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Editor’s Page With spring around the corner, it takes great effort to miss the festive gaiety in the air. Floral festoons spring forth in designs unimagined and the fervid chirps and songs of birds render the crisp breeze with ubiquitous joy. One would actually wonder whether it was sheer mirth in the air that makes them coo, or it was their unorchestrated performance that makes the air thus. Snow clad lands watch the white canvas erupt with greens and reds and yellows while places closer to the earth’s waistline pinch suitable colours from the earthy garb of the landscape and add a dash of bright colour everywhere. Every community welcomes this period of the year with open arms. The colours that drape the earth find their way into the hearts of men too and break any shackles that hold the artist, the lover in one. Undeniably, love is in the air, too. This is a phase that follows a long white quiet, when the desire of the earth is patiently cloaked in a colourless shroud and, with a change of breeze, the earth flowers with the love that she held for long in her warm breast. Such is the case with human love as well, for the telling of Nature cannot be lost to even the human heart. Apart from events made popular by greeting card companies, the warmth of togetherness is welcomed just like the earth that smiles while bearing the greater weight of flowers and produce with the lightness of love. Beauty as one sees on a tree, or down a valley or across the meadows hemmed in by lofty swaying mountains, cannot but be the result of a love not entirely unknown to the human mind. Innumerous poets have written scores about Nature’s beauty and have evoked the imagination of the most dulled reader. I wouldn’t be surprised if most joyous poems were written during spring. Art, beauty and Nature are so intimately tied in that many intellectuals have used the strength of words and their imagination to capture something so delicately braided; those who knew, smiled and never spoke lest they taint such a Divine marriage. But amidst all this perceivable wonder that is presented year after year, there is one aspect of spring that is not marked by many – that of surprises. One can never be able to predict the count and shade of blossoms that will kiss the branches of a tree or colour the earth in a garden. Every swaying stalk holds within its heart the exact hue and softness of the tulip it will bear. Hidden amongst the trees of the forest is the pattern that will bring the canvas to life. Every bird’s song is a never-to-be-repeated performance rendered extempore. The gurgle of the freshly melted ice cascading down the mountains is earlier unheard and all of the valley turns to listen to its soft song as it dances and meanders its way to an ocean eagerly waiting to listen to stories about a land it would rather not enter. I have always believed that spring loves to play the game of “guess-what-I-am-painting-today” but the tapestry is so overwhelming that none join in the game but merely gape wide-mouthed at the strokes of her brush. Imagine her giggling at the idea that struck her, an idea that she would use to paint the world with a hidden pattern that only the naked lover can recognize. It is such a lover who sits by the river and speaks to the spring floating in the air and eddying in the waters below and asks her, “How shall you dress today?” and she murmurs, “Close your eyes and guess.” Alvibest unabashedly borrowed this idea from spring and decided to spring forth with an issue inviting you to the game of “guess-what-the-theme-is”, which we hope you will enjoy. This issue is laden with articles and works of art, which carry a definite but definitely hidden theme. Run your senses over the various pieces included here and challenge your alertness and shrewdness to extracting the theme that, we hope, is embedded well in the articles. The theme makes itself available to the darkest aspects of its realization in human interaction as well as the simplest, most heart-rending ones. We would urge you not to spend your heart on merely identifying the theme but allow the various emotions captured in the articles/pieces to swamp you and present the emerging theme without coercing it. Finding their way into this issue are few wonderful pictures taken by professional as well as amateur photographers. John Banville’s The Sea is an experience re-lived by Lavanya. AgniBharathi’s adaptation of a chapter in the Ramayana is an interesting read. An Irony as well as Wish I could deal with one side of this issue’s theme while Finality and The Red Naissance provide other views. The nonfiction pieces provide insights into the theme lived in our daily lives. Kaustubha Vaatika (Kaustubha is Lord Vishnu’s most favourite jewel and Vaatika means garden) takes a tale from Indian mythology and gives it a fictional twist. Included at the end are updated submission guidelines. We would be very interested in reading your work and including them in future issues of Alvibest. Readers, who are interested in contributing time and effort in reviewing submissions, working on the design (we thank the unknown gentleman who sits near the railway station every day and is featured on this issue’s cover design) and layout of the magazine as well as the logistics, are welcome to write to editor.alvibest@gmail.com. Suggestions and ideas are welcome at feedback.alvibest@gmail.com. We hope you enjoy this experience and join us on this journey. Happy reading.

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An Irony 4

All she had… 5

On a journey to a loved one 7

Art of Writing: Point of View 8

Facets 12

The Red Naissance 13

Everywhere 14

Sundara Kandam 15

Hero OST: Tan Dun 18

Thus I start my day 20

Me 21

Finality 22

Stretching into oblivion 26

Wish I Could 27

They 28

Photography 29

And I wait… 32

The Sea by John Banville 33

Bridging heaven and earth 36

Kaustubha Vaatika 37

In the black of the night 40

Writer of the issue: Oscar Wilde 41

Walking in the mist 45

Submission Guidelines 46

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Poem

An Irony

Anand Krishnaswamy

Her I wished to see - Before she up and left, Riding the waves that wash this shore, To ones with love bereft.

Her I wished to hold - Hope she'd leave me not. "Pray! listen to my wailing heart, To its knees you brought".

Her I wished to kiss - From head to toe and again. And hope what my tongue couldn't say, My lips make easy to ken.

In my dreams that morn, We laughed and hands we held. And when I asked her to stay with me, O'er sands, a "Yes" she spelled.

I woke – "I have to stop her" "I overslept it surely seems". I rushed to watch her boat depart, Losing reality to my dreams.

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Nonfiction

All she had…

Lavanya Gopinath

She sat on the white moulded chair like she had been accustomed to doing each day these past seven years; every weary day handing the baton to the next in an unchanging rhythm that added numbers to years but left her untouched, unmoved. The lightness of the plastic invariably caused an inanimate squirm as she settled in. She was a big woman – beautiful in the way antiques are; lost polish from another era showing itself in glimpses and appearing out of place in surroundings that do not nourish the magic of history. She appeared just the kind who would loathe moulded plastic chairs. A solid wooden chair would have been far more appropriate. One with a sturdy back and a broad base, carved arms, leg-rest and warm beige cushions. There is something about solid wood; something that convinces you it will bear all sorts of burdens. I suppose appearing solid is as important as being solid; the reassuring depth of girth that plastic lightweights can never achieve. They had told me some things about her; these well-meaning neighbours! Gossipy and as generous with fabrication as with fact. So they said a lot of things. I lapped it all up like a hungry mongrel. The need to know is so compelling – an urgent, uncontrollable impulse. There is no point in asking about the purpose of knowing or in wondering what difference knowing will make. The point is to know. She used to look stunning at sixteen, the age when she married. A broad forehead that in a man would have been called a receding hairline gave her a regal countenance, one that was designed for nethi chutti1 and red full-moon pottu2. She also had large eyes set wide apart, which in her youth must have been twin black and white expressions of inner poetry. In fact, if it is fact, an artist in her husband's family was charmed enough to paint her portrait soon after her wedding. Funny are the testimonies of fact – so much of it is created by deft flourishes of imagination. The selective colouring of a restored past, the exaggerated assumptions of an evolving present. I could not gather much about the husband. After all, imagination cannot resurrect angles and curves on a barely visible fragment; for that was what he had faded into. She bore three children in quick succession, each birth lining her face with its intimate details. At twenty, she must have been an experienced mother, adept at handling sleep deprivation and childish tantrums. She would have had more kids had her husband not been sent to fight in the India-Pakistan war of 1965 they said. Indeed, that was what women were for back then – carriers of seeds, necessary specks in the chain of continuity.

1 Nethi chutti is an ornament that is worn on the hair parting and decorates the forehead. 2 Pottu is the Tamil word for the vermilion dot that adorns the forehead of Indian women

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Did she ever have her dreams? Not of marriage and babies but of freedom and choice; of achievement and fulfillment. Was she taught happiness in much the same way she would have been taught to bare and bear? Was she told life was a duty? Did she always believe that? Every morning as I stepped out to my balcony and caught her sitting in hers, I wanted to ask her these questions. Her husband never came back from the war – from warrior to a mere statistic in the nation's sacrificial plaque, from loving husband to a bubble of memory from a shared past; she did not even get his ashes. To burst forth from nothing and to vanish into nothing – life, a mere projection on a blank slate. After her husband's untimely demise, she had to switch from a young demure housewife to a strong single parent. Luckily, she had family wealth and she learnt how to handle money. 'Necessity makes a fast learner', said the neighbours, my vendors of unnecessary details. She must have been a smart woman to have single-handedly brought up two daughters and a son. Necessity does tap into latent potential; the urge to survive, the suffocation of responsibility – such bitter fast forward mechanisms. In the tender caress of the copper dawn, as I breathe in life's fresh whispers, I see her there in that unchanging posture. Why does she sit thus in that white plastic moulded chair and look at nothing? They said her son and daughter-in-law were treating her badly. She did not get the respect she deserved, they added. Life is never barter trade – past goodness never accounts for a peaceful present, let alone an unknown future. Men, like machines, are evaluated on current utility. She sits in her chair in that small balcony, her distrust imposing the distance that her physical proximity could not. Her once erect back is now bent double with age and insult. Her once expressive face is now frozen in blankness. In her glassy beads of black and white, there are neither drops of sadness nor fumes of hatred; neither songs of delight nor wails of anguish. There is no light in the eyes that do not look anywhere. Every little wrinkle in that once beautiful face tucks away a little secret while she remains devoid of expression. She merely sits and waits for dawn to lead to dusk. Waiting, for her, having long passed from being an interlude to an activity. The only one she steadily holds on to. Every dawn, a step closer to the inevitable moment when breath ceases and life, as we know it, stops forever. A breath in...a breath out...she waits.

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Photography

On a journey to a loved one

Jon Holliday

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Column

Art of Writing: Point of View

Anand Krishnaswamy

In this column we shall explore various facets and constructs that help us create a written piece not merely as numerous words and syllables strung end on end, but as a work of art which, like nearly all examples of art, create a sensation in the audience, in our case, the reader. Although the emphasis would be on fiction, certain issues would be devoted to nonfiction as well as aspects of writing in general. Readers are encouraged to put forth their queries, comments and interests to feedback.alvibest@gmail.com with the subject as "Art of Writing: <month><year>" Many readers might feel that this part of the column should have been presented before the columns on showing and telling, and they might be partly right in their opinion. As much as every element of fiction and non-fiction is important, the ability to discern between showing and telling would be one of the foremost and could be crowned as one essential take-away from a study of the art of writing. Hence, it is better to present the essential, upfront. There are two closely related terms in writing: perspective and point of view. Though the difference might appear purely pedantic, it does serve to gain clarity about a writing exercise. Choosing a perspective is very important. A perspective of a story is the main character that is telling the story. A perspective might not be a character in the story. This decision is not minor and cannot be postponed to a later point in the exercise. It is not something that you casually decide and “get it over and done with”. The storyteller will decide how a reader will

connect to the story, and choosing the best storyteller is vital to ensuring that a reader sways to the writer’s pipe. Choosing a perspective that a common reader cannot empathise with is a definite recipe for a book to be cast aside as soon as it is picked up. A writer would do well to pick the most sensitive character or the most dynamic character (though not always) to tell the story. A convincing voice, which one can associate with the traits of the storyteller, is more likely to keep the reader in her reading chair. Having decided the storyteller, it would be natural to ascertain how the story must be told. How the storyteller will tell the story, decides the story’s point of view. Choosing a point of view (POV) automatically allows and disallows certain facilities to the writer. We shall look into this in depth in the course of this column. Amongst the many POVs available to a writer the following are the most commonly adopted ones:

1. First person 2. Second person 3. Third person, limited 4. Third person, omniscient

But I prefer Jerry Cleaver’s method of distinction (as mentioned in his book, Immediate Fiction). He fragments POV into person POV, character POV and narrator POV. Beyond mere categorization, it is

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important to be able to understand the reasons behind choosing one over the other. Towards the end we shall provide the reader with a small checklist to use while deciding the appropriate POV for a story. First Person POV (FPP): The first person POV can be objective (if the voice is trustworthy and allows only facts to present themselves to the reader) or subjective (a very human voice and the common one amongst the two). FPP allows the reader to be exposed to the thoughts of a particular character (hence, perspective is even more vital when communicating in FPP). This allows the writer a chance to align the reader’s emotions a shade better. This also disallows the writer to present what other characters feel or think. A common mistake after adopting the FPP is the following:

I watched Susan move uneasily in her chair. She was feeling uncomfortable about the question I had asked her in the presence of her fiancé. I have always known her to be a brave and honest woman, so why is she so uncomfortable? Maybe it was the short span of the relationship that they had had, which didn’t give them time to discuss the Antwerp incident.

The writer of such a piece is faced with a common problem: wanting to explain the situation or the thoughts in the mind of another character. Some writers think it is shrewd to project the thoughts and feelings of the other characters as vibes that the storyteller gets from them, but it is a shallow technique. A writer should be able to create convincing scenes and actions/dialogues to deliver the same effect. FPP seems the most simple and intuitive POV, because we are all storytellers, but in a story not entirely real it is vital to recognize and respect what the storyteller can know versus what the writer

knows. Fitzgerald used brilliant technique to convey many views while retaining Nick’s POV in The Great Gatsby. One of the finest piece of FPP-subjective is The Catcher in the Rye. Salinger does a remarkable job of portraying Caulfield by giving him a starkly different voice and keeping the story steadily delivered from Caulfield’s POV. Choosing FPP for his story, Salinger coaxes the reader to feel the bile that rises in Caulfield’s throat. FPP is presented by having the storyteller employ I or me or my while narrating the story. Second Person POV (SPP): This is a rarely used POV, not due to its efficacy or absence but more due to the difficulty that a writer is faced with. It is not easy to write in SPP and is best left to the gifted writer. It is a very thin line between involving a reader completely in the action of the story, and the danger of sounding presumptuous and annoying. A SPP is also faced with the difficulty of connecting to many readers. In FPP or in the third person POV, a reader can easily identify the standpoint to be a particular character’s and might go one step further and identify with that character, but in SPP the reader is forced to identify with little choice. Doing a piece well in SPP requires a good amount of practice as well as the ability to choose words shrewdly in order to keep the reader far from being offended but deep within the story. A writer should not make too many assumptions about the reader. This technique is best used when it is desirous to pull the reader into the story, convincingly. SPP storyteller uses you or your while telling the story. Third Person POV (TPP): This is the most commonly used technique as it allows the writer to be a little disconnected from the main character and from other

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characters. This POV doesn’t bind the writer to the thoughts and emotions of any particular character. If the writer wishes the storyteller to be a god like persona who can see every character’s thought and emotion, then the variant of this technique would be called TPP-omniscient. If the storyteller is exposed more to a particular character’s thoughts, then the variant is called TPP-limited. TPP is best used when the writer needs to keep the reader in the situation rather than in a particular character. A story, say, which hinges on the travails of a bunch of stranded passengers and their fear, is best done in TPP, since the situation is common and the fear is present in every heart. A storyteller speaking from the TPP employs words like he or she while telling the story and referring to all characters. It is a gross mistake to assume that POV is merely a choice between I and you and s/he.

I unlocked the door to find a thick layer of dust coating the floor. You unlock the door to find a thick layer of dust coating the floor. He unlocked the door to find a thick layer of dust coating the floor.

Sometimes it is just this much (as observed in the examples above), but each POV has a power, which is not available to the other. To recognize that and realize the need of the story is what distinguishes a fine writer from one who writes. A writer can switch POVs throughout the story. This is best realized in a longer work. In Anita Nair’s Mistress the writer switches between the perspective of the main characters and presents them all in the FPP. Occasionally, a portion is in TPP. She uses headings to mark the switch in perspective. A seasoned writer would let the tone and voice of each character be marked with

characteristic traits that help the reader recognize the perspective immediately. One must recognize between switching POVs and TPP-omniscient. Sometimes a story must be told from the perspective of a minor character. The reasons for this choice are few. Usually the main character must die towards the end and the story must continue even beyond that event. Sometimes the main character leaves the story and the impact of that event is of interest. But the writer must beware of switching pointlessly and switching to unimportant characters. Continuously switching between POVs would leave the reader disconnected and unable to empathise with anyone. The reader and aspirant would do well to constantly practice writing the same piece in different POVs until they realize which suits the story best. An example is provided below of converting from one POV to another without making it a cosmetic change. Notice the difference in the effect created in both cases.

POV-1 Were you woken up from your afternoon nap, and asked to describe a bridge across a narrow rivulet, what, Sir, would you paint for yourself? Yes, a rivulet, clear as the freshly melted glaciers. Fresh as the spring itself. You prefer a wooden bridge? Rickety? Ah, splendid. And what else, Sir? Arched but not high above the waters. Green and leading into the lee of the woods on one side and a village on the other? Aren't you getting into the rhythm! What else would you limn about this bridge? Little boats rowing under it? Girls in bright hues or pastels with picnic baskets? Of course, Sir, they can come into your picture; they do colour one's cheeks wherever they go! Men with fishing rods? That would be nice. Children playing ball? Boughs of bougainvillea along the sides? Would you prefer a sprinkle of daffodils on the banks and lilies in the

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water? Splendid! Mountains in the backdrop? Very aesthetic and tragically accurate. Would you, now, have heart and go back to your siesta with the knowledge that such a bridge once crossed near the village of Sapphire, till the fateful day when Philippe proclaimed his love to Josephine? POV-2 Had I known, I would have stood longer. Had I known, I would have crossed it till my legs turned jelly. Had I known, I would have made place for the chestnut trees of yonder in this village and sylvans too. Had I known, I would have bent over and combed my hair in the reflection; tousled it and made it again. Had I known, I would have built a boat and rowed under it with my hair gathering moss from beneath it. Had I known, that my trencherman ways made it rattle I would have abstained. Oh! what is it for food? One could always eat or at least one thinks the same about everything, till it is gone. Had I known, I would have let shame to rest and gathered bread and cream in baskets and reveled with Josephine, Emma, Alice and all of them girls out here. I would have thrown line with Philippe, Ben and even the likes of Grifford, only if I had known. I should have played some more with little Billy and Tim, not letting their ball fall on those daffodils or in the water, for it would upset the lilies when we fetched it. Some more time sitting idle, watching the distant mountain mist through the purple of the bougainvillea that grew along its sides. Had I known, oh god! had I known that love so deceptively innocent as the one which my best friend proclaimed to my little sister could do this, I would have never let them meet on this bridge or anywhere.

The following checklist/hints would help the writer before and while writing a story. Some of these might not be required after sufficient practice.

• Understand the story well • Try telling the story from the POV of

the important character. • Try telling the story from the POV of

an omniscient narrator. • Analyse which mode best suits the

story. • Which POV has been picked and

why? • How much intimacy is required

between reader and the character(s)? • Is the POV maintained consistent? • If the POV is switched, is it done too

often? • If the POV is switched, is it easily

recognizable and is the switch fairly organic?

• Is the writer intruding often and much in the garb of a character(s)?

• Does the character know just as much as possible to be known at that given point in the story?

• Ask yourself often at various points: How does the character know this piece of information?

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Photography

Facets

Manikandan

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Poem

The Red Naissance

Vaidehi

T’was that time of the year When nature crooned And screamed and bellowed The tempest being tumultuously near.

T’was that time of the year When shrouded tight in An inky darkness, the heart Of a yearning soul did faintly stir.

It did move, it did quiver All but a tremble, a growing fear As the passing zephyr Made a gentle manoeuver.

Amidst the wild tempest And the disharmonious chaos It did flutter and terribly ache Longing for a birth, a quest.

The Earth could bear no more The pain of the thought, the one tune- Weighing heavily on her womb, Restless like a silenced furore.

No more darkness No more shrouds For resplendent light did wait To pierce the ugly caress.

And lo! from the void trance The waiting soul did emerge In one plaintive, haunting note- A red naissance.

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Photography

Everywhere

Jon Holliday

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Adaptation

Sundara Kandam

Agnibharathi

The oppressive mid-day sun was fighting a furious battle against the canopy of the Asoka trees. The igneous blossoms, however, were in cahoots with the invading rays. The gaudy attires of the demons caught a few of the bright intruders and sent them back to their home camp. Amidst all this, the proud head of the demon king bent in supplication, the torrid wind convoluting his dark locks into venomous serpents, his glaringly bright crown touching the bare earth and then that single blade of grass which had received merciful death at her hands; that single blade of grass which had the unwavering attention of her eyes for which the entire garden was vying. Her eyes did not waver for a second from that blade of grass, which whispered words privy to her trembling eyes, which were shut to all these loud sights and bright noises. They held their gaze even as her tears blurred the blade before drying on her burning cheeks. Not once did she raise them to look at the hideous form now threatening her with death. Her fury and disgust lay restrained between her clenched fists. She sat there like the unwavering flame of a lamp. Her eyes blazed, yes, but her mind suffered with the silent pain of the lamp’s wick. The demon king then, slowly evanesced, his long retinue trailing. His threats lingered. But the moment she was left alone, the Goddess of her grief burst forth from Her stone idol. She buried her head between her legs and cried like a child separated from her mother. Doubt and fear rubbed salt in her wounds of separation. Her husband, a warrior respected and feared in every universe…why had he not come to her rescue yet? Had not the clouds carried her tears across the lands to him? If not her grief or her love, had not his call for honour as a man responsible for his lady’s chastity brought him to her yet? Or had he died pining for her? No, that would never be. Her own life would have deserted her long before that. As if there was any life left in her now… He watched the whole scene from his perch on the tree. The broken twigs, which had received his fury in place of the demon king, lay near her feet claiming no attention from her. A single bead of tear, which threatened to drop on her shoulders from his compassionate eyes, was wiped off hastily. Of course the demon king addressed her by name, but his joy of recognition had hardly needed that help. Her forlorn face, emaciated figure, eyes that enshrined dark flames, matted locks of lifeless hair without their flowers had proclaimed her names a million times to him before a word was spoken by the demon king. Reason reclaimed her throne from emotion. His eyes darted about perhaps seeking a solution to his immediate question – how was he to present himself? His was a simian form, not very much different from these wicked demons. Of course, he had the ring, the signet ring of her Lord, but

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that too can easily be construed as witchcraft. What then would win her trust? Thoughts ran in his mind, changing a word here adding one there with the skill of a musician tuning his instrument before the performance. Her head darted out from between her knees like a cobra sensing danger to her eggs. The watch had not relaxed one bit as the demonesses went about like clockwork machines. Even the birds in the garden called out in a dull routine. But still in this den of horrors, this den of drudgery a sudden fragrance seemed to beckon her. She looked about startled, her eyes a dim light of hope ensconced in the darkness of suspicion. But the fragrance tossed itself in front of her, teased her with the fingers of the breeze, lingered here, hurried there before drawing her senses to the branches of the tree above her. Then she heard it floating in the wind…the name of her Lord repeated in musical notes that coiled with the fragrance of incense fumes. Her eyes lit up like the sudden twinkle of a distant star. Her hands hurried to wrap her sari over her head. Her body trembled in a violent spasm of joy. The joy in her heart erupted and flushed her cheeks with warm blood. Warm tears wetted her lips that curved into an inverted rainbow. The name sunk inside her with every syllable translating into a cascade of joy. She indulged in that oasis that had appeared suddenly in her desert. And yet in the corner of her heart doubt lay hesitating whether to conquer the rest of her heart. She searched the branches of the tree by instinct to find the source of the music. Her eyes found him perched on the tree. A gentle wave of shock shook her like the breeze startling spring’s first buds. His form seemed frightening and amusing at the same time. She stared for some time like an innocent child staring at the huge elephant, which was about to take her for a joy ride. Fear jolted her back to her senses. Doubt effused from her lips as questions. ‘Who are you? What purpose do you have in repeating the name so dear to me in this terrible garden?’ Her voice trembled imitating a cuckoo still doubtful of the arrival of spring. ‘Mother, I’m the messenger of your husband and my Lord.’ His voice was clear as the sun lighting the eastern sky. His words looked at her in her eyes with raw honesty as their only weapon. The doubt in her eyes looked away trying to find reinforcements. Finding none it looked at him again, bravely. But all it could hope for was a honourable defeat. And then they talked as the day wore by. Doubt had already laid down its arms in defeat. Her fears fled into darkness finding their leader defeated. He spoke, but those were mere words. His voice carried truth that offered no further proof; truth never needed proof. And yet he gave her the ring, not as proof but as a sign of hope that she would cling to, a sign of victory over her doubt and fears. The sun was now preparing its bed on the western sky. He looked at her face asking not just permission to leave but a reply as well. She looked about frantically for some object, some token. She rued her act of casting away all her jewels when the demon had snatched her. And then as she put her hands to her head helplessly the crest-jewel presented itself to her. She clasped it in

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her palm and held it in her eyes for a moment. A warm tear nestled itself in the jewel, shining much brighter than the largest pearl in it. She raised her arm upwards in the giving gesture. His arm stretched, bent beneath hers as his veins throbbed avidly with devotion. He received it with the warm sigh of a parched land receiving its first drop of rain. The sun was now bathing the city in an orange flame. They knew the city would soon be lit with more than just the sun’s glow. They knew that their Lord too was watching the same blazing sun in some distant land. His youth, the life in the city, the turmoil of the jungle, the friendships made in the foreign land all lay behind them. The war of course loomed ominously like dark thunderclouds. And yet their minds flitted about lightly. The poets who were to sing their glory would burden their memory with the details. But this moment they smiled; this moment everybody smiled. An entire epic smiled with them. For this was a moment of beauty, beauty that dulcified wounds of the past and held a lamp to the uncertain future. This was Sundara Kandam. Epilogue – The Sundara Kandam (Kaan-dum) is one of the chapters in the Ramayana, the story of Prince Rama. In the story, Rama is made to spend 14 years in the jungle with his wife Sita and brother Lakshamana. In the jungle Sita is carried away by the demon Ravana to Lanka. Rama searches for her with the help of Sugriva, the monkey King and Hanuman his minister and rescues her by slaying the demon. The Sundara Kandam narrates how Hanuman finds Sita in Ashokavana, a garden in Ravana’s palace, reassures her of Rama coming to rescue her and then sets fire to the city of Lanka. The chapter is called Sundara Kandam, the chapter of beauty because Sita gets her happy news and also because Hanuman is called as Sundaran, the beautiful. The story presented here narrates the scene of Hanuman meeting Sita and reassuring her in an abstract fashion.

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Music Musings

Hero OST: Tan Dun

Raju

In the world of movies, there are musicals and then there are movies which also provide an OST (Original Sound Track). This OST might not feature in the movie, in their entirety. The OST would be a disconnected composition which can be enjoyed without any knowledge of the movie or the significance of the tempo and instruments. Once in a rare blue moon, a composer is involved in a movie where the music is in tandem with the story as well as the screenplay. And one such creation is Hero (originally named – Ying Xiong http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0299977/). The movie itself is a splendid piece of direction (Yimou Zhang) and production, but the musical score by Tan Dun is spectacular. It would be best to watch the movie and let the music seep into one’s system before listening to the music alone, for there is a connection between each piece and the movie. The tunes have not been composed for the sake of filling the space in a movie, but are well braided with the scenes and action sequences. The more one listens intently, the more one will acknowledge that every rhythm, every note has been consciously and artistically introduced. A sudden rustle, a war cry, a twang of a string instrument are not for mere effect but intimately tie in with the movie. The music has been composed by Tan Dun, classical violin virtuoso Itzhak Perlman and the KODO Drummers of Japan. Tan Dun conducts the China Philharmonic Orchestra and Chorus and blends the talent of the aforementioned artists to render a very dear compilation. Tan Dun plays the fiddle too along with Itzhak Perlman. There are entirely 17 tracks in this album (although most distributions have only 16, and omit Hero (Theme Song)) and each one carries a title which indicates its place in the movie sequence. There are titles like “At Emperor’s Palace” and “Above Water”. The latter piece is best heard while watching the flying martial arts sequence in the movie. Tan Dun has weaved magic in this compilation which might sound familiar to his work in Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon (for which he won the Oscar), but to the discerning ear, the difference is stark.

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Overture sounds a lot like a base tune with some free form music from the violinists. This base tune, which is very Chinese in its flow, is heard in nearly all the other pieces. The free form music appears to clash and collide like discordant waves against a lonely rock, but the overall effect is pleasing to the senses. Theme Music is a lot softer, with the shrill notes of the violin calling out to the soul more than any other instrument in the piece. This is one of the compositions which don’t have any background humming. The KODO Drummers have created an aggressive piece in Warriors. War cries are introduced very creatively to make the hair stand on end. Soft heartbeat-like thumps are sprinkled throughout this piece. They re-create these masculine tunes in At The Emperor’s Palace. The entire duel that takes place in the emperor’s palace is well resonated in the beats in this piece. One of the best choreographed martial art sequences is the fight between Snow and Moon with all the shades of autumn colouring the canvas and leaves spiraling all over the place. Gone With Leaves captures that scene very well. In The Chess Court is by many measures the most beautiful composition, almost entirely using only string instruments and percussions are used effectively at the end to raise the tempo. The fight sequence between Nameless and Sky is halted when the blind, old musician rises to leave. Nameless drops a few coins for him and asks him to continue playing while he and Sky finish their duel. The duel itself is a masterpiece and the combination of the musical score and the choreographed action is subliminal. Spirit Fight and Love in Distance sound familiar after the earlier pieces are played and do not contain anything spectacular in them, although they do not disappoint. Swift Sword starts on the softest note and then weaves tempo and vigour into the rendering. Above Water is very soul stirring and without any drumbeats – a perfect piece for a quiet evening into the sunset. Snow and Yearning for Peace adhere to the base tune very much and Snow is very tied-in with the sequence in the movie. The piece which connects to the last scene in the movie is Farewell, when Nameless’ body is carried with a Hero’s honour. A very moving piece with a good mix of vocals and instruments. This album is worth every penny spent on it. There are very few albums which satisfy as a whole as well as in every fragment. This is one such album. You would do well to include this album in your music collection. I would be undecided about whether I should keep it hidden from others in some secret place or up front on the album rack, where it should be.

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Photography

Thus I start my day

Shruti

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Poem

Me

Vaidehi

How can I claim to be me When I have learnt so much from you? I took on your colors, Shared your soul, To see how far you have come And how much there is to go; How I know you will be there And smile at the very thought; How I nourish your dear dreams And hope for them to come true; How I love your praise And still yearn for more- As you smile at me For wanting to be you. And my eagerness To know you from within; It all began one fine day, When you lent me your soul- Just for a day, you said, You can be me. As I wore your thoughts They made a rusty fit; Your nuances I could feel And the intricacies of your being. The myriad steps in your journey, I turned around to see Your beginning, way behind, And I realized, How you stopped on the way To take me along, To show me what it feels, To be you. I am still me But richer for Having been you

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Fiction

Finality

Govindarajan

He saw it trickle down the side of her face. It glistened thick and yellow with traces of life ebbing away and stretched with the leisure that oncoming death was known to take. His face contorted with the burning bitterness that was now a familiar fluid worming up and down his gullet. He moved quickly, hoping that action would kill the nauseous feeling in his gut. He picked the now brownish cloth in one swift move as he leaned towards her to wipe the dribble and maybe any other trace of morbidity. As he dried her cheek she coughed a deep and elongated cough and spat a mixture of food, medicine and body fluids on his face. He clutched his throat and ran out wiping his face with the cloth he had in his hand only to realize where it had been earlier. He rushed to the backyard and gripped the exposed plumbing to prevent him from falling down while he retched. He threw up and watched all hope leave him, all hope of ever seeing his sister run down their sunflower fields, of ever hearing her laugh as she sat on the loft and sprinkled water on him while he slept, all hope of her letting him cover her when the chameleon jogged down her favourite tamarind tree – all hope. He washed his face and rinsed his mouth. He looked down the front of his shirt and tore it away from his body and stepped back with a sickening fear gripping his heart and distorting his face. No one knew anything about this disease. Not even the doctor who came by regularly on his bicycle. Why else would he not enter her room and examine her closely? Was it infectious? By contact? Fluids? Sartiar knew that he would be infected no matter what the mode was. He started scratching his chest and stomach and pulled his pants down and ran naked towards the motorized water pump near the end of the field. He yanked the chord and started the motor and waited for the pipe to spit out the cleansing waters of the Sutlej. It gushed out and hit his stomach reassuring him like his best friend would do with a punch. He let the water enter his mouth and pour down his body. He fell to his knees and wailed. It was a recently learned camouflage for his weakness, which his sister’s illness had revealed. Sartiar was only used to holding out a broad shoulder on which his sister would cry when she tripped and fell or when the oxen shook their horns at her – he had those horns cut off. Now he gripped a 6” pipe while it drowned his tears. He shrieked out her name and choked on the water pouring into his mouth. “Shruti!” Coughs scrapped his throat and he curled into a foetal coil while the waters bathed him. He walked back to the clothesline and wrapped a towel around him. He heard whispers from the side of the house. He carefully walked to the corner of the wall and listened carefully.

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“I told you that she must be taken to Delhi. There is nothing that can be done here. Not even in Amritsar. And then there…” “But sahib, where will we go for the money? Sartiar’s father said that it would cost fifteen lakhs rupees. Even if we sell our lands we couldn’t rake a fifth of that amount.” Sartiar’s mother and doctor had this discussion everyday. Sartiar shook his head and told himself, “Next, he would tell her that there are loans available and she would reply with the reply she got from the cooperative banks nearby.” He pursed his lips into a thin smile and shook his head. “Only Wahe Guru can save your flower.” Sartiar’s eyes widened and he felt the neck near his ears tremble. Why was the doctor resigning to the Guru’s mercy? He had never heard the doctor refer to the saint before. His ears throbbed with defeated blood and he leaned against the wall and looked heavenward, hoping that the gods would see his tears to be real and stop them from flowing out. He slid down the length of the wall and sat in the mud weeping his heart out. After a while he returned to his sister’s bedside. He watched her stare vacantly at the ceiling and abrading his heart with her raspy breath. He stood with his face was above hers and their eyes met. “Shruti. I am here. Nothing for you to worry about. I will always be here.” He held that gaze for a while. Then he slowly moved and watched her eyes follow his. He tilted her head to complete their journey together and he sat down. He reached over and held her limp hand in his. He wasn’t worried about getting infected anymore. He ran a finger down the wasted skin around her thumb and bent over to kiss it. Unable to raise himself he held on to it and cried softly. “Ba… ba… ba” He looked up and saw a tear escape her eye. He moved quickly and wiped it off. “Don’t cry, sweetheart. I haven’t been a good brother to you. I could save you from the street dogs but not from this. I am sorry.” Her forehead wrinkled slightly into a frown and her eyes held the unmistakable question. “Doctor sahib has given up, Shruti. I don’t know how long you will live with me. Please don’t go. I will take care of you forever.” Suddenly he got up and rushed to grab a metal pot. “I will get you water from the Sutlej everyday and we can throw it on each other.” He dropped it with a loud noise and yanked his harmonica from his bag. “I will play all those Rajesh Khanna tunes for you”, and he started blowing into it but his breath caught in his throat. He rushed out and jumped up and grabbed a few pods of tamarind. He ran in and tripped on the threshold. “These, these tangy stalks I will save for you”, he said as he rubbed his bruised knee.

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He dropped them and frantically looked around searching for something else to assure her of her safety and comfort, only if she decided to stay longer with him – if she could decide. Then he jerked his head back and saw something leaning against the door. He kept looking at it for a long time and at length, silently walked towards his sister. “Don’t worry Shruti, everything will be fine.” He wiped the wet line on her cheek and went out to sit under the shade of the tree. Sartiar sat there through the dying heat of the evening and kept looking at the earth near his feet. His mother called out to him and asked him to bring a few yards of cloth from Munshi’s shop. He didn’t budge. His mother scolded him and rebuked him and went to fetch the cloth herself. His father returned later and asked him to tie the oxen in the barn. Sartiar continued staring at the earth near his feet and his father, too tired to scold him, tied the oxen and threw his slippers at Sartiar. He spoke to the over-ripe pod that had fallen off. “She always wanted that, remember? She always wanted to eat tamarind dipped in rock salt and fly into the sky.” He didn’t have his dinner that night, for he was afraid that he might fall asleep. When he heard his father snoring he walked over to where his mother was lying down. She was mumbling something. He gave her a few minutes before her babble turned incoherent. He went to her closet and pulled out her duppatas (a long stole worn as an upper garment by women). He tied them end on end and improvised a long rope. He walked over to his sister’s bed and placed his palm on her tender chest and slowly shook her awake. “Shruti… Shruti”, he hissed. She woke up slowly with a smile on her mouth. He pulled in his lips and held back the sorrow welling in his throat. “You want to fly?” He picked her up like a rag doll and carried her out in his arms. When he stepped outside the house, he leaned against the wall, at an angle. He placed her back on his chest and started tying her to himself with the cloth rope that he had constructed. When he was sure that she was secure, he stood erect. Her head fell forward. He feared the worst and picked her head with both his hands. “Shruti?” He felt the pulse against his fingertips and he let out his breath that he had unconsciously held for a long time. He unbuttoned his shirt from the top and gathered her hair together. He stuffed it inside his shirt and buttoned himself again. Now her head was erect. He walked with a slight tilt backward and held the back of her femur (for there was very little of thigh left).

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He walked to his cycle leaning against the front wall of his house. He felt a cough grow in her chest. He quickly clamped her mouth and let it escape as a wheeze. Raja woke up and wondered what his little master and mistress were doing. He cocked his speckled head to a side and slowly wagged his tail. Sartiar put a finger to his lips and the dog obeyed. Sartiar pushed his cycle beyond the picket fence and Raja followed him. When Sartiar seated himself on the cycle, Raja retreated and let out a growl. He recognized the arrival of the most feared one. He began whimpering and then raised it to a howl. Sartiar glared at him and felt his heart thump between in the narrow space between him and his sister. “Shhh”, he hissed, but saw that his father had stirred. “Who is there? Wait, who is there?” Raja began barking and running back and forth. Sartiar put all his energy against the pedal and pushed it forth. “Sartiar? Mad boy, what are you doing? Where are you taking Shruti?” Sartiar was already beyond his father’s tired reach. He pedaled furiously through the dark mud paths that lead to his runway strip, from where he could fly, where Shruti would be the happiest. He pedaled through the roads which had earlier seen him chase his sister in a game of tag or when she stole his pictures of movie heroines, amongst trees that had once lent an arm so that he could build a swing for her. He wiped the tears that now mixed with his sweat and held her frail body closer to him. Her hands dangled like the few threads of time that he had stolen tonight, and finally fell on the bell. He noticed it and asked her, “You want me to ring the bell? Which song?” He began ringing the bell to the tune of her latest favourite song and he slowed down as the path before him rose steeply. He stopped ringing the bell and used both his hands to grip the handle bar till he reached the top of the mound. “See, Shruti”, he panted and pointed to the dark Sutlej snaking a few hundred feet below, “Isn’t this what you wanted? Remember? Wanting to fly like Arjun and I used to? Fly off the wooden pier on our cycles? Swinging our arms and shrieking and flapping and kicking in the air? This is how you must fly. My Shruti was not here to die. She was born to fly. Fly Shruti, fly.” And he straightened the happy soul against his self and gripped the handlebars firmly. He took in one deep breath and looked straight down at the Sutlej flowing below… waiting. He put his entire weight behind the pedal and pushed the cycle off the top of the hill. He didn’t have to pedal as the cycle gained momentum and rattled their bodies together. He bent and whispered in her ear, “I will always be there for you.” He felt the shock of hitting the wooden pier. Just a few more feet, he thought. “Fly Shruti, fly.”

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Photography

Stretching into oblivion

Anand Krishnaswamy

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Poem

Wish I Could

Mathangi

Wish I could turn into a dream and come into your eyes and get inside you and live in the warmth, the breeze of your love blowing like whispers… Wish I could turn into a thought and travel through your beautiful, beautiful mind and become a poem in your hands. Wish I could be a stray little joy that catches you unawares and stay in your consciousness for aeons. Wish I could be a sweet fragrance that fills your breath and becomes one with your experience of joy and fleet away like the fragrance. Wish I could be a feather that lands on your lap when you are reading a book – to be touched by you, before you send me drifting back into a cloudy breezy land of dreams… Wish I could be a vibrant quivering bubble in your vicinity, bringing back to you colours of a long-forgotten rainbow – before I dissolve into the elements again. Wish I could be your past, which would make you die with longing for me every new day, when you relive me... while your reality passes by... unnoticed. Wish I could be a tiny strand of love in you, embedded in your unknown depths – springing up at an unexpected moment. Wish I could be a raindrop – a melting cool trickle on your lips; for moments... before you forget me. Wish I could be a wave, licking your feet up like greed, splashing love and remnants of me on you. Wish I could be an insignificance, glimpsing through you, just once... to stay within you, invisible forever… Wish I could be a strand of light...among the thousand beams that illumine your day, resonating in your space and time, staying and moving like a wavelet – unknown…

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Artwork

They

Joan Carol Urquhart

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Nonfiction

Photography

Anonymous

I would have loved to have a bigger bag. I would have preferred one of those sports bags in dark colours, which hint at something serious and important about its contents. I would have loved to toss it on the sands and roll the zipper with a flourish, and tick the flap over the length of the bag or pry it open with my hands and give a lopsided smile. Slowly, I would have liked to pull out a tripod and a lens assembly, holding it in my palms as one does a newborn babe. I would have loved to screw the lens on the camera and look around and lick my lips. I would have loved the lazy whirr of the camera when it caught a glimpse of life within the bounds of a decorated frame – something that would thrill a human mind and something the Gods can never do while they are so busy creating life. Loading the camera with a roll and then tugging it out once I am done, switching between fish-eye and wide-angle, B&W and sepia and colour, polarisers and grad-filters… The pleasures are so many and untellable that I shall stop here with a sigh. I had a Canon Powershot to accompany me that morning. It could fit into my jeans pocket, after a little struggle. I carried it in a polythene bag, which I had lined with foam to prevent damage due to impact. I wanted to capture the various shades of the beach that morning. I had a vague idea of what I wanted and I spoke to my camera, trying to explain the images in my head. I could nearly imagine my camera rub the stubble on its chin and nod its head! I parked my car facing the rising sun. When I looked up, I saw the sun enter after its morning bath, wet hair still clinging to his self in the form of early morning clouds. “Good morning!” I said, “Shall we?” I caught the sun putting up his price and his show of playful modesty. A ray sneaked to a far corner and pulled in a long greyish silver fur. I smiled and pulled out my camera. A playful sun is better than any model in the world. I shot pictures of the sun in many moods. There was this picture while he hid behind clouds and peeked. Another one found him hiding entirely behind fluffy pillows but he sent forth rays to indicate his presence, like a child’s fingers gripping the ends of a blanket while covering her entire self in it. I caught him while he gathered his stole around his chin and gave a pout. I gave him his breaks to change into a new look! During one such break I noticed that I was pretty close to the water. I wanted to shoot a few pictures of the boats amidst the waves. There was one motorboat tossing playfully in the waves, but I wanted to see oarsmen and fishermen holding their day’s catch. Photography would be a lot easier if the image of the mind could be captured just as easily as the image of the eye.

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While pondering the details of the next shot, a young lad walked past me and rushed to where the waves licked the sand like icing on a cake. He kicked scoops of sand into the wave and washed his legs in the water; something about the water made him smile and pet the waves with his feet. He was wearing a pair of worn shorts and some necklaces of beads. I suppose he was one of those devotees who vow a month’s rigour and devotion. I watched him play with his friend who never spoke out to him, but merely washed his legs according to some private game of theirs. I called him over, and he walked towards me with a suspicion accorded to strange men who would come to a beach front in a pair of jeans. I realized that it is easier to trust the sea than another human being, for the ways of the human heart are more familiar. I smiled at him and asked him if it was ok to shoot a couple of pictures of him. He smiled and stood erect. I couldn’t help but laugh and told him to relax – this was not for a school album. I asked him to sit on a catamaran and pull his knees closer to his chest. He was still stiff from the ignorance of what needed to be done. I knew what every photographer knows: models must be their true self and not mannequins. I put my camera down and sat with him on the catamaran. I looked at him and was about to strike a conversation when he blurted, “What sir!? No photographs?” I assured him that his photographs would be shot, but I wanted to know a few things about him. So I asked him about his family and his whereabouts. His name was Rajesh. He enjoyed talking and we found a reflection in each other. We talked about many things and at length I asked him, “Have you waited for your father to return from fishing?” He nodded his head. How would you wait, was my next question. He looked at me quizzically and simply continued sitting on the catamaran. “While waiting for your father, where would you be looking?” He turned to face the sea and smiled. I suspected that they were laughing and rolling their eyes and waves at this stranger who was asking weird questions. “And he hasn’t returned for several days now. Imagine several days of your father not returning home. No news from him. You hear people gossiping around you, but you trust your friend.” He shot me a look: How did this stranger know? “You have been sitting here for over five hours and the waves all look alike. Your back hurts and your feet are dry… how would you feel? How would you be sitting on this kattu-maram (catamaran)?” In a trance, he pulled himself up on the catamaran and sat as in the picture that appears as soon as my day’s account ends. He held himself like that while I shot picture after picture with the sun and sea forming the backdrop. I tried sepia, B&W and colour. I shot him from the side then ran to shoot him from the front. I kept pacing all around him, capturing what we had created over a conversation, from various angles. His innocent frame and sincere expression were extremely beautiful and I had to stop to catch my breath. He immediately jumped off the catamaran and asked me to show him how it had come out. I wondered whether he had seen a digital camera before and whether he had been someone’s model before. I showed him the snaps, but it was the colour one which made him smile. He

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thought that the sepia and B&W were mistakes of the camera or mine! I thanked him and was about to turn around and leave, when he called out to me. “Sir, will you let me take pictures?” I was spontaneously reminded of stories of people on the beach who ran away with others’ belongings. I hesitated for a split second before yielding to the sincere look on his face. I walked over and stood behind him. “Look at the display on this window. What you see through it should match what you see in your head.” “But they always will, right?” I smiled at him and whispered into his ear, “Not if you start seeing with your heart.” He smiled at me and looked deeply at the image formed on the LCD screen. We shot a few trial pictures. He was too fresh to learn about exposure and apertures or even switching from colour to the “faulty” B&W or sepia. We mostly shot the catamaran and the sea from various angles. After a dozen trials, he turned around and told me. “Now, I will take a picture of you.” Containing a human being in such a small frame must have been an adventure for him as it is for many of us. A snapshot of human emotions, gestures, expressions, life… all of it cut and retained for posterity, to evoke a smile, a tear, another emotion, another set of gestures, another array of expressions and to relive life as it might have been… or might never have been were it not for that rectangular piece of memory. I ruffled his hair and said goodbye to my latest model. As I turned around to leave, I saw the sun still eager to pose for a few more shots. I let my face bathe in the honeyed warmth and asked, “Have you ever waited for someone to come in the morning and romance you? How would you sail, if you didn’t know that he would come that day? How would your eyes search for him?”

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Photography

And I wait…

Anonymous

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Reading Reminiscence

The Sea by John Banville

Lavanya Gopinath

Everything for me is something else, it is a thing I notice increasingly.

On 10 October 2005, the Booker judges did something unexpected; they awarded the Man Booker Prize 2005 to the work of a selectively popular, largely unheard of, exquisitely stylistic author John Banville. That work, variously described in the media as 'utterly absorbing', 'numbingly pretentious', 'brilliant, sensuous, discombobulating', is The Sea - a book that you shall take a peek at in the next few pages. This is a book that cannot be read without evoking a strong emotion in the heart of a reader. When sentences reach out to you and speak as if they reflect your innermost thoughts, your fears, your little pretenses, what can you possibly do other than be completely moved? As an involved reader, I found a lot of lines jolting me and affecting me in such a manner that I was thinking about The Sea’s parallels long after I finished reading the book. Isn't that what a good book does to you, stretch you in a manner that you can never go back to being who you were before you picked up that book? There are many things The Sea is not. It is not a love story though it talks about love. It is not a book with an orchestrated beginning and ending though, on second reading, you marvel at how seamlessly the author lets the end flow into the beginning. Perhaps with the intention of letting the narrative flow unhindered, the author has chosen to structure this book in two parts without chapters in either of them. The Sea is a reflection of one man's life. The salty waters touching the shores of Ballyless, a seaside village, serve as a background metaphor for Max Morden's journey – ever present in various hues of blue as he reflects on select fragments from his memory. John Banville has tailored the reflections to be perceptive statements of not just Morden's journey but of the larger concept of life itself.

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When Max Morden, an art historian, returns to the seaside village of Ballyless where he once spent his childhood holidays, he appears to be running away from the reality of his wife Anna's death.

“Had I ever looked at her in life, with such urgent attention, as I looked at her now? As if looking alone would hold her here, as if she could not go so long as my eye did not flinch.”

He stays at the Cedars, a resort that holds cheerful memories of a particular summer that he spent with the Grace family – the stocky, twinkle-eyed Carlo Grace; his languid, seductive wife Connie; their children – silent, naughty Myles and feisty, forthright Chloe.

I thought of Ballyless and the house there on Station Road, and the Graces, and Chloe Grace, I cannot think why, and it was as if I had stepped suddenly out of the dark into a splash of pale, salt-washed sunlight.

The narrative moves back and forth in time, from the near past to the very distant past as Morden picks on selective threads of memory to ruminate at length, drawing astonishing conclusions at times. He realizes that his parents were mere fixtures in the scene of his growth:

Their unhappiness was one of the constants of my earliest years, a high, unceasing buzz just beyond hearing. I did not hate them. I loved them, probably. Only they were in my way, obscuring my view of the future. In time I would be able to see right through them, my transparent parents. Oh, Ma, how little I understood you, thinking how little you understood.

Morden, though seemingly well on appearance, suffers from intense internal conflict as he tries to understand, perhaps review, life and its meaning for him.

But then, at what moment, of all our moments, is life not utterly, utterly changed, until the final, most momentous change of all?

As a little boy, that eventful summer in Ballyless, Max develops a strong crush for the alluring Mrs.Grace, but discovers a few weeks later that his love has swiftly shifted from mother to daughter:

Love, as we call it, has a fickle tendency to transfer itself, by a heartless, sidewise shift, from one bright object to a brighter, in the most inappropriate of circumstances.

Morden is supposed to be spending his time in Ballyless coping with loss as well as working on a monograph of the painter Pierre Bonnard. On his reflective journey, Morden draws in segments of Bonnard's life and compares it to his last few months with Anna.

In those final bathroom paintings that Bonnard did of the septuagenarian Marthe he was still depicting her as the teenager he had thought she was when he first met her. Why should I demand more veracity of vision of myself than of a great and tragic artist?

The author uses Part I of the book to set the stage and introduce all the characters. In Part II he carries the story forward and answers why Morden chooses Ballyless to escape loss. Employing subtle twists in the second half of the book, Banville effortlessly connects lives and incidents

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across time and memory. You realize that Max Morden is coping with the guilt pangs of more than one death and that every reflection encountered thus far means more than what it originally did. Banville's writing is lush with brilliant imagery. Of particular beauty is the way he describes the many references to sunlight throughout the book. There are 'Byzantine coppers and golds' that add colour to the canvas of a 'sumptuous autumn day'; moments when 'light of summer thick as honey' falls from the tall windows; the 'bronzen sunlight of the October afternoon' colouring everything with a 'quaintly faded look'. There are breathtaking examples of the usage of the blue colour as well. The author paints 'enamelled blue' skies and 'lead-blue darkness'; cobbles that 'bluely shine' and mud that 'shone blue as a new bruise.' Peppered across the book are unusual uses of adjective and adverb forms of the same word. For instance, when Anna asks Morden to marry her, the author describes it thus: 'in her usual mild and mildly preoccupied fashion [she] invited me to marry her.' Likewise, when describing Max's walk with Chloe, he uses, 'my fond and fondly anguished gaze fixed on the blond comma of hair at the nape of her neck.' He describes Anna's 'disenchanted, disenchanting eye' for photography triggering an effective image of a photographer who is not satisfied until a perfect picture is captured. John Banville is known for using several obscure words in his works, making it difficult to read him without a dictionary at hand and it is no different in The Sea. Not only does he use rare words like 'velutinous', 'cinereal', 'djellabas' and many more, but he also formulates words of his own – try locating 'Avrilaceous' in a regular dictionary! Therefore, reading this work is as much an interesting challenge as it is a special treat. The Sea is the story of Max Morden's search for meaning and identity. It is a reflection on life and its vagaries. This is not an ordinary book for a lazy Sunday afternoon. Instead it is a rich sensory delight – one that you can go back to and savour, the experience richer with each reading.

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Photography

Bridging heaven and earth

Andy

37

Fiction

Kaustubha Vaatika

Anand Krishnaswamy

Did I know something that I was brushing aside? Did I, Krishna, know something that I was denying? But what more was there to know about this evening along the banks of the Yamuna? What more was there to know about my last evening here with my mother, Yashoda, who was still weeping her heart out and holding on to the pot full of butter and memories? What more was there to know beyond the news that the cows had not yielded milk over the past few days? What more? But something bothered me; maybe it was the new peacock feather. But it was Radha's favourite peacock that gave it to me, so how could it bother me? No, it didn't and it was lovelier than the others I had worn. I enjoyed the breeze tugging at this large perforated drop of green and blue, which I had carefully placed in my hair. I moved a finger along its length and hoped to bring my Radha closer to me. My Radha would be here in some time. I wouldn't let some stray nagging waste the sweetness of this evening when I, Krishna, love of Radha and, thus, lord of her universe, shall unite with her for the last time before I proceeded on my journey to kill Kamsa. I turned on my side and placed my head on my palm. I watched as a Parijaata flower fell off the tree, and smiled. Its descent reminded me of how Radha's eyes would always move earthward when I would lick the tips of her fingers. I laughed and rolled on my back. "Radha, Radha, Radha." Upon a branch two parakeets lustily grabbed the other's beak and brought their breasts together amidst flaps of wings. As I watched, the redness of their beaks deepened, reflecting the passion in their eyes and all I could do was recall the time when Radha and I sat near the Yamuna one warm noon. I had insisted on lying down on her lap and she hadn’t resisted. She never hesitated to give me what I asked of her. How could she be thus? Always giving and never asking me for anything? How could she be the love I am supposed to embody? And while I lay down on her lap soaking in her ever-present love I rolled my head such that my face sank into the upper recesses of her thigh. Then I realized the depth of her offering to me. Instinctively she covered me with her flowing upper garment and bent towards me. As I watched her face glow and blush, I knew love like I had never known it before. Ayana could never make her respond with the tenderness that our love stoked. Ayana could never make her nostrils flare with the passion of absolute love. Ayana could never make her close her eyes and bite her lower lip till it reddened with passion and the blood of all consuming love. Ayana could merely tend the cows and bring home some food like a good husband. Radha consumed me in her love and Ayana in her complete sense of duty. But I am God, and her love for me was inevitable.

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I lay on a bed of long emerald teardrops shredded by earthy passion into tenuous tendrils. They danced softly to the cool evening breeze and my pulsating being. While watching them sway back and forth, my eyes blurred to the day when I had seen Radha thus. We had once met under a tree. She asked me to play the flute for her and I couldn't refuse. I played a low tune, which got her breathing evenly and then she rose with my notes to dance with an abandon I had never known her to possess. I goaded her with my tunes and the dance accentuated to a frenzy. More gopikas gathered around us and stared at Radha's spirited dance, in surprise. They couldn't resist any longer, and joined in the dance. I jumped to my feet and played a livelier tune and stomped my feet to feed the fires that burned in these women. Soon, I knew that I had to commune with my Radha lest the passion in my heart move me to tears and to my knees. When I moved closer to her the other gopikas pulled me towards them and I came apart into as many Krishnas as there were hands pulling me. Radha continued to dance. Each gopika took their own dear Krishna to a quieter place and reveled in the throes of their excited selves. I continued to walk towards my Radha and watched her dance in the passion that filled every iota of her being. I took her in my arms and all she could say was, "My lord" before she fainted and united with me. And those two words – “My Lord” – plunged deeper and deeper into me. Every day I recalled her passionate dance, of how she gave herself completely to me I realised that I couldn't match her love with mine, and that joy coupled divine inadequacy erupted out of me, shredding me into a myriad slivers. Radha had undone the supremacy of the Lord of the universe without effort. In her simple love for me, she had revealed a lot about me. But nothing shall cling onto me, Krishna. And the grass along the length of me brushed me softly and whispered, "You are our Master." I was glad that she picked this garden to meet me. It was far from the valley where the cowherds tended their cattle, far from where her husband would be. She deserved the best in the world and definitely not some cowherd. I will take her with me to Dwaraka and she can be the queen there, a queen who can come to me in gardens much larger than this, much more beautiful, with a million flowers scented with the kiss of the heavens. But I was glad that she picked this one for tonight. Everything about this garden reminded me of her. Those creepers curved so like her body as she would cling to me before we separated for the day – every day. What was keeping her? I hope she didn't get caught in domestic chores, but when did that stop her from coming over to meet me. I remember the time when she was burning with a fever caused by a dance and clandestine meeting in the rains, but she still dragged herself to meet me. And that is all she needed to recover instantly, like the touch of moonlight on jasmines buds. How they scented the air around me and make me want to hold Radha in my arms! I looked over the hibiscus bushes and searched the only path that lead to the garden. I returned to sit below the Parijaata tree and caught a few flowers as they fell to the ground. I raised the flute to my lips and played a tune. The birds forgot their tiredness and gathered around me to listen to the tunes that scented the evening air. And then it struck me – she would hasten to the endearing call of my flute. I rose to my feet and played a deep romantic tune. I was sure that she would hear it in her heart and rush to me. I didn't want to lose any minute of what the evening had to offer us. I wanted her in my arms right now. I wanted to smell her hair as it fell over my shoulders. I wanted to breath the air that swirls between her breasts. I wanted to be warmed by the blood that coursed her veins.

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While I pined for her and played a tune to lure her, it dawned on me. I didn't want to kill Kamsa and rule a kingdom. I didn’t want to be a famous charioteer. I didn’t want to create a tome for posterity. I wanted Radha. Kamsa can be killed by old age. Or all I needed to do was send out my discus. Why should I leave Vrindavan for the sake of a murder? I wanted to spend my life with Radha till I die my fated death. The world would never know such love, and all the Kamsas of the world were not worth it. I could speak the Truth of the Gita even while I stay in Vrindavan. What greater truth than a complete love that doesn't compare? That doesn't demand? That doesn't exclude? But I am God, and Gods cannot be human. Love is what humans need and We serve as their object of Love. Though Radha and Vrindavan pull me back and my heart shall remain here, I cannot be petty and not do what I am supposed to. But, none like Radha will I ever find. Not one of my thousand wives to come, shall ever match her wonderful beauty… "Krishna, why are you so serious?" I turned around sharply to find Chitravalli standing there, leaning against the palm tree. "Chitravalli, what are you doing here?" "What is it Krishna? Are my lips less succulent? Is the curve of my hips not enough to catch your beautiful eyes? Are my feet not convincing enough to run away with you? Tell me what is it that Radha does to you, and I shall do that throughout the day and through the night. I am willing to be your slave “Chitravalli, tonight is Radha’s”, I said and gave her a mischievous smile. “Tomorrow might be yours.” “Really? Why, then, wait till tomorrow?” “Chitravalli, no. Not tonight. I am waiting for Radha and she will be here any moment.” “She won’t come, Krishna. She sent you this”, and she handed me a small dried leaf.

Every minute I’ll pine, bereft of my heart But human am I, and want this for you - Though God you be and Godly thou art

That you yearn and suffer what I will too.

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Photography

In the black of the night

Ramanan S.V.

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Column

Writer of the issue: Oscar Wilde

Nita Kovoor

Life imitates art far more than art imitates Life. -The Decay of Lying, 1889

It was a breezy afternoon in the middle of January and the bright yellow curtains, draping the wide windows of that narrow classroom, were swaying in wild mirth. There was a hush in the class as the English teacher walked in bearing her copy of the text book and her notes. She was wearing a royal blue silk blouse over a smart beige skirt and matching beige strap sandals. Ms.Forrest set down her books on the desk, walked over to the black board and wrote, The Selfish Giant. Then she turned to face the class and said, 'Girls, let me introduce you to Oscar Wilde'. Many years ago that was how I was introduced to Oscar Wilde, the author we will be taking a close look at in this article. The Selfish Giant is a fairy tale for children and as the title suggests, it is about a very selfish giant who did not allow children to play in his 'large lovely garden'.

'My own garden is my own garden,' said the giant; 'anyone can understand that, and I will allow nobody to play in it but myself.' So he built a high wall all round it, and put up a notice-board:

TRESPASSERS WILL BE

PROSECUTED He was a very selfish giant.

Since the giant was the only adult in that story, in my child's mind, Oscar Wilde was painted in giant strokes - a generous frame with a scary moustache. Years later, armed with my own copy of Wilde's collected works, I was charmed to note that while he was not the Selfish Giant of my childhood imagination, he was indeed the presence behind Lord Henry in The Picture of Dorian Gray.

[Lord Henry on Dorian Gray] Yes, the lad was premature. He was gathering his harvest while it was yet spring. The pulse and passion of youth were in him, but he was becoming self-conscious. It was delightful to watch him. With his beautiful face, and his beautiful soul, he was a thing to wonder at. It was no matter how it all ended, or was destined to end. He was like one of those gracious figures in a pageant or a play, whose joys seem to be remote from one, but whose sorrows stir one's sense of beauty, and whose wounds are like red roses.

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Soul and body, body and soul – how mysterious they are! There was animalism in the soul, and the body had its moments of spirituality. The senses could refine, and the intellect could degrade. Who could say where the fleshy impulse ceased, or the psychical impulse began?

Wilde maintained that 'to reveal art and conceal the artist is art's aim'; yet, traces of his own life and his times always coloured his writing. His words in The Picture of Dorian Gray proved to be very damaging to him as they were used as evidence to incriminate him and sentence him to prison in his later years. His sharpness of wit cleverly concealed his intrusive opinions in his works. Oscar Wilde was not just a writer par excellence, he was also a man who lived life as he chose and paid a hefty price for it. Oscar Fingal O'Flahertie Wills Wilde – the man with three middle names – was born on 16 October 1854 to exceptionally talented and unconventional Anglo-Irish, Protestant parents: Sir William Wilde, renowned ear and eye surgeon, philanthropist, and a gifted writer and Jane Francesca Elgee, linguist, talented writer and Irish Nationalist. Wilde had a comfortable childhood and he went on to study Classics at Trinity College, Oxford where he won the Berkeley Gold Medal, the highest award for Classics for his poem Ravenna. Wilde's fond memories of a sojourn in Ravenna, Italy are captured touchingly in the eponymous long poem. He laments the loss of glory of this once powerful capital of the Western Roman Empire.

Thou, even thou, mayst wake, as wakes the roses To crimson splendour from its grave of snows; As the rich cornfields rise to red and gold From these brown lands, now stiff with winter's cold; As from the storm-rack comes a perfect star!

Following his outstanding performance, he won a scholarship to continue studying classics at Magdalen College, Oxford. It was at Magdalen that Wilde began to exhibit 'decadent' interests after being deeply influenced by Walter Pater's essays on life and art which advocated that 'life had to be lived intensely, following an ideal of beauty.' Oscar Wilde actively upheld aesthetic ideals for the greater part of his life and 'art for art's sake' was what he practised in his works.

No artist desires to prove anything. Even things that are true can be proved. No artist has ethical sympathies. An ethical sympathy in an artist is an unpardonable mannerism of style. -Preface, The Picture of Dorian Gray.

Wilde lived a mere forty-six years and his last few years were very turbulent owing to a prison sentence for exhibiting 'gross indecency' in male intimacy. The marked change from the aesthetics of a luxurious London life to the gloomy, dirty surroundings of a Reading prison are evident in his later works like The Ballad of Reading Gaol and his long and deeply moving essay De Profundis where he sums up his new perspective quite clearly:

Still, I am conscious now that behind all this beauty, satisfying though it may be, there is some spirit hidden of which the painted forms and shapes are but modes of manifestation, and it is with this spirit that I desire to become in harmony. I have grown tired of the articulate utterances of men and things.

This is in great contrast to the outlook he held and employed in his earlier works like The Picture of Dorian Gray:

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A cigarette is the perfect type of perfect pleasure. It is exquisite, and it leaves one unsatisfied. What more can one want?

Oscar Wilde is best known for his witty and entertaining plays. He authored nine of them of which Lady Windemere's Fan, A Woman of No Importance and The Importance of Being Earnest are very popular till date. His only novel, The Picture of Dorian Gray was a controversial but huge bestseller in his time. Wilde also wrote fairy tales for children which appeared in two volumes titled The Happy Prince and Other Tales and A House of Pomegranates respectively. My personal favourites among Wilde's works are his essays – these have been variously termed as 'observation', 'dialogue', 'note', and 'study'. In one such interesting essay, The Decay of Lying, Wilde uses the medium of dialogue to examine art, lying and life. He uses a playful, flippant tone throughout and distances himself from the essay by making it seem that his main character Vivian is actually in the process of writing an article titled 'The Decay of Lying.'

VIVIAN: Who wants to be consistent? The dullard and the doctrinaire, the tedious people who carry out their principles to the bitter end of action, to the reductio ad absurdum of practice. Not I. Like Emerson, I write over the door of my library the word 'Whim'. Besides, my article is really a most salutary and valuable warning. If it is attended to, there may be a new renaissance of art. CYRIL: What is the subject? VIVIAN: I intend to call it 'The Decay of Lying: A Protest'.

Oscar Wilde was such a talented author that he could express himself beautifully in any literary form. He was a master of verse and wrote a number of poems that were published in several volumes.

“To drift with every passion till my soul Is a stringed lute on which all winds can play,

Is it for this that I have given away Mine ancient wisdom, and austere control?”

-Helas!, The Poetical Works Indeed, Wilde 'drifted with passion' and transferred it powerfully into his works. There is so much of magnetism in his writings that it is impossible to read him dispassionately. That is why, over a century after his death, Oscar Wilde lives on.

“All my life's buried here, Heap earth upon it.”

-Requiescat, The Poetical Works I would strongly recommend not just reading Oscar Wilde but also collecting his works. As a friend of mine very eloquently put it, “Wilde is like caviar; I save him for special occasions.” Notes: There are plenty of online and offline resources available on Oscar Wilde. An interested reader may find the following information useful.

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Online -The Official Oscar Wilde website: < http://www.cmgww.com/historic/wilde/index.php > -The Oscar Wilde collection: < http://www.planetmonk.com/wilde/ > -Wilde on Victorian Web < http://www.victorianweb.org/authors/wilde/wildeov.html > -Oscar Wilde on Wikipedia (this site has several links to other Oscar Wilde sites in the World Wide Web): < http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Oscar_Wilde > -Ten popular misconceptions about Oscar Wilde < http://books.guardian.co.uk/top10s/top10/0,6109,950928,00.html > Books -Oscar Wilde - A Certain Genius by Barbara Belford < http://www.amazon.com/gp/product/0679457348/104-6935677-3687102?v=glance&n=283155 > -Oscar Wilde - Complete Poetry published by OUP < http://www.oup.co.uk/isbn/0-19-811960-7 > -Selected Letters of Oscar Wilde edited by Rupert Hart-Davis < http://www.amazon.com/gp/product/0192812181/104-6935677-3687102?v=glance&n=283155 >

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Photography

Walking in the mist

Shruti

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