried at the way I looked. It was an                                     image created by my mother, father and many others. I asked myself by looking at my own                                 body, where I saw unexpected changes, ‘Am I growing up as a woman like they all say? What                                   is to worry even if I am growing?’ In a black red day, when I attained puberty, my mother                                     reacted as if some unwelcome event had happened. At that moment, I felt that it was a shame                                   to be at menarche. I told my mother:’ If you tell anybody of this, I will commit suicide’.   That didn’t happen even though it was much publicised and my close relatives presented me                             with ornaments, medicated food and new dresses. All moved into darkness when women in                           the neighbourhood whispered: ‘Take care of yourself, keep a distance from all males even if it                               

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is your father’. I was not allowed to step-out to do shopping, which I used to do till that                                     moment. The saddest part is that I felt proud at doing what the boys at their homes are                                   supposed to do. I am disowned of that proudness.   I soon realised that my gender is not biological but social. My community plays a key role in                                   making me, I understood. I come from a community of Mappila Muslims in Northern Kerala, a                               community which possesses a history of discontentment within it. They were involved in the                           revolt against Lords and the State, known as Mappila rebellion which turned history around.                           The British beheaded the upsurge by exterminating thousands. The pain still lingers in the soil                             and in the minds too. The ashes of failure still remain. Educational backwardness multiplied                           as the Mappilas lost their identity. The low self-esteem of the members in community, guided                             by patriarchal norms reflected in the gender relations too.   I was not deaf to people telling my father, “Why should you waste your money by sending a girl                                     child to an English medium school?” My father replied, “Your responsibility as a Believer will                             not be complete without the right kind of education being given to your children, especially to                               a girl child.’   I studied in a Madrasa, where we received religious instructions and morning classes. I have                           learned to take rituals, the Namaz, the prayer to be observed five times a day. I learned to                                   recite the Quran, the holy book and amongst many other things, the dress to wear, the dos and                                   don’ts that are to be followed by a real Muslim. Fortunately it was not against my will to move                                     along with modern education. This indeed was a looking glass effect, where I saw an image of                                 me on the face of an other. When they imagined what I should be, I wished to meet their                                     expectations not for their sake, but for mine.   In my journey so far, I have seen a lot of dreams. But the reality scares me. Due to the early                                         marriageable age of my community, my parents think that after all I am a woman and it is the                                     right time to take the role of a wife and mother soon’. From the Muftha I wear, my friends                                     expect me to be conservative and traditional, that I should not have a boyfriend, that I should                                 not even talk to boys as I am orthodox in their minds. I have to synchronise public                                 expectations and the conflicts within me, and I do because I have a dream.    

 

 

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 Illustration by Urmika Sinha 

 

 

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Colours                 SOUMYA MISHRA 

neither the vermilion of festivity, nor like the red of blood relations, nor sacred like the saffron, nor calm like the sunset ,  her sindoor is orange. deep orange  of the flames, that rise out of  the pyre of crushed identity.  Flaming orange, of rage -   the crazy bright of the ripe sun in the noon.  It reminds her not to bow  but to leap like the flames  and destroy all that  dares to vanquish it.  

  

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In Search of Poetry SOUMYA MISHRA 

  

                                         

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Bright sunny afternoons, Long over-stretched classroom hours, Leaden feet refuse to carry me forth, The heat lulls me to sleep,  And yet I walk- On streets and lanes, Footpaths and fields, Some known, some not so known  Unexplored territories.  I walk in search, Of the fleeting bird of imagination, Called poetry. I see trees and I see flowers, The same green, the same dull brown, The same lifeless yellow burnt leaves of autumn, And orange and pink flowers of the season. I wonder, in how many different ways, Can one see these green feathered giants? Trying to collect images and inspirations as I walk on, All I collect is some dust under my feet...  I caper from shade to shade, With my shadow chasing me, Looking everywhere for some poetry, I keep all my senses awake Capturing every noise and every music, That an afternoon brings. Sleepy croaking crows and chirping sparrows, Tinkling cycle bells and disturbing car horns, And the dying sounds of a distant traffic  Perfumes of other travellers of the afternoon, Reach me and evoke memories, Of grandmothers and schooldays.   The hot air that mingles with my breath,  And the comforting winds that blow,  Bring with them, Some run away smells from the houses,  And nostalgia, Of home-cooked food and mother's kitchen.  The laziness of noontime pervades the air,  Evident in every step of the people who walk by, Yet someone toils, And I see the sweat glistening through The construction workers' white shirts,  As they labour incessantly in the heat,  Constructing homes for the privileged,  Themselves going homeless,  

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As migrant labourers  A man cycles by,  Blowing notorious white puffs of tobacco,  And beside me on the footpath lies,  A discarded cigarette box, With a warning in red,  "Smoking Kills".   Deserted school play grounds,  Last school children winding up for home, In the sunny afternoon,  After the last game of cricket,  The empty classrooms lie compressed,  Between the panorama of the wooden windows.   From under a tree I see,  Fragments of the wide blue sky,  Meshed by several branches,  Out on the afternoon streets, Where I see, Every shade of green and brown... The same old indistinguishable green feathered giants.   I conclude as I walk back, That perhaps I am not blinded poetically.   

 

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I love you like they say it in poems URVI SHAH 

 

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We will add to each others miseries  We will love each other more that we can We will hate each other more than we should We will drown in our madness And when I try to swim to the shore You will pull me back so fast that I won't have time to call for help 

We will make our own stories Add a different ending every time We will make sand castles And then destroy them We will fight for the cherries on the cake 

We will fight so much that we can  make love later So that I know the difference between love and hate peace and war With you and without you And every time I threaten to leave you You will just look into my eyes Give me a glimpse of all  those memories I have lived with you by my side  

I will run back to you like a child  And when you are sad, I will crack lame jokes I will put your hand against mine Count our fingers together 10, I will say they are just 10 together. 

And when you'll lie on the bed with your head against the pillow the hair against the soft cloth I will put my hand through it I will bring you closer My skin against yours My life against yours  My love against yours My heart against yours 

I will hit you.  So that I can feel the life in you I will let my tears drop on your face. I will let my breath seep into your skin  I will hold you so tight that you know that I need you 

I am not weak. No I am not 

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My need for you love makes me stronger Stronger to live through another day Live through this shit hole they call life  This life is not easy Not for me.  I don't want to put on a brave face everyday. I can't. There are days when I just want to cry on your shoulders And nothing you say will set it right But your shoulder, is what I need that night I love you. But not like they say it in movies Or in colleges  In gardens behind bushes I love you. Not like they sing it in songs Or in schools In dark rooms with no windows I love you. Like they say it in poems  In ways which no one will understand  I love you. Like they say it in coffee stained letters. Like on long walks on the beach. In grave yards. Like the roses that he leaves behind for her. I love you. And not because I want to but because I don't know what else to do. 

 

   

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Dancing Queen. Illustration by Urmila R. 

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The Cairo Diaries  KURIAN TP  

 

Dear diary, hark, it must be said My life is in complete turmoil I’ve glimpsed a wrinkle on my head And on my flawless nose – a boil! Egypt is skint, we have no coin For lamb and veal to pay the price. And Cairo’s only tenderloin? Mine alabaster inner thighs. So we resort to stranger beasts; Crocodiles’ eyes and ostrich spleen Custom dictates I hold these feasts The Romans think it’s haute cuisine I’ve grown sick of my flotilla (My navy really, three sad boats) Though Egypt has no ride iller Save for my chariot of goats My Tony’s quite the bore these days He often goes on long goat rides Claims I don’t give him enough space Does he have someone on the side? I wonder if he’s tired of me What’s on his mind? He never says. If our love’s for eternity, Why, Ra, does Marcus count the days? 

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His frequent avowals of love Of late have become rather trite And did I tell you, diary, how He called me plump the other night? My shrink today suggested that I had a God Complex. Bad move. I had him boiled in a vat Therapists make great stew. Who knew? The Nile’s flooding again – it’s said And Aunt Flo came to town today. Priests held the two were related Dinner is priests with Chardonnay These spasms are a fuckin pain I should be painting Cairo red Fertility’s a cunting strain Do you think Bast and Isis bled? It isn’t fair that, though divine, I haemorrhage and poop and pee. My sheets are now incarnadine Fuck my life. Oops! Blasphemy! Caesarion, though barely ten Has tried to screw my chambermaid He thinks he’s quite the ladies man The runt! I ought to have him spayed A page arrived with bad tidings From Rome. I had his tongue cut out For dinner. Tongues go well with wings Of Seagulls. That’ll teach him to shout. Octavian wants to go to war He’s spoiling for a fight with me Just hearing ‘war’, my paramour Goes into throes of ecstasy. These Roman men are batshit nuts And in the name of honour will Stick swords in heads, twist knives in guts. Civilised? Tosh! They love to kill. My maid thinks that I drink too much. The gall of these petit bourgeois! These libations give courage Dutch Now pour me some mandragora. Last night such strange dreams pierced my rest I woke trembling and screamed and gasped: Tony was dead and to my breast I clasped a snake, perchance an asp My maid called me a drama queen Methinks she’s not got long to live It’s true I sometimes make a scene But that’s a god’s prerogative My life is the absolute pits Dear diary, and I cry a lot. Something I ate gave me the shits And Marcus can’t find my G-spot.    

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Insurrectionist Ingredients 

KURIAN TP   

 One tablespoon of sedition Zero percent inhibition Half dose anarchic ambition Deep rooted knack for partition  Five thousand aggravated men, fit to be tied A smattering of adolescents, orphaned by genocide  A dash of fighting to help ignite the latent hostility One chronicler to record all events for posterity  Loads of dense citizens searching for a lost cause One smooth-talking seditionist to serve as the boss  Twenty trusting millionaires to fund the war chest  Seven sacrificial suicide squads to die at our behest The world's entire populace to serve as audience One spin doctor cum puppeteer to orchestrate events One nation rife with strife, politicians who don't care  Forty six Che Guevara types for guerrilla warfare Kalashnikovs galore, torpedoes thrown in for good measure  Fat foreign debts, five hostile neighbors pile on the pressure 

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One inflated dictator with dreams of supreme power Thirty coffee shops to fuel treason, sixteen dogs of war  Blind eyes, deaf ears aplenty turned towards the peoples' sufferings  Tear gas and tears of agony tugging at the heartstrings Lots of little starving kids dying in the ditches  An ever-expanding rift betwixt the social niches  Six billion dollars dirty money paid to the corrupt Six hundred million oppressed people, waiting to erupt Nine nameless journalists that urge revolt and rebellion  One disaffected general with a black-ops battalion  Generous doses of dissension, eighty hours of war talk Thirteen true blood patriots, one Rousseau, one John Locke  Sixty steel guillotines sharpened, thirsting for martyrs  Of fear and paranoia, add a spoon and three quarters  Nineteen squadrons of soldiers, thirty explosives experts  Three social treatises, tons of Che Guevara tee-shirts  Ample seeds of confusion planted, potted and reared  Distrust sown bountifully, martyrs shot at and speared Six truckloads of Sten gun- toting gullible youngsters  One rock group that makes music out of staccato gun bursts Seven fifty Molotov bombs that burst into flame Eight unlucky scapegoats upon whom to shift blame  Fourteen fanatics play havoc with the fears of the peoples A dozen clerics advocate jihad from mosques and church steeples  Sixty sons of martyrs seeing red and seeking retribution Heat and stir, mes amis, et voila! A revolution.  

 

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It was a Filipendulous Thing               KURIAN TP 

It was a filipendulous thing. You didn’t need to use The giant secateurs Used to deal  With especially refractory gorse To snip that timorous thread Shimmering silver in the twilight Like a vespertine spider’s Virginal stab At web-design.  It was no cable Built to withstand celestial tug Constructed in a Kyoto lab Or a cosmic forge To tether satellites To eternal elliptic routes  But you were never one for half measures You always did in hamsters with Howitzers  So you stamped out its stuttering fires With the draconian efficiency Of Brobdingnagian boots Like a Byzantine exarch Squashing nascent revolt On the outskirts of empire  And there the matter should have rested.  

But in those mammoth footprints Zombie coals Catch a passing zephyr Leap like Lazarus to life And bashful flames Blaze weakly in the bleak 

 

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The Green Dot  ANU JOSHY 

 If hating was easy, I could have hated you until the last leaf of winter withered away. I could strike you with words, toss you with deeds, and seek pleasure in your wounds.  If cursing was easier, I could have wished you pain, Until the clock stopped ticking, And watched you twitch in misery, As my prophecy came true.  If revenge was a cakewalk, I could have stabbed you a thousand times, Seeking strength from all those memories, where you hid your smirk, and made me play the fool.  If forgetting was quick, I could spare myself  these uncertain moments, that always  come hand in hand with bitterness and  encase me with void.  But as this green dot blinks beside your name, My fingers melt,  I forget my lines and spellings, No voice comes out, no curse, Heart twitches, and fails to hate.  If hating was easier, my dear, If an attempt at least wasn't so excruciating, I could have hated you, Until the last leaf of winter withered away  

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The Dreamer. Illustration by Urmila R. 

   

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Feminine Vine         RAKHI S KUMAR   

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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Those shudders of life within First tinge of green Shoots tiny Limbs flimsy and frail Seeping through the cleave  Those pretty delicacies So very crushable Quivering weakly Her desires and silent wail And quite petty pranks  Those budding busts and shooting vines First signs of puberty Firm shoulders to lean on And cuddled by its rising tail Her world of fantasies  Those growing curves And lovely locks And sensuous dreams Of ecstasy and bloom Breaking borders and bridles  Those wary stares around Of envy or lust Devastating though Annoying hoots Intending seduction  Those days of bondage Of love and mating Bud shooting up Marking her fecundity Token of love  Those days of endurance The flowering foetus Growth of life within life Her inseparable part Nourished by umbilicus  Those hours of pain (or bliss) Agony of child-birth Bearing vibrant fruit Sour yet sweet Hung down the vines  Those greying curls And withering shoots Fading beauty 

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Signs of ageing? Reality though painful  Those expiring moments Drooped and wilted Days of serenity Her weary body plunging to earth The ultimate end of all  

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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Plato’s Nemesis     VAISHALI PRASAD I cannot write poetry I cannot feel, or pretend to the way you do. No, I’m not ‘feeling blue’ I just can’t set sensible lines into a confused skew. My words aren’t collapsing  into one gigantic volcano or a particularly warped snake so don’t look for patterns, symbols, metaphors , politics or of the gastric troubles of Aunt Leo down the road.  My words shan’t tumble tossed there and there words which mean the same words which mean nothing words which beg for attention Misery! Tears! Anarchy! Nature! I can’t write about how I feel like a used ball of tissue paper Existential, caught in a world  of hypocrites and poets how I seek for inner justice and despair be the drowneth of me when all I can feel is my stomach rumbling in hunger  remembering that blueberry cheesecake I devoured last night. I cannot even pretend to ramble about when my mind is so fixed on order and                 method to wander all over, drop political hints criticize Marxism, espouse     

Post-modernism Flaunt a tortured childhood while all I talk about are the red peaches growing in the corner of my garden. My middle name  is not a convenient melancholy on my inability to rhyme and I shan’t write anything happy for no one likes a merry poet who writes only nonsense verse. Ow. Ow. Ow. I’m pausing at all the wrong places. I’m punctuating. Emphatically. Don’t read that as a mirror of my wretched soul Because what’s worse than bad poetry is psychoanalytic hyperbole. 

 

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Love SNEHA A     

Let me run out of life before the cascade of       love in your lush heart runs out of force, runs out of water, runs out of sheer mirth. I cannot float pretty paper boats in a pool of sweat, or on a dry trail of tears. They long for the waves, the currents, the rhythms of a surging         life – like the one flowing in         my veins, waiting to be stopped dead in its tracks by the glinting edge of a fruit knife. 

   

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Stairway to heaven. Illustration by Urmila R.

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Shangri La APARAJITHA  

Walking under the dark cloudy sky,  I was fomented by the worldly ties. By dragging my love-wrought soul, the limbs locomoted through the myrtle maze,  in search of nothing but serendipity. 

Will the sun stretch its amiable arms to clear my thoughts with its golden glow? Will the deep and dark blue Neptune waters flow through me to quench my quest? 

Will the audacity of the pale moon augur my fragile and freaking foes? 

Where in the world is such a place? How in this turmoil will I reach there? Oh miracle voice, I plead thee, to present me the artery to paradise. Conceal thy magical powers in me! 

At once I heard the musical tone. The spirit to heal my lesion it had. My cochlea vibrated slowly and steadily. Joie de vivre, Shangri La. 

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Cremation  ANAND SREEKUMAR 

Perfection, I achieved In this blank world, Of a blanker deed (skill, they called).  The purpose of life I have attained, so young. So now … cremate me.  And feel the beard, I cherished, The tuft of hair left, balding And the flesh worth 60 kg wasted Burning…  And see what is left behind, The stench is the spite, they whisper The ego and the envy Stain the pristine graveyard  Wish me luck as I depart, To the rhythm of the souls I have backstabbed, screaming. Hoping for a sole reward For as the inexplicable, below burns There shall not be more of myself. 

  

   

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You fought against Racism.             SMRUTI BALA KANNAN 

But, What did you do with my chocolate? bean ate tree powder ate bean butter ate powder sugar ate butter milk ate sugar and you report the milk back. So is this all about just being Milk?  Oh, I thought you thought you wanted chocolate. 

 

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The Passover                     VANYA RACHEL 

 

We sat around the Ring You and I Do you remember? There were Satyrs Snakes Dwarfs Elves. All laughing and Wrestling like kittens. And when He roared, We clashed our glasses together And rejoiced.  I don’t know what happened- We were left alone We were angry. We climbed that mountain And we heard Him groan And we hated it. We hated Him.  eli eli lama sabachthani 

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 We rampaged for centuries Trees fell to contain our wrath and I followed you Picking up dry branches to Make a fire. We had to get through those Cold nights.  eli eli lama sabachthani  And now the earth is rotting Its stinks of flesh And the dry bones clatter clatter, clatter, clatter. And it is so irritating.  We can but dream of those days When the trees bent towards us And our homes stood erect And our lives thrived around the vines. And when He broke the bread, We ate.  We suck each other’s blood now Helping each other along the way Pushing ourselves one step at a time  eli eli lama sabachthani? 

 

 

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 The Mask. Illustration by Urmila R.  

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Running out of words  

ASWIN VIJAYAN 

  

Running out of words to write is the death of a poet. The death of one who never lived is celebrated with pomp. The poet, who never lived and never wanted to, died. A crooked smile on the ugly face of his. Died, looking as ridiculous as he always did. His death, as unbearable as his poems. An assortment of terribly irrelevant words. Stinking of brilliance and obscurity. Not worth your time. Nor your opinion.  Worth nothing. Nothing. 

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Kamalamma      K. SRILATA 

Kamalamma's lips  Betel chewing red  some local lipstick  and a Friday night ritual.  A loan of endless forgetfulness  and scattered jasmine  breathing in partnership  scanty air from windows overlooking  other despairs.   Five sons (eight children) later  she is a cook at the union office.  Busy men fight causes.  Radicals abuse governments.  Kamalamma posts a thousand letters  licks as many stamps  mentions her husband's muscular prowess  just in case  and serves out the tea.  Ten years.  The union is dead. What has grown is Kamalamma's drumstick           tree  Proving useful in a corner of the garden   

   

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Epilogue   SOUMYA MISHRA

It is for another time that I have been                 asked to write about the genesis of             Article 19 and I’m running out of             ideas, and ways to say the same             things in different ways. Our story is             simple. Bunch of second year         undergraduate, bumbling with ideas,       passionate about fiction – reading         and writing both- and lacking a           uniform outlet for the same despite           the fertile intellectual spaces of the           department. Decided to start a small           online magazine – for writing and to             read.  

The magazine began as a small idea             with plenty of preparations. Akhil and           Prasoon were deeply instrumental in         helping to give a shape to the floating               

ideas and ground it in reality. We agonized over the title, the content, the theme, even whether                                 to keep a theme or not, the first two issues each had a theme – Beginnings, followed by                                   Journeys and I’m glad it did not end there. There was a struggle to receive contributions                               because insti is a space where time in always running out. We had grand ideas, not all of                                   which came to fruition. We wanted crosswords, quizzes, book reviews of great pieces of                           classic literature – we included some, others we could not, gently passing it on to the next                                 generation of editors.  

At a time, when the MA Programme is completing ten years of existence, it is but natural to be                                     occupied by nostalgia, because the Department, its various spaces- both intellectual and                       material –have allowed us students to grow as people beyond our teenage years. We arrived                             at 17/18 and left at 22/23, equipped with the Socratic ideal of living an examined life. Five                                 years of learning philosophy, literature, economics, sociology – all at once – through electives                           and interdisciplinary courses – left a deep mark. In such a space where talking between                             disciplines and critical thinking is encouraged, a magazine that is ready to capture                         accompanying bursts of poetry in thought, should exist. " 

 

   

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