tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-56725705347829634382024-03-12T17:51:31.962+05:30Out of Print BlogThe official blog of Out of Print MagazineUnknownnoreply@blogger.comBlogger330125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5672570534782963438.post-81480136831312168392024-03-12T17:50:00.003+05:302024-03-12T17:50:38.739+05:30Kodaikanal Gandhi Prize 2023 - The Prize Winners<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><b><span style="color: #990000; font-size: large;">The Kodaikanal Gandhi Prize 2023</span></b></div><div style="text-align: center;"><b><span style="color: #990000; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></b></div><div style="text-align: center;"><b><span style="color: #990000; font-size: medium;">Announcement of the Prize Winners</span></b></div><div style="text-align: center;"><b><span style="color: #990000; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></b></div><div><br /></div><div>The Khushwant Singh Literary Festival, the Gandhi Peace Foundation and the literary journal Out of Print are honoured to announce the prize-winners of the Kodaikanal Gandhi Prize 2023-2024. The prize aims to increase awareness amongst our young people of the life and work of Mahatma Gandhi in promoting the values of humanity, compassion, democracy, non-violence and truth-telling. This, the fourth edition of the prize, asked students to imagine what a Gandhian approach would be to women’s reservation, a Uniform Civil Code and the conduct of elections today. The prise-winning entries will be published in Out of Print.</div><div><br /></div><div>Discussing the student submissions, founder of the Kodaikanal Gandhi prize Radha Kumar said, ‘I was surprised and delighted to see how many of the students stressed the core Gandhian values of consultation and processes of on-ground change for formulating or implementing a Uniform Civil Code; how many felt that Dalit, Adivasi and OBC reservation should form a dub-category of women’s reservation to parliament, and vice-versa; and how many were sharply critical of campaign finance in India today, both for its scale and in its nature.’ </div><div><br /></div><div>Emphasising the importance of the prize, Indira Chandrasekhar, founder and chief editor of Out of Print said, ‘It is heartening to see the effort students put into reading and understanding Gandhi, and in attempting to imagine his responses to critical political issues that impact the nation. In an age of information and technological advancement where it is easy to plagiarise work, and to use AI to generate writing, the jury looks for thoughtful analyses, and presentations that reflect, with integrity, the students’ individual thinking.’</div><div><br /></div><div>Director of the Gandhi Peace Foundation and co-sponsor of the prize Kumar Prashant concluded, ‘I am not surprised but reassured that whenever our young friends get the opportunity to express themselves freely, they side with right, they side with morality, they side with humanity... and they side with Gandhi. Gandhi is not an individual for them but synonymous with values. Gandhi Peace Foundation is honoured to associate with this endeavour.’ </div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhxGIQarcw5ezWN4cSUeFVoIkEPzCyn-UgGCapOaPRDtM-Q0AepDx02jewX1-5ro_cHmwsPyhtTn7wE-g9bc0H3D6ZEwhZnEwcYWBlJjAyngQYd_T1hLqKUTBrpnZVyIKiMupvFT-dt_lVCVicDhqxGPufsKfV0KvolHgIKxPbygCPDbABxmSj-gIzCA5Y/s820/Gandhi%20pic%201.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="224" data-original-width="820" height="109" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhxGIQarcw5ezWN4cSUeFVoIkEPzCyn-UgGCapOaPRDtM-Q0AepDx02jewX1-5ro_cHmwsPyhtTn7wE-g9bc0H3D6ZEwhZnEwcYWBlJjAyngQYd_T1hLqKUTBrpnZVyIKiMupvFT-dt_lVCVicDhqxGPufsKfV0KvolHgIKxPbygCPDbABxmSj-gIzCA5Y/w400-h109/Gandhi%20pic%201.png" width="400" /></a></div><br /><div><br /></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><b>The Prize winners are:</b></span></div><div><br /></div><div><b>First Prize (shared):</b></div><div>Krishna Kalal <span style="white-space: pre;"> <span> <span> </span><span> </span><span> </span></span></span>Jasnoor Matharoo</div><div>DPS Bopal, Ahmedabad<span style="white-space: pre;"> <span> <span> </span><span> <span> </span></span></span></span>YPS Mohali</div><div>Topic: The Elections<span style="white-space: pre;"> <span> <span> </span><span> <span> </span></span></span></span>Topic: The UCC</div><div> <span style="white-space: pre;"> </span></div><div><b>Second Prize (shared):</b></div><div>Jeevitha S <span style="white-space: pre;"> <span> </span><span> </span><span> <span> </span></span></span>Samaira Gargi </div><div>Parikrma, Bengaluru<span style="white-space: pre;"> <span> <span> </span></span></span>DPS Bopal, Ahmedabad</div><div>Topic: The Women’s Reservation Bill<span> </span><span> <span> </span></span>Topic: The UCC</div><div><br /></div><div><b>Third Prize:</b></div><div>Chandana P</div><div>Parikrma, Bengaluru</div><div>Topic: The Women’s Reservation Bill</div><div><br /></div><div><b>Creative Effort (Awarded by the literary journal Out of Print)</b></div><div>Ashaz Daud</div><div>DPS, Varanasi. Topic: The Elections</div><div><br /></div><div><b>Honourable Mentions:</b></div><div>Jayesh Mahajan</div><div>DPS, Jalandhar</div><div>Topic: The Elections</div><div><br /></div><div>Jayosi Gayen</div><div>DPS Bopal, Ahmedabad</div><div>Topic: The Women’s Reservation Bill</div><div><br /></div><div>Lakshmi M</div><div>Parikrma, Bengaluru</div><div>Topic: The UCC</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><br /><div><span style="font-size: x-small;">The prize-winning essays will be published. Links to the essays will be provided when the work is uploaded.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: x-small;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: x-small;"><br /></span></div><p></p>Indira Chandrasekharhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03573621384719821695noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5672570534782963438.post-18611272383962911792024-02-02T19:49:00.002+05:302024-02-02T19:49:33.841+05:30Out of Print Workshop Online - October 2023: THE STORIES<p>The Out of Print online workshop held over weekends at the end of October and early November 2023, featured four writers.</p><p><br /></p><p>Experiencing a writing workshop online is very different from the fluidity and intensity of in-person engagements. The participants of this workshop were patient with technical glitches, committed to their projects and worked the final versions of their stories over the end of the year.</p><p><br /></p><p>We present here, on the Out of Print blog, the stories that were developed in the workshop.</p><p><br /></p><p style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://outofprintmagazine.blogspot.com/2024/02/out-of-print-workshop-online-october_10.html" target="_blank"><b><span style="color: #b45f06;">Marma: The Places that Hurt</span></b></a> by Arshaly Jose</p><p style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://outofprintmagazine.blogspot.com/2024/02/out-of-print-workshop-online-october_68.html" target="_blank"><span style="color: #b45f06;"><b>Death Wish</b></span></a> by Niranjana H</p><p style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://outofprintmagazine.blogspot.com/2024/02/out-of-print-workshop-online-october_2.html" target="_blank"><b><span style="color: #b45f06;">It’s all About Her</span></b></a> by Sushma Madappa</p><p style="text-align: center;"><b><a href="https://outofprintmagazine.blogspot.com/2024/02/out-of-print-workshop-online-october.html" target="_blank"><span style="color: #b45f06;">Home Story</span></a></b> by Akansha Naithani</p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p>Indira Chandrasekharhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03573621384719821695noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5672570534782963438.post-77111115273403986322024-02-02T19:42:00.001+05:302024-02-02T19:43:24.553+05:30Out of Print Workshop Online - October 2023: ARSHALY JOSE<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><b>Marma: The Places that Hurt</b></div><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">Arshaly Jose</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">Arya woke up, engulfed darkness in the room. She blinked furiously to adjust her eyes. She picked up her copy of God of Small Things, dogeared and embroidered with underlines of different colours over multiple re-reads. She scoured the pages and securely placed her Fabindia kurta tag – that doubled as an aesthetic bookmark – where Velutha was brutally killed for the crime of being born a Dalit. But he had encroached her dream, fought valiantly with a ‘mass’ background score, against everyone he could not in the book, and just before he was united with his love, Arya had woken up. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">Dreams of dawn see light they say. What about the dreams of dusk? </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">‘Someone ordered me. Delivery in 15 mins, mam😘’ The notification on the phone shook off the last remnants of her nap. She used to hate that emoji. And Aadhi used it obsessively since she confessed her distaste for it. Who winks when they kiss? She had asked him, trying to clinically dissect her idiosyncrasy, sitting at a respectable distance from him, away from the faculty and students on the empty stairs near the lab. He scrunched his face into a wink, pouted animatedly like only a twenty-one-year-old could, and quickly planted the first kiss on her cheeks. She froze. More than anything, she was scandalised by the speed at which he could convert a thought into action. Did his thoughts not have to jump through multiple sets of rules, then travel along the length of nerves, and then move the muscles to turn into actions like hers? She instinctively looked around. She had to. She was the teacher. She was the woman. She was the one responsible. She always was. After she ensured there were no prying eyes, a hint of a smile escaped the walls she painstakingly built. Like a kid sceptically reaching out for a chocolate offered by a stranger. Arya did not trust her ‘stranger’ but the love he offered was too rare for her to not at least try. That same smirky smile showed up whenever she saw the bright yellow emoji. It is an odd thing, this heart. It can drastically reduce the gap between the things you hate and the things you love. Like folding a world map one day and discovering Russia was so close to Alaska all along.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">Arya looked at herself in the mirror. She tried touching the playfulness that still lingered in her dark circle-lined eyes. When she smiled, really smiled – not the fake symmetric one she had practised to almost perfection – her right side stretched more than the left and ended up seeming more like a smirk. She ran her fingers gently over her cheeks on the scars gifted by the parting bout of acne that seemed to have trapped her youth in them like a snow globe. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">She had thought a lot about youth since dating Aadhi. She would be thirty-six this year. It wasn’t too old. But the infuriating barrage of alliances her Amma brought up throughout her twenties seemed dwindle post thirty-two. And had almost dried up now. Oh, just what she would give to trade Amma’s quiet resignation of her singledom for her old fury when she turned down yet another ‘nice’ Brahmin boy. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">And men’s advances – they are just the most accurate system for tracking a single woman’s age. The earnest I-love-you-forever’s and I-would-die-without-you’s of the 20s slowly replaced by do-you-wanna-fuck’s in the 30’s and then to silence. Radio silence, leaving her wondering did ... did I change?</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">Arya had changed. She used to be the cliché perfect girl. A spectacled, pimpled, wavy-haired topper. Her Amma strategically introduced her to books at a very young age so she would fall in love with the Mr Darcys’ and Atticus Finchs’ of fiction and keep away from the lanky crude boys of her reality so she could eventually fall in love with a suitable boy Amma picked. Amma’s plan worked well until Arya fell too much for the fictional men so she decided to pursue them. ‘Tch, what a waste of talent. She should take Engineering or Medicine, with that board score,’ everyone advised her parents. They initially tried cajoling her, but seeing she was adamant, they let her be. They consoled themselves that English literature is respectable. And most importantly it only would increase her standing in the marriage market where they could find her the perfect IIT Iyer boy while the fictional men kept her busy. Amma’s renewed plan worked well until she met her firebrand SFI activist Alex in second year of college. No one would have believed then that she would be thirty-six, single, and contemplating sending a sexy selfie to a twenty-one-year-old student. Even she would have scoffed at the possibility that out of all the fictional women, she imagined herself as, Mrs Robinson would be the one she would play.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">Arya had an epiphany. She quickly grabbed a comb and ran it through her wavy hair, then searched around to find a companion to her trusty old grey rubber band that she almost only used to tie up her hair in a ponytail or an occasional safe braid on the days she oiled her hair. Then, she parted her hair neatly and tied it up on either side in two pig tails. She pulled out few stay hairs and ruffled the rest. She changed her comfy tees to a white button-down shirt with one, no two buttons undone. She pulled out the sole red lipstick from among the nude lipsticks. Today was a red lipstick worthy day. She carefully applied it while practising this elusive perfect pout she saw on Instagram. After a few failed attempts and the help of Google she settled with tightly pursed lips and widened eyes. Hands on her hips and her weight on her left leg. Click. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">She sent off the picture before her relentless right brain could make another pros and cons list about the consequences. She felt excited. She looked hot. Cute even. And most importantly, young. She wasn’t a Mrs Robinson whose midlife came calling few decades early due to the clamouring of Indian aunties. She was Arundhati Roy’s Ammu today. And like Ammu, she loved her Velutha.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">But did she love Aadhi? She knew had known love. Love that hurt enough to kill. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">‘Urvi,’ Alex had proclaimed, touching a point on her thigh about seven inches north of her knee.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"> ‘If I massage here properly, your cold will be gone, like this.’ He snapped his fingers. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">‘Okay, ashane,’ she said without looking up at him from her assignment on Standing Female Nude. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">‘Even three decades after writing it, Duffy’s nude model is still trying to find herself in the art.’ She read aloud her last sentence almost expecting applause.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">‘Wah! Let me revise my marma knowledge on this female nude. Stand. Stand.’</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">‘Adipathi, Phana, Vidhura, Amsa,’ he recited, touching different points from the crown of her head.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">When he reached the middle of her chest, the model decided to take charge. ‘So, what does this marma do?’ </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">‘This is Hridaya. It is the most important of the 108 marmas. If pressed they say it can hurt enough even to kill.’ </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">She placed her fist on his chest and applied pressure. ‘Like this?’ she asked in a flu-gifted extra sensuous voice.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">‘No.’ Using the tip of his index finger, he gingerly drew patterns on her breast. She moved closer and closed her eyes. Suddenly, he sharply pushed in his finger at the centre of her chest.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">‘AHH’ She gasped.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">That night and many others in the sultry Madras air on the college campus, they searched each other for marmas that hurt deeper. His absent father, her body image issues, his anger, her limits, his surname, her surname. The list kept piling up as the years piled on. She found a little more love in each marma she uncovered in him. In return, she allowed him to create new ones in her. Until he walked away saying ‘Go fuck your paripu-eating Iyer boys your Amma chooses for you.’ hitting her right at a marma. After that, she worked obsessively on insulating each of her marmas with varying levels of success. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">Arya was getting impatient. Did Aadhi not see it? Was he traveling on an Uber moto that he couldn’t’ reply? She had already contemplated and failed to come up with an explanation when WhatsApp would dutifully snitch if she deleted the impulsive selfie. How could she? It was one thing having a secret rendezvous with a student occasionally, but this would be incarcerating proof. And they had not even done anything yet.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">‘Swipe left if you are looking for my surname.’ It was Aadhi’s bio on Bumble that had first caught her attention. She always struggled with Bios. How does any amalgamation of twenty-odd words describe someone? But Aadhi’s bio did it as best as it ever could. He was everything his bio said about him. And it was all of it that pulled her closer to him in their three months of ‘dating’ where they met occasionally in the sheath that the college could offer. She knew him more through his Instagram account @beingDaLit, where he posted satirical content on modern India. He was funny and unapologetic about being funny. In times where being angry is currency and typing speed the metric of passion, he chose to be happy, and it was revolutionary. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">He was her true rebellion. To date a Dalit, albeit an English-speaking, fair-skinned one was something unimaginable for her. Rebellion for Arya always stopped at the bed. And today that would change. She would let him touch her. With that, she decided she would erase years and years of oppression. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">Ding! The bell rang and Arya quickly changed out of her youth, draped a lavender cotton saree languidly around her and ran towards the door into his arms. Words had no more relevance. She stained his cheeks with the red from her lipstick. The lavender sari uncoiled with his touch and left their trail to the bedroom of her cosy 1 BHK. He had the impatience of a hungry child. A kiss there, a bite here, he ripped through the clothes and layers between them. She smiled and reassuringly ran her fingers through his hair. He awkwardly struggled to find the nooks and corners to fit himself in. With the patience of a teacher, she guided him into her. But her touch possessed him, and he felt unable to hold himself. As though clearing it off would clear him of his shame he picked up his t-shirt lying on the floor and meticulously wiped her body clean and laid down turning away from her.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">She looked at his back, hunched into a cocoon, and felt it was like many other indistinguishable bad dates she had. Arya did not mind the early end of their endeavour as much as she was disappointed by how normal everything felt. As she patted him kindly, she looked for the earthy raw smell of Velutha but there was nothing exotic about the smell of cheap Axe deo. She gently opened his curled fingers searching irrationally for calluses in his soft hands. She searched for abs sculpted by forests in the belly filled with parcel food and cheap beer. He was supposed to be different. He was supposed to make her feel different, make her feel real, make her feel something. Otherwise, what was the point of it all?</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">She gently turned him towards her and looked at his young handsome face that refused to look into her eyes. She wanted to salvage the moment. She wanted to smother him in her kindness by not just letting him touch her, but in forgiving him. Who else would do that? She would make him feel like a man in exchange for giving her the chance to feel like a rebel. He slightly nodded his head and as respectfully as possible picked up his phone and started scrolling and noticed an unseen message notification on WhatsApp.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">Before he could hide it, she saw the smile escape his lips. She saw her through his eyes fleetingly. It reflected the same pity she had for him, just of a different shade. ‘It is cute. Really, really cute.’ He said with all the earnestness he could muster. It hurt more than if he would have just kept quiet. She smiled her fake symmetric smile. Marmas hurt the most when caressed. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">She could suddenly taste the dryness of the late October air rubbing against the goosebumps on her body. She could distinctly trace the lights from the window bouncing off her unruly folds. She could feel every hint of the wrinkles on her forehead, every silver of the stretch marks on her thighs, every fold on her body that stored her stories. She felt intensely naked. In that long moment that stretched endlessly, her rebellion died. She felt a new marma take shape. They lay turned away from each other, two bubbles under a bedsheet, looking at the dusk sluggishly turning to starry night.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">*</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br /></div></div>Indira Chandrasekharhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03573621384719821695noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5672570534782963438.post-49140636095498155382024-02-02T19:39:00.001+05:302024-02-02T19:42:55.986+05:30Out of Print Workshop Online - October 2023: SUSHMA MADAPPA<p style="text-align: center;"><b>It’s all About Her</b></p><p style="text-align: center;"><br /></p><p style="text-align: center;">Sushma Madappa</p><p><br /></p><p>The bottle topples over and water seeps into the patterned red tablecloth. I watch as the patch darkens and creeps up to the bottom of the fruit bowl. Mother gasps. The man with grey-green eyes looks up from the newspaper he is reading. He doesn’t say a thing. He has other ways of making his displeasure known. </p><p><br /></p><p>I wake up to the incessant cackle of crow pheasants from the Gulmohar tree outside my bedroom window. The bedside clock blinks sinisterly. Its neon digits announce 7.09 am. Are these harbingers of impending doom, warning me of the day that lies ahead? The faint smell of cigarette smoke still lingers in the air. I walk into the bathroom and gaze at my reflection in the mirror. A pair of dark brown eyes stare back at me. I stand there for a few minutes, eyes affixed to the image in the mirror. And once again marvel at how different we are, me and the man with grey-green eyes. Same gene but like chalk and cheese.</p><p style="text-align: center;">*</p><p>I look down at the toothbrush holder; it’s shifted a bit to the right. I finish brushing, splash some water on my face and reach for the towel. It’s not where it should be. I look around frantically and realise it’s hanging from the hook behind the door. Why must I be the only one to put things back where they belong?!</p><p><br /></p><p>I walk down to the kitchen, pour some water in a pan and light the stove. While the tea is brewing, I step out and pick up the day’s newspaper. There are dark cumulus clouds looming in the distance. The breeze carries the fragrance of the Frangipani flower from the neighbours’ garden. I hear the susurrus of water and turn around. The man from next door is watering his plants. He turns away, avoids eye contact. </p><p><br /></p><p>I wonder what he thinks. What he knows.</p><p><br /></p><p>I walk back in and pick the brass vase off the floor. The photo frame that usually rests on the side table is lying on the ground. The glass has cracked. I must get it changed tomorrow.</p><p><br /></p><p>She is still asleep but I am dreading the moment she will wake up. How will she react today, what is she thinking and what will she say? These thoughts hang like a sword over my head.</p><p style="text-align: center;">*</p><p>I first met her at a common friend’s party. I was getting my drink at the bar when she walked up and asked the bartender to fix her a large Glen on the rocks. Her choice of drink piqued my interest. I observed her for a while that evening. Everyone seemed to know her and wanted to speak to her. She seemed to be equally attentive to each person; talking, listening and responding to them in a manner that made each one feel like they were the most important person in the world. Was she attractive? Yes, very. It was not just the men; the women too seemed to be drawn to her. She seemed oblivious to the impact she had on people. And this was the quality that drew me to her. </p><p><br /></p><p>I was too proud to ask the host for an introduction, but I got my chance later that evening. I was on my way out when I saw her waiting for her Uber in the parking lot. She was frantically trying to give directions to the clueless cabbie. I thought I’d take my chances. I walked up to her, introduced myself and offered to drop her home. </p><p><br /></p><p>She hesitated for a brief second before smiling pleasantly and accepting my offer.</p><p><br /></p><p>Conversations with her were effortless. She was guileless, vivacious and exuded a confidence that eluded me. I desperately wanted this fabulous creature to be a part of me. </p><p style="text-align: center;">*</p><p>Is that her phone ringing? Is she awake? Is she silently biding her time until I speak to her? Is she pretending to be asleep? Why does she keep me guessing? What stance will she take today? Will she be pliable or petulant? I don’t want to guess anymore! Why doesn’t she come downstairs and end my misery?! Why must she make me suffer?!</p><p><br /></p><p>The first time I asked her out, it took a lot of effort on my part to seem nonchalant. Once she’d agreed to dinner, I tried my best to contain my excitement but still ended up in her studio on the pretext of seeing her work.</p><p><br /></p><p>As she pushed open the door to her five hundred square foot studio space on the terrace of her apartment building, the first thing I noticed was a picture of her at the potter’s wheel. Her unruly curls were piled on top of her head in a careless bun; part of her forehead and the crown area were smeared with clay. She was looking up at the person who had taken the picture with an untamed twinkle in her eyes. There was a quote printed at the bottom that read, ‘At the end of the day your feet should be dirty, your hair messy and your eyes sparkling.’</p><p><br /></p><p>I watched her as she moved about switching on the lights, explaining what her sculptures represented and how she visualised them. My eyes stayed glued to her hands as they danced about caressing forms, gesturing, stretching, withdrawing; as though they had a mind of their own. </p><p><br /></p><p> That night, we swapped stories, listened to silly songs and found comfort in the warmth of each other’s skin. In the morning, I was dreading going back to my apartment and my mundane 9 to 5 existence. She asked me to stay on. I agreed and never left. Until we moved here. </p><p><br /></p><p>I had been a recluse for most of my life, until I met her. During the initial years, our weekends were always packed; visiting friends, watching films and planning weekend getaways took up most of our time. These activities have dwindled over the years. She has changed so much.</p><p><br /></p><p>I used to wonder what she did holed up in that studio of hers. She could stick around there for hours; even forgetting to eat at times. How could someone be so much in love with what they did? So invested. So immersed. As though it actually made her happy. I can’t get through work without multiple smoke breaks. I can’t get through anything without multiple smoke breaks! But she was different. She was consumed by clay. But that was before. Things have changed since then.</p><p><br /></p><p>Every now and then I catch her staring listlessly into space. Last week, she was lying on her side and staring at the sunlight streaming though the gaps between the curtains. What did she think of when she got like this? Why didn’t she tell me what was on her mind? Didn’t she realise I needed her! I’d let the glass in my hand slip through my fingers and shatter on the floor. This jolted her out of her stupor and as though on cue she stood up, walked towards the kitchen and returned with the dustpan and broom. The shards of glass don’t bother her anymore. There was a time she would have rushed to see if it was one of the glasses from her favourite set; chided me even. Not anymore. She has stopped caring. Doesn’t she notice it bothers me? Her passivity drives me insane.</p><p><br /></p><p>Now, I hear the water rumble through the bathroom pipes, the gurgle of the flush and the shuffle of feet upstairs. She is up! Please, please God! Let her be cheerful today! I can’t bear to watch her doleful face anymore. I won’t allow her to drag me down with her. </p><p><br /></p><p>I look out of the window. The neighbour is trying to get his golden retriever to go inside the house. There is a faint smell of wet earth in the air. It has begun to drizzle. </p><p><br /></p><p>Yesterday before I left for work I had asked her to get a gift for Krish and Nidhi. ‘Could you pick up something they can use and get it gift wrapped? I’ll be back a little early so I can change before we leave for the reception hall,’ I'd said.</p><p><br /></p><p>‘Hmm ok,’ she said incoherently.</p><p><br /></p><p>When I got back she was all dressed-up in this green silk sari. She looks good when she makes an effort but she rarely does these days. The last few years have dulled the sparkle in her eyes. Her lackluster hair, dreary clothes and lack of enthusiasm have begun to embarrass me. It’s like her spark has been snuffed out. Can’t she at least make the effort for me, if not for herself!</p><p><br /></p><p>‘I have run out of wrapping paper. I bought two sheets but they are not enough to cover the whole box,’ she’d said her lips quivering and eyes brimming with tears as she frantically tried to cover the rectangular patch of cardboard that was left bare.</p><p><br /></p><p>Why must she always be so melodramatic? </p><p><br /></p><p>‘Couldn’t you have gotten it gift wrapped at the store?’ I said.</p><p><br /></p><p>‘I meant to, but I got out of the studio at six thirty and was running late. The lady at the counter wouldn’t hurry; so I thought I might as well get home and do it myself and picked up a couple of sheets,’ she said. </p><p><br /></p><p>She can’t do anything right. Why must she make everything so difficult for me? Why should I put up with her carelessness! Yesterday, I made sure she understood this. She can't continue to make these mistakes.</p><p><br /></p><p>I ended up going to the reception alone. This isn’t unusual. I have made excuses on her behalf plenty of times before. When Krish and Nidhi asked I said, ‘You know what artists are like. Taciturn and temperamental.’</p><p><br /></p><p>I could see they were disappointed, but how could I have helped it! </p><p><br /></p><p>At parties and weddings, I used to like watching her move around talking to people. No matter how many people laughed at her jokes or were on backslapping terms with her, I liked knowing that I was the one who got to take her home. At a gathering I’d follow her with my eyes to see how much time would pass before she looked in my direction. I would time the frequency of these glances. When she did glance my way she would smile with an unabashed twinkle in her eye. Or so I liked to believe. But as our relationship progressed these glances began losing their charm. These days, she seems sad when she looks at me. At times, even furtive and fearful. I wonder what’s eating her? I wonder if she shares her fears with anyone?</p><p><br /></p><p>But who could she be talking to here? We now live an hour and a half from the city. And the cellphone reception is patchy at best. We don’t have any friends here. But I believed leaving behind the hustle and bustle of city life and living closer to nature would calm her down and help with her headaches. Also here, she can rent a larger studio space at a lesser cost. This last bit sold her on the idea. So after the initial resistance, she caved.</p><p><br /></p><p>I hear the dull thud of footsteps on the stairs. The wooden staircase creaks under her weight. I hear the roar of thunder and catch a flash of lightening bounce off the neighbours’ car. I prepare to steel myself against her reproachful gaze.</p><p><br /></p><p>It begins to pour with a vengeance as she gingerly walks into the kitchen, limping a little. Her eyes, as usual, don’t give away her thoughts. I hand her the tea in her usual cup. She accepts it silently and wearily gets on with the breakfast preparations. </p><p><br /></p><p>Why doesn’t she say something? Why does she torment me? Does she enjoy my misery? Does she get a kick out of the fact that second guessing her thoughts drives me crazy? Why is she doing this to me? Her subservience irritates me. Where is the feisty woman I first met? I feel cheated. </p><p><br /></p><p>The oil sizzles on the pan; the smell of processed meat assaults my senses. She cracks one, two and then three eggs and starts blending the yolks and whites, beating them with a fork; all the while staring listlessly at the rain pounding against the window behind the stove. </p><p><br /></p><p>It’s only eight thirty in the morning but it’s dark and gloomy inside. I switch on the light, walk up behind her, circle my arms around her waist and bury my head in her hair. She still smells the same as she did on that first day I dropped her home. The flowery, fruity fragrance of her shampoo drives me into a frenzy. I can feel her body stiffen. I graze my lips on the bluish-purple bruise on her bare back and mutter an apology. She is still, her body neither resisting nor yielding. I compel her to turn around. She doesn’t protest, says nothing and soundlessly crumples into my arms; as she always does. I let out a sigh of relief and catch my reflection on the windowpane behind the stove. The man with grey-green eyes, stares back at me.</p><p style="text-align: center;">*</p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p>Indira Chandrasekharhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03573621384719821695noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5672570534782963438.post-58434662698536949462024-02-02T19:38:00.005+05:302024-02-02T19:43:17.554+05:30Out of Print Workshop Online - October 2023: NIRANJANA H<p style="text-align: center;"><b>Death Wish</b></p><p style="text-align: center;"><br /></p><p style="text-align: center;">Niranjana H </p><p><br /></p><p>Muthassi died that afternoon. No one knew the exact time. The family had palada pradhaman for lunch and was fast asleep over the humdrum of October showers and the afternoon matinee that was coming to a climax on the television that was accidentally left on. </p><p><br /></p><p>It wasn’t an eventful death. A few gentle wheezes in tune to the table fan, and a paper-thin hand that fell limp as her eyes closed and her pulse sagged. A heart that ticked for ninety years slowly came to a halt.</p><p><br /></p><p>The clock on the mantelpiece limped on: 3:54 … 3:55 … 3:56, an eyelid twitched for the last time. It was a pity she had no audience.</p><p><br /></p><p>By the time Meenakshi came in with her mid-afternoon lemon water, Muthassi was long gone – leaving only wisps of white hair, her muslin sari and sluggish afternoon dreams behind. Meenakshi had anticipated this coming, but not such a quiet passing. Her afternoon slumbers and 2 am musings often involved Muthassi falling off her bed and to her death, or a heart attack that called for an ambulance to come trundling through their pave way to take her off. Meenakshi had always imagined herself – the oldest daughter sitting importantly by the driver as the sirens wailed and whined, painting the town red with the news of the passing of the matriarch. </p><p><br /></p><p>But it had come to this end. Muthassi wouldn’t have liked it – she had a penchant for drama. She’d have liked her grandchildren to have sat by her feet thumping their chests and calling out her name while blaming Yamraj for taking her away. </p><p><br /></p><p>Meenakshi surveyed the room as Muthassi snored on in her afterlife. She straightened the old green cushions and removed the stray threads of silver around her mother’s forehead. She’d need to get new cushions – probably rose pink, to offset the pista green walls of the room. The glass of lukewarm lemon water sat weeping by her bedside table. Meenakshi downed it in short sips as she surveyed her mother’s bedside cabinet – nestled between stray stick-on bindis, some loose change and a toothpick, her fingers caressed her mother’s collection of books. She impatiently flicked past the Ramayanam and Bhagwatham and found herself staring at the three Mills-and-Boon paperbacks, dog eared and drenched in Vicks vaporub.</p><p><br /></p><p>She put two of them under the pillow. They would have to wait until nightfall. Until her mother left the nest.</p><p><br /></p><p>She clicked her tongue, and took a seat by the bed letting the loss and lemon water soak over her.</p><p><br /></p><p>The clock on the mantelpiece ticked a minute. The rest of the house was still asleep. Let them sleep a few more minutes – once word got around, the entire village of Killikurishi would be flocking here to pay their respects. They wouldn’t even be able to have tea. They had not bothered to show up at the doorstep in the last ninety years but Mandakini Amma’s death would spread like the virus that was taking over the country – or was it the world? One couldn’t trust the news these days.</p><p><br /></p><p>She wanted to go into the kitchen, but her feet felt heavy. She shouldn’t have eaten the palada. It sat heavy in her stomach – curdling away with the feeling of trepidation of what was to come. Meenakshi hated change – especially those that made her alter her days. She despised it almost as much as she despised loosely tied saris with mismatched blouses, or crumpled wrapping paper or her husband’s breath that smelt of cheap cigarettes and cabbage. </p><p><br /></p><p>4:12 … 4:13 … 4:14. Time was ticking on. She must get on too.</p><p><br /></p><p>4:16…. The kitchen light is flicked on, the long-tailed vessel filled with water and tea leaves – three extra spoonful’s of sugar to get through the evening. Her daughter Ambily would be pleased. She liked her tea sweet – the syrupier, the better. Probably helped her connect with that Guruji of hers as she meditated well into the evening. It was probably Prakash’s idea. Meenakshi didn’t think much of her son-in-law but he provided well for the family and showed up for family dinners, so she’d have to excuse the long satsang Ashram visits that came with it. But there wouldn’t be any meditations today. Muthassi was dead.</p><p><br /></p><p>Which brought her to the subject of sleeping arrangements. She’d been sleeping with Muthassi for 13 years now, a practice that began ‘only for a night’ lapsed into many – a fall in the bathroom, someone to read out the Bhagavatam, her 3 am diabetes injection, the invisible ghost in her closet. Small asks, big adjustments, done gracefully, almost too graciously. Meenakshi had picked up her micro-fibre pillow, her copper mug and her blanket and never returned to her husband’s bed. She brought them back diligently every morning, an excuse for the previous night’s disappearance frothing over his morning cup of tea. Not that he asked. He’d replaced her presence with a stack of his bedtime reading and a portable radio.</p><p><br /></p><p>Now, thirteen years later she’d have no reason to respond to an imaginary call of duty and stumble out of the room. She had to face her husband of thirty-five years tonight. She’d also have to deal with Muthassi’s death. But not before that cup of tea. The elephants could wait a little longer.</p><p style="text-align: center;">*</p><p>4:41 … Ambily was still fast asleep. In her dream, she is at the ashram, walking by the lotus hall with a tray full of white parijat flowers and saffron laddus while the other devotees look at her admiringly – even covetously. She is the best dressed of the lot, in a white ikat sari and antique gold jewelry. All eyes are on her – even Guruji’s, but her own seek her husband’s, which are closed in meditation, or whatever it is he thinks about when he shuts her and the world out – but in her sucrose-fueled dream, they suddenly open and devour her like they did fifteen years ago when they’d first met. Prakash reaches out to kiss her on the lips at the exact same time that Ambily wakes up. </p><p><br /></p><p>She curses her mother for the timing. </p><p><br /></p><p>‘Your tea is getting cold Ambily.’</p><p><br /></p><p>Her mother is setting a tray of tea by the table. In the other room, her father is taking loud sips. He sounds like he has been roused from his sleep for an impromptu tea too.</p><p><br /></p><p>‘The palada was probably a bad idea. It has made me groggy, and I need to get ready for the virtual bhajan session this evening.’</p><p><br /></p><p>‘Muthassi is dead.’</p><p><br /></p><p>‘What?’</p><p><br /></p><p>‘Finish your tea. we can talk about it later.’</p><p><br /></p><p>‘Does Achan know?’</p><p><br /></p><p>‘You need to tell Prakash. He needs to be here for the last rites.’</p><p><br /></p><p>‘But … he has a press conference with Guruji tonight.’</p><p><br /></p><p>‘Call him. Nair from the funeral home will want to see him. He needs to be with you in mourning right?’</p><p><br /></p><p>Her mother’s lips say no more but her eyes pierce into Ambily’s searching for answers she’d never got, since her daughter had come home without explanation, a week ago. </p><p><br /></p><p>Ambily sighs and picks up her phone. </p><p><br /></p><p>A decoction of trepidation brews over the afternoon, as Muthassi’s living family condoles her death.</p><p style="text-align: center;">*</p><p>7:23 am</p><p><br /></p><p>‘M-A-N-D-A-K-I-N-I, Survived by whom?’</p><p><br /></p><p>‘Mandakini Amma, survived by her children, the grandchildren and their husbands.’</p><p><br /></p><p>‘And where do the grandchildren live? I can mention the location here if they’re overseas.’</p><p><br /></p><p>‘Can we mention Bangalore?’</p><p><br /></p><p>‘Amma, they call it Bengaluru now.’</p><p><br /></p><p>‘Bangalore is like Kerala only. Do we want to waste space on that? It is two Rupees a word for the paper.’</p><p><br /></p><p>‘Hurry up Ambily, these formalities need to be finished before sundown. And keep your voice down. It is inauspicious to talk so loudly in a house of the deceased.‘ Her mother’s voice cut like a knife.</p><p><br /></p><p>Her husband coughs awkwardly. </p><p><br /></p><p>‘Meenakshi, will you please finalize the breakfast menu for tomorrow’s service?’</p><p><br /></p><p>‘Idli or Vada?’</p><p><br /></p><p>The house is teeming with activity, for the first time since the lockdown. Nair and the team from the funeral home are sitting importantly on plastic chairs they have carried down the road with them (sanitised of course). Meenakshi is serving them tea in plastic cups, as they sit in a circle on the porch, careful not to set foot indoors because in the living room by the tv lay Muthassi, fast asleep, crystalising in her glass box. </p><p><br /></p><p>Nair is holding fort. He’s excited and there are beads of perspiration forming on his lips. This is probably a better evening than he’d anticipated – watching his wife while away her evenings, wailing over the rising cases. He’s in charge here, sitting in the centre of his plastic circle – planning the last rites of a dead women for the two women who seem to be all over the place. Death does that to the household. The women need a man to shepherd them, the old husband of Meenakshi seems to pale in his existence like a zero-watt bulb, only caring about finishing the rituals before raahu kaal. Lucky for them Nair was here to be the acting man of the house.</p><p><br /></p><p>Fifteen’ sets of vada, searing hot from the pan served with chutney and milky tea. No sambar. It is a time of mourning after all. Let the family have a hearty meal before the funeral.’ Nair would tell his wife not to make him breakfast. His mouth watered.</p><p><br /></p><p>The rules for the funeral and the mourning period to follow are explained. There are three versions – the express version of three-day mourning reserved for Emirate returnees, the ten-day medium version and the sixteen-day traditional one that old Malayali families follow. This is a new normal though, there is a virus on the prowl.</p><p><br /></p><p>Nair carefully nudges them to pick the medium mourning package.</p><p><br /></p><p>Ambily wants the express version. she’s sure she can coax Prakash into staying with her for three days. Seventy-two hours. It’d take her only that long without Guruji to rekindle what was lost. Muthassi had given her a golden ticket in her passing. She turns to her father to bail her out.</p><p><br /></p><p>‘Achan, three days sounds ideal given the times. Prakash can make it too, and then return by Monday for his ashram duties. Besides, there are rules for mourning. You’d go mad without tuning into your 7 pm news. No television during mourning remember?</p><p><br /></p><p>Her father’s face is impassive.</p><p><br /></p><p>‘I can read the paper. That is allowed, isn’t it Nair?’</p><p><br /></p><p>Nair’s mustache twitches in importance.</p><p><br /></p><p>‘No entertainment. No family gatherings. No visitors except for Saturday and Thursday. No non-vegetarian … not even egg, and someone needs to sleep in the departed woman’s bedroom until the mourning period passes – they say the body leaves, but the soul lingers. Visitors coming to pay respects to carry a care package of sugar, tea, dal, soap... </p><p><br /></p><p>Over Nair’s rumbling monologue, a loud bell suddenly rings in Meenakshi’s brain. She sends a silent prayer to Guruvayurappan. </p><p><br /></p><p>‘I think Amma would have preferred us doing the sixteen-day ritual. I vote for that. I will sleep in her room on her pillow to pay my respects. I have been doing it off and on these last years,’ a pinched look in her husband’s direction. Four fingers, on two different sets of hands, crossed in prayer.</p><p><br /></p><p>Her husband nods before she finishes. He pulls out a mask and puts it over his face- blocking out the world. Period. </p><p><br /></p><p>‘Yes, I also think we need to do sixteen days. It’l keep the visitors away. I am wary about visitors who could be asymptomatic.’</p><p><br /></p><p>‘But Amma, sixteen days is a long time for…’</p><p><br /></p><p>‘Keep quiet Ambily,’ two voices chime in unison, for the first time in thirty years.</p><p><br /></p><p>Nair smiles, and scrawls into his diary.</p><p><br /></p><p>From the box in the living room indoors, Muthassi sighs.</p><p style="text-align: center;">*</p><p>9:48 pm</p><p><br /></p><p>Prakash is undressing in the guest room. He gingerly peels off his sheer white kurta and hangs it up.</p><p><br /></p><p>‘You can wear it for the service tomorrow.’ Ambily comes in with a cup of tea laced with saffron – an aphrodisiac. She’s changed out of her tracksuit and pants into a pristine white sari, and her eyes are smudged with kohl. She’s left her curls open in a show of despair and loss. </p><p><br /></p><p>She is a vision in mourning. But Prakash doesn’t pay attention to her. </p><p><br /></p><p>‘Keep that away from me. Guruji has advised us to drink only pure cow milk now. Are you still drinking tea?’ A derisive glance from those peace-loving eyes. </p><p><br /></p><p>Ambily sits cross-legged by the bed. She calls on her dead Muthassi, ace seductress in her time to help her through hers. </p><p><br /></p><p>‘No, just this cup. I guessed it was a long night for us, having to keep the lamp lit by the body. Nair says one cannot sleep (without it?) until the dead leaves the house.’</p><p><br /></p><p>The eyes glaze over again. His mind is back at the ashram. She watches him with his long lashes and longer legs as he moves around the room in a trance – removing pieces of clothing and donning a mundu and t-shirt with the ashram logo. </p><p><br /></p><p>Ambily stifles a well-timed sob. She beckons to her husband to sit. He does and holds her hand as though on autopilot. His fingers are cold, and there’s a new ring on one, it has a picture of Guruji on it. </p><p><br /></p><p>Prakash rubs her fingers comfortingly, then perks up as an afterthought.</p><p><br /></p><p>‘Do you want to engage in a peace meditation before dinner? I taught it to some Filipinos yesterday and they were so relaxed.’</p><p><br /></p><p>Meenakshi squeezes out a tear. </p><p><br /></p><p>‘I want to talk about Muthassi, Prakash. Can you just hold me please’ Prakash puts his arms around her awkwardly. They’re like a jigsaw that doesn’t quite fit anymore.</p><p><br /></p><p>She's at eye level with the ashram logo on his t-shirt, until she, Ambily, snuggles closer to him, wipes her snot on it. </p><p><br /></p><p>‘As a well spent day brings happy sleep, so life well used brings happy death.’ </p><p> </p><p>He parrots into her ear. </p><p><br /></p><p>Ambily stiffens. </p><p><br /></p><p>‘Didn’t Davinci say this?’</p><p><br /></p><p>Prakash’s demeanour changes, his arms coming loose from the embrace. ‘Guruji did, summer of 2018, Australia. Keep track Ambily. Guruji is there with us, in joy and in despair.’</p><p><br /></p><p>Ambily sighs and picks up the glass. The intimacy she’d tried to orchestrate is submerged in the glass of milk she downs. Guruji has one upped her again.</p><p><br /></p><p>‘Will you be staying here for sixteen days? My parents have decided they want to do it the good old-fashioned Malayali way.</p><p><br /></p><p>Prakash’s nose twitches and she rushes on.</p><p><br /></p><p>‘If you could at least stay till day three, that would make Muthassi so happy. She respected you, and it’d mean so much to her soul if you could do this much. I’m sure Guruji would understand your need to serve our elders.’ </p><p><br /></p><p>Prakash was looking troubled. She’d used Guruji’s words against him. He runs his fingers through his hair, and Ambily sends Muthassi a thank you guys up in heaven.</p><p><br /></p><p>‘I need to be at the ashram Ambily. They are doing a massive puja with over one lakh chants to drive the virus into hiding. I am coordinating the logistics on Zoom. Muthassi would understand, wouldn’t she? She used to love Guruji’s organic soaps after her chicken pox. I’m not asking you to join us right away. Guruji would understand you want to mourn with your parents. How will Amma manage without you. </p><p><br /></p><p>He holds out his hand in a peace offering, his long fingers snaking through hers. Guruji seated in lotus position smugly on his ring catches the light and smirks at her. </p><p><br /></p><p>Guruji 02, Ambily 01.</p><p><br /></p><p>She nods mutely as he takes her through his plan for the great Puja that’d put her husband on the ashram website.</p><p><br /></p><p>She even smiles conspiringly as he opens YouTube and plays the evening Bhajans for them. They share an earphone each, and sway in unison to the songs they have long learnt by-heart now. Thank god for Guruji. Thank god for good internet.</p><p><br /></p><p>The elephants in the room retreat for the night. </p><p style="text-align: center;">*</p><p>The next afternoon, twelve hours after Muthassi left: the funeral was quick and uneventful. The stipulated twenty people had shown up at their doorstep, lowered their eyes in respect and left care packages by the doorstep. Twenty packets of tea, sugar, semolina … enough for sixteen days. Several packets of sanitiser lie at the doorstep along with Muthassi’s ivory gold shroud, her only living memory flailing on the porch. She’d flap here for fifteen more days.</p><p><br /></p><p>The household is quiet. Prakash hasn’t changed out of his funeral whites, despite having cremated her while wearing them. He is smoothing out the creases and humming under his breath – one eye on the clock. </p><p><br /></p><p>‘Achan, is Raahu Kaal over?’</p><p><br /></p><p>Meenakshi’s husband responds from the head of the table he’s been seated at since Muthassi died. He’s wasted no time taking her spot in the family.</p><p><br /></p><p>2:45 … 2:46….</p><p><br /></p><p>Eight sets of eyes watched two hands take a turn around the clock.</p><p><br /></p><p>‘Yes, it is over. Prakash, you should leave now. Nair says no one is allowed to leave the house after Raahu Kaal. We are in official mourning now.’</p><p><br /></p><p>Prakash frog leaps off the table and regains composure by bowing his hands in namaste to his in-laws. Ambily walks him to the door.</p><p><br /></p><p>‘Call me when you reach.’</p><p><br /></p><p>‘Mmm.’ His eyes are searching the depths of the gate as his fingers latch onto an ashram access card. Several Guruji’s facepalm her. </p><p><br /></p><p>She knows he won’t call. She’ll see him next on the 6 pm Facebook Live. She tuned in religiously to ensure he was there.</p><p><br /></p><p>It was like he’d read her mind.</p><p><br /></p><p>‘I’ve left the earphones by the bed. Meditate, know you’re blessed.’ A cold set of hands touch her head.</p><p><br /></p><p>A tear escapes Ambily’s carefully made-up eyes.</p><p><br /></p><p>Prakash smiles.</p><p><br /></p><p> Gratitude is the best prayer. I’m happy to see you practice it. See you at the ashram, Ambily’.</p><p><br /></p><p>She watches the car leave the driveaway. He was a good man. He had come here to do his duties. He was probably rushing to save them all from the virus. That’d be a story to tell the extended family. Their relationship could wait. She was in mourning now. </p><p><br /></p><p>She locks eyes with Muthassi who is sitting sagely in a gilded photograph on the wall. She shakes her head, and a tear escapes her. She’s mourning. For her Muthassi and for herself. Out of the corner of her eye, she sees her mother walk into Muthassi’s room. She hears the bolt. She wonders if this would be her, twenty years from now.</p><p><br /></p><p>She downs her trepidations with a glass of pure cow’s milk and lies down by the tv that will now be switched off for sixteen days. She closes her eyes and waits for the dream.</p><p><br /></p><p>In the bedroom recently vacated by Muthassi, Meenakshi lies reading a book – her dog-eared Mills and Boon. She doesn’t have to read aloud to let the household know she was serving. The server was being served. She could sleep in peace knowing that her Amma’s soul wouldn’t leave the room for another sixteen days. In the room adjoining hers, her husband lay on his queen- sized bed, listening to his wife’s happy sighs. He gets up and bolts the door.</p><p><br /></p><p>Sixteen days more. Then he’d keep it unbolted through the night.</p><p><br /></p><p style="text-align: center;">*</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p><br /></p>Indira Chandrasekharhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03573621384719821695noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5672570534782963438.post-44789598365833678722024-02-02T19:35:00.001+05:302024-02-02T19:42:36.705+05:30Out of Print Workshop Online - October 2023: AKANSHA NAITHANI<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><b>Home Story</b></div><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">Akansha Naithani</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">‘He’s gone.’</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">‘Again?’</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">‘He’ll be back.’</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">‘Last time he went missing for almost a week.’</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">‘He always returns.’</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">He knew his way home, she thinks. But it wasn’t fair to have them fret over him. To have to test their patience this way. Even when he was here, she was always monitoring his quiet movements around the house. Gauging minutely what disappointed him, cataloguing what caused him displeasure. Anticipating his every need. And yet he remained a creature of his own whims. One day, he would bestow affection on you so wholeheartedly that it felt the sun was golden turmeric on your skin, soaking it like milk. On another, like today, he would be wretched without cause. Holding the house hostage. Gloom and despair hanging over their heads, obstinate as dense cobwebs, threatening to fall in your open mouth while you slept. There were no patterns to alert you. Only unprompted disappearances. She was attempting not to keep track. But she felt his absences grow longer. They marked her with an inconsolable worry. She decided to let her mother’s conviction ring true to her today.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">‘When did he leave?’</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">‘Last night. He was upset with the noise, I think. You girls were making a racket. He wasn’t</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">being heard. So he just left in the middle of the night. We must have left the front gate unlocked, so we didn’t hear him.’</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">She imagined him, sick and ambling down the cobbled road with the spotty streetlights.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Vulnerable to anything lurking in the shadows. Guiltily, she remembered last night. Her careless hands pouring gin from the teal-stained bottle – the cheapest they could find. The hiss of the bottle of soda, cupped in the wide mouth of her mother’s favourite mug. Their frothy laughter bubbling over as the woman in the horror flick, levitated in a white chemise while her husband watched in horror. A priest spraying the air with holy water, while their knees touched under the pink chikankari duvet which her mother only retrieved from the drawer under her bed, for special guests and now her friends. The night was so rare because his presence was so volatile, they never knew what made him erupt. She even had a Sprite bottle lie half empty on the bedside table, in case anyone interrupted them. A red herring, like the ones her mother enjoyed from sepia stained detective novels that lay locked in a metal trunk, along with other memorabilia from her childhood. Sometimes she watched her mother rifle through them, peering into the coffin dark and imagined her tumbling down that portal. The way the news told you of children who had to be rescued from half covered wells. She hadn’t realised it but perhaps, their laughter hadn’t been contained in the four walls of her room. Maybe, his presence outside her door, as always, had been perturbed.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Where was he now?</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Her mother shrugged while washing a borosil glass in the sink. The tap water was gurgling,</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">splatters of soap suds sprayed on the plates below. She watched her</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">mother’s industry in awkward silence – she wiped off her hands on her polka dot pyjamas and moved towards the stove.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">‘Your friends awake?’</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">‘Not yet. Not before ten’</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">‘What will they eat? Poha? Pancakes? Eggs … I need to get some. No six will not be enough for three girls.’</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">‘I don’t know yet’</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">‘Okay. Oranges. Juice they’ll have? Fresh. Arrange the napkins on the dining table. Go to the</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">park. They have champa – white flowers. Yellow in the middle. Pluck a few. Don’t let anyone</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">see you. When didi comes, ask her to make the bed when your friends are awake. Even if they’re not, just nudge them. Switch on the lights or switch off the ac. Okay I’m going.’</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">‘Amma wait.’</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">For a second her Amma’s face flickered in annoyance. She could tell it was not the right time. Her mother loathed nothing more than uninvited concern over her affairs.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">‘You’re wearing pyjamas. With a hole in them.’</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Her mother’s mouth ballooned in laughter.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">‘This is only what happens. Look at your old mother running around for your friends. Then</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">you’ll say Amma never does anything for me.’</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">‘I never said that.’</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">‘No but you say ‘Amma, this isn’t my home. It’s yours and his’. Chattering absolute nonsense. I don’t care how old you get. Till you're under our roof, you’re my child. Now go…’</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">She watched her mother briskly walk out with a large bag with lemons printed on it, taking the car keys off the holder by the door. She chuckled, thinking of her mother still in polka dots. She imagined her scampering around the aisles. Reaching her small hands to the packaged food, furthest in the back because it was the freshest. She returned to the room where two bodies were bundled in cotton, their soft snores filling the stale chill of the darkness she knew was hers alone.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">At least for a while.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">*</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">The suitcase drags, one of its wheels wobbling over the tiled floor. She waits outside in the bright yellow light of the fifth floor. Her mother opens the door, almost on tiptoe, hugging her inattentively. She is led past her own room and into her mother’s. She looks quizzically at her own room’s locked door.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">‘He’s taken over your room.’</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">She is resigned, removing the socks damp with sweat. Her mother takes the shoes to put them outside and asks her to head to the shower while she prepares dinner. The clutter of shampoo bottles and bath condiments in their bathroom is colourful and likely past its expiration date. Without her glasses, she surveys the back of each bottle looking past the bush at the brown chappals. The water runs over her, tiny pricks of cold injected within and she grits her teeth at their piercing. It is chipping off the thawed expanse of deadened feeling at the edges of all her moods. It exerts a gentle, rippling influence. At the periphery of each act of volition, it lingers, reminding her that she is never singularly making her decisions. But sometimes, it is soothed, like now when her fingers rub deep into her scalp, allowing the unclotting of gathered emotional residue.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Her mother is knocking at the door, asking her to switch off the geyser when she comes out. And wipe the floor. On the bed is a plate of roti and mushroom peas. She can tell the chapati’s been warmed again because it has the same soggy crater that she remembers from childhood. Black spots deflated on the surface. On the television is a youtube lifestyle vlogger. He’s visiting extended family in Canada. The chatter of different voices –grandmother, aunt, cousin all talking one over the other becomes the background.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">‘So how was your trip?’</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">‘Fine only’</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">‘What’d you do?’</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">‘Not much. Just worked and hung out. I met Tanisha.’</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">‘Did you meet your aunt?’</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">‘No time’</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">‘In one month?’</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">‘Amma please, I had a long flight. I just want to watch tv and sleep.’</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">She ignores her mother’s wounded expression as she goes to keep her plate. Promptly, she is lying in bed and waiting for the drowsiness to numb the exertion she can feel till her toes. Instead she finds herself scrolling through Instagram. Behind her, the sounds of a courtroom trial show that her mother has switched to. Something about beheaded women who get torn limb to limb puts her mother to sleep in ten minutes. She keeps her phone beneath her pillow and sets a single alarm. She can hear the fan loudly chopping up the air in the next room. The way a butcher's knife cleaves clean through bone and flesh. She misses that seclusion of inhabiting her own space. Instead, she bequeathed her will to her mother and so his conquests over her. She imagines him rumbling in his sleep. Her mother’s face is outlined by chalky white static from the television and the dark circles under her eyes seem to be waiting.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">‘Goodnight ma’</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Her mother’s eyes flicker to her, as if pleading, then the skittish desperation rescinds.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">*</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">She knows it is a dream because she knows that the force of the waves hitting her is muted.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Saline, silt shimmer around her toes, layering them sensuously. The wet cotton vest she is</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">wearing has a yellow Donald Duck printed on it, wet and clinging in soft folds to her chest. Her parents are in the distance. Her mother is rummaging around in one of the many bags they’ve bought of home packed refreshments, extra clothing and shoes, bottles of Glucon D. The souvenir shirt her mother is wearing is white with a printed beach and palm fronds. Her mother takes out a straw vacation hat and fastidiously fastens it over her head. Her father is wearing long cargo shorts, lying under a fluorescent umbrella with his eyes closed. She knows they are behind her, watching over her. So she resumes looking for half broken shells, afraid of dead jellyfish washing up ashore.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">The sky is covered by an orange soda coloured rind. The sea is leaping in flickers of little flames splashing against topless bodies reverberating in mirth. Her father’s presence behind her is sudden and comforting. She looks first at the thin wisps of twisted hair on his legs, then his spectacled face, cracked open in excitement. He takes her by the hand and she can hear her mother cautioning in the distance, flapping with the wind.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Her father glides through water, cleaving it as the bow of a boat. Besides him, she bobs up and down. Slowly the sea rises to welcome her. Soon it is at her neck, flicking her lips. Mouthfuls of salt wash her throat and she struggles to open her eyes. Her hand held in her father’s anchors her as her toes grip the slippers with as much strength as she can muster. Then comes the wave. The slow sinking, turning of her body. Losing hands. Eyelids blocked by wallowing light.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">She knows what happened next. Her father’s hand finding hers, clasping her like net. Her open mouth taking in everything. The sagging weight of his shirt as they walk ashore. Him</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">overturning pocketfuls of sand, falling like damp dung. No keys or wallet. Her mother’s face</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">patient in its resignation and concern. The silence as they make their way to the car, past all the cheery rowdiness of other families. The key in the ignition. Mother’s hands across the steering wheel, asking her to use the towel to wipe herself off. Father’s face turned towards the window. His blurred vision without his spectacles flitting over the sinking sun. His fist clenching the water bottle. The loud gulp of silence as faraway a bridge’s colourful lights dance across the sea – stretched opaque darkness of impenetrability.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">*</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div></div>Indira Chandrasekharhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03573621384719821695noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5672570534782963438.post-82562138669854407372023-10-16T10:45:00.002+05:302023-11-09T19:35:38.614+05:30Out of Print Workshop at Infinite Souls Farm: FEEDBACK<h4 style="text-align: left;">What the Participants felt after the workshop</h4><p><b>Bharath</b></p><p><span style="color: #b45f06;">Had a wonderful time at the Out of Print Magazine writer's workshop at Infinite Souls Farm. Between the beautiful view of Savandurga ... delicious home-cooked food, the birds..., we read amazing stories and saw them come to life in other people's words. Thank you Indira Chandrasekhar for making this possible and being there and encouraging us. Thank you Zui for providing extensive feedback, for being as equally invested in our stories as we are.</span></p><p><br /></p><p><b>Anusha M</b></p><p><span style="color: #b45f06;">The Out of Print short story workshop was an immersive and indelible experience. I went in like a sponge and absorbed every single word, debating the motivation while learning to observe my stories from different viewpoints. The nuanced structure of the workshops is a great platform to examine your perspective as a storyteller, and one would benefit immensely from workshopping your stories with other writers.</span></p><p><br /></p><p><b>Bodhi Ray</b></p><p><span style="color: #b45f06;">I’d attended writing classes before but Zui’s class at Infinity farms was something very special. Set amidst rolling green woods, the farm animals, the deep discussions and feedback and the various perspectives from which to look at our stories opened up the rusty hinges to creativity. I was amazed how deeply Zui critiqued my writing. I connected with the pre-reading materials which were carefully curated and gave me the much needed sense of why I write and to see the shimmers. Strongly recommend this workshop to serious writers.</span></p><p><br /></p><p><b>Anushka Chatterjee</b></p><p><span style="color: #b45f06;">Having attended OofP's residential workshop, my mind is brimming with feedback, afterthoughts, and most importantly, boundless love and warmth. I'll forever be grateful to OofP for the much-needed surgery done to my fiction, and for the community we've built thereafter. Of course, one can't not mention the gorgeous backdrop of Savandurga, and farm-fresh food to top off the entire experience.</span></p><p><br /></p><p><b>Amritha M Berger</b></p><p><span style="color: #b45f06;">The Out of Print Workshop on the Infinite Soul's farm and retreat was a truly magical experience. Being surrounded by nature and getting to immerse myself in sharing and critiquing work for an uninterrupted period of time in that beautiful and serene space was a unique and rare gift. </span></p><p><span style="color: #b45f06;">Indira and Zui were the kindest and most welcoming, as were her family, who treated everyone like family, and treated us to the most delicious, homemade food. By the end of it, even though it was only a couple of days, strong bonds had been formed and friendships made. </span></p><p><span style="color: #b45f06;">After the workshop was over, I was able to get the ongoing support of Zui in the editing process of my submitted piece, which helped my writing so much and brought me closer to crystalising the vision I had for the piece.</span></p><div><br /></div>Indira Chandrasekharhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03573621384719821695noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5672570534782963438.post-14375563714388452462023-10-06T08:40:00.008+05:302024-02-02T19:04:42.076+05:30Out of Print Workshop at Infinite Souls Farm: THE STORIES<div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">On the 19th of August, five wonderful writer’s arrived at <a href="http://outofprintmagazine.blogspot.com/2023/08/out-of-print-workshops.html" target="_blank">Infinite Souls Farm and Artist’s Retreat for an Out of Print Writer’s Workshop</a> where they would be workshopping each other’s short fiction. They spent a day and a half delving into aspects of character, voice, structure, motive and above all that, pin pointing the ‘shimmer around the edges’ – as Joan Didion puts it in her essay ‘<a href="https://lithub.com/joan-didion-why-i-write/" target="_blank">Why I Write</a>’ – in one’s own writing. The writers were incredibly sincere in their giving of feedback and receptive in their accepting of it and we are so pleased to share with you the final results here on the <i>Out of Print </i>blog, so in no particular order, here are the stories from the first <span style="color: #073763;">Out of Print Writer’s Workshop at Infinite Souls Farm</span>.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></div><div><br /></div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br /></div></div></div><blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0px 0px 0px 40px; padding: 0px; text-align: left;"><blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0px 0px 0px 40px; padding: 0px; text-align: left;"><blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0px 0px 0px 40px; padding: 0px; text-align: left;"><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><a href="https://outofprintmagazine.blogspot.com/2023/10/out-of-print-workshop-at-infinite-souls_9.html" target="_blank">Stuck In a Loop</a> by Bharath Kumar</span></div></div></div></blockquote></blockquote><blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0px 0px 0px 40px; padding: 0px; text-align: left;"><blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0px 0px 0px 40px; padding: 0px; text-align: left;"><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div></div></div></blockquote></blockquote><blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0px 0px 0px 40px; padding: 0px; text-align: left;"><blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0px 0px 0px 40px; padding: 0px; text-align: left;"><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><a href="https://outofprintmagazine.blogspot.com/2023/10/out-of-print-workshop-at-infinite-souls_5.html" target="_blank">Outhouse</a></span><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;"> </span><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: arial;">by </span><span style="font-family: arial;">Anusha M </span></span></div></div></div></blockquote></blockquote><blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0px 0px 0px 40px; padding: 0px; text-align: left;"><blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0px 0px 0px 40px; padding: 0px; text-align: left;"><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div></div></div></blockquote></blockquote><blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0px 0px 0px 40px; padding: 0px; text-align: left;"><blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0px 0px 0px 40px; padding: 0px; text-align: left;"><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><a href="https://outofprintmagazine.blogspot.com/2023/10/out-of-print-workshop-at-infinite-souls_48.html" target="_blank">Not a Love Story</a> by Bodhi Ray</span></div></div></div></blockquote></blockquote><blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0px 0px 0px 40px; padding: 0px; text-align: left;"><blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0px 0px 0px 40px; padding: 0px; text-align: left;"><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div></div></div></blockquote></blockquote><blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0px 0px 0px 40px; padding: 0px; text-align: left;"><blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0px 0px 0px 40px; padding: 0px; text-align: left;"><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><a href="https://outofprintmagazine.blogspot.com/2023/10/out-of-print-workshop-at-infinite-souls_6.html" target="_blank">I Can’t Complain Jaan</a> by Anushka Chatterjee</span></div></div></div></blockquote></blockquote><blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0px 0px 0px 40px; padding: 0px; text-align: left;"><blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0px 0px 0px 40px; padding: 0px; text-align: left;"><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div></div></div></blockquote></blockquote><blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0px 0px 0px 40px; padding: 0px; text-align: left;"><blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0px 0px 0px 40px; padding: 0px; text-align: left;"><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><a href="https://outofprintmagazine.blogspot.com/2023/10/out-of-print-workshop-at-infinite-souls.html" target="_blank">On the Yard </a>by Amritha M Berger</span></div></div></div></blockquote></blockquote></blockquote><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPFrZCCgHg-KeX4MDQXObXI1um0UwQGOHb9_e4I9OfCLBkf3_fo_4doBuOPnI7rno2aMqlOIR5EuERLIDqcy6cV1C703BIaarTdZT9BCQDFZuUmAsoP6997AnMRFbTXUjxnESYpX-7ZHBPrezPcoEa52-0sDAWjWV1TKHpv8tQsZWZmHZDEtcUX_5WAu8/s667/1%20Workshop%20Group.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="468" data-original-width="667" height="281" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPFrZCCgHg-KeX4MDQXObXI1um0UwQGOHb9_e4I9OfCLBkf3_fo_4doBuOPnI7rno2aMqlOIR5EuERLIDqcy6cV1C703BIaarTdZT9BCQDFZuUmAsoP6997AnMRFbTXUjxnESYpX-7ZHBPrezPcoEa52-0sDAWjWV1TKHpv8tQsZWZmHZDEtcUX_5WAu8/w400-h281/1%20Workshop%20Group.jpeg" width="400" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><b>Writers' Feedback:</b></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">The writers were kind enough to send their response to the workshop and what they got out of being part of a community that supports their writing.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Read their responses <a href="http://outofprintmagazine.blogspot.com/2023/10/out-of-print-workshop-at-infinite-souls_16.html" target="_blank">here</a>.</div></div></div>Indira Chandrasekharhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03573621384719821695noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5672570534782963438.post-20009636515186411132023-10-06T08:34:00.009+05:302023-10-16T10:34:44.131+05:30Out of Print workshop at Infinite Souls Farm: BHARATH KUMAR<p style="text-align: center;"><b><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></b></p><p style="text-align: center;"><b><span style="font-family: arial;">Stuck in a Loop</span></b></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: arial;">Bharath Kumar</span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;">My wife sits on the edge of the bed facing me but looking past me in the direction of the window. The marigolds are in full bloom outside. She has her phone in her hand but hasn’t looked at it in a while. I'm sitting on my chair in front of my laptop. I am bored, almost at the end of a YouTube rabbit hole. I am ready to give up but not sure what else to do.</span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;">‘Edi,’ I say. ‘Are you, okay?’</span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;">She catches my eye and then looks at her phone. </span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;">‘Ya, da. All okay,’ she says without missing a beat.</span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;">Our separate worlds were squeezed into this small apartment when we decided to move in last week. Is she ready for this? Is she frightened of what she will discover? </span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;">‘Are you sure?’ I ask again.</span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;">‘Ya,’ She says with knitted eyebrows, slightly assertively, ‘I am okay.’</span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;">‘I was just asking,’ I say, ‘You let me know if something is wrong.’</span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;">‘What could be wrong, da? I am just chatting with my reading group friends,’ she says. to mean that it is none of my business. </span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;">‘I only asked because you seemed upset.’ </span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;">‘Upset?’ She raises her voice, ‘This is my thinking face, da.’ </span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;">I feel like a child when she raises her voice. ‘You sure, di?’ I ask, just to make sure I haven’t done anything wrong, but she does not give me what I want. What I am truly looking for is not a blanket ‘I am fine’ but an assurance of ‘you haven’t done anything wrong’.</span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;">‘Eda, what is happening?’ She doesn’t seem very upset or angry anymore, her eyebrows are relaxed, and her shoulders are rolled forward. Is it disappointment?</span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;">‘I am sorry, di. Have I done something wrong?’ I stammer and she looks at me incredulously.</span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;">My phone rings. It is Appa. </span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;">‘Appa is not doing well,’ cries Amma. ‘He couldn’t get out of bed this morning and is refusing to go to the doctor.’ I don’t want to ask her if he is still breathing. ‘Is he talking?’ </span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;">‘No. He is mumbling something. Will you ask him to get up and have this coffee I made?’ She gives the phone to him. He refuses it but I can hear him scold her. My heart rate eases up.</span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;">‘Amma!’ I scream. She takes back the phone. ‘Let him be.’ I can hear Amma’s breathing as she moves away and cuts the call.</span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;">‘What happened, da?’ All okay?’ My wife looks at me. I turn away. </span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;"> ‘Yeah, false alarm, di.’ </span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;">She shares a smile and returns to her phone. </span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;">‘I am sorry.’</span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;">‘Pssst! What are you apologising for?’ she says. I can’t tell if she is still disappointed.</span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;">*</span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;">It has just rained. It is dark and everything moves slowly, trammelled by the wetness. </span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;">Appa is supposed to pick me up. I get off the bus, tiptoe around the potholes and take refuge in a tea shop. The tea shop where Appa usually smokes. </span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;">I am twelve. I’ve just finished school in the city. I call Appa using the yellow coin-box pay phone tied to the electric pole outside the shop. He doesn’t pick up. I call the landline at home. No one picks up. I am tired and hungry. The tea shop Anna offers me two very oily banana bhajis and I devour them. </span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;">Appa comes half an hour later and slips and almost falls when his Bullet comes to a halt. I inspect him carefully for signs of drunkenness. He walks into the shop, without saying a word to me, and pulls out a cigarette. Gold Flake Kings, his usual. I am too afraid to ask him if we can leave.</span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;">He tosses away his cigarette and kickstarts the Bullet. When I sit behind him, the stench of alcohol hits me like a brick. The bike jerks forward and backwards for a while. I hold onto the back handle with everything I have and as far away from him as possible, I bend like a gymnast. I am relieved, at least, that he isn’t going as fast as he usually does. </span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;">A young man in a veshti and chequered cotton shirt is on his Splendor. He accidentally cuts us off. Appa throttles behind and catches him. He parks his Bullet in front of the young man, shoos me away from the bike, gets down and slaps him. When the young man tries to get up, Appa is all over him, swinging like a desperate boxer. The young man falls off the bike, then gets back up, and pushes Appa toward me. Appa slips and falls, and I catch him. The young man dials a number and asks his friends to come beat up a drunk bastard.</span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;">I pull Appa up and hold his face in my palms.</span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;">‘Poyidalam, pa!’ I want us both to leave but he doesn’t listen to me. The young man catches hold of Appa’s shirt collar. Appa tries to evade, unsuccessfully. I run to the nearby fertilizer shop where Periappa works. Periappa brings a few others and they beat up the young man. After a decent thrashing, the young man flees on his bike. Appa shouts at the people who are holding him up and asks everyone to leave. They do so without protest. Appa picks up his Bullet and tries to start it. It doesn’t. It takes a few more kicks. I am standing close to the Bullet not sure what to do. He asks me to get on the bike. I do. We go home as the bike jerks forward and backwards.</span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;">Before I sleep, I imagine many scenarios where I save Appa. I imagine using the jump kicks and butterfly kicks I learnt from Hollywood movies to fight the drunkards and criminals who fight him. I cry silently.</span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;">*</span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;">My wife doesn’t like the fact that I spend many hours on the internet, chasing rabbits. I like it because I like learning. I’m addicted to the hit I get at the end of a four-hour journey when things become clearer, patterns emerge, and the mind wanders to places it never knew about. And it doesn’t have to go to places close to my life or anything practical. It can wonder about rockets or the latrines in the Roman Empire or an almost extinct language. It yearns for the moment when the veil is lifted and, with a blink of an eye, I see a new dimension. </span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;">I don’t know how I ended up here. I try to imagine the face behind the green apple in ‘The Son of the Man’ but that leads nowhere. I read all about it and accept that that’s kind of the point. But I do learn a new word in the process: hyperempaths. </span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;">‘Edi, I think I am a hyperempath’</span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;">‘Hmmm?’ she asks, looking up from her phone in the middle of a smile.</span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;">‘Hyperempaths. It's a thing.’ I regret bringing that up. I know what her response is going to be – hypochondriac; obsessed; paranoid.</span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;">But she doesn’t say a thing and gets distracted by a text. She smiles again. I look at the time and realise that I am late. I fetch my backpack.</span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;">‘Okay, I am going out.’ </span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;">‘Where, da?’ Her focus is back on me.</span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;">‘Just outside. Ashwin is in town.’</span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;">‘You’re drinking?’ Her body is stiff.</span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;">‘Maybe a little. For old times’ sake, you know…’ I give her a half-shrug and walk away. As I walk through the door, I hear her say, ‘Just eat a lot, da. No matter how much you drink.’</span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;">I drink a lot and don’t eat properly. I get back late and throw up the little I ate – chicken chilli and prawn pepper fry that Ashwin and I shared. I pass out. </span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;">Amma warned me of this. In my mind, I am the furthest thing from my Appa.</span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;">But I wake up, hungover. I am sure I have gas trouble, chest congestion, dehydration, and add to that, the Vitamin B12 deficiency. Hair loss is one of the most common symptoms. I look out for a few strands stuck to the pillow. They look like fallen soldiers on the shore. There is a sharp pain in my gut. Fatty liver? Cracked lips. Starvation of essential salts too? I am sure. I am breathing. I am breathing.</span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;">I lift my head, squinting my eyes, to see my wife. She looks concerned.</span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;">‘Don’t drink so much, da’ </span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;">I rest my head on the pillow.</span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;">‘Nee paathukko,’ Tamil comes out of her Malayali self when she wants to say something important or loving, and sometimes when she is angry. Malayalam usually comes out of my Tamil mouth when I want to make fun of her or her language.</span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;">‘You were grinding your teeth all night. I could hear it from here.’</span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;">‘Yeah, di,’ I say. ‘I’m glad it’s a Sunday. No more drinking.’</span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;">*</span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;">I like butterflies. Especially the black and red ones because no one else likes them. Others like the yellow ones or the blue ones because they are pretty. I like them too, but I like the black ones more. </span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;">When I ride my cycle to school through my favourite lake ridge that is filled with pimpernels and hibiscus and marigolds, they flock towards me. They bounce off my arms and face, give me little kisses, and follow me to school and back. </span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;">I think they like me too. I once stopped for them thinking they wanted me to stop but nothing happened. They kept circling me and I got late for school. So, I don’t stop anymore. </span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;">My friends say it's the Ponds powder I apply all over my body. That the butterflies like the smell. But I don’t believe them. They are probably jealous because butterflies like me and not them. </span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;">When I told Appa about the butterflies, he had a disappointed look on his face. Without saying a word, his focus shifted towards the banana in my hand instead. </span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;">‘Where did you get that banana?’</span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;">‘Muthu anna gave me this banana, Appa.’</span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;">He flicks the banana from my hand and throws it out of the house. </span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;">‘How many times have I asked you not to take anything from strangers?’ He gets up from the chair.</span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;">Muthu anna is not a stranger. After all, he belongs to our village and no one is a stranger here. But I don’t dare tell Appa that. </span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;">He slaps me across the face. I twirl around three times like a top and fall face-flat on the ground. He asks me to get up and kneel on the floor next to him. He sits in his comfortable chair and watches tv for the next five hours. The floor is never swept properly in our home, so the sand on the cement floor feels like tiny needles against my knees. I cry but not so loudly, so as to not distract him. In the five hours that I am on my knees, I try to understand my mistake, but it isn’t clear to me. In any case, I submit. I take a vow to never make a mistake again without really understanding what a mistake is.</span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;">After a week of taking the bus, I am back on my cycle on the lake ridge. I take a deep breath.</span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;">I am surrounded by swarms of butterflies of all shapes and colours. I feel like I am levitating. But a butterfly smashes into my nose and falls dead on the ground. I stop the cycle. I feel a sharp pain in my nose and upper lip. When I touch that part of my face, I see yellow powdery liquid on my fingertips. I remove my tucked-in shirt and wipe the disgusting stuff off. What if it is poisonous? I look around me and see hundreds of butterflies fluttering at very high speeds.</span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;">*</span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;">Physicists are losing hope in the Unified Field Theory. Poor String Theory might go under the bus. It was so exciting with its twelve or thirteen dimensions. What would the world with twelve or thirteen dimensions look like? Physicists will say we are living in one. Probably only they can understand it. Though they say if anyone claims to understand relativity, quantum physics, or string theory, then they have not understood it. Then who does? Those who claim to have not understood it? No. No one understands anything. What was that interview that I saw many years ago? The one with Edward Witten? As I search my playlists of favourites, watch laters, physics, quantum physics, and interviews with physicists, UFT, and ST, I see my wife moving to the kitchen to cut vegetables.</span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;">I was supposed to cut them. Today is my turn. She’d reminded me an hour ago.</span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;">Should I ask her? Should I stop her? Is she angry?</span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;">I was going to do it. I really was. Why would she do it? Why wouldn’t she ask me again? She must be angry. She is. But can she do whatever she wants because she is angry? I must get up and talk to her. And say something, anything at all. But she is done with the onions and is moving on to the tomatoes. Is it too late? No. I can stop her at any point. I can do something. I have to.</span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;">She has crossed a line this time. If this was bothering her, she could have just spoken to me. She is almost done with the tomatoes. She is cutting the last one. The more I wait, the more I feel like my choices are limited. </span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;">‘Edi!’</span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;">‘Endha, da?’</span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;">‘I said I will cut the vegetables, no?’</span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;">‘Yeah, da. But it seems like you are busy with something, and I am free.’ She puts aside the vegetables, washes her hands, and leaves the kitchen.</span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;">*</span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;">I am lying down on a tarmac. It is a long wide road covered on both sides with beautiful trees. Mostly pines. I can’t make out the others. I find it hard to focus on anything else because my eyes seem to move on their own. In the distance, I see a rocket launching station and a rocket that is ready to be launched. How exciting. I’d said in the distance, but it is quite close. Frighteningly close for a rocket launch. There are small huts behind the trees but no trace of humans. Only a few chickens and dogs. That's about it. The countdown starts with a siren. I panic and try to get up. An arm catches hold of me. Appa. Appa is unusually close. He is lying on his back next to me. I have never been this close to him without feeling his presence. Where did he come from? </span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;">‘It will be fine. Don’t worry,’ his voice has never been so reassuring.</span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;">‘Enjoy the view!’ he says, ‘It’s wonderful!’ I can see that he means it.</span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;">I see the wonder. The scale. The magic of this mountain of a thing being lifted off in the air. An all-consuming fire erupts from beneath it like an inverted volcano. I am too close; I can feel the heat above my lips. On my forehead. And in my ears. </span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;">Suddenly, the chicken hold made of coconut leaves beside us goes into flames. The dogs and chickens scurry. I panic again. I can smell burning skin. Is it mine? </span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;">‘It will all be alright,’ Appa tries to reassure me.</span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;">The rocket that was headed for the sky is turning around. It is coming straight at us. </span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;">‘Don’t worry,’ Appa says.</span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;">It whooshes past as I duck and embrace the tarmac. </span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;">‘It’s okay. It’s okay. Don't be scared,’ Appa barely moves the whole time.</span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;">The rocket explodes a little far away with a big boom. I close my eyes, cover my head, and tuck in like a baby. I open my eyes to see if Appa is okay. A large chunk of the rocket swirls around and hits him in the face. He turns away and falls on his stomach. He doesn’t make a noise.</span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;">I turn him around and see half of his face missing.</span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;">*</span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;">My wife moves towards me with a lightness I never knew was possible, places her palm under my chin and lifts it up gently. She sees the tears on my cheeks but doesn’t wipe them. </span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;">‘Ennada, Enna aachu?’ She wipes the tears now, recovering from the fact that she saw me crying for the first time.</span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;">I swallow the wad of saliva that has accumulated in my mouth. </span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;">‘I am sorry, di,’ I say very softly and that makes me wail. </span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;">‘It’s okay, da. It’s okay,’ she says, trying to pull my body closer, to embrace all of me. </span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;">I turn to the window. I see the flowers outside glazed in sunlight. I wipe my tears and turn to her.</span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;">‘I don’t know, di,’ I say. </span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;">She pulls me closer and plants a kiss on my forehead. She has never kissed me on my forehead before. This is new. This is different. As she pulls back, I see her eyes shimmer in the sunlight. </span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;">*</span></p><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #783f04; font-family: arial;">Response to the workshop:</span></p><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #b45f06; font-family: arial;">Had a wonderful time at the Out of Print Magazine writer's workshop at Infinite Souls Farm. Between the beautiful view of Savandurga ... delicious home-cooked food, the birds..., we read amazing stories and saw them come to life in other people's words. Thank you Indira Chandrasekhar for making this possible and being there and encouraging us. Thank you Zui for providing extensive feedback, for being as equally invested in our stories as we are.</span></p><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #b45f06; font-family: arial;"><br /></span></p>Indira Chandrasekharhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03573621384719821695noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5672570534782963438.post-18841841054587055292023-10-06T08:34:00.008+05:302023-10-16T10:12:53.192+05:30Out of Print Workshop at Infinite Souls Farm: ANUSHA M<p style="text-align: center;"><b><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></b></p><p style="text-align: center;"><b><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></b></p><p style="text-align: center;"><b><span style="font-family: arial;">Outhouse</span></b></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: arial;">Anusha M</span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;">This morning was unusual – I was getting into a red bus with Appa and Amma instead of the yellow school bus. And it was too early, even the milkman had not made his delivery yet. I was too groggy to ask where we were headed and fell asleep on the bus. When I woke up, we were walking towards the wide gates of Ajji’s house. They were both open, and there was a lot of activity in the yard – strangers were walking in and out of the house. Raghu maama was standing near the door of the main house, but he did not greet us. Just a nod, and Appa walked towards him. It had been raining the previous night, and the champaka tree near the gate was full of flowers. The garden was squelchy, and when Amma tried to put me down on the ground, I resisted and refused to walk. Amma was annoyed, but she pulled her sari up to her knee with one hand and balanced me on her waist with the other. This was not the most comfortable of positions, but Amma dismissed my objections saying that she was in a hurry as we headed towards the Outhouse. She knocked gently and Nidhi opened the door that creaked on the hinges. He didn’t even bother smiling to greet me. Amma led me inside and kneeled to address me, her face serious. </span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;">‘Mira, stay with your cousins. Don’t come out until Raghu maama comes to fetch you.’ </span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;">I nodded obediently and left my worn out hawai chappals near the threshold. Nidhi carried me in, and I could see that the entire clan had gathered in the hall. I ran and hugged Smita akka, who was playing with her sister Sunita in the corner. </span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;">‘Akka, Akka, I’m so happy we are meeting before the Dussehra holidays.’</span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;">‘Yes, yes, come on now. Do you want to join us or not?’</span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;">They were in the middle of a game and pointed at the kavade grid drawn on the floor with chalk. It was a game I didn’t completely understand yet, but I wanted to learn everything that my cousins knew. </span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;">‘You finish this game; I will watch and join for the next one.’ </span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;">Amma had wound my juttu very tightly, so I fiddled with my hair strands until they loosened. Kittu and Rani akka used to live here with their parents Raghu maama and Rekha maami, but after Ajja became a star in the sky they moved into the main house to keep Ajji company. The Outhouse had a small hall once you entered, with a tiny kitchen space at the end of the hall and a toilet. The hall had many windows, but they were mostly shut to keep the dust out. Today, only one window was open, and there was hardly any sunlight in the room. The room was lit by a lone incandescent bulb, not a tube light like the main house, and every time we tried to reach the switch our palms would brush against the wall sprinkling the floor with a bit of crumbling paint. The Outhouse was used occasionally – when there were too many of us to sleep in the main house, but it wasn’t time to sleep yet. </span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;">‘Why are we all here, Akka? Did the white crow bite us?’ </span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;">Sunita’s stare locked onto Smita. </span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;">‘Don’t be silly! How can the white crow bite all of us at once? Even the boys? Huh! No such luck today. All the elders are discussing something important and want us out of the way’, dismissed Smita. </span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;">Sunita beckoned me closer, ‘Mira, do you want to start a new game? I’m losing this one anyway.’ Smita twisted her lips from side to side, mocking her sister. ‘Go find something to act as your pawns. Four small things of the same kind, ok? Quick!’</span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;">I went straight for the shelf looking for Rekha Maami’s sewing kit. It was a treasure box of buttons, of all sizes and colours. It was an old biscuit tin, one that Charley uncle from down the street had bought from Dubai when Rani akka was a small girl. Maami often joked that this expensive box would be part of Rani’s dowry. I turned it around to see that Rani akka had claimed it, by etching her name under the tin, ರಾಣಿ, with a ball point pen. She was old enough to use a ballpoint pen, because she was already in college, the oldest of us. Would she soon be married? Who would teach me the disco steps to ‘Om Shanti Om’ if that happens? Oh, I would miss her dearly if she got married. Who would we take our secrets to? Who would shield us from our parents when we broke a vase? </span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;">I searched through the box and found four glittery blue buttons, and blue is my favorite color. Clutching them, I passed by the only cot in the Outhouse. It was used by the women when they were sent away to rest. Rekha Maami ferried food and water to them thrice a day when that happened, and they could come back after they had cleaned themselves. If the aunties were sent away, it was fine with me. But I hated when Netra or Rani had to sit in the Outhouse instead of playing with us. Today, curiously, it was Kittu who I found asleep, thin elbows shielding his face. I wanted to piggyback with him and find Rani akka, but he was in a deep slumber. I walked back to the kavade corner and handed over the blue buttons for a new game. </span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;">‘Why is Kittu napping during the day?’</span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;">Smita and Sunita had a language of their own, one spoken without words. Large almond eyes that were identical, always lined with kohl and a streak of suspense. A secret dialogue was exchanged. </span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;">‘Kittu was up all night, that’s why he needs to rest.’ </span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;">‘Why didn’t he sleep?’</span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;">‘You’re only five years old, yet you ask too many questions, Miru. Come now, let’s start this game before they call us to the main house.’</span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;">‘I’ll win this time too!’ Smita waved a finger to taunt her sister. </span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;">Smita and Sunita were playing this round of kavade as if there was a prize for the winner. I was the third wheel, a silent player, not in the game to win, just for fun. But I loved being around my older cousin sisters. ‘Why can’t I have an Akka of my own?’ I had asked Appa. He said that it’s too late for me to have an Akka, but I could <i>be</i> an Akka if I wanted. I didn’t know if I was old enough to be an Akka, like Rani or Sunita. I just wanted to play with an Akka of my own all the time rather than waiting until my cousins gathered in Ajji’s house. Seeing that Smita and Sunita were deeply engrossed in the game, I tiptoed toward the window. </span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;">With the help of a stool, I peered at the garden from the Outhouse window. Ajji’s garden was lined with rows of plantains and cashew shrubs. The lush green vegetation provided ample cover for us to play hide and seek whenever we gathered. Rani was an expert at climbing the champa tree and plucking the fragrant flowers, while we stood underneath spreading an old bed sheet to catch the delicate blossoms lest they get soiled with our feet. The women of the house loved these flowers so much; but Ajji had recently stopped wearing them. The plantain trees with their broad leaves looked welcoming, ready to be plucked and have a feast served on them. I sighed and wiped the cheap white paint from my elbows onto my frock, knowing Amma would scold me. I wanted to play outside. </span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;">‘Smita Akka, Smita Akka – come let’s go out?’</span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;">‘Not now, Miru. We have been told strictly to stay here. Today, we must do what they say.’</span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;">My enthusiasm was dampened, and I frowned and made a fake crying sound. </span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;">‘Don’t be so sad, Miru. Why don’t you go and play elastic with Sudhir and Nidhi?’</span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;">I rushed to the other end of the room where Sudhir and Nidhi were playing the elastic game with Netra akka. As I approached them, I couldn’t help but notice how gracefully my older cousin’s hair was bouncing while they hopped about. I was envious that Netra akka’s mom let her grow her hair long. Amma always dragged me to the beauty parlor, despite my protesting and tears. Once I’m old enough to plait my own hair to school, I will not let Amma have her way. Sudhir’s hair had been recently trimmed and sweat beads were glistening on his scalp while he jumped higher. </span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;">‘Anna, anna, please. Let me have one go at the elastic.’</span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;">‘Ok Miru. Eh Nidhi, lower the elastic for our little one. Let her have a chance to play.’ </span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;">Nidhi pinched my cheeks affectionately before it was my turn. I soon levelled up while repeating the challenges, and the height of the elastic was raised twice. Meanwhile, Netra akka went to the cot that Kittu was lying in and checked if he was running a fever. Muttering in his sleep, Kittu’s hair was dishevelled. She covered him with a blanket and pushed his hair back so it wouldn’t disturb him. </span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;">‘Why is Kittu sleeping?’</span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;">‘He saw a ghost it seems!’ Sudhir held out his open palm and mocked him. He turned around to see if Nidhi would laugh with him but was bluntly reprimanded with a slap on his upper arm. </span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;">‘What? That is how he appeared when I came in this morning.’ </span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;">Nidhi pointed his forefinger threateningly at Sudhir, ‘Don’t bring this topic up now.’</span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;">While they squabbled, I saw Rani akka’s old trunk lying in the corner. Where was the pink dupatta with shiny stars on it, the one I liked to wear as a sari and twirl in? Ah, Found it! Rani had wrapped the dupatta around a bunch of letters and a cassette of ‘Ek Duuje ke liye’. Now, where was she? No one else was good at draping it. I looked around and counted my cousins, six in the room and seven including me.</span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;">‘Where is Rani akka?’ </span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;">Everyone turned around, and their eyes were on the pink dupatta. My words seemed to have crashed into the Outhouse, shattering my cousins into a sudden silence. But no one gave me answers. </span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;">‘When will Rani akka join us?’</span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;">Netra began sobbing, and Nidhi rushed to her. Before I could figure out why, the door suddenly opened. Raghu maama looked tired, the dark circles prominent, his grey hairs more pronounced than ever. He didn’t speak, just waved his arm to indicate that we were to step outside. </span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;">Nidhi and Netra went first. Nidhi was wearing his school sweater over his night suit. Netra wore a faded brown synthetic frock made from her mom’s sari with tiny white daisies on them.</span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;">Smita and Sunita went next, holding hands. They looked so alike walking next to each other. Both wore long worn-out skirts of the same fabric, but Smita wore a yellow blouse while Sunita’s was a distemper green. Sudhir darted outside wearing one of Kittu’s shorts, while Raghu maama gently woke Kittu, who immediately dissolved into a crying heap. With a sad nod, Raghu maama led Kittu outside and there was no one left behind to hold my hand. The sun had stopped hiding behind the clouds and Ajji’s house was bathed in fresh bright sunshine when I walked outside.</span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;">The porch was full of people, and there was a huge commotion on the road in front. The steps leading into the house had benches on both sides, and Ajji was seated on one of them; hands covering her head, the end of her sari shielding her face. Rekha maami was bawling, the cries escaping in between gasps of breath. Kittu and Netra stood beside her, wailing endlessly. Smita and Sunita held on to each other tightly. Raghu maama scooped me from the lawn and handed me over to Appa. Raised above ground, I could see a black van that was decked with flowers. This wasn’t a wedding – no one was dressed for a happy occasion. People were throwing garlands at the van, and someone was shouting at the gate. Raghu maama slowly walked outside, but no one else ventured towards the van. Amma was crying, and I didn’t know why. </span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;">‘Why is Amma crying?’ </span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;">‘Be quiet, Mira.’ Appa tried to turn me towards his chest, as if he didn’t want me to see whatever was happening now. Appa did this in movie theatres too, when a villain would be beating the hero, but today he was squeezing me too tightly and I wasn’t comfortable. I needed the reassurance of my mother’s arms, wanting her to hold me. </span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;">‘Amma, Amma…’</span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;">Appa handed me over to Amma. There was a sudden commotion at the gate and a lot of men started walking ahead of the black van. Appa joined them too. Rekha maami began to beat her chest. Someone pointed to the van; it had started moving.</span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;">Amma cried out, ‘Rani! Rani!’ </span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;">Did Amma think Rani was in the black van? Was everyone worried that Rani akka was going away? She was just going away to the college hostel; Rani had assured me. Why was everyone being so silly? </span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;">‘Amma, don’t worry. I will call Rani akka and she will return. Wait now. RANI AKKA, RANI AKKA! COME BACK SOON, OK?’</span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;">Tears flowed silently down Amma’s cheeks, and I wiped them with my palms. I hugged her and planted a kiss on her wet face, wanting to fix whatever was making Amma cry – ‘Don’t worry, Amma. I have told Rani akka; she will <i>certainly</i> come home.’ In response, she kissed my forehead but continued to cry. </span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;">The black van swiftly drove away from our street, and all the adults were left standing at the porch. It started drizzling, and Ajji was the first one to move inside the house. Whatever spell had been cast on them seemed to have faded away. I wanted to go into the garden and play, hoping Rani akka would join me too. </span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;">*</span></p><p><span style="color: #783f04; font-family: times;">Response to the workshop:</span></p><p><span style="color: #b45f06; font-family: times;">The Out of Print short story workshop was an immersive and indelible experience. I went in like a sponge and absorbed every single word, debating the motivation while learning to observe my stories from different viewpoints. The nuanced structure of the workshops is a great platform to examine your perspective as a storyteller, and one would benefit immensely from workshopping your stories with other writers.</span></p><p><span style="color: #b45f06; font-family: times;"><br /></span></p>Indira Chandrasekharhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03573621384719821695noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5672570534782963438.post-1170052231229737372023-10-06T08:33:00.006+05:302023-10-16T10:08:30.101+05:30Out of Print Workshop at Infinite Souls Farm: ANUSHKA CHATTERJEE<p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><b><br /></b></span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><b><br /></b></span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><b>I Can’t Complain Jaan</b></span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: arial;">Anushka Chatterjee</span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;">On lazy afternoons, as I mash rice and daal alone, I picture you seated on a plastic stool, slashing bellies of slithery fish in the market. That you don’t flinch when blood spurts onto your bare legs seems improbable, for the way you cup squirrels in your palm, and keep me from swatting cockroaches implies you could be anything but cruel. In the evening, I frown at the sight of your shirt; blood-spattered, scale-sequinned. Neither will you realise how strenuous it is to thrash fabric on stone, my back hunched from stooping over stains, nor will I ever account to you the money I spend on buying extra detergent every month.</span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;">But how do I complain, Jaan?<span style="white-space: pre;"> </span></span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;">Didn’t I slap you into fish-vending when you thought of gambling for a living after our marriage? Didn’t I beat my chest, prostrated at the feet of the local counsellor for access to fish from his private pond? Didn’t I want you to have <i>something of your own</i>? You’re smashing heads of God’s voiceless children because of me, a wretched woman who believes in sustaining at the cost of kindness.</span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;">When you open up the shopper stuffed with remnants of the day’s fishes, their lanky skeletons and fragile fins, your sweaty face glows like you’ve got me ilish, the queen of the seven seas. I twirl the fish in its own fat with diced potatoes for dinner. It isn’t heavy on your pocket as it spares oil from being recklessly poured into the pan. Before taking a mouthful of rice and curry, I thank God for such a culinary miracle. The more I crush the bones under my molars the more fluid they exude. I beseech some praise from you, a faint hint that you, too, have noticed how seamlessly the masalas have seeped into the cavities, how crisply fried the gills are, how, with every meal, I’m honing my expertise in cooking. “Just smile for me,” I want to say, but you never lift your drowsy eyes from the plate. Not even when a nasty spine pricks my gum and I fail to swallow a yelp. As I circle my tongue in my mouth, coating the wound, I’m reminded once again of how unforgiving the bones are; residues the rich cleverly discard, a delicacy you and I foolishly cherish.</span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;">But how do I complain, Jaan?</span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;">At the Sunday mela, I demand that the man at the chaat counter loads our samosas with chilli chutney. It’s a break from all the fish waste scraping our gums through the week. ‘Bhaiya, thoda aur daalo,’ you request him as I keep insisting. It’s so innocent of you to think I love the spicy gravy, but it’s also a sweet-sly trick: as we quickly give in to the gravy’s temptation, our running noses turn to baby tomatoes, the heat singes our ears. In no time we find ourselves slurping mango ice-cream. To see you chortle at the cream trickling down your wrist and into the sleeve of your shirt, I will eat all the chilli chutney in the world.</span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;">You’re already snoring with your mouth agape when I’m done scrubbing the kitchen. I tiptoe into our room and slip into our bed. I shrink the distance between the two of us until your breath warms the nape of neck. You’re hypnotised, too weary to feel me turn towards you and lift your thumb to the bridge of my nose, and then, very gently, dip it down to my chin. You’ll never sense how your sleepy fingers outline my cheek, trace my lips, carve new dimensions out of my face. A closer glance at our braided fingers reveals dark grey crescents under your nails: grime from fish intestines, perpetually trapped. </span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;">But how do I complain, Jaan?</span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;">I fled home in the middle of night holding this hand of yours. You didn’t force me to. I did. The world doesn’t believe I did, for rebellion in love is too brazen to stem from a woman’s mind. When I stood at your door, defiant and determined, the bag under my arm bursting with clothes, the creases on your temple had deepened. Your damp hands trembled as you gripped mine, simply because our love was young, too young to mould our future with. You weren’t ready to forsake the warmth of family for my impulse. But you did.</span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;">Sometimes, I shut all the windows and draw the curtains to seal myself in. In front of the mirror, I crumple the bed sheet into a giant round ball and tuck it clumsily under my petticoat. Gazing at the ballooned belly, I wonder how many inches I shall need to unfurl my kameez to have room for a baby to fit snugly. Deep within, my heart flutters at the thought of undivided attention from you, a little respite from unforgiving chores, and unquestioned access to jars of imli aachaar. Wrapping my arms around the globe, I inhale deeply. I don’t know what moistens my eyes. I’m thirty, pretending to be the mother I’m soon not going to be. </span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;">But how do I complain, Jaan?</span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;">I know how badly you want a daughter. I’ve seen you peering like a child at dolls in glass-walled shops. You haven’t seen me seeing you. I know what makes you delay at desolate bus stops and play games of claps with little girls you’ve never met, filling their pockets with lozenges. When their parents turn up late, sweaty from concern, they grimace at you, snatching their daughters away. Had your hair been shampooed well or your shirt perfumed, Jaan, they would’ve thanked you, invited you for dinner at fancy restaurants. </span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;">The alphabets of your signature continue to wobble shamelessly. You haven’t yet mastered aligning them because the comfort of pinning an inky thumb on documents remains ingrained in you. The last time I demanded that you start afresh, you laughed. A loud, sarcastic laugh that keeps ringing in my ears. You’d taunted me for being born with a silver spoon in my mouth while your father had to sell beedis for a spoonful of rice. I should’ve revolted and taught you how learning isn’t confined to the school you could never afford or the books I left behind. To learn something, Jaan, you need to unlearn first. At times, I feel you’ve come to terms with the ordinariness of this life. </span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;">But how do I complain, Jaan?</span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;">You haven’t bought anything for yourself in years. A roof above your head and a filled stomach is all you need, you keep repeating. On one stealthy attempt at peeking into your notebook—the one with an eagle grabbing a fish on its cover— where you try to catalogue your expenditure, I discovered how you’re saving each penny to enrol me in the computer course I’m pressing on. The neon board dangling outside New Age Cyber Cafe flashes a “100% Job Guaranteed!” for women registered in the same. I’ll soon go to an office, bury my face into a screen, and eat from a lunch box every day. Someday, we’ll see snowy mountains and eat no more fish remains. Jaan, you have keen foresight, like that eagle on your notebook.</span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;">Each leg of our almirah stands on four thick bricks all year round. There is water, knee-deep, in the room every monsoon. I need to lift my maxi to the thighs and knot it around my waist. As I cook, water from the overflowing gutter lashes at my calves. Days later, when the rain god pities, the water subsides, brick by brick, and renders the floor grey with smut, dotted with lifeless white lizards and earthworms. I stand at the door, scanning the room with a boulder pounding in my ribcage. It seems like the end of the world, like a tsunami has washed off life from the land but forgotten to swash me along. Moments like these thrust me with memories of the village my father was the Sarpanch of, the plumpness of my mother’s palm, the ease of a life I’ve so unceremoniously blotted out. I condemn myself, splashing buckets of water under the bed. <i>Look what you have done to yourself</i>.</span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;">But how do I complain, Jaan?</span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;">The Sarpanch had deployed his men with knives to slit your throat. We ran and ran, kept running till our soles blistered, till we fetched up in this city, a maze where they’d endlessly hunt for us, jostle, and pant, only to forget what they were here for. When I narrate this story to our neighbours, they dismiss it as the course of most Bollywood films; stories they never believed yet paid to gawk at on giant screens. We are now the tenants of a house owned by an uncle who lately wants to shift to an old-age home. In few years, Jaan, we’ll have to abscond to save ourselves from being crushed, like the bricks of this house, by towering, yellow excavators. I pray we save enough to seek for a flat in that part of the city where an hour’s rain doesn’t create rivers out of lanes. You’ve never wanted a life in cities. But here you are, spraining your neck as you count how many floors culminate in the peak of buildings, your eyes round like marbles, brimming with wonder. You don’t pardon the man ogling at your wife in a bus anymore, or gulp abuses without spurting them back. You’re slowly befriending the ways of this stifling city, not for yourself but for me.</span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;">I will never complain, Jaan. </span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;">The day I die, tell my parents what I’ve never told them. Tell my father he was wrong if he thought I’d slip into the bubble of my early life complaining, conforming to his whim of wedding me to some filthy rich loafer. Tell him, a cage made of gold is still a cage, and once a bird has tasted freedom, it never returns. Tell my mother she was more unreasonable than my father, for letting her daughter go seemed easier than mustering courage to disagree with her husband. If they wail over my frozen body, tell them the curses they inflicted on us must’ve recoiled. Show them how we’ve lived. Let them realise what their daughter ever needed was just a room and a kitchen, but with the liberty to choose whom to love. </span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;">Before you set my ashes off in the river, let them know their daughter has never complained in her life because she made the right choice – she left them for a man who had nothing but a backbone.</span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;">*</span></p><div><span style="color: #783f04;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="color: #783f04;">Response to the workshop:</span></div><div><span style="color: #b45f06;">Having attended OofP's residential workshop, my mind is brimming with feedback, afterthoughts, and most importantly, boundless love and warmth. I'll forever be grateful to OofP for the much-needed surgery done to my fiction, and for the community we've built thereafter. Of course, one can't not mention the gorgeous backdrop of Savandurga, and farm-fresh food to top off the entire experience.</span></div><div><span style="color: #b45f06;"><br /></span></div>Indira Chandrasekharhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03573621384719821695noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5672570534782963438.post-11707550911845497062023-10-06T08:33:00.004+05:302023-10-06T08:45:49.830+05:30Out of Print Workshop at Infinite Souls Farm: BODHI RAY<p style="text-align: center;"><b><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></b></p><p style="text-align: center;"><b><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></b></p><p style="text-align: center;"><b><span style="font-family: arial;">Not a Love Story </span></b></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: arial;">Bodhi Ray</span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;">‘Do you have a spare cigarette on you?’ </span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;">‘W-h-a-t?’ Ann shouted over the blasting music.</span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;">‘C-I-G-A-R-E-T-T-E?’ I sucked on an imaginary one and blew smoke upwards.</span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;">‘Oh. Yea. Hang on.’ Anne slipped down the pole she was on, swirling while she did, her legs a bow and arrow. </span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;">‘There you go, Vid.’ She fished a stick out of her shorts and held it out to me. </span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;">In the shadows away from the roving spotlight, fair-and-skinny Anne was a silhouette. Her hand holding the cigarette to me was a bridge amongst worlds. </span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;">But, Gawd, she remembered my name. ‘Thanks Anne.’ I grabbed the cigarette and lit it. I felt great. I felt scared. The Benson smoke scorched its way down to my lungs leaving a strange after taste. Not smooth like a Marlboro Ice Blast. </span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;">But f#k it. </span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;">Anne was back on the pole but barely moving. She looked more like a forlorn Bollywood belle of the 60s, hugging a tree and looking out for her Pardesi lover who’d left her. She seemed to be waiting for someone. Not me surely. But she gave me the cigarette. <i>That</i> was something. </span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;">I plopped down on the nearest chair and put my feet up on the one in front.</span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;">‘F#k you bro!’ The boy frisking the girl in the seat in front hissed at me. The girl got busy pulling her jacket back in place. </span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;">‘Peace brother. Sorry.’ That calmed the brown guy-yellow girl combo. Maybe the guy was Indian. Or a Paki. Or a Lankan. Pakis and Lankans were far more forthright than us. <i>India, an Uncertain Glory</i> by Amartya Sen flashed in my mind. What a place and time to remember this.</span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;">Whatever. </span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;">I looked back at the poles and felt Anne’s eyes on me. I quickly moved my stare to other girls. Anne was different from the other girls not because she didn’t peddle herself aggressively or because she was the most petite, but she was apologetic. Which made her petite-ness look needy. In these shadow lines, Anne’s skin glowed like a translucent jellyfish that, if rubbed hard enough, would reveal someone else inside of her. </span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;">Prashant had rubbed hard enough many a time and I’d only dreamt of doing it. So, I don’t know if a different person had ever crawled out of Anne. I wondered who it could’ve been, someone with the sparkle of galaxies in their pupils and the confidence to make men do pole dances, the very men who ogled at her. But that also would include me then, wouldn’t it?</span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;">Whatever.</span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;">My head hurt from the eight pints of draft, five Sauza shots, three Long Island iced tea and the numbing music that hung in the stadium-sized hall like a thick curtain causing everyone to flail their arms to clear it so they could see ahead, while trying not to trip over chairs, bottles or some drunk passed out on the floor. </span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;">And then there was the smoke from the million cigarettes, a constant smog. Despite these distractions one couldn’t miss the smell that the place reeked of: A concoction of mingled sweat, cheap perfume, room fresheners, cigarettes, alcohol and too many men and their raw libido flung into the air. Was that even a thing?</span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;">Thinking wasn’t an activity that could be continued here for long. </span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;">‘Here’ was Orchard towers, on Orchard Road Singapore. A place for ‘gentlemen’ to get ungentle. A pilgrimage for those who worshipped the flesh. Providers came from far and wide and so did the consumers.</span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;">I’ve only come from a few kilometres away, dragged along by Prashant who was a regular at OT each time he was on a business trip from India. I came along because that’s what Vik would have done. I need to be Vik tonight. </span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;">Prashant, was a handful. If you were to break down his DNA, he was a simple God fearing, whiskey loving, wife beating, girl chasing, senior executive in a multi-national firm. So his routine too, was simple: drink silly before coming to OT and get his gang drunk as well. Then enter OT and run from his friends into the many dark corners hunting out the ‘working girls’.</span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;">Girls of the same nationality usually hung out together, and they had the same strategy for the night. Sometimes they’d walk around as a giggling group as if on an evening walk, inviting guys to join them. They would even try to break up couples who might be deep in action. This was the girlfriend experience strategy. On other nights, they’d dance on the poles and target the customers closest to them. Easy pickings, but the worst drunks and lechers were near the pole dance area. </span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;">And then there were pros who just sat, aloof, looking bored and saying no to all approaching, until they spotted the richest guy in OT. It was game on then.</span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;">Prashant was gone longer than usual today. I thought to go find him. But not before I finished the borrowed Benson. </span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;">I watched Anne, shaking her tiny hips on the pole. Why does she need to do this night in and night out? What did she do during the day? Sleep it off? Go shopping? </span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;">I used to shop alone a lot, especially in Kolkata Gariahat market during college days. The prices fit my budget and I could get lost in the crowd. Vik always went with a huge gang of college mates. He’d own the place he’d go to, alone or in a group. Bumping into him and his mates used to be my worst nightmare. Because often times I’d feel lonely. Not craving for real companionship, but say after finishing a very good book, like <i>Purba Pashchim</i>. The characters who I ran with, loved with, fought and died with, just disappeared after the book ended. I used to think this was worse than death itself. Until Vik died. And I became a single child of my parents. A long-standing dream of mine coming true through a nightmare.</span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;">‘I’m fucking lonely’ started playing in my head. Was Anne lonely too? Were the 200 odd people in this hellish den trying to un-lonelify themselves? </span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;">The song got louder until it filled my head and the hall and I saw Anne crooning, <i>I’m F#kin’ Lonely, So F#ckin’ Lonely, Somebody Call Me</i>, while moving on the pole. Seemed like a scene out of <i>Once upon a time in Hollywood</i>. Anne auditioning while Cliff Booth stood watching with a cigarette dangling from his lips. </span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;">I’m no Cliff Booth. Though I imagined myself to be; strong, handsome and aloof from the noise. Aloof from Anne. </span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;">Prashant, just like Vik, was definitely a Rick Dalton, barraging on how the world worked and how to make it big and live a grand life. He’d even act out stuff how it ought to be. Or maybe how it oughtn’t be.</span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;">Whatever.</span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;">I shook my head and tried to jerk the song out. </span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;">I looked back at the poles. Indonesians with straight black hair were the favourites of Ang Moh and swirled jauntily. Competing with them was a herd of Chinese girls with breath bad enough to wake up the dead. There were a couple of Phillipinas and the clique of international celebrities. Today’s celebs were some Columbian girls – or maybe they were posing as Colombians with shiny dyed blonde hair – and a black girl, who may have been posing as an African, but might have just been Tamil. Mixed bag, and Anne was the only lone lass. The rest had been ‘taken’ by customers, their paramours standing close by the poles, drinks in hand and clapping like ghoulish school kids at a dystopian concert.</span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;">Beyond the pole dance area were gambling tables where beer pong and strip poker were on. And right at the back was a stage where shows were supposed to be run. I don't know what shows, nobody ever saw much. Maybe the place was licensed as a circus or something of the sort, mandated to host shows.</span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;">‘I searched all around for you. Wassup?’ Prashant was back. From wherever he was, doing whatever it was. </span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;">‘Nothing. Let’s go?’ </span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;">‘Go? Night is still young. Whoa, Isn’t that Anne?’ Prashant whistled, narrowing his myopic eyes sans specs.</span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;">‘You got a cig on you?’</span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;">‘Nope. Borrowed from Anne.’</span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;">‘F#k. You took a cig off a pole dancer?’ </span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;">‘Don’t make me cringe. I was desperate.’</span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;">‘Cringe? This is stuff of fairy tales’ dude. Who knew you could claim such a feat?’ Prashant slapped my back. </span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;">‘Drinks boys?’ A couple of tall Russian women stopped by. I couldn’t make out their faces through the smoky darkness but I wasn’t picky when it came to Russians. Like I’d be anyone to judge – a small-town boy from Bihar.</span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;">‘We love Russians. Join us ladies.’ I said.</span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;">‘Fak you Paki,’ the women’s eyes spewed fire even in the darkness, before they huffed off. </span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;">‘Hahahaha.’ Prashant rocked with laughter.</span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;">‘What the fuck was that?’</span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;">‘They too are Ukrainians. They hate Russians. You’re such a dodo. How many years are you in Singapore again?’</span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;">‘Fuck them all. Russian-Ukrainian-Estonian-Polish, all look the same and talk the same. And why call us a Paki?’</span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;">‘Not us, <i>you</i>. To screw you man. Because Pakis are India’s number one enemy. But if you shoo beauties away like this, whatever we do, we ain’t gonna score tonight. And you’re a half Bangladeshi anyways, which was part of Pakistan sometime back. So yes, FAK you Paki.’</span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;">‘Wow. Such history and lineage lessons in a strip bar.’</span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;">‘This is no strip bar. Just a bar with girls and some poles.’</span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;">‘And a few random hungry souls.’</span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;">‘Nice.’</span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;">‘Let’s push off now?’</span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;">‘And miss out saying hullo to Anne?’</span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;">Prashant jumped on to Anne’s slowly turning circular podium and hugged her. She looked startled at first and then hugged him back. Too tightly. Was there a new spring to her gait? </span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;">Every few seconds the spotlight shifted till it fell on Anne and Prashant. Someone from the crowd hooted and that set off Prashant. He wiggled his butt and slow twisted his way down the pole and back up, all the while hands around Anne, who was giggling to splits. The chalk-like spotlight made even Prashant look fair. </span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;">Finally, just when it was too unbearable to watch, he got down and brought Anne with him, kissing all the while, hands around her hips. </span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;">I tried to get away but she saw me.</span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;">‘Hey,’ said Anne.</span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;">‘Hey,’ said I.</span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;">‘Whose turn is it to order now?’ Prashant asked. I tried to see where his hand was but couldn’t make out in the darkness.</span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;">‘Yours.’</span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;">Prashant left. He didn’t waste time asking us what we wanted to drink.</span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;">Anne sat down and I sat beside her. </span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;">‘You from Prashant’s place in India?’</span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;">‘Nope. Quite far from his place really. But I stay in Singapore.’</span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;">‘Aha. A Singaporean. You’re so lucky.’</span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;">‘Not a Singaporean, but yes lucky.’ I laughed. I hoped I sounded smart. The thought de-dignified me a few notches. Smart? To a pole dancer? </span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;">‘Why you come here?’ asked Anne.</span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;">‘Sorry?’</span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;">Did she really ask me that? </span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;">‘Why you come here?’</span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;">‘Same reason as anybody. He he.’</span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;">‘Then why you not touch?’</span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;">‘I do I do.’</span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;">‘Touch.’</span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;">Anne took my hand and placed it on her thighs. I jerked away. Her skin felt like a cold slab of ice. </span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;">‘See?’</span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;">‘You’re cold.’</span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;">‘Come close I show you something.’</span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;">I bent towards her, my heart fluttering. She stretched her hand in front of her, palm upwards. There was a tattoo. Wait. Was that a swastika?</span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;">‘Holy Hindu symbol.’</span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;">I touched the swastika and rubbed it. The skin was still cold but now I felt it’s rubbery-ness. I rubbed and squashed the swastika between my thumb and forefinger and slowly locked my fingers in hers.</span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;">‘This is such an a-hole place! They wouldn’t let me skip the queue at the bar even though I’m buying a full bottle of wine. Goddamm Singapore.’ Prashant stood with a wine bottle in hand panting, out of breath.</span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;">I pulled my hand away. </span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;">‘Now now, did I just see some lovey dovey stuff going on?’</span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;">‘She was showing me her swastika tattoo.’</span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;">I could have been wrong but I thought I spied a shadow cross Anne’s face like a cloud passing over the moon. </span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;">‘Swastika? Hmm. The Hitler one or the Hindu one? Ha ha ha.’ It was such a relief that Prashant laughed at his own jokes. </span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;">‘Pass me the wine,’ I reached for the bottle, eyeing Anne from the corner of my eye. Our moment was gone. Did she regret sharing so much with me? Or that I shared our moment with Prashant? This is why I never opened my mouth much. Bloody over-sharing introvert-ish nerd.</span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;">Prashant had uncorked the bottle and took two-three quick swigs before passing it to me. Only after I had downed half of what remained did I remember Anne. She shook her head and kept looking down, twitching her fingers on her lap. </span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;">‘Whaaat? Take it. It’s for you.’ Prashant visibly slurred. The wine seemed to have taken hold of him already. It was too early for him to slur. Strange. </span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;">‘The Paki got Anne.’ The Russians, sorry the tall Ukrainian women gang, was back. </span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;">‘He’s not Paki.’ Anne murmured. </span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;">The women said something in their language and they all laughed. Prashant tottered up from his seat and grabbed the arm of the lady standing closest to him. ‘I, Paki. I Lankan. I Indian. You come with me? I become what you want.’</span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;">‘Ha ha he’s cute. Come along.’ They walked off, the tall white women with a small dark man in tow.</span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;">Prashant was taken. It was bizarre how he had sold himself so well to the sellers themselves. </span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;">Anne and I were alone again, with a hundred hookers and lechers. We could be characters straight out of <i>Pretty Woman</i>.</span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;">‘In the Air Tonight’ started playing in my head and the din of the hall seemed to recede into the background. </span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;"><br /></span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;"><i>I can feel it coming in the air tonight, </i></span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;"><i>oh lord</i></span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;"><i>And I've been waiting for this moment, for all my life, </i></span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;"><i>oh lord</i></span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;"><i>Can you feel it coming in the air tonight, </i></span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;"><i>oh lordddd, oh lordddd </i></span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;">‘You a Hindu?’ Asked Anne.</span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;">‘Yep.’ It felt strange agreeing to being a Hindu in this place. So, I added, ‘I eat beef though.’</span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;">‘That’s all right I guess. You’re not a priest or in a temple city.’</span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;">‘It’s a bad thing to eat beef anywhere. Being a Hindu I mean.’ </span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;">‘That’s just what they tell you. Like they tell abortion a sin in Christianity.’</span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;">‘And it’s not?’</span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;">‘To me no. I ready for pregnancies. And ready for quick abortions.’</span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;">She looked at me and squeezed my left palm, ‘I’m used to it now.’</span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;">‘Was any of … them … uh … erm … Prashant’s?’</span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;">‘Oh lord no, Vid.’</span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;">It was a relief. I don’t know why. </span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;">‘What do you think Prashant and I have done?’</span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;">My ears burned bright red, thank god for the darkness.</span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;">I thumped my pocket for cigarettes, seeing which Anne laughed. ‘No more, dear. We’re out.’ </span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;">I wanted to grab Anne and kiss her. But she was dirty. Dirty for being here. Dirty for letting Prashant touch her. Dirty for letting me touch her. </span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;">What was I doing in this place anyways? I wasn’t lonely like Prashant. Or Anne. They could be in a crowd, partying, dancing, touching, feeling and still be lonely. </span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;">I could sit on the window ledge; my face pressed to the glass and watch the cars go by on mute for hours and not feel lonely. </span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;">But out here, I felt lonely. </span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;">I wanted Prashant to come back and put me out of my misery. I wanted him to never come back. </span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;">‘Prashant is sure taking his time.’ Anne observed as if reading my mind. Was she missing Prashant?</span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;">‘I don’t think he’ll be back for the night.’ My voice sounded disgustingly hopeful.</span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;">‘Yeah you maybe right. He’s found bliss today.’</span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;">‘Ghanta.’</span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;">‘Sorry?’</span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;">‘It’s a Hindi word meaning meaning, <i>no way</i>.’ </span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;">‘Ha ha. You’re jealous.’</span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;">‘And you’re not? You’re his lover.’</span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;">‘Huh? Lover?’</span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;">Anne’s voice drifted off; her eyes faraway. I untangled my errant fingers from Anne’s, not knowing when they had sought each other out. Now they felt out of place. </span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;">‘Hey Paki.’</span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;">I jolted back in my seat. One of the tall ones were back. </span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;">‘Your friend has called for you. Come. And zip up.’ She chuckled. </span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;">I stood up. I felt angry at her for thinking I was unzipped.</span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;">‘Sorry, I wasted your time. I should have offered to – </span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;">Before Anne could finish her sentence, I wiggled out of my seat nearly stamping on her feet and ran down the short flight of stairs behind the tall Russian, sorry Ukrainian. </span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;">We crossed two rows of chairs and walked in through a small door with heavy drapes. We were in a room with a lone overhead bulb pissing a puddle of yellow glow onto a two-seater sofa on which Prashant lay, legs sprawled in front of him, head rolling. </span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;">My heart leapt to my mouth. Was he dead? </span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;">‘Prashant? Hey Prashant.’ My cries must have been getting louder because one of the women shushed me up. </span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;">‘He’s just high on crack. Took it earlier. He come here and just crash. You his friend. You take him away. But pay us a thousand dollars as he had promised us.’</span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;">Cliff Booth or not, I was Prashant‘s sidekick in school, and maybe even now. But seeing him with his head lolling and limp, almost lifeless body stoked a fire in me. </span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;">‘I not his friend, he Indian, I Paki, remember? Keep him. But then I might call the cops. Or I may not.’</span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;">With that I stormed out, half expecting them to stop me. But they didn’t.</span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;">Anne was standing outside.</span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;">‘Is he ok?’ She was panting. </span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;">‘Yes, just drugged. Let’s go.’</span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;">‘Go? He’s inside.’</span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;">We heard a thump behind us and jumped. It was Prashant lying crumpled on the floor. </span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;">I checked his pulse. Running fine, just a bit erratic. </span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;">I stood there with Prashant crumpled on the ground and Anne trying to uncrumple him. She laid him out straight on his back and gently stroked his chest, easing the creases of his Bombay Company custom white shirt. It was a gift from his wife, now being caressed and smoothened by this girl from Ukraine. </span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;">‘I’ll come with you.’ </span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;">‘Sorry?’</span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;">‘Let’s go. Help me with him.’ She got up and started pulling Prashant’s hand in an effort to make him sit up. </span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;">‘I don’t have money. He might not have either.’</span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;">‘Just pay me 200 dollars, I need to pay a hundred to the agents and wire the other hundred to my son in Kiev.’</span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;">‘You have a son?’</span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;">‘Yes. He’s five. Are you helping me or not?’</span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;">Wasn’t this what Prashant’s wife had asked of me once when he had slipped and fallen while trying to hit her after a drunken brawl?</span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;">‘Help Vid. He’s your friend.’</span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;">‘No, he’s not. I’ve just been carrying him around for the last forty years.’</span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;">Anne stared at me but I couldn’t make out her face. </span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;">‘You want to fak me, ok you can fak me. With the two hundred dollars. But help him.’ She started pulling at his hand again.</span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;">‘I go where he goes, I drink what he drinks, I love who he loves. He’s got a wife, kids, girlfriends … you … these other tall blondes and … and <i>I</i> need to carry him? No, I don’t want to fu#k you. But neither will he.’</span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;">I yanked Prashant’s small dark frame and put his arms around my shoulder.</span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;">We tottered out like Vikram Betaal. </span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;"><br /></span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;"><i>It's the first time, the last time we ever met-met-met</i></span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;"><i>But I know the reason why you keep this silence up</i></span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;"><i>No you don't fool me</i></span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;"><i>The hurt doesn't show, but the pain still grows</i></span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;"><i>It's no stranger to you and me</i></span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;">‘In the Air tonight’ was still playing in my head when I hailed a taxi. The drums were getting so loud that I could barely hear the driver. </span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;">*</span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial;"> </span></p><div><br /></div>Indira Chandrasekharhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03573621384719821695noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5672570534782963438.post-64055504168562479902023-10-06T08:32:00.003+05:302023-10-16T10:15:55.507+05:30Out of Print Workshop at Infinite Souls Farm: AMRITHA M BERGER<p style="text-align: center;"><span style="white-space: normal;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><b><br /></b></span></span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="white-space: normal;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><b><br /></b></span></span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="white-space: normal;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><b>On the Yard</b></span></span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: arial;">Amritha M Berger</span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;">It was a typical public school in Los Angeles. Concrete everywhere. Locked gates. A few trees in small plots of dirt, but no grass. Most of the colours one could see were the brightly painted railings and gates, and the murals on the handball courts depicting children holding hands around the earth, with animals and butterflies around them. </span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;"> </span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;">It was pouring the day I went there for my interview. I was wearing a skirt with green printed leaves on it and a black jacket. I was very nervous, but the assistant principal I met, greeted me with a warm smile, easing my anxiety. At the end of the interview, she asked me, ‘Why are you wanting to work in a school like this?’ Apparently, I was over-qualified for the position of ‘teacher’s assistant,’ even though I had never worked in a school before. I had little experience in nurseries and daycares. </span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;">But I thought about it and said, ‘I want to work where I am needed, and I want to work in a place where children are in need the most.’ </span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;"> </span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;">I was hired on the spot, though I asked for some time to make my decision. As I walked out into the pouring rain, I met a woman outside the school, who was standing with an umbrella in one hand, and a little girl beside her. </span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;">‘You’re coming here to work as a teacher?’ she asked. </span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;">‘Teaching assistant,’ I replied. </span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;">‘This is a good school,’ she said, ‘you’ll learn a lot. This is my granddaughter, Adriana.’ She put her arm around the little girl. ‘She goes here. And I’ve been working here for twenty-five years. I’m from El Salvador, but Adriana, she was born here.’ She said smiling down at her.</span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;">‘Hi Adriana,’ I said. ‘I’m Amritha, my grandmother is from India, but I was born here too.’ The little girl looked up at me and smiled shyly. </span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;"> </span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;">I said goodbye to the grandmother and granddaughter and walked back to my car. Warm and cosy inside, I shuffled through my tapes, it was a ’98 Camry with a tape player. I was searching for The Cranberries. Just then my phone started ringing, it was my aunt. </span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;">‘Hi pedamma,’</span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;">‘How are you, ra?’ </span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;">‘I’m good, I just finished an interview at a school. I got the position but I’m not sure if I’m ready to take it…’ </span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;">‘I think you should,’ she replied. ‘How are you going to support yourself as an artist? You need to start working.’ </span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;">Just then, between the parting clouds, a thin sliver of a rainbow appeared in a clear patch of sky. </span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;">‘I think you’re right pedamma, I’m going to take it.’ I said with a smile. </span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;">*</span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;">My first day working at the school, I was put in ‘Guerrero’s class. It was just me and the teacher with twenty-five kindergartners. ‘Guerrero was a sweet, older woman. She welcomed me briefly before continuing her work with a small group of children. The rest of the class was sitting or standing at their tables with reading packets, attempting to read. The classroom was loud and chaotic. I wasn’t given any direction except, to ‘assist.’ ‘Guerrero looked too overwhelmed and busy to be interrupted so I went around looking at what each child was reading. The students started asking what this or that word meant. I replied with, ‘sound it out,’ enthusiastically, and helped them to form the sounds of each letter. I wanted them to learn how to try, to understand that they were capable of learning all on their own, without a teacher to tell them what something was. </span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;"> </span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;">After a few weeks of working in ‘Guerrero’s class, I finally got a chance to talk to her. I was making coffee in the cafeteria when she stepped in. </span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;">‘Hi ‘Guerrero, do you have a moment to talk?’ I ventured. </span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;">‘Guerrero smiled and we sat down at a table. </span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;"> </span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;">‘I wanted to go over with you how I am doing in the class, whether or not I should be doing anything differently, we never get a chance to discuss this in class since it’s been so busy.’ </span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;"> </span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;">‘I know, I’m sorry, it’s just too hectic, all these children need more attention and being one teacher I just can’t give them everything, and on top of that, guide you, but from what I’ve observed, you’re doing a wonderful job, just keep doing what you’re doing. You’ll make a wonderful teacher.’ </span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;"> </span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;">‘Thank you. I noticed that the children are fighting a lot amongst themselves, is that normal?’ I ventured again. </span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;"> </span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;">‘Yes… it is strange. It didn’t used to be like this. In my twenty-five years of teaching, my kids never used to fight like this. They have become more possessive over materials, self-indulgent. When I first started teaching, children used to share more, get along, be friends with each other. There was a spirit of community amongst them, that seems to have been lost in the past few years.’ </span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;"> </span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;">‘Why do you think that is?’ I asked. </span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;"> </span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;">‘We’re getting piled with unnecessary testing and work to meet the benchmarks each child needs to in order to move to the next grade. We’re getting swamped with work and so are the children, even at this young age. There’s a lack of play, music and art in the classroom because of the intensive curriculum. It used to be mandatory for every kindergarten teacher to know how to play the piano, song and music was an essential part of the class. We’ve since lost that, we don’t have any music in our classes anymore, and we have a short art period once a week.’ </span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;"> </span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;">‘Art and music should be the centre of education, that’s how children learn. Instead, they’re introducing ipads to children as early as five, it’s like handing over an adult’s toy in order to placate them, not to learn, they should be getting more time in nature, not sitting in front of a screen,‘ I replied. </span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;"> </span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;">‘You’re exactly right,’ ‘Guerrero smiled warmly. ‘This is a Title one school, meaning most of the children here come from some of the poorest backgrounds, some undocumented, and have to face harsh realities at a young age. There is a lot of trauma they carry. More art and music would be very healing and beneficial for them, not the pressure and restrictions they are under.’ </span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;">‘But,’ she sighed before leaving, ‘welcome to public school.’ </span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;">*</span></p><p><span style="color: #444444;"><span style="font-family: arial;"> </span><span style="font-family: arial;">I didn’t stay in ‘Guerrero’s class for long before they switched me to ‘Nieto’s first grade honours class. There I was to supervise the students’ PE time on the yard, come up with activities for them, and assist in the class for three hours a day. </span></span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;"> </span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;">On my first PE shift, I came up with the idea of rainbow obstacle course, where they would learn the colours of the rainbow through doing an obstacle course. I carefully placed different coloured hula hoops, each a colour of the rainbow, cones and other multi-coloured plastic circles around the part of the yard we would be using. When I introduced it, the students all screamed in excitement, even though they didn’t know what it was yet. </span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;"> </span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;">Despite the fighting amongst each other, being inundated with technology in the classroom, and the circumstances they may be facing at home, the energy and creativity of the children at this school was infectious. They would take a seemingly mundane item, and turn it into the most fascinating piece of material. A paperclip would become a work of art. A branch with leaves, a kite or a wand. It started to descend upon me that this school was a special place, there was magic here, and the yard was the centre of it. </span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;"> </span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;">In Child Development there is a term used called Nature Deficit Disorder. It is a recently created term, describing how children these days are spending less time in nature than they have in the past, leading to more behavioural problems. I could see this in the kids. The increase in conflict and fighting amongst themselves and with the teacher, but also the thirst for a connection with nature. And the moments they got on the yard were priceless. </span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;"> </span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;">A small yellow flower growing out of a crack in the wall would invoke wonder and curiosity. When one child asked a passing grown up what plant this was, he said, ‘a weed,’ and continued walking. Another boy, Angel, who was around ten, would come up to me every recess and talk about the different types of clouds in the sky that day. He knew all the names, stratus, cirrus, cumulus … all of which I learned from him. He told me he was from Guatemala, and that his family had migrated here when he was three. </span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;">Most of the children at the school were from families who emigrated from Mexico or Central and South America. I found it odd that at a school with mostly immigrant families, the children were forced to say the pledge of allegiance every morning. They would line up on the yard, while the principal spoke loudly into a microphone. I remember my one year in public school, where we rose to the flag and placed our hands over our hearts. I always kept mine idly by my side, mouth shut. </span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;">*</span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;">More and more the magic of the yard started to unfold. The wind seemed to be dancing through the yard, playing with the children. There was a swirl of fallen, windswept leaves making a perfect circle that the children chased after gleefully. On one occasion Angel, pointed to the sky where the cloud was cast over the sun. ‘Did you know when you see the rays of the sun like that coming out from the clouds, it means God is present?’ he said to me. I had no words. I stared at the giant cloud and rays of sun in the sky and for a moment I didn’t know where I was. </span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;"> </span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;">As the days went by, I too started to feel God’s presence here. The wind seemed to follow me, almost like it was guiding me. I saw incredible colours in the clouds, surreal pinks and turquoises, like the inside of an abalone shell. </span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;">*</span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;">The revelation came to me one day, when I was trying to get Nieto’s class to line up on the white line, as they were supposed to, after the teacher assistants blew their whistles sharply, signalling that recess was over. I’ve always had a hard time with discipline, ever since I was young. I was never disciplined as a child and so instinctively prevented myself from inflicting this on anyone else. I flinched at the harshness of other TAs and teachers towards the children, the restricting of their free movement, the censoring of their expression, the policing of their bodies. I found creative ways to try and have them line up neatly in a row on the solid white line, but nothing seemed to be very effective. Until one day, when there was one of those large, winged mosquito eaters that look like giant mosquitos themselves, but are harmless. It was in one of the plots where an oak tree was growing. Some of the children were fidgeting with it. I immediately picked it up, out of the reach of the children to prevent them from harming it. I placed it gently in the palm of my hand, and the kids stood on their tip toes to peer over at it. I brought it to the front of the solid white line and said, ‘everyone must line up before I can show you the mosquito eater.’ In less than a nanosecond all seventeen children were in perfect formation. I passed by each child, carefully showing them the mosquito eater, which they intently looked at with awe, eagerness and curiosity. </span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;">How powerful nature is, I thought to myself. How much we can solve with just one little mosquito eater, imagine what else we can do.</span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;"> </span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;">These children were starving to learn beneath the weight of a curriculum that imposed itself on them and didn’t meet their needs. They wanted to learn about life, for life excites life! </span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;"> </span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;">I started bringing in things to show the children on the yard. The shedded skin of a praying mantis and grasshopper, a perfectly intact fluorescent green Junebug, a book on trees, magnifying glasses to observe with, and coloured pencils and paper for them to draw with. </span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;"> </span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;">At first, I introduced these items just to ‘Nieto’s class, but then more and more children started gathering around, against the school rules. I would show them how to place the praying mantis or grasshopper skin delicately on the palm of their hand. They would pass it along with the utmost care, reverently and with precision, something I was surprised to see in school-age children. </span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;">‘This is the exoskeleton of a praying mantis. We have our skeleton on the inside, but this insect has its skeleton on the outside. When it needs to grow bigger, it sheds its skeleton kind of like the way we grow out of our old clothes and need new ones.’ I explained. </span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;"> </span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;">Soon children started coming up to me, showing me their findings on the yard. An empty wasp nest that had fallen, a ladybug. One boy made a home for a family of ladybug larva out of a sheet of paper. There were tons of ladybugs on the yard, we would observe them with our magnifying glasses, count their spots and do math problems with them. ‘If one side of the lady bug’s wings has 5 spots, knowing that the wings are symmetrical, how many spots does it have altogether?’ I would ask. </span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;"> </span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;">Every time I arrived on the yard, children would leave their assigned play areas and surround me, almost toppling me over with excitement. ‘Do you have the book on trees? Can we have the magnifying glasses? Can I look at the grasshopper and praying mantis again?’ They would ask. </span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;"> </span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;">One time, just when I finished showing a group of children the green Junebug in the jar, another one flew above us, all the children put their hands in the air, and tried to reach towards it. </span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;"> </span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;">Something was happening on the yard, a synergy was being created. A transformation that was palpable. A deep connection with nature was being fostered and a new type of learning, outside of the classrooms, was blooming. That was until Moon came into the picture. </span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;"> </span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;">***End of Part I***</span></p><p><span style="color: #783f04; font-family: arial;">Response to the workshop</span></p><p><span style="color: #b45f06; font-family: arial;">The Out of Print Workshop on the Infinite Soul's farm and retreat was a truly magical experience. Being surrounded by nature and getting to immerse myself in sharing and critiquing work for an uninterrupted period of time in that beautiful and serene space was a unique and rare gift. </span></p><p><span style="color: #b45f06; font-family: arial;">Indira and Zui were the kindest and most welcoming, as were her family, who treated everyone like family, and treated us to the most delicious, homemade food. By the end of it, even though it was only a couple of days, strong bonds had been formed and friendships made. </span></p><p><span style="color: #b45f06; font-family: arial;">After the workshop was over, I was able to get the ongoing support of Zui in the editing process of my submitted piece, which helped my writing so much and brought me closer to crystalising the vision I had for the piece.</span></p><div><br /></div><div><br /></div>Indira Chandrasekharhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03573621384719821695noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5672570534782963438.post-34070819492315250812023-10-02T12:11:00.003+05:302023-10-02T12:30:56.233+05:30THE KODAIKANAL GANDHI PRIZE 2023<p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><b> Announcing the Kodaikanal Gandhi Prize for 2023</b></span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><b><br /></b></span></p><p>On Gandhi’s 134th birth anniversary, <a href="https://kslitfest.com/?mc_cid=9d9e753af4&mc_eid=aff2b8915e" target="_blank">The Khushwant Singh Literary Festival</a>’s <a href="https://kslitfest.com/joy-of-learning/" target="_blank">Joy of Learning</a> program, the <a href="https://gandhipeace.foundation/" target="_blank">Gandhi Peace Foundation</a> and the literary journal <a href="https://www.outofprintmagazine.co.in/" target="_blank"><i>Out of Print</i></a> are pleased to announce the fourth edition of the <a href="https://outofprintmagazine.blogspot.com/2022/08/the-kodaikanal-gandhi-prize.html" target="_blank">Kodaikanal Gandhi Prize</a>, which aims to increase awareness amongst our young people of the life and work of Mahatma Gandhi in promoting the values of humanity, compassion, democracy, non-violence and truth-telling.</p><p>The competition invites entries in the form of a written or multimedia presentation from across India, and is open to students aged 16 to 18. </p><p>The prize-winners will be announced in 2024, on March 12, which marks the start of Gandhi’s historic Dandi Salt March in 1930.</p><p>Details of the competition are listed below. They may also be viewed at this <a href="https://drive.google.com/file/d/1h0Md1woHRbjsqctbYjvIs2rlZ-vRBY_B/view?usp=drive_link" target="_blank">link</a>.</p><p>The <a href="https://drive.google.com/file/d/1QDxVWGs0jAKQO6z5FAvixRN6bIHEw4vK/view?usp=drive_link" target="_blank">Entry Form</a> for registering and participating in the competition may be downloaded <a href="https://drive.google.com/file/d/1QDxVWGs0jAKQO6z5FAvixRN6bIHEw4vK/view?usp=drive_link" target="_blank">here</a>.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><u><span style="color: #7f6000;"><b><br /></b></span></u></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><u><span style="color: #7f6000;"><b><br class="Apple-interchange-newline" />THE KODAIKANAL GANDHI PRIZE 2023</b></span></u></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><u><span style="color: #7f6000;"><b><br /></b></span></u></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><u><span style="color: #7f6000;"><b>Announcement and Rules</b></span></u></div></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><span style="color: #0000ee;"><u><br /></u></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><span style="color: #0000ee;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgavZqSzLSgfMztKTYux5aReymGwRH9nv0_VUaHFJNOwrdsHuH7uqLHxLHuUIrbTmyzEYh3db2Yt_a-kgL7_GXqg66HZB9LrmrD-TxkQKTWwyc1UVlr2_Z5RDzhpQuuyeWnkj5P4PszG-H0Oz0655pFmfMK89EIdNGwnGq6PdB4gr2rUANmN5tWdNyjkHQ/s820/Gandhi%20pic%201.png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="224" data-original-width="820" height="109" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgavZqSzLSgfMztKTYux5aReymGwRH9nv0_VUaHFJNOwrdsHuH7uqLHxLHuUIrbTmyzEYh3db2Yt_a-kgL7_GXqg66HZB9LrmrD-TxkQKTWwyc1UVlr2_Z5RDzhpQuuyeWnkj5P4PszG-H0Oz0655pFmfMK89EIdNGwnGq6PdB4gr2rUANmN5tWdNyjkHQ/w400-h109/Gandhi%20pic%201.png" width="400" /></a></div><br /></span></div></div><div><div>The Kodaikanal Gandhi Prize aims to increase awareness amongst our young people of the life and work of Mahatma Gandhi in promoting the values of humanity, compassion, democracy, non-violence and truth-telling.</div><div><br /></div><div>The competition invites entries in the form of a written or multimedia presentation from across India, and is open to students aged 16 to 18. Submissions from younger contestants may be considered but will be held to the same standard.</div><div><br /></div><div>The last date of submission is <b>January 14, 2024</b>. </div><div>Prizes will be awarded on March 12, which marks the start of Gandhi’s historic Dandi Salt March.</div><div><br /></div><div>The top three submissions will be awarded prizes of: Rs. 15,000, Rs. 10,000, and Rs. 5000. A fourth prize of Rs. 5,000 for creative writing will also be awarded.</div><div><br /></div><div>Prize winning essays will be published in the journal, Out of Print.</div><div><br /></div><div>Rules: </div><div><br /></div><div>1.<span style="white-space: pre;"> </span><i>Registration.</i> To register for the contest, students must send in their names through their schools (principal or designated teacher) to savita@kslitfest.com by <b>November 30, 2023</b>. </div><div>Students wishing to enter independently may also write in directly to this email, giving their date of birth, name of school and grade. </div><div>Should the participating schools or students wish, prize organizers can provide students with a set of readings.</div><div><br /></div><div>2.<span style="white-space: pre;"> </span><i>Entry options.</i> Entries can be either written (essay, poem, short story, short play) or multimedia (graphic novel, video or power point).</div><div>The word limits for written entries: 1500 to 2,000 words</div><div>The page limits for graphic novels: 5 to10 pages</div><div>Time limit for a video or power-point presentation: 2.5 minutes</div><div><br /></div><div>3.<span style="white-space: pre;"> </span><i>Topics.</i> Students may choose to address any one or more of the three topics listed below:</div><div><br /></div><div><span style="color: #073763;">a.<span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Would a Gandhian today support a uniform civil code? If yes, what would s/he say should be its core approach or elements? If no, why not?</span></div><div><span style="color: #073763;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="color: #073763;">b.<span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>How might Gandhi have responded to the way elections are conducted today, looking at one or more of the following: (1) election financing; (2) campaign rhetoric; or (3) the election commission.</span></div><div><span style="color: #073763;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="color: #073763;">c.<span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Can the recently enacted reservation for women in parliament be considered Gandhian? Should it include Dalit and OBC quotas within it or should there be women’s quotas in existing Dalit and OBC reservation?</span></div><div><br /></div><div>Note for teachers and students: Entrants are encouraged to show knowledge of Gandhi’s writings or practice in relation to the topics above. They are also encouraged to look at Gandhi in his context and offer their own analysis of whether his opinions on the three topics are valid today.</div><div><br /></div><div>4.<span style="white-space: pre;"> </span><i>Submission.</i> Entries must be submitted on Turnitin by <b>5 pm on January 14, 2023</b>. Plagiarism is strictly prohibited and any entries found to have plagiarised are automatically disqualified. Students must properly reference any quotations.</div><div><br /></div><div>We seek your cooperation to encourage maximum participation. Please share this with your students, fellow educators, and others in your network. </div><div><br /></div><div>We look forward to welcoming your students to the competition!</div></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><p><br /></p><p><br /></p>Indira Chandrasekharhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03573621384719821695noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5672570534782963438.post-49939353611557617902023-08-22T08:37:00.007+05:302023-10-21T09:29:02.000+05:30Out of Print Writing Workshops <p><b><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: medium;">The Out of Print Short Story Workshops</span></b></p><p><span style="color: #45818e; font-family: helvetica;"><br />A</span><span style="color: #45818e; font-family: helvetica;">nnouncements of forthcoming workshops on social media</span></p><p><br /></p><p><span style="color: #990000; font-family: helvetica;"><b>August 19 and 20, 2023</b></span></p><p><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><b>Residential Workshop at Infinite Souls Farm</b></span></p><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: x-small;"><span face="-apple-system, "system-ui", "Segoe UI", Roboto, Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white;">First day -- discussed everything from that elusive 'shimmer' Joan Didion speaks of in her essay – after Orwells of the same name, 'Why I Write' to how each of us navigate translating our varied cerebral landscapes into the English language and written word.</span></span><div><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: x-small;"><br style="background-color: white;" /><span face="-apple-system, "system-ui", "Segoe UI", Roboto, Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white;">After a meal of sambar, breadfruit pallya, mango cheesecake somewhere in there – the intense experience of workshopping the short stories of five wonderful writers</span><br style="background-color: white;" /><a class="x1i10hfl xjbqb8w x6umtig x1b1mbwd xaqea5y xav7gou x9f619 x1ypdohk xt0psk2 xe8uvvx xdj266r x11i5rnm xat24cr x1mh8g0r xexx8yu x4uap5 x18d9i69 xkhd6sd x16tdsg8 x1hl2dhg xggy1nq x1a2a7pz notranslate _a6hd" href="https://www.instagram.com/bharathk6/" role="link" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; background-color: white; border-color: initial; border-style: initial; border-width: 0px; box-sizing: border-box; cursor: pointer; display: inline; list-style: none; margin: 0px; outline: none; padding: 0px; text-decoration-line: none; touch-action: manipulation;" tabindex="0">@bharathk6</a><span face="-apple-system, "system-ui", "Segoe UI", Roboto, Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white;"> </span><a class="x1i10hfl xjbqb8w x6umtig x1b1mbwd xaqea5y xav7gou x9f619 x1ypdohk xt0psk2 xe8uvvx xdj266r x11i5rnm xat24cr x1mh8g0r xexx8yu x4uap5 x18d9i69 xkhd6sd x16tdsg8 x1hl2dhg xggy1nq x1a2a7pz notranslate _a6hd" href="https://www.instagram.com/snaps_sketches_n_scribbles/" role="link" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; background-color: white; border-color: initial; border-style: initial; border-width: 0px; box-sizing: border-box; cursor: pointer; display: inline; list-style: none; margin: 0px; outline: none; padding: 0px; text-decoration-line: none; touch-action: manipulation;" tabindex="0">@snaps_sketches_n_scribbles</a><span face="-apple-system, "system-ui", "Segoe UI", Roboto, Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white;"> </span><a class="x1i10hfl xjbqb8w x6umtig x1b1mbwd xaqea5y xav7gou x9f619 x1ypdohk xt0psk2 xe8uvvx xdj266r x11i5rnm xat24cr x1mh8g0r xexx8yu x4uap5 x18d9i69 xkhd6sd x16tdsg8 x1hl2dhg xggy1nq x1a2a7pz notranslate _a6hd" href="https://www.instagram.com/haathikumari/" role="link" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; background-color: white; border-color: initial; border-style: initial; border-width: 0px; box-sizing: border-box; cursor: pointer; display: inline; list-style: none; margin: 0px; outline: none; padding: 0px; text-decoration-line: none; touch-action: manipulation;" tabindex="0">@haathikumari</a><span face="-apple-system, "system-ui", "Segoe UI", Roboto, Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white;"> </span><a class="x1i10hfl xjbqb8w x6umtig x1b1mbwd xaqea5y xav7gou x9f619 x1ypdohk xt0psk2 xe8uvvx xdj266r x11i5rnm xat24cr x1mh8g0r xexx8yu x4uap5 x18d9i69 xkhd6sd x16tdsg8 x1hl2dhg xggy1nq x1a2a7pz notranslate _a6hd" href="https://www.instagram.com/anushka_with_stories/" role="link" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; background-color: white; border-color: initial; border-style: initial; border-width: 0px; box-sizing: border-box; cursor: pointer; display: inline; list-style: none; margin: 0px; outline: none; padding: 0px; text-decoration-line: none; touch-action: manipulation;" tabindex="0">@anushka_with_stories</a><br style="background-color: white;" /><a class="x1i10hfl xjbqb8w x6umtig x1b1mbwd xaqea5y xav7gou x9f619 x1ypdohk xt0psk2 xe8uvvx xdj266r x11i5rnm xat24cr x1mh8g0r xexx8yu x4uap5 x18d9i69 xkhd6sd x16tdsg8 x1hl2dhg xggy1nq x1a2a7pz notranslate _a6hd" href="https://www.instagram.com/theactual1percent/" role="link" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; background-color: white; border-color: initial; border-style: initial; border-width: 0px; box-sizing: border-box; cursor: pointer; display: inline; list-style: none; margin: 0px; outline: none; padding: 0px; text-decoration-line: none; touch-action: manipulation;" tabindex="0">@theactual1percent</a><span face="-apple-system, "system-ui", "Segoe UI", Roboto, Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white;"> with Out of Print editor </span><a class="x1i10hfl xjbqb8w x6umtig x1b1mbwd xaqea5y xav7gou x9f619 x1ypdohk xt0psk2 xe8uvvx xdj266r x11i5rnm xat24cr x1mh8g0r xexx8yu x4uap5 x18d9i69 xkhd6sd x16tdsg8 x1hl2dhg xggy1nq x1a2a7pz notranslate _a6hd" href="https://www.instagram.com/zui.666/" role="link" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; background-color: white; border-color: initial; border-style: initial; border-width: 0px; box-sizing: border-box; cursor: pointer; display: inline; list-style: none; margin: 0px; outline: none; padding: 0px; text-decoration-line: none; touch-action: manipulation;" tabindex="0">@zui.666</a><span face="-apple-system, "system-ui", "Segoe UI", Roboto, Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white;">. From exploring intergenerational trauma to divine communications with the natural world, delving into these stories was absolutely thrilling.</span></span></div><div><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: x-small;"><br style="background-color: white;" /><span face="-apple-system, "system-ui", "Segoe UI", Roboto, Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white;">The evening was spent unwinding in discussion with </span><a class="x1i10hfl xjbqb8w x6umtig x1b1mbwd xaqea5y xav7gou x9f619 x1ypdohk xt0psk2 xe8uvvx xdj266r x11i5rnm xat24cr x1mh8g0r xexx8yu x4uap5 x18d9i69 xkhd6sd x16tdsg8 x1hl2dhg xggy1nq x1a2a7pz notranslate _a6hd" href="https://www.instagram.com/kirtanakumar/" role="link" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; background-color: white; border-color: initial; border-style: initial; border-width: 0px; box-sizing: border-box; cursor: pointer; display: inline; list-style: none; margin: 0px; outline: none; padding: 0px; text-decoration-line: none; touch-action: manipulation;" tabindex="0">@kirtanakumar</a><span face="-apple-system, "system-ui", "Segoe UI", Roboto, Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white;"> about her collection of short stories <i>Bangalore Blues</i>, and discussing voice, the city and the stories of characters that often times remain on the fringes.</span></span></div><div><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: x-small;"><br style="background-color: white;" /><span style="background-color: white;"><span face="-apple-system, system-ui, Segoe UI, Roboto, Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif">Next morning was a special treat with</span><span> </span></span><span><a href="https://www.instagram.com/indira_chandrasekhar/" target="_blank"><span style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; background-color: white; border-color: initial; border-style: initial; box-sizing: border-box; cursor: pointer; list-style: none; outline-color: initial; outline-width: initial; touch-action: manipulation;">@Indira</span>_C<span style="background-color: white;">handrasekhar</span></a></span><span face="-apple-system, "system-ui", "Segoe UI", Roboto, Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white;"> a<span>nd </span></span><span face="-apple-system, system-ui, Segoe UI, Roboto, Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif"><span style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; background-color: white; border-color: initial; border-style: initial; box-sizing: border-box; cursor: pointer; list-style: none; outline-color: initial; outline-width: initial; touch-action: manipulation;"><a href="https://www.instagram.com/james.brunner.92/" target="_blank">@James</a></span></span><span face="-apple-system, "system-ui", "Segoe UI", Roboto, Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white;"><span><a href="https://www.instagram.com/james.brunner.92/" target="_blank"> Brunner</a> s</span>peaking about the history of <i>Out of Print</i>, the nature of the short story, ways in which the participants could think about and develop their writing, and the possibilities for the future.</span></span></div><div><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: x-small;"><br style="background-color: white;" /><span face="-apple-system, "system-ui", "Segoe UI", Roboto, Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white;">The writers shared what they each got from the workshop.</span></span><div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="background-color: white; font-family: helvetica;"><br /></span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="background-color: white; font-family: helvetica;">Here's to the next and the next, thank you all for trusting us with your work.</span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="background-color: white; font-family: helvetica;"><br /></span></span></div><p><span style="font-size: x-small;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><a href="https://www.instagram.com/p/CwNYqXeyemC/?img_index=1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;" target="_blank"><img border="0" data-original-height="1080" data-original-width="1080" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEihnkyPq5xjjiABSWHEx8wzKRxaYEjiRQCNP0LGmIM-1zss0PPr9x90fNYlztZj7khxLRETdm4Oi-kLgTQ4lNcrQpoyWrSWLwTaf-I51CaH2zryeTRzlbRagkN1QtjywFLAHigIepbpSynu4S99ogXzWrVsh3yk5ZfqB32haT78XvGsIt5ZNP2jZwYDGog/w200-h200/workshop%201.jpg" width="200" /></a></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><a href="https://www.instagram.com/p/CwNYqXeyemC/?img_index=1" target="_blank">Out of Print Residential Workshop Infinite Souls Farm, August 19-20, 2023</a></span></div><span style="font-size: x-small;"><br /><span face="-apple-system, "system-ui", "Segoe UI", Roboto, Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white;"><br /></span></span><p></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;">#oofp10y #BangaloreBlues #polymorphism #pangea</span></span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><br /></span></span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="color: #990000; font-family: helvetica;"><a href="https://outofprintmagazine.blogspot.com/2023/10/out-of-print-worksop-at-infinite-souls.html">The stories by these five writers were published on the Out of Print blog.</a></span></span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><br /></span></span></p><p><span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><br /></span></span></p><p><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><br /></span></p></div></div>Indira Chandrasekharhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03573621384719821695noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5672570534782963438.post-66969042770730391972023-06-25T09:59:00.004+05:302023-06-25T10:23:26.306+05:30BOOK REVIEWS: Kuzhali Manickavel Reviewed by Rahael Mathews<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="color: #990000; font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;"><i>Conversations Regarding the Fatalistic Outlook of the Common Man</i> by Kuzhali Manickavel</span></div><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="color: #990000; font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;">Reviewed by <i>Out of Print</i> Editor Rahael Mathews</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="color: #444444; font-family: trebuchet;">Kuzhali Manickavel’s newest offering <i>Conversations Regarding the Fatalistic Outlook of the Common Man</i>, Blaft, 2022, is brimming with the zany mirth one has come to expect from the writer. The book is a collection of around forty dialogues between the writer and interlocuters both real and imagined. She has impassioned exchanges about the oddities of Bollywood cinema, frustrating government offices, and gender-neutral clothing for children. Despite how varied the subject of these conversations are, they are united by their freedom of spirit. There is an intimacy in the nonsensical nature of the dialogue, emotions fly freely in Manickavel’s writing. Her speakers laugh, and scream, and are exasperated with each other liberally and without shame. </span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="color: #444444; font-family: trebuchet;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="color: #444444; font-family: trebuchet;">The friendship between the author’s persona ‘K’ and ‘S’, who she dedicates the book to, is colourful and easy to relate to. Irreverent insouciance colours their banter, undeterred by the subject matter of the conversations. For instance, in ‘Baby You Can Drive My Green Volvo Lol Jk No You Can’t Fuck Off’, they recount a conversation K has with an old schoolmate, a confusion over the words ‘volvo’ and ‘vulva’. Despite the overly sarcastic tone of the episode, it carries an interesting observation on censoring everyday speech. K and S debate why women’s elbows might be ‘obscene and arrogant’ and the impossibility of keeping track of what words to use :</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="color: #444444; font-family: trebuchet;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="color: #444444; font-family: trebuchet;">S: Is ‘elbow’ an obscene and arrogant word too?</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="color: #444444; font-family: trebuchet;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="color: #444444; font-family: trebuchet;">K: Not sure. It might be if it’s a woman’s elbow.</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="color: #444444; font-family: trebuchet;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="color: #444444; font-family: trebuchet;">S: Uterus?</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="color: #444444; font-family: trebuchet;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="color: #444444; font-family: trebuchet;">K: Oh definitely. That’s definitely obscene and arrogant.</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="color: #444444; font-family: trebuchet;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="color: #444444; font-family: trebuchet;">S: Worse than fallopian tube? Way worse.</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="color: #444444; font-family: trebuchet;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="color: #444444; font-family: trebuchet;">S: This is very confusing. How are we supposed to know what words are obscene and arrogant? Is there a guidebook or something?</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="color: #444444; font-family: trebuchet;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="color: #444444; font-family: trebuchet;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="color: #444444; font-family: trebuchet;">Tone is something Manickavel has succeeded in crafting, her dialogues have almost an iconoclastic effect – they are unaffected by political correctness or guilt. Her speakers navigate somewhat flammable themes with the fatalism she alludes to in the absurd, and prolix title. On reading the book, this starts to make sense – her speakers move on from one revelation to the next without lingering too much. In ‘It’s Raining Babies in Bollywood Oh Wow!!!’, K consults several people on cinematic tropes and the elitism surrounding the appreciation of Bollywood cinema:</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="color: #444444; font-family: trebuchet;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="color: #444444; font-family: trebuchet;">S: You HAVE to write about how some people in this one number country watch Bollywood ironically. Write about how that’s a thing.</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="color: #444444; font-family: trebuchet;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="color: #444444; font-family: trebuchet;">K: That’s when you act like you like Bollywood but you actually don’t but you act like you do to prove how much you don’t. Right?</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="color: #444444; font-family: trebuchet;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="color: #444444; font-family: trebuchet;">S: Kinda.</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="color: #444444; font-family: trebuchet;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="color: #444444; font-family: trebuchet;">K: Why isn’t that called lying?</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="color: #444444;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="color: #444444;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="color: #444444; font-family: trebuchet;">The book contains a uncommon kind of social commentary which is to a degree, journalistic in its intention. Manickavel retells the history of Facebook and the internet strikes in Kashmir in fairy-tale format. In her pieces on the Niira Radia tapes and Warren Anderson, she superimposes her own nonsensical disquisition onto archival material – the effect is comical, but in places leans towards histrionic. The author’s intention is clever, and a fascinating way to embody a narrative voice, but the ease of conversation that is present in her other dialogues feels slightly forced in these excerpts. </span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="color: #444444; font-family: trebuchet;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="color: #444444; font-family: trebuchet;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="color: #444444; font-family: trebuchet;">Offered to the reader as a charming counter are Manickavel’s many dialogues with her niece ‘N’. Published originally as a column titled ‘Small Talk’ for The Swaddle, these imagined interactions are funny, sweet, and demonstrates a heart-warming acceptance of the absurd. N is proof of Manickavel’s skill in bringing memorable characters to life – the young girl is witty, asks countless questions, has a strange fascination for shoe-racks, and a badly hidden bloodlust. She is blunt, and a calmer complement to K, despite the absurd proclamations that constantly leave her mouth. The following excerpt from ‘Paruppu Keerai’ explains this relationship well:</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="color: #444444; font-family: trebuchet;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="color: #444444; font-family: trebuchet;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="color: #444444; font-family: trebuchet;">K: Still here I see.</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="color: #444444; font-family: trebuchet;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="color: #444444; font-family: trebuchet;">N: Amma sat with me and had tea.</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="color: #444444; font-family: trebuchet;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="color: #444444; font-family: trebuchet;">K: Your plate is all dried up and gross.</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="color: #444444; font-family: trebuchet;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="color: #444444; font-family: trebuchet;">N: Ya.</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="color: #444444; font-family: trebuchet;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="color: #444444; font-family: trebuchet;">K: You do realize that the longer you sit here the worse that’s going to taste.</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="color: #444444; font-family: trebuchet;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="color: #444444; font-family: trebuchet;">N: When are you going to die?</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="color: #444444; font-family: trebuchet;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="color: #444444; font-family: trebuchet;">K: What?</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="color: #444444; font-family: trebuchet;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="color: #444444; font-family: trebuchet;">N: What time you’re going to die.</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="color: #444444; font-family: trebuchet;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="color: #444444; font-family: trebuchet;">K: Why are you asking me that? Do you know something?</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="color: #444444; font-family: trebuchet;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="color: #444444; font-family: trebuchet;">N: I’m never going to die.</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="color: #444444; font-family: trebuchet;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="color: #444444; font-family: trebuchet;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="color: #444444; font-family: trebuchet;">In contrast to K’s dialogues with S at times, these interactions with N are not just nonsensical banter but feel rather astute. By embodying the voice of a child, Manickavel can address larger social issues and break them down in fascinating ways. In ‘The Dress’, she attempts to tackle genderfluid clothing for children: </span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="color: #444444; font-family: trebuchet;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="color: #444444; font-family: trebuchet;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="color: #444444; font-family: trebuchet;">K: Some people might not like him wearing a dress.</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="color: #444444; font-family: trebuchet;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="color: #444444; font-family: trebuchet;">N: Why?</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="color: #444444; font-family: trebuchet;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="color: #444444; font-family: trebuchet;">K: Because… well, some people might be like oh he’s a boy why is he wearing your dress?</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="color: #444444; font-family: trebuchet;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="color: #444444; font-family: trebuchet;">N: Because he doesn’t have a dress.</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="color: #444444; font-family: trebuchet;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="color: #444444; font-family: trebuchet;">K: Aadhi, you realize some people might say mean things to you? Or make fun of you? For wearing a dress?</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="color: #444444; font-family: trebuchet;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="color: #444444; font-family: trebuchet;">N: Who people?</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="color: #444444; font-family: trebuchet;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="color: #444444; font-family: trebuchet;">K: Like, I feel so many people. So so many people.</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="color: #444444; font-family: trebuchet;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="color: #444444; font-family: trebuchet;">N: I thought you said boys could wear dresses. Your friend wears dresses you said.</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="color: #444444; font-family: trebuchet;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="color: #444444; font-family: trebuchet;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="color: #444444; font-family: trebuchet;">There is no distance between the two in these dialogues, in fact in many places K assumes the more childlike position. Perhaps this is because the child’s persona is imagined, allowing for a compelling mix of whimsical chitchat and trenchant social criticism. In terms of form and language, it’s certainly a unique choice to make. </span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="color: #444444; font-family: trebuchet;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="color: #444444; font-family: trebuchet;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="color: #444444; font-family: trebuchet;">The vigour of <i>Conversations</i> certainly lies in its adroit manipulation of form. Manickavel’s work has previously been characterised as ‘<a href="https://helterskelter.in/2018/05/book-review-things-we-found-during-the-autopsy/" target="_blank">anti-fiction</a>’ for its intentional structural anarchy, and subversion of traditional fictional narrative, and <i>Conversations</i> is no different. The fragmentary, and to a degree, self-contained nature of each dialogue makes it possible for a reader to enter the narrative almost anywhere. George P Elliott in his essay for <i>The American Scholar</i> wrote that anti-fiction might contain an underlying story but will fracture it. He went on to write that anti-fiction 'forbids, ignores, or frustrates the reader's usual sympathies and antipathies' </span><span style="color: #444444; font-family: trebuchet; font-size: x-small;">(</span><span style="color: #444444; font-family: trebuchet; font-size: x-small;">1) </span><span style="color: #444444; font-family: trebuchet;">and instead links the reader with the narrator’s mind, wholly perplexing as it may be. The reader is offered a voyeuristic position in Manickavel’s book, an interloper privy to raw, personal exchanges. As P Michael Campbell wrote for <i>The New England Review</i>, this kind of bricolage structure conflates the reader and writer, creating an interactive piece of fiction. He writes that as readers, 'we help create the work we're reading- by reading it in our own way and by remembering only what we (willfully or unintentionally) choose.'</span><span style="color: #444444; font-family: trebuchet; font-size: x-small;">(2</span><span style="color: #444444; font-family: trebuchet; font-size: x-small;">)</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="color: #444444; font-family: trebuchet; font-size: x-small;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="color: #444444; font-family: trebuchet; font-size: x-small;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="color: #444444; font-family: trebuchet;">Memorable incidents are aplenty in this novel. Manickavel has somehow extracted both quiet communion and fierce advocacy from that simplest and most human of functions – talking. The singularity of her authorial voice and her irresistible glorification of the absurd ensures that <i>Conversations</i> is a book well worth stepping into again and again. </span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="color: #444444; font-family: trebuchet;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: x-small;"><b><br /></b></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">1. Elliott, George P ‘Fiction and Anti-Fiction’. <i>The American Scholar 47</i>, no. 3 (1978): 398–406.</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">2. Campbell, P Michael. ‘Interactive Fiction and Narrative Theory: Towards an Anti-Theory’. <i>New England Review</i> 10, no. 1 (1987): 76–84. </span></div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet;"><b>*</b></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet;"><b><br /></b></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div></div><blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0px 0px 0px 40px; padding: 0px; text-align: left;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="color: #134f5c; font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;"><b>Kuzhali Manickavel in <i>Out of Print</i></b></span></div></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="color: #134f5c; font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;"><b><i><br /></i></b></span></div></div><span style="font-size: medium;"><a href="https://www.outofprintmagazine.co.in/archive/sept_2010_issue/Manickavel.html" style="font-family: trebuchet;" target="_blank">This Is Us and This Is Us Outside</a><span style="color: #073763; font-family: trebuchet;">, </span><i style="color: #073763; font-family: trebuchet;"><a href="https://www.outofprintmagazine.co.in/archive/sept_2010_issue/index.html" target="_blank">Out of Print 1</a></i><span style="color: #073763; font-family: trebuchet;">, September 2010</span></span><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="color: #073763; font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;"><a href="http://www.outofprintmagazine.co.in/archive/june_2011_issue/Kuzhali_Manickavel_art.html" target="_blank">The Dolphin King</a>, <i><a href="http://www.outofprintmagazine.co.in/archive/june_2011_issue/index.html" target="_blank">Out of Print 4</a></i>, June 2011 </span></div></div><span style="font-size: medium;"><a href="http://www.outofprintmagazine.co.in/archive/march-2015-issue/kuzhali-manickavel_whore.html" style="font-family: trebuchet;" target="_blank">Whore</a><span style="color: #073763; font-family: trebuchet;">, </span><i style="color: #073763; font-family: trebuchet;"><a href="http://www.outofprintmagazine.co.in/archive/march-2015-issue/index.html" target="_blank">Out of Print 18</a></i><span style="color: #073763; font-family: trebuchet;">, March 2015 </span><br /></span></blockquote><blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0px 0px 0px 40px; padding: 0px; text-align: left;"><blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0px 0px 0px 40px; padding: 0px; text-align: left;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="color: #073763; font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;"><a href="http://www.outofprintmagazine.co.in/archive/march-2015-issue/kuzhali-manickavel_whore.html" target="_blank"><br /></a></span></div></div></blockquote></blockquote><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiBpIbB6pw51pVYvLsXLdTt8qqgYR-0ubkTM8CEPNawHjCD1_VrLfjX9EmBbkd2YLOh--L5Ll5RirEC48DN7F9PYPosiTTtGtJuCjypC5Kv_Zkabkump46EqMx5XXNWHkOaksmiRQwq5Oa_NDOxOa5a1xLY-udLTiGyW9yjKfhXOro62iINUUgBJiHlDPs/s1545/Cover%20Conversations.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1545" data-original-width="1000" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiBpIbB6pw51pVYvLsXLdTt8qqgYR-0ubkTM8CEPNawHjCD1_VrLfjX9EmBbkd2YLOh--L5Ll5RirEC48DN7F9PYPosiTTtGtJuCjypC5Kv_Zkabkump46EqMx5XXNWHkOaksmiRQwq5Oa_NDOxOa5a1xLY-udLTiGyW9yjKfhXOro62iINUUgBJiHlDPs/s320/Cover%20Conversations.jpeg" width="207" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgmWPnNImhtsuW1epzE4HsSZrjSesRudymF_7ClWq3jgxBDmEnXBvWbngl5IAuP1ubsG367wn-EDHy6PeAcIix1o0IyP-W8b4WwLCnyLntobLf7FPLtDltIEoDg90ubhluIvlvxKDXp2MsTYIpcX2_f0nBqxNR7KEHR1YtUaxbLJIYyYv2BTcHst4LWJ8I/s75/Cover%20Conversations.rev.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="75" data-original-width="75" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgmWPnNImhtsuW1epzE4HsSZrjSesRudymF_7ClWq3jgxBDmEnXBvWbngl5IAuP1ubsG367wn-EDHy6PeAcIix1o0IyP-W8b4WwLCnyLntobLf7FPLtDltIEoDg90ubhluIvlvxKDXp2MsTYIpcX2_f0nBqxNR7KEHR1YtUaxbLJIYyYv2BTcHst4LWJ8I/w200-h200/Cover%20Conversations.rev.jpeg" width="200" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: right;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="color: #bf9000;"><i><a href="https://www.blaft.com/products/conversations-regarding-the-fatalistic-outlook-of-the-common-man" style="font-family: trebuchet;" target="_blank">Conversations Regarding the</a> </i><a href="https://www.blaft.com/products/conversations-regarding-the-fatalistic-outlook-of-the-common-man" style="font-family: trebuchet; text-align: right;" target="_blank"><i>Fatalistic Outlook of a Common Man</i></a> <span style="font-family: trebuchet;">available at</span> <a href="https://www.blaft.com/products/conversations-regarding-the-fatalistic-outlook-of-the-common-man" style="font-family: trebuchet; text-align: right;" target="_blank">Blaft Publications, 2022.</a></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div></div></div>Indira Chandrasekharhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03573621384719821695noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5672570534782963438.post-19675589178857585932023-06-25T08:12:00.005+05:302023-06-25T10:25:20.096+05:30Book Reviews at Out of Print<p style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #073763; font-size: large;"><b>Book Reviews</b></span></p><p><br /></p><p><span style="color: #bf9000; font-size: medium;"><a href="http://outofprintmagazine.blogspot.com/2023/06/book-reviews-kuzhali-manickavel.html" target="_blank"><i>Conversations Regarding the Fatalistic Outlook of the Common Man</i> by Kuzhali Manickavel reviewed by <i>Out of Print</i> editor, Rahael Mathews</a></span></p><div><span style="color: #666666;">The book is a collection of around forty dialogues between the writer and interlocuters both real and imagined. She has impassioned exchanges about the oddities of Bollywood cinema, frustrating government offices, and gender-neutral clothing for children. Despite how varied the subject of these conversations are, they are united by their freedom of spirit. There is an intimacy in the nonsensical nature of the dialogue, emotions fly freely in Manickavel’s writing. Her speakers laugh, and scream, and are exasperated with each other liberally and without shame.</span></div><div><span style="color: #666666;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="color: #3d85c6;"><i>Conversations Regarding the Fatalistic Outlook of a Common Man</i>, Blaft Publications, 2022 available <a href="https://www.blaft.com/products/conversations-regarding-the-fatalistic-outlook-of-the-common-man" target="_blank">here</a>.</span></div><div><span style="color: #3d85c6;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="color: #3d85c6;"><br /></span></div>Indira Chandrasekharhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03573621384719821695noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5672570534782963438.post-47980744058483407392023-06-20T13:23:00.005+05:302023-06-20T13:27:45.720+05:30Premise: Amma by Bhargava Gade reviewed by Prashila Naik<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://www.outofprintmagazine.co.in/archive/december_2022_issue/bhargava-gade_amma.html" target="_blank">Amma</a> by Bhargava Gade</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">Reviewed by Prashila Naik</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">Bhargava Gade’s Amma is as much about the Appa or the father as it is about the mother. The protagonist is a young man, seething with anger which he is clearly using as a conduit to process his grief. He has his reasons for the rage. Perhaps one can also discern a tinge of guilt at not having asserted himself before: maybe things would have been different; maybe this grief and anger could have been channelled into something else, something more constructive.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">As I read through Gade’s tight but unapologetic writing, I could not help but wonder what the story would look like with a female protagonist. I don’t remember the last time I felt this way while reading a work of fiction. In this story, the protagonist’s gender puts him in a position where what he feels and wishes are in conflict with what is ‘expected’ of him. The expectations from a woman in a similar situation, would be different, given that the roles of men and women in the rituals are defined differently. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">Gade explores how it is difficult for a group of men, even if they are part of the same family, to really express themselves to each other and more importantly to support each other. Accusations and disappointments are not expressed in words but rather, through violence and rebellion. Again, this makes me think about how a female protagonist would have dealt with this.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">I did wish I would have liked to know a little more about the father. He comes across mostly in broad strokes and maybe that was the point of the story. Because fathers in broad strokes are, after all, found everywhere. But Gade’s expressive visual imagery makes up for this. The story, much like the stain the protagonist is trying to cover, pops out with every sentence, every word. There is also the very personal take on religion which blends into the anger and the guilt. The protagonist probably makes his peace, and how he does that might probably make another story. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJWhGPLXnuoQhZ7I4EyODhqRKF80ZEx3sYTnpFVzdXIOqME5LPeKezIe0HSEeKq5Bo8ftoEG8JvNeT387LQDw5kZz3cFppOKnAHHyBzgeqXVNzG-bQ9IEzagbQ39lIHalUAJ_1VVQ_vaAx-JoLFN0JLTPPIrY1krMAMVpVJdfvad_dzvNKCKCYyV181yM/s809/Out%20of%20Print%2047.Atul%20Dodiya%20copy.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="638" data-original-width="809" height="252" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJWhGPLXnuoQhZ7I4EyODhqRKF80ZEx3sYTnpFVzdXIOqME5LPeKezIe0HSEeKq5Bo8ftoEG8JvNeT387LQDw5kZz3cFppOKnAHHyBzgeqXVNzG-bQ9IEzagbQ39lIHalUAJ_1VVQ_vaAx-JoLFN0JLTPPIrY1krMAMVpVJdfvad_dzvNKCKCYyV181yM/s320/Out%20of%20Print%2047.Atul%20Dodiya%20copy.png" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">Read Bhargava Gade's ‘<a href="https://www.outofprintmagazine.co.in/archive/december_2022_issue/bhargava-gade_amma.html" target="_blank">Amma</a>’ in <a href="https://www.outofprintmagazine.co.in/index.html" target="_blank">Out of Print 48</a>, March 2023.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">Reviewer Prashila Naiks's story <a href="http://outofprintmagazine.co.in/archive/june_2018_issue/prashila-naik_the-monk.html" target="_blank">The Monk</a> appeared in <a href="http://outofprintmagazine.co.in/archive/june_2018_issue/index.html" target="_blank">Out of Print 31</a>, and ‘<a href="https://www.outofprintmagazine.co.in/prashila-naik_she-reminds-me-of-sunshine.html" target="_blank">She Reminds Me of Sunshine</a>’, in <a href="https://www.outofprintmagazine.co.in/index.html" target="_blank">Out of Print 48</a>.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"> </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;">#<a href="https://outofprintmagazine.blogspot.com/2018/07/premise.html" target="_blank">Premise</a></span></div><div><br /></div></div><p></p>Indira Chandrasekharhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03573621384719821695noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5672570534782963438.post-7660821067728959392023-06-12T18:15:00.003+05:302023-06-12T18:15:44.178+05:30Out of Print Writing Workshops<p style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #e69138; font-family: helvetica; font-size: large;">Out of Print Writing Workshops</span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #ea9999; font-family: helvetica; font-size: large;">17-18 June 2023</span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhFVAv6tDSGU49vhDG6GeKeNVlj1VI7K1Zd5TRHpQRwr-wZxHuKVPgFoASU-92wvRO8wns6YfjkkKwziY3YhMPKo6-x7MXzitLLSkV4XKN4abLa0p3k4BGGeCNVDjTkVkIKVCaE9hXZ1DSV158qp6kliY3LecoCfHsTgndA4ZALnkjr6iesGC5cqxL0/s1078/OofPWorkshop%20Infinite%20Souls%20Jun%2017%2018.1.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1076" data-original-width="1078" height="319" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhFVAv6tDSGU49vhDG6GeKeNVlj1VI7K1Zd5TRHpQRwr-wZxHuKVPgFoASU-92wvRO8wns6YfjkkKwziY3YhMPKo6-x7MXzitLLSkV4XKN4abLa0p3k4BGGeCNVDjTkVkIKVCaE9hXZ1DSV158qp6kliY3LecoCfHsTgndA4ZALnkjr6iesGC5cqxL0/s320/OofPWorkshop%20Infinite%20Souls%20Jun%2017%2018.1.png" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiXhGvFpjm8tzZGJ6kcNjbIhUjRYLaLK_DaW65Bg3_AUbrlbZ-GRCH8eVd00w3Yj_zr4torHq4Hx59l8SHwRDdxZFAEv60eDBFQCRqx9qOpWmjsRPsryBoJOyX7bWQLxDKapou9U10pOkH3xsqbVEf35fSwc-8W2uahZUPmk1l-snklxVrTsZDgB2cv/s1082/OofPWorkshop%20Infinite%20Souls%20Jun%2017%2018.2.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1074" data-original-width="1082" height="318" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiXhGvFpjm8tzZGJ6kcNjbIhUjRYLaLK_DaW65Bg3_AUbrlbZ-GRCH8eVd00w3Yj_zr4torHq4Hx59l8SHwRDdxZFAEv60eDBFQCRqx9qOpWmjsRPsryBoJOyX7bWQLxDKapou9U10pOkH3xsqbVEf35fSwc-8W2uahZUPmk1l-snklxVrTsZDgB2cv/s320/OofPWorkshop%20Infinite%20Souls%20Jun%2017%2018.2.png" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgIHHiuDRFc1s03cCgCZrWxvil7-3VrW-ca7dAerXseaJcGVQUyR8XApXBgW2wHFItd39-rH4M8N44MsOTjv8imRPClJ7omSUflyzCMT6X8BjfI0t-45FCn6peSgf0V7dM205VQsHFXX0Z1vG4AtlLKXaG6ZhyVmiF1LOCE06T6zGCOOXDil4mgtwR9/s1084/OofPWorkshop%20Infinite%20Souls%20Jun%2017%2018.3.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1078" data-original-width="1084" height="318" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgIHHiuDRFc1s03cCgCZrWxvil7-3VrW-ca7dAerXseaJcGVQUyR8XApXBgW2wHFItd39-rH4M8N44MsOTjv8imRPClJ7omSUflyzCMT6X8BjfI0t-45FCn6peSgf0V7dM205VQsHFXX0Z1vG4AtlLKXaG6ZhyVmiF1LOCE06T6zGCOOXDil4mgtwR9/s320/OofPWorkshop%20Infinite%20Souls%20Jun%2017%2018.3.png" width="320" /></a></div><br /><p><br /></p><p> </p><p><br /></p>Indira Chandrasekharhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03573621384719821695noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5672570534782963438.post-91710207101052136312023-03-12T21:40:00.008+05:302023-03-12T21:44:08.499+05:30The Kodaikanal Gandhi Prize 2022 - Radha Kumar<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><b>The Kodaikanal Gandhi Prize 2022</b></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><b><br /></b></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><b>Radha Kumar</b></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><b><br /></b></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><b><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhbXfGwjbOjEUBNukhqknXW0b5udhpeoQrFdpL3s33FFbkprPeT4BP0T73uGhrUUOk_uMmrZdXcewzqXze5wNdnZlf5DgQ-O8Lukz8rUc5v14WFi9k6RxSwHurX4R90AUaoVNsa9QkPRs2IplfoIOTtgZEzXtYFWY5BIECs-WRekgKCH-EwG7PM2ywq" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="192" data-original-width="363" height="106" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhbXfGwjbOjEUBNukhqknXW0b5udhpeoQrFdpL3s33FFbkprPeT4BP0T73uGhrUUOk_uMmrZdXcewzqXze5wNdnZlf5DgQ-O8Lukz8rUc5v14WFi9k6RxSwHurX4R90AUaoVNsa9QkPRs2IplfoIOTtgZEzXtYFWY5BIECs-WRekgKCH-EwG7PM2ywq=w200-h106" width="200" /></a></div><br /></b></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">2022 was the third year of the Kodaikanal Gandhi Prize, a competition for schoolchildren in classes 9 to 12. Founded by myself and members of the Kodaikanal Fellowship Library in 2019, the prize aimed to revive knowledge about and interest in Gandhi’s political ethos and action, at a time when both appeared particularly salient. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">This third edition of the prize was hosted by the Khushwant Singh Literary Festival’s Joy of Learning program. Beginning with participation from around a dozen schools in 2019, the prize attracted the participation of 52 schools in 2022, a majority of which belonged to the Delhi Public School family. I believe I speak for all the judges – Indira Chandrasekhar of the literary journal Out of Print, a co-sponsor of the prize, writer and analyst Bernard Imhasly, Ramin Jahanbegloo, Gandhian philosopher and head of the Jindal university’s Gandhi Studies Centre, journalist and founder of the KSLF, Rahul Singh, and myself – when I say that we were delighted to find that so many of our young believed in the Indian enlightenment values that lay at the core of the independence movement and the constitution of the republic. Their views gave us hope when so many of our citizens appeared to have succumbed to chauvinism, cynicism or falsehood.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">As one of two judges that have been constant through the three iterations of the prize, I was interested to find that this year, a large number of entries focused on exclusion and social discrimination, especially against scheduled tribes. The other major theme of entries was individual rights, especially of women. By comparison, the 2021 entries focused on citizenship and farmers’ rights, two key social movements that dominated 2020, along with handling of the Covid-19 pandemic that swept India and the world. The 2020 entries, in contrast to 2021 and 2022, focused on local aspirations and inequities; the bulk of participating schools that year were in Tamil Nadu. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">Our 2022 prize winners are mostly writers, both essayists and story tellers, though several multimedia presentations received honourable mentions. As in previous years, the judges found it very difficult to judge between our top twenty entries. Once again, we had to split the prizes to give two firsts, two seconds, two thirds, and two prizes for creative expression, along with four honourable mentions. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">One of the gifts of judging the prize is the insights entries offer into the hearts and minds of a few hundred of India’s young. Over the past three years, I have been passionately moved and often forced to step back and think by ideas that have leapt off the page, or screen, as I went through entries. In 2020, I was impressed by the raw statement of many of the entries. My overwhelming 2022 impression is one of grace. Not only our winners, but the enormous majority of entries, made their points gently while not compromising. Taken together, they offered a reflection of our times that is both hopeful and tempered with doubt or sorrow. I hope that readers will find the <a href="http://outofprintmagazine.blogspot.com/2023/03/the-kodaikanal-gandhi-prize-2022-prize.html" target="_blank">linked prize-winning entries</a> as rich a food for thought as I did.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br /></div></div><p></p>Indira Chandrasekharhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03573621384719821695noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5672570534782963438.post-66239623860111092023-03-12T12:36:00.011+05:302023-03-12T21:50:23.394+05:30The Kodaikanal Gandhi Prize 2022 - The Prize Winners<p style="text-align: center;"><b><span style="color: #990000; font-size: medium;">The prize winners of the Kodaikanal Gandhi Prize 2022</span></b></p><p style="text-align: center;"><b><span style="color: #990000;"><br /></span></b></p><p><br /></p><p></p><p style="text-align: right;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiJVAAhAsEgMAVwYGzrjBm9FZ6i7cjY2vtZYHdd1Wy4gg7aPEdNKJYOez0WSLXqWVV9-X3IbwB9hVKAiZKZ_mkMe5QCwHr5XCTmYJ2ECpYLEDwK_YF0icXaOGkTkDUyTknwCxgzzN8_j3H5M4O0lzXuOKIFR6qA-rvBR5NXDpUwnZ92ppsd6KANl5Zj" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em; text-align: center;"><img alt="" data-original-height="192" data-original-width="363" height="106" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiJVAAhAsEgMAVwYGzrjBm9FZ6i7cjY2vtZYHdd1Wy4gg7aPEdNKJYOez0WSLXqWVV9-X3IbwB9hVKAiZKZ_mkMe5QCwHr5XCTmYJ2ECpYLEDwK_YF0icXaOGkTkDUyTknwCxgzzN8_j3H5M4O0lzXuOKIFR6qA-rvBR5NXDpUwnZ92ppsd6KANl5Zj=w200-h106" width="200" /></a></p><span style="font-size: medium;"><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;">It is with tremendous pride and humility that </span><i>Out of Print </i>publishes the winners and honorable mention entries of the <a href="http://outofprintmagazine.blogspot.com/2022/08/the-kodaikanal-gandhi-prize.html" target="_blank">Kodaikanal Gandhi Prize 2022</a>, on this historic day, March 12th, the day of the commencement of the Dandi Salt Satyagraha by Mahatma Gandhi.</div><div style="text-align: right;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">A <a href="http://outofprintmagazine.blogspot.com/2023/03/the-kodaikanal-gandhi-prize-2022.html" target="_blank">comment on the Prize by its founder, Radha Kumar</a> sets a context for this years entries:</div><div style="text-align: left;">'<span><span style="color: #b45f06;">My overwhelming 2022 impression is one of grace. Not only our winners, but the enormous majority of entries, made their points gently while not compromising. Taken together, they offered a reflection of our times that is both hopeful and tempered with doubt or sorrow.</span>'</span></div></span><p><br /></p><p><b>THE PRIZE WINNERS</b></p><p>First Prize (shared)</p><p></p><ul style="text-align: left;"><li><a href="http://outofprintmagazine.blogspot.com/2023/03/kodaikanal-gandhi-prize-2022-first_12.html" target="_blank"><b>Mehuli Goswami</b></a></li></ul><p></p><p><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span>DPS Navi Mumbai<span style="white-space: pre;"> </span></p><p></p><ul style="text-align: left;"><li><a href="http://outofprintmagazine.blogspot.com/2023/03/kodaikanal-gandhi-prize-2022-first.html" target="_blank"><b>Havisha Singh</b></a></li></ul><p></p><p><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span>DPS Chandigarh</p><p><br /></p><p>Creative Expression (shared)</p><p>Awarded by the literary journal <i>Out of Print</i></p><p></p><ul><li><b><a href="http://outofprintmagazine.blogspot.com/2023/03/kodaikanal-gandhi-prize-2022-prize-for_12.html" target="_blank">Siddhi Deshmukh</a></b></li></ul><p></p><p><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span>MAYO COLLEGE GIRL’S SCHOOL, Ajmer<span style="white-space: pre;"> </span></p><p></p><ul><li><a href="http://outofprintmagazine.blogspot.com/2023/03/kodaikanal-gandhi-prize-2022-prize-for.html" target="_blank"><b>Insha Parvez</b></a></li></ul><p></p><p><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span>MODY SCHOOL, Lakshmangarh</p><p><br /></p><p>Second Prize (shared)</p><p></p><ul style="text-align: left;"><li><a href="http://outofprintmagazine.blogspot.com/2023/03/kodaikanal-gandhi-prize-2022-second_12.html" target="_blank"><b>Aashi Uppal</b></a></li></ul><p></p><p><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span>DPS Ludhiana</p><p></p><ul style="text-align: left;"><li><a href="http://outofprintmagazine.blogspot.com/2023/03/kodaikanal-gandhi-prize-2022-second.html" target="_blank"><b>Gunika Beriwal</b></a></li></ul><div><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span>SCHOOL</div><p></p><p><br /></p><p>Third Prize (shared)</p><p></p><ul style="text-align: left;"><li><a href="http://outofprintmagazine.blogspot.com/2023/03/kodaikanal-gandhi-prize-2022-third_12.html" target="_blank"><b>Aanvi Malpani</b></a></li></ul><p></p><p><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span>DPS NOIDA</p><p></p><ul style="text-align: left;"><li><b><a href="http://outofprintmagazine.blogspot.com/2023/03/kodaikanal-gandhi-prize-2022-third.html" target="_blank">Soham Jindal</a></b></li></ul><p></p><p><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span>DPS NOIDA</p><p><br /></p><p><b>HONOURABLE MENTIONS</b></p><p></p><ul style="text-align: left;"><li><a href="http://outofprintmagazine.blogspot.com/2023/03/kodaikanal-gandhi-prize-2022-honourable_51.html" target="_blank"><b>Pranvi Khare</b></a></li></ul><p></p><p><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span>NEEV ACADEMY, Bangalore</p><p></p><ul style="text-align: left;"><li><a href="http://outofprintmagazine.blogspot.com/2023/03/kodaikanal-gandhi-prize-2022-honourable_77.html" target="_blank"><b>Adrija</b></a></li></ul><p></p><p><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span>DPS, HISAR</p><p></p><ul style="text-align: left;"><li><b><a href="http://outofprintmagazine.blogspot.com/2023/03/kodaikanal-gandhi-prize-2022-honourable_12.html" target="_blank">Gurparas Singh</a></b></li></ul><p></p><p><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span>BRITISH COED HIGH SCHOOL, PATIALA</p><p></p><ul style="text-align: left;"><li><a href="http://outofprintmagazine.blogspot.com/2023/03/kodaikanal-gandhi-prize-2022-honourable.html" target="_blank"><b>Raghav Tiwari</b></a></li></ul><div><span> </span><span> </span><span> DPS, NOIDA</span><br /></div><p></p><div><br /></div><p><br /></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiJVAAhAsEgMAVwYGzrjBm9FZ6i7cjY2vtZYHdd1Wy4gg7aPEdNKJYOez0WSLXqWVV9-X3IbwB9hVKAiZKZ_mkMe5QCwHr5XCTmYJ2ECpYLEDwK_YF0icXaOGkTkDUyTknwCxgzzN8_j3H5M4O0lzXuOKIFR6qA-rvBR5NXDpUwnZ92ppsd6KANl5Zj" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="192" data-original-width="363" height="169" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiJVAAhAsEgMAVwYGzrjBm9FZ6i7cjY2vtZYHdd1Wy4gg7aPEdNKJYOez0WSLXqWVV9-X3IbwB9hVKAiZKZ_mkMe5QCwHr5XCTmYJ2ECpYLEDwK_YF0icXaOGkTkDUyTknwCxgzzN8_j3H5M4O0lzXuOKIFR6qA-rvBR5NXDpUwnZ92ppsd6KANl5Zj" width="320" /></a></div><div><br /></div><br /><br /><p></p>Indira Chandrasekharhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03573621384719821695noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5672570534782963438.post-52732623978085327822023-03-12T12:17:00.000+05:302023-03-12T12:17:19.728+05:30Kodaikanal Gandhi Prize 2022, First Prize - Mehuli Goswami<p style="text-align: center;"><b><span style="font-family: times; font-size: medium;">The Kodaikanal Gandhi Prize 2022</span></b></p><p style="text-align: center;"><b><span style="font-family: times; font-size: medium;">First Prize </span></b></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"></span></p><p style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; color: black; font-family: Times; font-size: medium; font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-weight: 400; letter-spacing: normal; orphans: 2; text-align: center; text-decoration-color: initial; text-decoration-style: initial; text-decoration-thickness: initial; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; widows: 2; word-spacing: 0px;"><b><span style="font-family: times; font-size: medium;">(shared)</span></b></p><p style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; color: black; font-family: Times; font-size: medium; font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-weight: 400; letter-spacing: normal; orphans: 2; text-align: center; text-decoration-color: initial; text-decoration-style: initial; text-decoration-thickness: initial; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; widows: 2; word-spacing: 0px;"><b><span style="font-family: times; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></b></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: times; font-size: medium;"><b>MEHULI GOSWAMI </b></span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: times; font-size: medium;"><b>Revisiting the Mahatma in the Age of Polarisation</b></span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: times; font-size: medium;"><b><br /></b></span></p><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: times; font-size: medium;">Every page of the newspaper that I turn, fills my head with doubts and disappointments. Each page carries bold headlines etched like scars on paper, reporting instances of raging political extremism, intolerance, terrorism and callous hate speeches. Every morning my passive eyes scan through the pages and I purse my lips while my mind buzzes with thoughts of the grim reality and an over-darkened future. It makes me wonder if ‘leaders’ are becoming blind to the chaos ensuing in the world or if we are waiting for trouble to hit the roof till it’s time for action. These media reports showcase a clear reflection of our present society based on divisive affiliations devoid of humanity.</span></p><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: times; font-size: medium;">Somewhere amidst the hollow cries for rights, revolution and war, the essence of freedom and its subsequent responsibility lies forgotten. Activists, politicians, and citizens all raise a cry for individual liberty without first understanding that freedom is followed by immense responsibility. Everyone wants to claim his or her right to free speech, action and association without first determining their duties which are due to other fellow beings. This animalistic greed and absolutism are especially widespread in this era, attributes to easy access to the masses through the internet, revolutionised print media and numerous news channels. This stems from a place of collective insecurity where the only path of survival is by trampling upon your brethren. In India, it is evident by way of increased communal disharmony, militancy, hate speech, religious fundamentalism, fake news and majoritarian party politics.</span></p><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: times; font-size: medium;">The present social and political situation in our country reminds me of a great mind who claimed that individual rights and civil liberties must go hand in hand with societal harmony. With two World Wars fought in his lifetime, his revolutionary ideas of non-violence and satyagraha, seemed like an anachronism to an age drunk on retaliatory violence, mass destruction and brutal suppression. The ‘naked fakir’ as he was called in the West, held civil rights and individual liberty to the highest esteem, pioneering a nationalist movement based on the search for truth and non-violence. Mohandas Karamchand Gandhi or the ‘Mahatma’ a name given by Rabindranath Tagore has left behind a crucial legacy affirming individual rights and liberties, which can be interpreted as a distinct message in today’s day and age.</span></p><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: times; font-size: medium;">Gandhiji said, ‘Freedom of speech and civil liberty, are the very roots of Swaraj. Without these the foundations of Swaraj will remain weak’. His unequivocal stance on these issues guided his non-violent struggle against colonial rule in twentieth-century India. As maintained by Gandhiji, the ideas of freedom, rights, duties and responsibility on the individual level were tributaries to the intangible river of Swaraj. For Gandhiji, the notion of Swaraj was interlinked to Satyagraha or the truth force, since it was the only means through which the masses could reclaim their rights and perform their duties. According to Mahatma Gandhi, ‘Swaraj’ or self-rule was a dual doctrine where the individual is granted autonomy and liberty to search for truth and take responsibility for various civil duties while the nation, as a whole, salvages its independence from foreign imperialism and establishes self-governance. Therefore, ‘Swaraj’, as described by Gandhiji, was not only comprised of self-governance but was based on the principles of a constantly evolving individual having an immense capacity for dispassionate self-assessment, self-reliance and self-mastery. Gandhiji proclaimed, ‘In the democracy that I have envisaged ... there will be equal freedom for all. Everybody will be his own master.’ For the Mahatma, freedom for each individual irrespective of his or her gender, social background, economic status, religious affiliation or ethnicity, was extremely vital. He observed, ‘Real Swaraj (freedom) will come, not by the acquisition of authority by a few, but by the acquisition of the capacity by all to resist authority when abused’. This magnanimous statement rings especially true when contrasted with the contemporary social and political scenario in India, where the rule of the majority seems to be drowning out the persistent whispers of the minority. </span></p><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: times; font-size: medium;">The Indian democratic framework, although based on the guiding principles of equality, freedom and secularism, is progressively shifting towards a more majoritarian approach. Instances of violence and virulence on communal lines have been increasing, ranging from the mass exodus of Kashmiri Pandits, the 2002 Gujarat Riots, to the recent incident where government officials tore down the homes of Muslim rioters when a clash broke out between Hindu and Muslim groups in Madhya Pradesh, the alleged use of spy software against politicians, the peremptory exercise of the colonial sedition statute and cursory hate speeches aimed at hurting religious sentiments. It has been quoted in the book named The Mahatma, Vol VI, ‘The rule of majority does not mean that it should suppress the opinion of even an individual if it is sound. The opinion of an individual should have greater weight than the opinion of many, if that opinion is sound on merits. That is my view of real democracy.’</span></p><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: times; font-size: medium;">Although, Gandhiji emphasised a stateless democratic society, for him tyranny of the majority was never a solution. The emphasis on the individual was so great in his philosophy that the opinion of the masses ranked lower than that of a person. Gandhian principles, therefore focus on the individual as the central driving force for all change achieved through persistent Satyagraha. Gandhiji mentioned in Young India, ‘The rule of majority has a narrow application, i.e., one should yield to the majority in matters of detail. But it is slavery to be amenable to the majority, no matter what its decisions are. Democracy is not a state in which people act like a sheep. Under democracy, individual liberty of opinion and action is jealously guarded. I therefore, believe that the minority has a perfect right to act differently from the majority.’</span></p><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: times; font-size: medium;">Gandhiji believed that freedom of speech, action, and association were the life force of a pluralistic and democratic society such as India. However, the exercise of these rights to suppress the voices of another was diametrically opposite to his philosophy. If the right to free speech or expression of one individual curtails the rights of another individual, it is not freedom at all but archaic and subtle domination. In this context, according to Gandhian philosophy, freedom is akin to a flimsy eye-wash attempting to cover up its absence and inadequacy. </span></p><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: times; font-size: medium;">Gandhiji led by example and propagated that banning certain destructive elements did not justify the elimination of rights or the vehement slaughter of human beings. He believed that prohibition must take place through constructive persuasion and gradual change in mentality rather than through coercive measures. M.K. Gandhi observed in Young India, ‘We must patiently try to bring round the minority to our view by gentle persuasion and argument.’</span></p><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: times; font-size: medium;">On the other hand, Mahatma Gandhi was against the formation of an autocratic minority who would ignore the needs and aspirations of the people to further their fanatic objectives. The solution to the limitations of a democratic society was not the emergence of a despotic minority community in retaliation to aggressive majoritarianism. The minority in this context must act like an interjector to the pre-eminence of the majority without the abuse of violence, virulent speech or schismatic policies. The superiority of the majority over the minority is as undemocratic as the security of privileges of minority communities over the rights of the general public.</span></p><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: times; font-size: medium;">The Constitution of India grants to the citizens of India, the fundamental right to freedom of speech and expression under Article 19 (1)(a). It implies that all citizens of the country have the right to express their views, opinions, beliefs etc. freely by mouth, writing, printing or through any other means. Article 19(1)(b) and 19 (1)(g) guarantee to its citizen, the right to free assembly without arms, to form unions, and to practice any profession or reside in any part of the country respectively. Nevertheless, the Constitution provides the above-mentioned rights within the context of reasonable restrictions to ensure that individual rights do not interfere with national security and the well-being of other citizens. However, the prevailing scenario highlights the fact that the significance of these restrictions is lost to political leaders as well as ordinary citizens. These rights were granted to amicably discuss and put forward multitudinous prospects to embody the spirit of pluralistic Indian society. The prime objective of the makers of the Constitution was to ensure that the State does not override the needs and aspirations of its citizens and instead acts as a guardian ensuring all-around development and well-being. The ideas of free speech, action and opinion are taken for granted and often abused to further selfish and indifferent goals without any consideration for the harm they might cause to the sensibilities of other people. The use of free speech is essentially null and void if it is exerted to snatch away the freedom of another individual or manipulated to cause distress to a community. The manhandling of freedom of speech and expression has disastrous consequences for society witnessed in recent times through the commotion caused by careless remarks of leaders against religious figures. Therefore, as Gandhiji emphasised, simply claiming the right of free action, opinion or expression for oneself is devoid of any value if the same is not guaranteed to others. Raghavan Iyer, aptly observes the following lines in his book, The Moral and Political Thought of Mahatma Gandhi, ‘Gandhi equated freedom with self-rule because he wished to build into the concept of freedom the notion of obligation to others as well as to oneself while retaining the element of voluntariness that is the very basis of freedom. The notion of self-rule implies the voluntary internalisation of our obligation to others which will be obstructed by our placing ourselves at the mercy of our selfish desires.’ </span></p><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: times; font-size: medium;">Thus, in my modest opinion, although Gandhian ideals in present-day India seem utopian in comparison to our sombre reality, it is the perfect time to revisit his teachings and implement them in a renewed fashion. The exemplar Gandhian propositions of Satyagraha and Swaraj have been reduced to mere hypotheses without any practical application. Yet in these turbulent times with shifting geo-political strategies, internal turmoil, vote bank politics, and fake news, the ideas of Mahatma Gandhi are gaining importance. The use of rationalisation instead of force and individual Swaraj are the two ways to handle the rapid polarisation of Indian politics. </span></p><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: times; font-size: medium;">The lessons from the legacy of the Mahatma need to be re-learned and executed to temper the various evils prevailing in our society from sectarian politics, religious fundamentalism, abuse of Fundamental Rights of free speech and expression and rising intolerance. In conclusion, the essence and vitality of freedom of speech and action can be condensed in the following excerpt from Mahatma Gandhi’s speech at the Congress session in Ahmedabad in 1921, ‘This resolution is ... a humble and an irrevocable challenge to authority which in order to save itself wants to crush freedom of opinion and freedom of association – the two lungs that are absolutely necessary for a man to breathe the oxygen of liberty; and if there is any authority in this country that wants to curb the freedom of speech and freedom of association, I want to be able to say in your name, from this platform, that that authority will perish, unless it repents, before an India that is steeled with high courage, noble purpose and determination, even if every one of the men and women who choose to call themselves Indians is blotted out of the earth.’</span></p><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: times; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: times; font-size: medium;">MEHULI GOSWAMI</span></p><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: times; font-size: medium;">DPS, NAVI MUMBAI</span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><b><span style="font-family: times; font-size: medium;"></span></b></p><p style="text-align: center;"><br /></p>Indira Chandrasekharhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03573621384719821695noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5672570534782963438.post-70945359809701089342023-03-12T12:16:00.001+05:302023-03-12T12:16:40.249+05:30Kodaikanal Gandhi Prize 2022, First Prize - Havisha Singh<p style="text-align: center;"><b><span style="font-family: times; font-size: medium;">The Kodaikanal Gandhi Prize 2022</span></b></p><p style="text-align: center;"><b><span style="font-family: times; font-size: medium;">First Prize </span></b></p><p style="text-align: center;"><b><span style="font-family: times; font-size: medium;">(shared)</span></b></p><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; font-weight: bold; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: times;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><b><span style="font-family: times;">HAVISHA SINGH</span></b></div><div><span style="font-family: times;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: times;">‘Claiming the right of free opinion and free action as we do, we must extend</span></div><div><span style="font-family: times;">the same to others. The rule of majority when it becomes coercive is as intolerable</span></div><div><span style="font-family: times;">as that of a bureaucratic minority.’ (M.K. Gandhi, Young India, 26-1-1922). </span></div><div><span style="font-family: times;">Do these words have relevance in India today? Give examples.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: times;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: times;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: times;">Indian Independence heralded new values, ushering in a revolutionary transformation that declared democracy and gave its citizens the taste of political participation and freedom. M.K. Gandhi’s ‘practical idealism’ during the turbulent time and the radical ideologues of independence laid the groundwork for the pillars of fundamental rights. The constitution, guaranteeing the right to equality and freedom of expression, weaved the fragmented strands of the society into a unified nation and achieved what had seemed elusive before. But time isn’t linear, it’s circular. Earlier, we had to fight to get rights, now we have to fight to exercise them. Today, the question isn’t about the guarantee of freedom of speech and action, but about accessibility.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: times;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: times;">The prevailing politics that mask the importance of governance with ‘government’ are changing the coordinates of the country’s legal framework and judicature, which are now filled with complacent inertia and ignorance. It has led to a narrow and impoverished view that democracy is synonymous with majority rule. In a country whose history is rife with communal tensions and majority-minority conflicts, this ostensible view has further aggravated the existing inequality. The majority exploits the guaranteed fundamental rights, dissects them and gives the bare minimum to the people who do need it and will use it to shake the prevailing dormancy. The ones who will use them to deliberate matters of jurisprudence and push for reforms. Call it the slippery slope fallacy in favour of the people with economic advantage and political ties or the ubiquitous glass ceiling over the people with no assets but their voice, claiming the right of free opinion and action has always been limited to certain groups and often excluded the ones who demand change.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: times;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: times;">It is the despotism of the majority that is inimical to the protection of minorities. It gives rise to measures that enable certain groups to disenfranchise minorities from exercising their rights and sideline the associated normative problems. India has witnessed extreme incidents where majority rule has led to polarisation and bloodshed. Communism, linked with dogmatic ideals and religious fundamentalism of the majorities, weakened the country’s unity and led to partition. It inflamed the majority in Kashmir and consequently led to various communal tensions. The list of communal riots and massacres is long including the 1961 Jabalpur riots, 1969 Ahemdabad riots, 1984 Sikh riots, 1987 Meerut riots, 1989 Bhagalpur riots, 1992 Mumbai riots, 2002 Gujarat riots etc [1]. All these promoted majoritarian interests, fuelled a disturbing rise in intolerance and violence, and weakened the constitutional safeguards placed for the minorities.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: times;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: times;">India had developed a unique asymmetrical federal model that accommodated various ethnicities and diverse cultures. With the motto of ‘unity in diversity’, it sought to connect all with the spirit of nationalism. This nationalist sentiment recognised a sense of common identity among its citizens which would transcend group identities based on ‘caste, creed, and religion’ that divided them. However, this has been replaced with ethnocentrism in recent times. Changes in media have also fanned the flames of polarisation as biased and partisan-leaning outlets have become increasingly influential, at the expense of nonpartisan news sources. Social media, in many cases, amplifies these sources and has given rise to hate speech (especially against minorities) which spreads like wildfire. There has also been an increase in vigilante groups and mobs attacking minorities, activists, and human rights defenders, often with impunity. The number of people charged with sedition by the government is on the rise as the difference between government criticism (when people voice their concerns and exercise their right to freedom of speech and expression) and contempt towards the government becomes increasingly blurred. It is, again, majoritarianism that routinely allows the government to run amok in passing laws or enforcing them at will. It has led to a system that combines elements of majoritarianism and federalism which is likely to trigger a host of political and constitutional crises. These propensities lead to misuse of power, marginalisation of minorities and cement polarisation instead of overcoming it. There has also been a rise of divisive political leadership, competitive caste politics and political hegemony; all of which have politically manipulated social divisions in an already fragmented society. It can be seen in various instances that even different levels of courts don’t weaken judicial majoritarianism, hence undermining legal decisions, discussions and dissent. These tendencies, which weaken the integrity and transparency of the government, should be questioned against the backdrop of the constitutive promise of our country.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: times;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: times;">In M.K. Gandhi’s words: ‘The greater the institution, the greater the chances of abuse; democracy is a great institution and, therefore, it is liable to be greatly abused.’ It is alarming to see the dissolution of the fundamental tenets of the constitution to the forces of majoritarianism. It has deepened social tensions, stifled pluralism, fostered corruption and weakened institutional performance. The concomitant obstructions in the emergence of social consensus on critical political questions have reinforced divisions and weakened the accessibility of fundamental rights for the marginalised minority. As said by Supreme Court judge D.Y. Chandrachud, ‘Any semblance of majoritarian rule, any clampdown on civil liberties or religious freedom upset a sacred promise made to the ancestors who accepted India as their constitutional Republic.’ Hence, it is important to determine the key fault lines and fine-tune the balance between the ‘rule of many’ and the ‘rights of few’.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: times;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: times;">The Indian Constitution holds the view that the solution to India’s mosaic of acute ethnic, religious, cultural and caste divisions lay not in perpetuating these existing distinctions, but in transcending them in favour of secularism, nationalism and equality of opportunity for all. The democratic ideals, as affirmed in the governing principle of the preamble, emphasise equality for all citizens irrespective of their social and caste affiliations. The Constitution is sacrosanct when it comes to mandated political representation in favour of minorities and prohibiting targeted discrimination or vilification of minorities. In fact, the special rights and reservations for minorities are designed to bring about equality by ensuring the preservation of minority institutions and by guaranteeing autonomy in the matter of administration of these institutions.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: times;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: times;">However, despite the aims of these articles and acts, the infractions of the human rights of minorities still persist. This development implies that it is one thing to promulgate laws forbidding rights infringements in society and quite another to implement legislation that could curtail such breaches, particularly when they run against the interests of powerful groups in a polity. The conflict between majority-minority institutionalises ethnic entitlement, segregates accessibility of fundamental rights and reinforces inequality. This raises an important question about the effectiveness of constitutional protections with reference to minority rights and whether the government is working in the interest of minority groups or not.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: times;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: times;">The existing laws are often too weak in achieving the intended goals of reducing ethnic violence and secessionist mobilisation. Inter-ethnic tensions, divisions and exclusion that remain unaddressed can easily become a source of instability and conflict. Dealing efficiently with minority-majority relations is central to achieving durable peace. In this regard, the protection of minorities and the extension of fundamental rights are essential in order to achieve democratic security, communal harmony and comprehensive development. It is important to prevent actions that stoke communal hatred, create deep fissures in society, and lead to fear and mistrust of authorities among minority communities. The government must protect and safeguard the rights of the minority and uphold the universal standards of tolerance and intercultural dialogue. It is important to promote the constitutional principles that advocate inclusive growth and equal fundamental rights. Another pressure point is the representation of the minorities’ interests among the majority and how their presence impacts the composition of the political parties and the nature of public policy framed.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: times;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: times;">Gandhi wanted India to be a harmonious collection of religious communities that were to be treated as equals and had envisioned a nation premised on the idea of a polity governed by allegiance to the principles of tolerance and respect for India’s diversity, the protection of all its minorities, and the fundamental right to equality and liberty. The current issues and how India overcomes them will signify the resurgence of social cohesion and the rise of an indisputable democracy.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: times;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: times;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: times;">HAVISHA SINGH</span></div><div><span style="font-family: times;">DPS, CHANDIGARH</span></div><div style="font-weight: bold;"><br /></div></span></div>Indira Chandrasekharhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03573621384719821695noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5672570534782963438.post-7308692016210731322023-03-12T12:15:00.006+05:302023-03-12T12:15:50.107+05:30Kodaikanal Gandhi Prize 2022: Prize for Creative Expression - Siddhi Deshmukh<p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: times; font-size: medium;"><b>The Kodaikanal Gandhi Prize 2022 </b></span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: times; font-size: medium;"><b>Prize for Creative Expression</b></span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: times; font-size: medium;"><b>(Shared)</b></span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: times; font-size: medium;"><b><br /></b></span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: times; font-size: medium;"><b>SIDDHI DESHMUKH</b></span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: times; font-size: medium;"><b>Break the Cycle</b></span></p><p><span style="font-family: times; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-family: times; font-size: medium;">‘Don’t you want to take that?’</span></p><p><span style="font-family: times; font-size: large;">On the table Aisha’s phone buzzed, vibrating silently. ‘Mom’ flashed on the screen. She took a quick look and turned it off. Her father smiled at her across the table.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: times; font-size: medium;">‘Atta girl.’ He said, his eyes twinkling, ‘Nights like these are seldom enjoyed, don’t you think so? Don’t want any trouble, do we?’</span></p><p><span style="font-family: times; font-size: medium;">Aisha smiled at her father, grateful for his company. He gave her a warm smile in return and </span><span style="font-family: times; font-size: large;">piled some food onto his plate. She found herself nodding and smiling at everything he told her that evening. Moths fluttered outside the restaurant window, clinging to the light bulb. The sombre December chill crept across the restaurant to Aisha. She shivered and pulled her jacket closer.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: times; font-size: medium;">‘Are you okay?’ Her father’s brow creased. ‘Should I drop you home?’</span></p><p><span style="font-family: times; font-size: medium;">‘No!’ Aisha said quickly. ‘I mean, it's okay. I’ll not get a cold or something.’</span></p><p><span style="font-family: times; font-size: medium;">He nodded uncertainly and pulled his gaze down to the food, as did Aisha. A silence of two </span><span style="font-family: times; font-size: large;">minutes ensued, except for the constant clinking of the knives and forks against the plates.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: times; font-size: medium;">Aisha took a deep breath and willed herself to talk about the subject she was here for.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: times; font-size: medium;">‘So, I’ve been thinking,’ she started, her gaze focused on her food. ‘About college. And where I want to go.’</span></p><p><span style="font-family: times; font-size: medium;">Her father nodded enthusiastically. ‘It's never too late to think about college, you’re what – fifteen – or are you sixteen?’</span></p><p><span style="font-family: times; font-size: medium;">Aisha forced a smile. ‘I’m sixteen.’</span></p><p><span style="font-family: times; font-size: medium;">‘Right,’ he said, chewing. ‘Where do you want to go?’</span></p><p><span style="font-family: times; font-size: medium;">‘IIT,’ Aisha answered, without missing a beat. ‘I want to go to IIT.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: times; font-size: medium;">Her father looked up, his eyebrows knitted themselves together. A dark look clouded his eyes and Aisha gulped.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: times; font-size: medium;">‘IIT?’ he said, a dangerous lilt to his voice.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: times; font-size: medium;">‘Yes,’ Aisha spoke hurriedly. ‘It's the best institute for –’</span></p><p><span style="font-family: times; font-size: medium;">‘I know what IIT is,’ he interrupted, wiping his hands on the napkin. ‘Why IIT, out of all the</span></p><p><span style="font-family: times; font-size: medium;">places?’</span></p><p><span style="font-family: times; font-size: medium;">‘Because,’ she said, choosing her words carefully, ‘I want to be an aerospace engineer. And to do that I will have to study STEM. So IIT seemed like the best choice.’</span></p><p><span style="font-family: times; font-size: medium;">‘STEM?’ Her father asked, still not meeting her eyes.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: times; font-size: medium;">‘Yes,’ Aisha said, ‘It means Science Technology –’</span></p><p><span style="font-family: times; font-size: medium;">‘I know what STEM means.’ His voice rose an octave and Aisha flinched. He was now looking straight into her eyes. ‘Why do you out of all the people, wish to pursue the hardest of courses?’</span></p><p><span style="font-family: times; font-size: medium;">‘Because I’m interested.’ Her voice was barely a whisper. ‘I want to become an aerospace </span><span style="font-family: times; font-size: large;">engineer.’</span></p><p><span style="font-family: times; font-size: medium;">‘Do you even know anything about it?’</span></p><p><span style="font-family: times; font-size: medium;">‘Yes!’ She said quickly. Her vision blurred, and she hastily wiped her eyes. ‘My mother teaches me. I got the highest marks in class in my examinations. Did you know that?’</span></p><p><span style="font-family: times; font-size: medium;">‘Your mother,’ Her father scoffed and said harshly, ‘Yes I see how well your mother has done in the field of science. Can she even support herself without my money?’</span></p><p><span style="font-family: times; font-size: medium;">Aisha was silent.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: times; font-size: medium;">‘Can she?’ He asked her again, throwing the napkin on the plate.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: times; font-size: medium;">‘No,’ Aisha said, colour flooding into her cheeks. ‘She cannot.’</span></p><p><span style="font-family: times; font-size: medium;">‘Then what success will you achieve, going to IIT?’</span></p><p><span style="font-family: times; font-size: medium;">Aisha gritted her teeth. ‘But you let Arjun go to CalTech!’</span></p><p><span style="font-family: times; font-size: medium;">‘Arguing about this is foolish.’ Her father stood up, almost knocking the chair back. ‘I’ll drop you home.’</span></p><p><span style="font-family: times; font-size: medium;">Her chair scraped the wooden floor noisily as she stood up. Her eyes were red, and with her </span><span style="font-family: times; font-size: large;">mouth pursed, she refused to look at her father as she followed him to the car.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: times; font-size: large;">They rode back to Aisha’s house in silence save for the Bollywood songs playing softly on the radio. Aisha looked out the window and saw the winking lights of the indulgent Mumbai skyline.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: times; font-size: medium;">She rolled down the windows and took a deep breath, almost tasting the salt on her lips.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: times; font-size: medium;">‘Aisha,’ Her father said suddenly, ‘Think about this. Please.’</span></p><p><span style="font-family: times; font-size: medium;">The note of desperation in his voice took Aisha aback. She looked at him. His eyes were trained on the road.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: times; font-size: medium;">‘I just...’ He shook his head, turning the radio off. ‘I just don’t want you to become like your </span><span style="font-family: times; font-size: large;">mother.’</span></p><p><span style="font-family: times; font-size: large;">Aisha opened her mouth to protest but he cut her short.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: times; font-size: medium;">‘We fought so much, Aisha. Your mother and I. You were so small. These visits – the short </span><span style="font-family: times; font-size: large;">amount of time we have with each other – are dearly brought. These are a privilege for me. I had to fight for it, Aisha. I had to fight for you.’</span></p><p><span style="font-family: times; font-size: large;">Aisha was bereft of words. ‘I – I don’t know what to say.’</span></p><p><span style="font-family: times; font-size: medium;">Her father didn’t say anything. He reached for the radio and turned it back on.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: times; font-size: medium;">Soon, the car stopped to a standstill in front of Aisha and her mother’s apartment. It was a small dingy building, with little to no facilities, but it was home. Aisha saw the way her father looked at it. His mouth turned up in disgust, and his eyebrows arched. But Aisha did not care, it was the apartment she was raised in, an apartment brought by her mother’s hard-earned money.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: times; font-size: medium;">‘Look, Aisha,’ he said at last. ‘I hope you can understand me. I need you to break this cycle of failure between you women. Ah!’ He broke off and added as he looked at his phone, smiling wanly. ‘Look at the date, Aisha. It's the 2nd of October. You know what Bapuji said, ‘Be the change you want to see in the world.’ So start with yourself, Aisha. Listen to me.’</span></p><p><span style="font-family: times; font-size: medium;">‘Actually,’ Aisha said before she could stop herself. ‘That is not what he precisely said. He had said ‘We but mirrored the world... if we could change ourselves, the tendencies in the world would also change... We need not wait to see what others do.’ Did you know what he said it for? That is his attempt to engage women and the masses in his non-violence movement.’ She hesitated before saying, ‘That seems like the opposite of what you’re doing.’ She turned on her heel, about to leave when she remembered. ‘And thank you for the dinner. Truly.’</span></p><p><span style="font-family: times; font-size: medium;">She turned and strode to her apartment. Distantly, she heard her father’s groan of frustration </span><span style="font-family: times; font-size: large;">and the loud noise of a car door slamming.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: times; font-size: medium;">Aisha reached her house and as her finger hovered over the doorbell, the door swung open, </span><span style="font-family: times; font-size: large;">revealing her mother’s smiling face.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: times; font-size: medium;">‘I knew you were downstairs.’ She gave Aisha a conspiratorial grin, ‘I thought I heard raised </span><span style="font-family: times; font-size: large;">voices.’</span></p><p><span style="font-family: times; font-size: medium;">Aisha groaned and walked inside, dropping into a chair. ‘He wouldn't let me go to IIT. You were right.’</span></p><p><span style="font-family: times; font-size: medium;">‘So what.’ Her mother shrugged and said promptly. ‘We don’t need his approval. He didn’t let me go, now he won’t let you go. But I still studied, didn't I?’ She twisted her face and mimicked Aisha’s father’s deep voice. ‘‘Be the change you want to see in the world.’’ She chuckled. ‘He used to tell me the same thing. As if!’ She cupped her daughter’s cheeks. ‘I have taught you the whole thing, haven’t I?’</span></p><p><span style="font-family: times; font-size: medium;">Aisha smiled and nodded despite the heaviness that weighed her down. She melted against her mother’s touch and reached to wrap her in her arms. Both mother and daughter sunk into each other’s embrace.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: times; font-size: medium;">‘What about the fees?’ Aisha whispered into her mother’s shoulder, ‘We are not that well-off.’</span></p><p><span style="font-family: times; font-size: medium;">‘About that.’ She felt her mother’s lips twisting into a smile. ‘I got the job.’</span></p><p><span style="font-family: times; font-size: medium;">Aisha gasped and leapt out of the embrace. She held her mother’s hands, her joy was </span><span style="font-family: times; font-size: large;">indescribable. ‘You got the job!’</span></p><p><span style="font-family: times; font-size: large;">‘Yes,’ her mother grinned ear to ear. ‘I start Monday as the physics teacher.’</span></p><p><span style="font-family: times; font-size: medium;">‘I’m so happy for you,’ Aisha kissed her mother on the cheek. ‘This is huge.’</span></p><p><span style="font-family: times; font-size: medium;">After the divorce, Aisha’s mother worked odd jobs, to support herself and Aisha. Aisha was no more than three years old, barely old enough to be left alone and they could not afford a nanny. She tried her best to support them financially while letting her daughter pursue her passion for science.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: times; font-size: medium;">‘I have decided,’ Aisha told her mother when she graduated. They had gone out to a nearby </span><span style="font-family: times; font-size: large;">cafe, to have french fries and drink milkshakes. ‘I want to be just like you.’</span></p><p><span style="font-family: times; font-size: large;">‘No, my dear.’ Aisha’s mother had said, ‘You are going to be better. You are my daughter, but that does not mean you are going to be an extension of me. In the end, you are your father’s daughter also. Cherish him and maybe,’ her eyes twinkled, ‘he might just change.’</span></p><p><span style="font-family: times; font-size: medium;">‘I am going to break the cycle as he told me to,’ Aisha said, her mouth full of fries. ‘Just … not in the way he thinks.’</span></p><p><span style="font-family: times; font-size: medium;">‘Atta girl,’ her mother reached out across the table and ruffled Aisha’s hair. ‘I’m so proud of </span><span style="font-family: times; font-size: large;">you.’</span></p><p><span style="font-family: times; font-size: medium;">‘And I, you,’ Aisha said, smiling widely.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: times; font-size: medium;">If time could freeze itself, Aisha thought, it would be in this very moment. In a few months, she would be in IIT, pursuing her passion and chasing her dream. ‘Be the change you want to see in the world.’ Gandhi had coined this phrase long back for a different reason, in a different context. Certainly not for a single mother and daughter struggling to make ends meet. Any change, no matter how big or small should be first initiated by the one who wants it to happen.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: times; font-size: medium;">In the small corners of the world, the words of Gandhi find their home. Such was the story of Aisha and her mother. Both have miles to go and even more changes to bring about.</span></p><p><br /></p><p><span style="font-family: times; font-size: medium;">SIDDHI DESHMUKH</span></p><p><span style="font-family: times;"><span style="font-size: medium;">MAYO COLLEGE GIRL’S SCHOOL, AJMER</span></span></p><p><span style="font-family: times; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><p style="text-align: right;"><span style="font-family: times; font-size: medium;">Awarded by the Literary Journal, <i>Out of Print</i></span></p><p><br /></p>Indira Chandrasekharhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03573621384719821695noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5672570534782963438.post-90150974725835149662023-03-12T12:15:00.004+05:302023-03-12T12:15:31.862+05:30Kodaikanal Gandhi Prize 2022: Prize for Creative Expression - Insha Parvez<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><b>The Kodaikanal Gandhi Prize 2022 </b></div><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><b>Prize for Creative Expression</b></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><b><br /></b></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><b>(Shared)</b></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><b><br /></b></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><b>INSHA PARVEZ</b></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><b>Immortal Righteousness</b></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: times; font-size: medium;">Burning cities, flares of rage and chemical skies; what happened to this country? Where is thy democracy? Where is thy equality? I sat there, under the blistering sun, with my broken trust, watching cityscapes turn to dust.</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: times; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: times; font-size: medium;">13th August, 2022</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: times; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: times; font-size: medium;">Dear diary,</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: times; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: times; font-size: medium;">The clocks struck 13; 12:58, 12:59 ... and ... 1:00! It was time, it was a dark hour for the citizens of India and a contemptible one for its government. Colourful people with colourless faces, white with fury, thronged the streets of Delhi – the saffron in the flag disintegrating with every man injured, the white falling apart with every bullet fired, and green, ahh ... well the green! What do we even say about the green, it had started deteriorating, rupturing, moving away from the country, ever since </span><span style="font-family: times; font-size: large;">independence, where no party, no government, mustered the strength to find the pieces, to put it back together again.</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: times; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: times; font-size: medium;">Indians are nothing but common people, with common hopes, with common wants; but what has made them uncommon in their own country is their religion, their belief, their identity, which these politicians, the said ‘emissaries’ of secularism and liberty, are trampling under their feet. This is what they’re discussing in the parliament today too – how is the government going to curb the myriad of protests all over the country? How will they convince the citizens that, what couldn’t be done in 75 years, would just be done within a span of 1 year?</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: times; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: times; font-size: medium;">I was tired, I really was, of all the false hopes, of all the inter-community conflicts, of all the pseudo development, and that is why I was there too, along with a thousand others, to get my voice heard, to call-out all the injustice, to speak for the just. What was supposed to be a peaceful gathering (a crowd of furious, still civilised citizens) turned brutal, harsh, barbaric, with the blink of an eye. I was surprised for it didn’t even take an hour.</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: times; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: times; font-size: medium;">The sun rose right up our heads, no shadows in sight, and there went the furious youth, inundated with emotions, and rocks in their palms. Within two minutes the sky displayed a panorama of gravel and stones, an appalling sight; it seemed as if the whole of the earth had come together to imbibe that circular architecture. Police vehicles blazing here, weeping children clung to their mothers’ chests there, it was truly the most apocalyptic form of India, of my motherland, I had ever seen. I would never forget the shrieks and cries of that young Dalit boy, merely twenty-five, thrashed with a baton for lashing at a cop, but then I thought of his plight, of how he perhaps died a thousand deaths, before singing his final death song, still beseeching equality, still beseeching acceptance.</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: times; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: times; font-size: medium;">With great sorrow I say, how has humanity come this way? I weep, I plead, I pray, all I ever wanted was peace and love, but ferocity and cruelty to me they repay. Oh Lord Tell me how! How in the world did humanity come this way?</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: times; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: times; font-size: medium;">Even in chaos, one can find peace and there he was, the only static, and serene person in a world full of turbulence. You know what they say. ‘Light can be found even in the darkest of times, only if one remembers to turn on the light’ and he was there, being yet again, the light we needed, the light I needed. I saw him with my hyperopic vision, sitting just as gracefully as ever, with his head held high, his backs toward us, but something was abnormal – the smile, a smile so bright, that drove out the foreign intruders, a smile that changed the lives of thousands of Indian forever, wasn’t there, it had disappeared, it was nowhere to be found. How could that have happened? How did humanity fail him like this?</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: times; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: times; font-size: medium;">Shockingly, in its place, there was a tired, broken frown, something never seen before, something unexpected. It shattered me.</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: times; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: times; font-size: medium;">All of it hit me at once, what was I doing? Why was I just becoming another one of those aggressive, frenzied people that I’ve always despised? Though it may be for an ethical cause, how could I’ve broken my virtues, my ethos, right in front of the person whose ideals I’ve followed all throughout my life, whose entire life journey has been nothing but a source of inspiration for me. I failed him. With this realisation, I felt a tiny teardrop fall on the back of my hand, and before I knew it I was sobbing, incessantly, a very peculiar type of sob that I thought might never stop all together.</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: times; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: times; font-size: medium;">Why do you weep child? You’ve come a long way, gather yourself up, free yourself; you haven’t failed me, but by dishonouring yourself, you’ll just fail yourself.</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: times; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: times; font-size: medium;">My tears flowed relentlessly, I loathed myself for getting involved in savagery, for being there and not feeling contrite, for witnessing violence and standing there unshaken, just motionless. I still don’t know whether it was the ravaging circumstances, or my ravaged state, that made me a hear that curious crack, a crack so faint, yet so loud, it sounded something like a broken heart. In a minute’s span, Gandhi's statue crumbled, disintegrating more and more with every passing second, as if it had enough, as if it had seen enough. What a tragic sight!</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: times; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: times; font-size: medium;">It broke me, the cruelty of this ‘independent’ world. Fires breathing with gusts of wind, dissident citizens, unbothered government, it crumbled me. This sham of an independence, shattered me.</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: times; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: times; font-size: medium;">His frigid physique as it touched the firm ground, lay shattered, but I saw it taking a form which was least anticipated, something right out of a dream, a ‘hallucination’. A figure – barely 5’6” tall, frail, yet robust at heart, stood right before me. IT WAS HIM! Mahatma Gandhi – the man, the myth, the legend, who stood there smiling, benevolently. The universe might call me insane, but it truly was him, his guidance, his wisdom, that I needed at that moment. I needed it to develop faith in myself, my ideals and this iffy world.</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: times; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: times; font-size: medium;">There is good in this world – it is there in those violent protestors, those cynical politicians, I believe in it. For it was the goodness that drove that poor man to seek pacification, cry for the wounded, he discovered it; if he can, so can even the stubbornest of the stubborns.</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: times; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: times; font-size: medium;">He spoke to me, softly but firmly, ‘There is not much of a difference between us for you are fighting the system and I fought the British, the only difference is, that I made my voice heard not with a stick, but with truth, honesty, ahimsa. You are a decent man, and so is everyone present here, but to fight brutality with brutality, is to admit one’s moral and intellectual bankruptcy. Take the initiative, don’t quieten the fire within you, make your demands heard, be sturdy, but don’t deviate from the paths of ahimsa, for violence can make people hear, but it won’t make them understand. Be the change that YOU want to see in the world, and then see the world change’.</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: times; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: times; font-size: medium;">Those words right there, they changed my life forever, they reignited in me the fire of righteousness that I thought had been doused, they made me believe in my capability to speak for the right cause, to make the change that I’ve always relied on others for. I felt Gandhi ji’s presence with me, I felt all the universe’s morality with me. In a gentle way, you can shake the world, and with that, I got up.</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: times; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: times; font-size: medium;">An eye for an eye makes the whole world blind, are of all the same kind?</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: times; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: times; font-size: medium;">In the roof of peace take a stand; for heaven’s sake, don’t let blood mix with the sand.</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: times; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: times; font-size: medium;">Embers of rage still covered the street, but this time, in my cause I believed.</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: times; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: times; font-size: medium;">Flames shone, burned in my eyes, wrath in my soul, but I sat there, right in the middle of the street, with serenity in my heart. Dead men, dead spirits, and dead hopes, all lay there together at once, yet I sat, now more firmly than before. ‘This belief of mine won’t be budged! We need justice, we need truth, for it the government must be shaken, but in this battle, our morals cannot be forsaken. Ahimsa cannot be forgotten, Mahatma Gandhi cannot be forgotten’, I yelled sturdily.</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: times; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: times; font-size: medium;">The violence failed to cease, I yelled some more, and more, and more ... I yelled with determination, grit and hope, for Gandhi ji was still with me, the aura of his presence progressively heightening, rather than diluting. 2 people joined in, batons were thrown. 6 people joined in, firearms were abandoned, 20 people joined in, the crowd calmed down, 50 people joined in, 70, 80, 100; humanity had been reunited by the path of righteousness again, non-violence overpowered violence again, Gandhi ji saved us yet again.</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: times; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: times; font-size: medium;">The same fight, yet again, only the time is different. The morale of humanity is saved again. They will disregard you, but how long? They’ll ignore you, they’ll laugh at you, then they’ll fight you, nevertheless from the pathway of good, you must not deviate, and that is how you’ll win.</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: times; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: times; font-size: medium;">Mahatma Gandhi freed us, this time from our wrong ways, he taught another generation, yet again how truth is our religion and ahimsa is the only way of its realisation. The spirits of the old days thronged the streets of Delhi, morality flowing in each ray of the sun, each particle of the environment. A big crowd of colourful Indians, reunified again.</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: times; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: times; font-size: medium;">Remembering the crumbled, broken statue I asked a fellow, ‘We’d have to find a way to fix the broken statue,’ and with great astonishment he said, ‘What broken statue, look it’s right there.’ And there he was, sitting just as gracefully as ever, with his head held high, but this time with a big smile on his face. He may have passed but his ideals would forever live in the hearts of the people, continue to inspire them, show them light, even in the darkest times, and teach them that ‘Goodness of heart, and non-violence can win even the most gruesome of battles’.</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><span style="font-family: times; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><span style="font-family: times; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: times; font-size: medium;">INSHA PARVEZ</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: times; font-size: medium;">MODY SCHOOL, LAKSHMANGARH</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: right;">Awarded by the Literary Journal, <i>Out of Print</i></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br /></div></div>Indira Chandrasekharhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03573621384719821695noreply@blogger.com0