[Book Review] The Dove's Lament by Kirthi Jayakumar

 

When I first heard the title The Dove’s Lament I was intrigued. My mind envisioned all the possible associations with the word dove. Was it a book about the oppressed, the meek or was it about a mute witness. ‘What was the reason for the lament?' I asked myself. Then I happened to see the unique design on the cover of the book and was even more curious. (I later learnt that it was the handiwork of the multitalented author herself)

I secured for myself a copy and when I read her foreword I was thoroughly floored. The foreword built up in me a great curiosity that was validated in story after story. The 148 page book is a unique experiment as it combines stories with an essay that gives a time, a locus and an ethos to each story – the story and the essay together interlock the theme discussed and it gives credence and ensures that the events described stay with us for a very long time.

While I was reading it, I was struck by how the book is a work of fiction, history and journalism all rolled into one. With her astute grip on politics and world affairs, The Dove’s Lament is a wonderful read and the writer presents the human angle to mankind's suffering.

Her language is powerful and forceful and her choice of words is amazing.

The impact of a book largely depends on the way, we, the readers experience the events in the book and Kirthi succeeds in this enterprise through the characters that she has created and the powerful narration that makes us participants in a 'lived' experience. She combines effective journalism with traditional empathetic and compelling storytelling.


Kirthi has also adopted a unique storytelling style in the book. The stories do not reveal everything in one go – it feels more like a quest where the writer teases your imagination, tweaks your curiosity by revealing clues bit by bit and you stay glued to the writing eager to piece together all the clues and then read on, just to derive the satisfaction of knowing whether your guesses were right.

The Dove’s Lament is an incredible exploration of the psyche, the mindscape of people encountering extreme trauma. While I liked all the stories- the seventh story Desiccated Land is my favourite for its pace in the narration.

If I were to pinpoint the negatives in the book- I would perhaps touch upon the length of the stories. They seem a bit short and since the narration is particularly interesting, one feels cheated when the stories end too soon. The stories also focus on very few characters and the exchanges between them are almost minimal. Sometimes the essays tend to veer towards a textbook style. But this does not take away the impact of the book or the sincerity and sensitivity of the writer.

The Dove’s Lament promises the reader a world tour that you can take sitting in your arm chair – and you can travel on the wings of the dove to nations far away - nations ravaged by war and the powerful writing grips you and you stay afloat and it takes an enormous effort to realize that you are actually reading a book.

The Dove's Lament is published by Readomania and is available on Flipkart and Amazon. Do grab your copy today!

http://www.amazon.in/The-Doves-Lament-Kirthi-Jayakumar/dp/8192997561/ref=pd_sim_sbs_14_2?ie=UTF8&refRID=0Q020X676JEPH5NH3Y7E

[Translation] Theeradha Vilaiyattu Pillai - The Eternal Prankster

 In this poem Kannan's female play mates narrate their woes about the way they are mistreated by this eternal prankster. It is more prosodic then any of the other poems of Bharathiyaar that I have translated. It adopts a conversational tone and is a litany of feigned lament.

Original:

Theeradha vilaiyatu pillai- Kannan,
Theruvile pengalukku oyatha thollai!

Thinna pazham kondu tharuvan-padhi
Thingindra pothile thatti parippan,
Yennappan, yennayyan endral athanai,
Echil paduthi, kadithu koduppan.

Theanotha pandangal kondu –enna,
Seidhalum ettadha uyarathil vaippan,
Maanotha pennadi enban-satru,
Manam maghizhum nerathile killi viduvan.

Azhagulla malar kondu vande –ennai, 
Azha azha seithu pin, kannai moodi kol,
Kuzhalile suttuven, enbaan, ennai,
Kurudaaki malarinai thozhikku vaipan.

Pinnalai pinnindru izhuppan-thalai,
Pinne thirumbum munne sendru maraivan,
Vanna puthu selai thanile –puzhuthi,
Vaari sorindhe varuthi kulaippan.

Pullanguzhal kondu varuvan-amudhu,
Pongi thathumbum nal geetham padippan,
Kallal mayanguvathu pole - adai,
Kan moodi vay thirandhe kettiruppom.

Agandirukkum vaay thanile-kannan,
Aru ezhu katterumbai pottu viduvan,
Yengagilum paarthadundo, Kannan,
Yengalai seigindra vedikkai andro.

Vilaiyaada vaa vendrazhaipaan-veetil,
Velai endral athai kelathirupaan,
Ilayorodu adi kuthippan-emmai,
Idayir pirindhu poi veetil solvaan.

Ammaikku nallavan kandeer, mool,
Athaikku nallavan, thandaikkum akthe,
Yemmai thuyar seiyum, periyor veetil,
Yavarkum nallvan pole nadappan.

Kozhukku migavum samarthan –poymmai,
Soothiram pazhi solla koosa chazhakkan,
Alukisainthapadi pesi theruvil,
Athanai pengalayum aagaathadippan.

(Lyrics Courtesy: http://translationsofsomesongsofcarnticmusic.blogspot.com/2010/04/theeratha-vilayattu-pillai.html)

Translation:

Kannan is the eternal prankster,
on the streets, damsels face constant dis-order.

He would bring us fruits to eat
but grab it midway - that cheat!
And when we all begin to plead,
 he would spit it and bite it, in deceit.

He would bring me honeyed sweetmeats
but keep them beyond reach, ignoring pleas
 'You are as nimble as a doe my dear!' he would say,
 And when I am lost in this praise, he would pinch away...

He would tempt me with beauteous flowers,
and make me cry and plead for hours,
then bid me to close my eyes and wait,
and coolly pin them onto a friend's plait!

He would tug at my plaits from behind,
and before I can turn, would run and hide;
 On colourful new garments he would spray,
dirt and cause immense disarray.

Armed with his flute, come, he would,
and make heavenly music with that piece of wood,
like one, inebriated with liquor,
we listen - eyes closed, mouth open, in stupor!

Into the open jaws of those fast asleep,
Kannan would drop giant ants deep!
Have you ever witnessed elsewhere
such actions by any other prankster?

He would bid, 'Come play with me!'
If we protest, he wouldn't pay heed,
Drag us along, then choose to play with youngsters
Then disappear midway to complain against us...

My mother calls him a good child- so does
my aunt, so does my father;
subjecting us to his dastardly act(s),
at home, he humbly follows elders' diktat.

He is well versed in the art of carrying tales,
in fibbing, cheating and insinuating!
The slick tongued knave incites commotion,
and draws us asunder with all his instigation!

This song is enacted expressively by Kamala Lakshman in this video clip:

[Humour] Left is the new Right

 The other day I was the spectator to a very interesting event. A young woman who is closely related to me (let us call her Ms.A) was in deep conversation with a Mr. B&%#####$^***** (for short)  and in the middle of which, she suddenly plonked her left hand, square in the middle of his face. The impact was somewhat forceful I must say, judging solely from the sound effects of course. Now as the self appointed supervising adult (SASA not to be confused with the ubiquitous Saas of Hindi Soaps)  in the scene, I took upon myself the task of intervening. I would love to divulge here the details of what prompted the act, but an even more overwhelming need to safeguard the privacy of the perpetrator and the perpetrated compels my silence.

Witnessing the act 'ab origine' I must confess, was as tumultuous as the act itself. I was instantly reminded of an ancient Tamizh expression that has been handed down to us from Thiruvalluvar's times-(or somewhere thereabouts)  'Un moonjile yen peechang kaiye vaikka' -Which expression translates as 'I'll put my left hand on your face.' A threat, as a person's left hand is regarded as unclean. (Source: http://www.thefullwiki.org/Madras_bashai)

Up until this point I had enjoyed this expletive as a notion, an idea, a concept and if I might be allowed the liberty -regarded it as what Theophile Gautier calls 'art for art's sake' or as the case here - a 'threat for threat's sake' that inhabited the rarefied space of everyday parlance of the streets. I have heard the expression uttered with the right tonal quality several times in the visual media but for the first time I had the rare privilege of witnessing a demonstration right in front of my eyes. And to make an honest confession, had the threat preceded the act, my conscience might have been better appeased, but now I felt almost  cheated.

Though I must admit that witnessing the act 'in the wings' as it were is an entirely different experience. Now don't get me wrong - I am not for a moment suggesting that you, my reader, must get two people to fight and witness the provocation result in the aforementioned act - no, never!  All that I am saying is that it quite took me by shock - and my mind flayed around with options for the next course of action that must follow.

Believe me, the first thought that crossed my mind was the famed preacher on the mount who had advocated the 'showing of the other cheek' in such situations - but the rational part of me was offended- because, technically the hit had been to the centre of the face and therefore choosing the right/correct cheek could have posed further problems.  

As someone, who was not at the receiving end of this benediction, I pondered a while and  came to the conclusion that in actual fact and quite contrary to popular belief, this was actually a 'gentle' act. Now think about it - the right handed form the majority of the population and a slap administered with the opposite limb must, in effect, land with a much lesser force. But I do quake and shudder at the thought of a left handed person - and in all fairness I think, they ought to be told to use their right hand when the situation of using it for such purposes presents itself.

I leave you with the conundrum of what might happen when the ambidextrous who constitute a miniscule percentage of the population are provoked...

[Film Review] O Kadhal Kanmani

The film O Kadhal Kanmani is sure creating mixed waves - while the young audiences are gungho about it, the older audiences (who we must remember, grew up watching Mani Ratnam films) are not so enthusiastic. I watched the film more out of curiosity to understand who stands vindicated and this is what I feel.

The Milieu: The film has an Urban, Upper Class setting- the story takes place in Mumbai, with the hero pursuing a career in graphics design and the heroine is interested in art an architecture, this is a refreshing departure from the spate of formulaic films we have been served in recent times.

The Theme: So what's the theme of the movie? Well at least everyone's clear about that- 'living- in relationship.'
Now I wonder, in a country like India, where strong societal systems are in place, where family bonds are strong, where marriage is very strongly encouraged and advocated, what necessitates the need to have a 'living-in' relationship?
But I didn't have to look far for the director's reasons for this choice of theme. In the 60s they made films about strife in the household centered around money and relationships -where 'falling in love' was taboo. Then Tamizh cinema moved and we've had 'falling-in-love' as the theme in all the films that followed. So Mani Ratnam must have gotten up one day and asked himself, 'Love story is old hat... So what next?' and viola- 'living together' must have suggested itself. It does seem cool and it appeals instantly to the youth population of the country, who are experiencing new levels of freedom hitherto unseen by earlier generations. They live in cities away from the stranglehold of an oppressive (read moralistic) family and are eager to experience the 'delights' that this new found freedom brings.
Mani Ratnam has cleverly set this film in Mumbai, the most progressive/permissive of Indian cities, and very far away from the constricting clime of Chennai.

Place Value of the Elderly couple: I feel the director has used the elderly couple (Prakash Raj and Leela Samson) to function as representatives of the older repressive society of India and their acceptance of the young couple's life choices suggests an acceptance of such practices by Indian society as a whole.
But what is puzzling is that neither the hero nor the heroine make any attempt to discuss their relationship with members of their own family( on the contrary they try to hide it) but they are very concerned about eliciting the approval of the elderly couple who are in no way related to them.  The paying guest angle to the story that necessitates the coming together of the couples seems contrived- the guy is obviously making a lot of money- at least enough to rent a house on his own.

Characterization and plot: The films by the director that I have enjoyed the most are Thalapathi, Agni Nakshatram and the recent film Ravan.  What makes them stand out is the depth in the plot, the remarkable character sketches and excellent acting. Unfortunately, all these three aspects are missing in this film- every thing seems so superficial and shallow.

Now coming back to the theme of the film-- well it's not very easy for a guy to pick up a girl or at least that's what Hollywood films tell me. Even the most suave of heroes experiences awkwardness, stress and hitches before he is successful. And a general protocol in the dating process that I have noticed is that the first kiss usually happens around the third date.
Now, surprise surprise!!! the hero here meets the girl fleetingly on a train and sits a couple of places away from her at a wedding in a church, and the two get talking (much to the annoyance of the people in between and us the audience) and just like that decide to start living together - its easy, it's a cake walk- and the 'impeccable logic' behind the choice goes something like - 'We are  both going to part ways in a couple of months, so why not?'  Really???
Let's face it- most cultures (the ostensibly progressive) would find even a one-night -stand, awkward and difficult to pull off and here is a couple who are willing go the entire length - all at the drop of a hat!

So, two people who share no common ground, who don't establish in any manner what connects them, still decide to live together.
And the greatest let down is the ending where the director instead of  exploring the conflict that would necessarily arise from the coming together of two people on such flimsy grounds, does a somersault - goes all traditional and plays safe with the couple opting for marriage.
The other negatives in the film that I noticed is the jerkiness in the dialogues and filminess of the sets especially the room in the shady hotel in Ahmedabad.
My verdict - One more hyped up film bites the dust.
I only hope the old Mani Ratnam returns with a better plot and characterization in his next time!

[Poem] Urban Life

Days fold into nights
like a cigarette tightly rolled;
And Life trapped inside
Slowly
infinitesimally
smokes out
and blends into the smog
of inane nothingness...

I thank Srinivasan Balasubramanian for the translation in Tamizh:

நகர வாழ்க்கை

இரவுகளும் பகல்களும்,
இறுக்கச் சுருட்டப்பட்ட சுருட்டு போல்,
உள்ளே உறைந்து போனது -
வாழ்க்கை.
வெளியே வரத் துடித்து,
புகை போல் கொஞ்சம் கொஞ்சமாக
சூடு பட்டு, தன் சுயம் இழந்து
சூன்ய வெளியில் காணாமலே போயிற்று.

[Blog] Misogyny in old tamizh film songs

I am, like many of you, a fan of old tamizh film songs. They are melodious and have stood the 'test of time' and are popular even today. Music competitions aired on various TV channels too are doing their bit in helping us remember both the popular songs as well as some of the forgotten ones. In 'Pattimandrams' (debate shows)  some of the speakers adopt the cliched trend of quoting lines from old film songs to support their argument.  But, when I look beyond the chaste tamizh, the lingering music and lilting voices, more specifically at the lyrics- some things begin to bother me.

In a country like India, films impact social thinking and play a pivotal role in changing and perpetuating social practices and attitudes. Through frequent broadcasts, film songs have a wide reach and the values they uphold cannot escape being unconsciously absorbed by the listeners. Many people know the lyrics by heart,  and over time, the values expressed in them gain the status of becoming gospel and the lyricist is ordained as an authority on scripture, value systems, tradition and what not of Tamizh culture, all at once.

 Sadly, the songs are repositories of indiscriminate stereotyping and misogyny. They paint images and qualities of what constitutes the 'good' woman. Chastity, shyness, softness, reticence and restraint are upheld in song after song while qualities such as self assertion are devalued.


I quote here some of the examples that have occurred to me, but I am certain that there exists enough material to present a whole thesis on the subject.

Women must be shy and reticent in public spaces - The 'Oruthi oruvanai ninaithuvittal' ( When a woman thinks of a man) song suggests
'adakkam enbadhu pen uruvam' (restraint is the very image of woman)

Remarriage is abhorred in this song from Nenjil Or Aalayam : The woman in the song 'Sonnadhu nee dhaana' (were you the one who said it?)  asks:

'Deivathin marbil soodiya malai/theruvinile vizhalama
theruvinile vizhundalum/Veroru kai thodalama'

Can the garland that adorns the lord be allowed to fall in the street?
And if it were to fall, can strange hands pick it up?
In this elaborate metaphor - the lord is the husband and the garland signifies the woman.

In the same song we find the lines: 
 'Oru kodiyil oru murai dhaan malarum malarallava' (A flower blooms but once in a creeper meaning love and marriage can happen but once in a woman's life)
Both these quotes endorse the view that a woman has no other purpose in life than to serve her master and with his passing her life loses meaning.

While chastity and virginity are the cornerstones of a woman's life, she can and more importantly should dispense with them if a man were to demand it!

In the song:
'Nan Malarodu Thaniyaaga Yen Ingu Nindren ?
En Magaraani Unnai Kaana Ododi Vandhen'

Who do I seek with flower in hand?
Awaiting you- my queen here I stand.
To which she replies:
'Nee Illamal Yaarodu Uravaada Vandhen ?
Un Ilamaikku Thunaiyaaga Thaniyaaga Vandhen'
I have come of course to cavort with who else?
I  come alone to yield to your juvenescence.

 Forthrightness in woman is discouraged: In this song from Poova Thalaiya -Adi sarithaan podi vayadi (Oh get going, you chatterbox) a woman's femininity is questioned when she tries to be assertive. The man asks 'Unakku penmai irukka? (Are you feminine at all?)

 As I said earlier, many examples may exist for each of the aspects I have touched upon, and more importantly research will yield several misogynistic misconceptions contained within them.

Meanwhile, I would like to continue listening to them for their other merits, firm in the belief that the woman of today has eased at least some of these shackles that bind her. 

[Translation] Yadum Oore Yavarum Kelir

This is an English Translation of very famous piece by Kaniyan Poonkundranar.

யாதும் ஊரே யாவரும் கேளிர்
தீதும் நன்றும் பிறர்தர வாரா
நோதலும் தணிதலும் அவற்றோ ரன்ன
சாதலும் புதுவது அன்றே, வாழ்தல்
இனிதென மகிழ்ந்தன்றும் இலமே முனிவின்
இன்னா தென்றலும் இலமே, மின்னொடு
வானம் தண்துளி தலைஇ யானாது
கல் பொருது மிரங்கு மல்லல் பேரியாற்று
நீர்வழிப் படூஉம் புணைபோல் ஆருயிர்
முறை வழிப் படூஉம் என்பது திறவோர்
காட்சியில் தெளிந்தனம் ஆகலின், மாட்சியின்
பெரியோரை வியத்தலும் இலமே,
சிறியோரை இகழ்தல் அதனினும் இலமே. (புறம்: 192)

 The world is my town and its people my kinsmen
Good and evil comes not from others.
Pain and respite emanate from within;
Neither death is new nor life.

We rejoice in felicity terming it a balmy breeze
and  patiently bear adversity -
The wise deem life a rudderless boat
borne along rapids,
even as lightning and rain strike down from darkened skies
The boat moves steered by fate
Needless then, this praise of the rich
More so the insult of the poor.

[Poem] Splintered Nights

My house collapses, then vanishes completely;
A hitherto undiscovered room
materializes, giving joy.
A friendly ghost wanders across darkened rooms
A loved face gets close then disappears.
A whiff of happiness, I smile.

A baby cries fearing the lofty swing of the sling in a tree.
Frantic running up and down a stairway
pointless;
I sprint across fields of corn and sunflower,
then chased by a man who freezes into a scarecrow,
Scythe in hand, I wake up,
panting.

The sun beats down on me
lying motionless in the desert sand;
A loved one, long dead,
Comes to the rescue.
In stormy seas, in a capsizing boat,
next flying to safety in a hang gliding float.
Standing silhouetted at a precipice,
a long fall to wakening.


I live many lives, I paint other lives,
All within one night,
Enactments in a mind scape                                     

                                                                                   

night after night-
not for me the wait of many births.
Events of waking life,
re-lived as I will - them.
Arguments lost are now won.
Fears surface, regrets too
tears fall and it is safe to cry.
I pen amazing songs,
Think up fantastic plots
Only, they are lost in waking.

Innumerable incidents,
half remembered snatches
of events dismembered,
Reassigned outcomes.
My sleep life more exciting,
made
more intriguing
by the boredom of waking.

[Short story] Strangers in the Sand

It was late afternoon as I stepped out of the car, the sun still bright and a balmy breeze on my skin. I did a quick check before I locked up — pedometer, headphones, iPod, a bottle of water. A few stretches, a little spot-jogging. I bent down to tighten my laces in readiness for the run.

This was my routine on most weekends. I was here in the Middle East on a yearlong assignment at the bank I worked for. My regular workday included long hours and indiscriminate food choices- it was easy to pile on the pounds. I had hit upon this routine reluctantly at first, but now I truly looked forward to these moments alone with my thoughts, perfecting strategies as I jogged at a slow pace listening to my favourite music.

The beaches in this part of the world are breathtaking. Everything is tastefully and neatly laid out. The deep blue sea is abutted by a vast sandy beach, which gives way to a large, beautifully tiled promenade. Lining the promenade are landscaped gardens with lush lawns, and beyond these grassy stretches are the parking lots.

The beach usually had a large turnout on weekends — people arriving in groups armed with grills, tents, cushions, carpets, chairs, partying in the open till the wee hours. Children rode toy bikes and cars on the promenade while their parents watched from the lawns. Today, though, the beach was bereft of activity except for a few scattered figures. I was surprised, but not unduly troubled since I had the place almost to myself.

It began rather imperceptibly at first. Circular waves of sand moved inland, blown by the wind off the sea - beautiful to watch, quite unlike anything I had seen before. I even considered taking a picture. But the haze intensified quickly and I realized, in that instant, that I was in the midst of a sandstorm.

I had witnessed sandstorms before - from the safety of my car, short spells where visibility dimmed a little and sand hissed against the tyres. I thought this too would pass and jogged on. But I noticed the woman jogging ahead of me turn hurriedly and begin running back, and the few others nearby scurrying to their cars, hastily gathering picnic mats and baskets. I should have followed them.

All of a sudden, I understood why they had fled. The circles of sand gathered momentum and density, and in no time visibility around me dropped to nearly nothing. A low, freight-train roar filled the air, rising and falling in waves, punctuated by the sharp, persistent hiss of sand against every surface. The world shrank to a few feet in every direction, and then those feet disappeared too.

I stopped in my tracks. Needle-sharp sand particles pierced my skin and eyes. I couldn't breathe as sand entered my nostrils, and I fumbled in my pockets and covered my nose with a paper tissue. I was caught in the middle of a sandstorm with absolutely no idea how to protect myself.

Now I understood the sparse turnout. There must have been warnings I had missed. I regretted continuing to jog after noticing the others leave. I froze as I could not see even a few inches ahead - the haze and the sand in my eyes left them watering and useless.

My mind raced as I quickly weighed and discarded options. I had lost my sense of direction. I fumbled for my phone, head bent low, a hand uselessly covering my eyes, tried to open the compass application - but I had never used it in this location and wouldn't be able to interpret the readings effectively. My only option seemed to be to switch on the phone's torch and plod forward through the haze of sand and wind and fear. I even contemplated lying flat on the ground and waiting for the storm to pass, but it showed no signs of letting up. Eyes nearly shut, I kept inching forward against the wind, unsure if I was holding a straight line, praying not to ram into something.

   

Faint sound of footsteps. I turned eagerly and called out, but my voice was swallowed whole by the wind, and sand rushed into my mouth. And then I saw it: a light, bobbing, advancing through the dust towards me. I had no idea what or who to expect, but I felt an almost overwhelming sense of relief wash over me.

 
                                  

He emerged from the haze, the light from his phone cutting through the dust. I had never been so relieved to see another human face. When he was close enough, I saw he had a carpet draped over his head, which protected him somewhat better than I was. He offered it to me without a moment's hesitation. He muttered something in Arabic, grabbed my hand firmly, put the carpet over my head, signalling me to squat down. I slid down slowly, waiting for the ground to come up to meet me. We sat there in that tiny space barely inches from each other. In any other time and place, this proximity would have been unthinkable. Here, with the storm pressing the carpet down around us and his breath audible inches from my ear, it felt like the most natural shelter in the world.

He was using his turban to cover his nose, and he extended it to me. I held it gratefully and opened my eyes a little wider to look at him properly - mud-spattered, with a heavy crop of thick black hair, and something in me was simply, unreasonably glad that it was him.

   

We worked together to open the carpet further and create more room – Herculean, in the wind.  We finally made a small tent securing the ends with our feet. Every time a particularly vicious gust blew, the carpet billowed and freed itself flapping above us, we laughed like children - helpless, gasping laughter that cut through the roar of the storm. I don't know if it was relief, or absurdity, or simply the strange intimacy of shared danger, but in those moments, I felt closer to this man whose name I didn't know than to many people I had known for years. What felt like several hours turned out to be just three-quarters of an hour before the whirling and hurtling sounds began to die down.

The air finally cleared.  We pushed the carpet away with a huge sigh of relief and stood up. Dust lay over everything - the ground, the trees, the lawns, making the place entirely unrecognizable. He said something in Arabic and began sprinting towards the parking lot. I followed, seized by the same urge to reach the safety of my car.       

Only two cars remained in the lot, both a muddy brown. I opened mine and began cleaning the windows with a paper towel that's when I caught my reflection and saw how terrifying I looked. I took out a water bottle and washed my face vigorously, dismayed to find sand deep in my hair and ground into my clothes. My shoes had turned almost black. I turned to look for him and found him cleaning his car nearby.       

I got into my car and pulled it alongside his, then stepped out. I said the only word in Arabic I knew: “Shukran!”

I waited for him to finish and held out my hand. He offered his grimy hand rather hesitantly — and I understood: we had shared something real, but the world outside the storm still had its rules. I took his hand anyway, and he let me. He said “Maa salamah,” which I knew was goodbye, then gestured gallantly for me to drive away first.

I watched him shrink in the rear-view mirror until the road curved and he was gone — and I felt, absurdly, like I had left something behind in the parking lot. I didn’t know his name, or what he did for a living, or whether I would ever see him again. None of it mattered. I had been through a crisis, and I had shared that moment with a complete stranger, and something between us had been forged that no storm could undo.

 There are times in our lives where we experience encounters in the least likely of places -encounters that bring perfect strangers close as they collaborate for survival. In an instant, all the barriers that divide us - language, religion, creed, custom,  fall away, and we interact simply as human beings. We may part and go our separate ways, but the memories are etched forever in our hearts, carried with us to our graves.

[Poem] Slavery

People's reaction and stances with regard to slavery always echoes political correctness. But we can hardly begin to imagine the stark reality and the extreme inhumanity of this curse on mankind. The film 12 Years a Slave brought the plight of slaves to centre stage. It is one of the most moving films that I have seen in recent times.This poem was inspired by the film.

                                                                    Slavery 

Beaten into implicit submission,
Men, subjected to constant tyranny,
Women, stripped and brutalized,
Children, torn from a mother’s arms.
Mute spectators to barbarity each day,
Anesthetized to their own, and another’s pain,
Deprived of dignity,
Sold and resold like bonds,
Bound by endless bondage,
Each day – a palpable Hell,
Each night -a waking nightmare,
Where death becomes the highest hope...
This is slavery – Mankind’s greatest Shame…

What gives one race the right over another?
What gives one man absolute power?
How does a heart grow stone cold?
How can Human spirit
Be lauded in one,
Derided, in another?

Political doublespeak declares slavery's death.

But,
can slavery ever die?
Can the human heart ever be rid of its desire for dominion?
Can mere indignation
Purge the soul?
Can learning, and belief
Tame the power hungry monster that lurks within us all?
 Each day is witness to new forms of tyranny,
New means of exploitation.

Slavery shall live on
as long as there is will to exploit, deceive, intimidate...
Slavery shall live on,
 where human dignity is devalued
 slavery shall live on,
in the persecution,
 in the exploitation of the poor,
the disadvantaged,
the voiceless,
the innocent,
and the tame...

[Short Story] The Mirror does not Smile Back

Savithri amma?" I asked, in half hesitation and half excitement, of the frail form in a faded cotton saree who answered the door. She nodded her assent and looked at me keenly, before asking me to step in. There ended my search that had gone on for more than an hour, first driving up and down a now very unfamiliar road and painstakingly entering each multistorey apartment block, checking the names of the occupants. But the search for Savithri amma began almost thirty years ago in a manner of speaking...


I woke to the mild strains of Hamsadwani played on the veena that floated in through the open window. It was summer time and for a seven year old, it was bliss time- no pressure to wake up early and rush to school. I could play for hours in the yard and no one would care. I could have lain there, half awake, soothed by the music, but an unkind sun, streaming down through the high window made me squirm and pull myself up. I gave a frustrated shout and got up. My mother stood over me grinning and said,
"Good for you! Now roll up that mattress, brush your teeth and come and have breakfast!
I know, once you go out to play, I won’t be able to catch you!"

I lumped up the bed as neatly as I could and placed it atop the pile of mattresses in the corner of the room. I ran to the backyard to quickly finish my morning routine. I loved to splash the cold water kept in the pail drawn out from the well. I had the day's events planned out really well. I would collect the baby mangoes that fell off the large trees in the backyard, which my mother pickled. I would hunt around the front yard for 'treasures'. In the afternoon, I would 'cook' food in my little earthenware pots and pans. My evenings were mostly spent in visiting temples with mother. I got to eat tasty 'prasadam' and listen to very interesting musical narrations of Hindu mythology that were performed there regularly.

I drank the glass of milk in three straight gulps and rushed out. It was a typical hot summer day, but I was rather comfortable, shaded as I was by the large neem tree in the front yard. I was quite busy, talking to myself, playing with the odds and ends- the 'treasures'- I had found in the vast spaces around the house - bits of stone, pieces of broken ceramic tiles and plastic jewellery. Green, bitter neem berries fell around me from time to time. They resembled grapes so much in appearance, that I was always tempted to bite them. And every strong breeze brought down a tingling cascade of the soft, tiny, cream coloured neem flowers, with their distinct smell. Then all of a sudden I heard the tinkle of an all too familiar bell. I knew instantly, it was the sonpaapdi seller with his cart. I ran to the kitchen window and called,
"Amma, amma!"
"The sonpaapdiwala is here, please, please, can I buy some at least today?"
I looked pleadingly at my mother, who came to the window.
But as expected, she shook her head.
"Oh, Devi," she said, "You know appa, will not like it... look here,
I will make peanut candy for you this afternoon, ok .."

"But, amma!..." I trailed off as my mother turned and moved away from the window.
I returned crestfallen, to the neem tree, when I heard someone call my name softly at first, then again. I looked up, through the leaves and I could make out aunt Savithri standing at her window.
"Devi," she said,
"Do you like sonpaapdi so much?" I nodded my head in assent.
"Can I buy you some?"
I was quite confused. I wanted it, but was afraid.
"Amma, will not like it," I said, in a meek tone.

She said, "Wait," and was instantly in the street, talking to the vendor.
The cart had a large, green, bell shaped glass jar and as always, the flaky sweet filled less than a quarter of it. I loved to watch the way the vendor would reach all the way to the bottom of jar, sift and loosen the flakes and arrange these in a piece of newspaper torn into neat squares. The passers-by, stopped around him, and I watched eagerly from the gate as aunt Savithri bought some. She came up to me and handed the paper carefully through the bars. Temptation got the better of protest and I ran to the play area and sat down and ate slowly, savouring each mouthful of the tasty sweet.

Thus began my interactions with aunt Savithri that summer. My mother had specifically warned me not to speak to aunt Savithri. Having been 'bribed' in this manner, I never breathed a word about this incident to my mother. I did ask her several times, as casually as I could, why I was not allowed to speak to aunt Savithri, but was only reprimanded on each occasion.

But, unknown to my mother, I made several stealthy trips to aunt Savithri's house. I found myself drawn to her. She was rather tall, with a fragile build. She wore her long hair that almost touched the back of her knee in a neat braid. She wore very few ornaments - and I loved her delicate wrists that were adorned by a simple pair of gold bangles. But she sported a large diamond ring on her ring finger, which stood out from the rest of her jewellery. I always found her dressed is simple cotton sarees. She had large kind but sad eyes and a smile lit up her face, whenever she talked to me. She spoke softly, and most of all, I liked the way she looked into my eyes and spoke. Sometimes I felt she was as much a child as me and as I didn't have a play mate other than my imaginary one, she became my play mate in a sense. Her music kept me company all the timeas I played in the yard.

One afternoon, we had guests over and my mother was lost in the melee, shouting something to her, I rushed next door in a trice. She was playing a soft raga on the veena. She smiled, and asked me,
" Devi, what raaga is this?"
Now this was a game we played all the time. She would play popular ragas for my benefit and then quiz me about them.
I asked her shyly "Is that Abheri?"
"Sabash!" she exclaimed.

I asked her hesitantly, whether I could play the veena too. And she smiling sat me on her lap and guided my fingers over the frets. I winced as the strings almost cut my fingers, and I was disappointed with the choppy wooden sounds that now ensued from that magical instrument. Seeing my absolute disappointment, she comforted me by saying,
"It sounded that way, when I started too ... you will improve if you practise more!"
So saying, she gently held me and planted a kiss on my cheek. I enjoyed that kiss, and the nearness it brought.

I was struck by her gentleness and warmth and I was puzzled why my mother was so antagonistic to her. Since, I couldn't ask my mother, I decided to ask her instead.
Aunt Savithri had begun to leave her front door ajar for my easy entry and I had flitted into her house to have a quick drink of water from the earthen pot near the door. I looked at her pensive face even as she sat on the large wooden indoor swing, lost in thought. I asked her shyly, "Can, I swing with you?" She jumped out and led me gently to it and seating herself next to me, she began swinging gently with me. I found her nearness so comforting and I suddenly asked her, " Why doesn't my mother like you? "
Aunt Savithri somehow seemed to know that the question was coming and she said,
"Paru is actually a very nice person, she is only punishing me, because I have done something bad... you know like when you've been naughty ... "She struggled, to find the right words and she said, speaking more to herself,
"I should have been more responsible, but mistakes are inevitable I suppose, my dear!"

One day, I was in her house, trying to match my stride to the large tiles that patterned her living room- with each stride, I almost fell as I had to stretch a great deal to place each of my feet on the sides of the tile... I had covered about half of the room, when I heard a strident ringing of the doorbell. Savithri hurried to the door and I overheard her urging the tall stranger who stood there to keep it low as I was inside. She hurriedly took him to an anteroom and very hesitantly asked me to leave. I sensed her agitation, I wanted to stay, to be by her side, but was also scared of the tall swarthy man who had entered so impertinently into the house.

The rains came and with it the start of school and a new class to sit in. I couldn't visit aunt Savithri anymore as my days were packed. I would often stare longingly at her window and I would wave eagerly if I spotted her there. I had grown more bold and despite my mother's glares, I waved to her.
I thought of her often, in the midst of homework, while at school, recalling her face, her smile and her tone.

Within a couple of months, however, my father had a job transfer to a different city. I was upset and extremely disturbed. One evening, I was very surprised to see my father at aunt Savithri's house. He was standing at her doorstep and Savithri was saying something earnestly with folded hands, my father mumbled something, turned abruptly and walked out of her door.

(To be continued...)