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dusun
August/September 2012Ridiculously Free
8e-Journal of Asian Arts
balbir krishanpaul gnanaselvam
ignatius yeo
jose varghese
antonio lopezpei yeou bradley
martin bradley
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angkor.........
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.....or what?
the artist - pei yeou bradley in angkor wat
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buy this e-book on Amazon
http://www.amazon.com/Buffalo-Breadfruit-Unwary-Malaysia-ebook/dp/B008BHM91C -
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ont
en
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page 6 editorial
page 8 balbir krishan
paintings from india
page 18 paul gnanaselvam
the machine of paradox - short story
page 23 Perchs Cie Chabatz Dentrar
french circus
page 32 ignatius yeo
sketches from singapore
page 40 jose varghese
silent woman - short story from india
page 50 angkor wat - photo essay from cambodia
page 62 angkor wat - another view
sketches by teachers and students of
colors of cambodia
page 68 antonio lopez
chinese ink paintings
page 76 1malaysia contemporary arts tourism
festival 2012 - review
page 80 the shalini ganendra fne arts gallery
gallery review
page 90 martin bradley
dhamma baby - poem
page 96 pei yeou bradley
latest works
cover balbir krishan
editor martin a bradley
email [email protected]
Dusun TM
dusun is a not for prot publication
august/september 2012
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ed
it
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Dear Reader
Another two months have rushed by.
Dusun grows with popularity and now covers a much
wider range of Asian, as well as South East Asian Art
and Literature.
In this ground breaking issue Dusun features awriter and a painter from the Indian subcontinent,
sketches from Singapore, photos, a story, a poem
and artworks from Malaysia as well as French
circus (in Malaysia) and photos and drawings from
Cambodia. We are slowly becoming international
in our scope - who would have guessed when we
started.
It is with many heartfelt thanks to all our supportersover the world, that we continue to bring Dusun to
you. And thanks to our contributors and readers too
- you all make Dusun into the stunning e-magazine it
is becoming.
Now read on...........................................
d
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We are over the moonto have raised the full
amount of sponsorshipto print the charity book
- A Story of Colors ofCambodia - this bookwill continue to raise
funds for the children ofCambodia
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balbir krishan
Balbir Krishan was born in 1973, in a village called Bijrolin Baghpat district of Uttar Pradesh. India. He graduated
in 1997 with an M.A. in Fine Art from Dr. B.R.A.University Agra and, in 2000, achieved a NET (VisualArt) from U.G.C., New Delhi. Later (2003) he received
an M.Phil. (Fine Art) from Dr. B.R.A. University, Agra.
Balbir Krishan has won many awards and held group andsolo exhibitions across India.
the bonding of spirituality-viii
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insulted angels-xvi
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this is not dark life
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this is not dark life
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this is not dark life-i
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this is not dark life
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yugal
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yugal
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the bonding of spirituality
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the bonding of spirituality
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by paul gnanaselvam
the machine of paradox
Two friends congregated at the old rustic bus stopthat faced the busy expressway, under the canopy of anold angsana tree that had shaded them for three blooming
seasons. There, under the azure sky they would wait,spending twenty grueling minutes every morning for thecollege bus that picked them to their workplace. It is during
these times that the two friends would share their issues ofanything- under- the- sky together. They would talk about
their families, work, students and their colleagues, politics,economy and anything that affected their lives in general.
Like children at the swings, they celebrated their friendshipand took to looking at everything so innocently from wherethere dared to put the world in order.
One day, in the droning noise of the passing trafc, Tall
friend said to the Short friend, how much having a car wouldmake a difference in their lives right now. Both shook theirheads in want at that point.
Oh, how nice it would be, they both sighed, of theluxury that a car offered, its convenience, and the status thatit boosted.
No more dust on our lips, commented Short friend.
No more black smoke shocking our lungs so early in themorning, said Tall friend, concerned.
Eventually, ever since the topic of cars had surfaced,
they recoiled from matters that were routine.
They compared.One day they spoke of car models.Or, it was about the colors.
Accessories.
short story
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Bank lending rates.Then, it was the budget and the down payment.
If the budget was tight, they switched to a different
model, different colour, different accessories and nally,
numerology- auspicious numbers that they should secure onthe car plates to gain luck and negative numbers that shouldbe avoided.
Their conversations from then on became covetous
of the cars that other people they saw driving by, andveritably, they began to speak and behave like car owners.
Some people were nice to offer them lifts, and some werecourteous to ferry them to places out of town. These theyappreciated.
However, they too began to become a little
remorseful over those who didnt. They were the ones whospoke to them at college but drove on, ignoring them at thebus stop, passing by, and looking straight. There were alsoothers who blared their honks and waved a benign smile, but
still, drove on, inconsiderately, as Short friend put it. Theywould make their bodies wrench and giggle at the slightestDont bang the door, or Wipe your shoes before coming
in and Talk louder, the music is too loud. Being peteredout, after many days, they resigned with the idea that owninga car would end their brooding. They waited for their time.Wait till I buy a car, said the Tall friend again, this time,
assuredly.I will never leave you here, under the hot sun, wewould travel together. After all, you live only one block
away, he said.
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Touched, Short friend offered to share the petrolcosts.
We shouldnt be like the others continued Tall
friend, pursing his lips to one corner, you know, you werenot here yesterday, I saw Mohan stopping to offer a lift toAlbert, but did not even look at me, in spite of us working
in the same department.Dont worry, I think, people have become like that,
car- owners- syndrome, all that materialism and selshness
is becoming boundless in their attitudes, its the end of
times, exuberated Short friend, convinced.Well, we know we wont be like that, dont we? He
questioned Tall friend who was already shaking his head left
and right, empathetically.Then, the time came.I bought a car, a second- hand, conveyed the phone
call. Short friend jumped with delight, for now, at least the
long wait at the bus stops were an ending peril.Short friend patiently waited and wondered, under
the same tree, the same bus stop, unperturbed by the sea
of yellow owers that fell on his head. Soon, weeks became
a month, and the dark clouds of the monsoon began togather. They kept the remaining days of the year darker andstark. Still, there was no sight of the rusted blue, second-
hand Toyota G.L.
Agitated, Short friend crushed a moving snail underhis leather shoes as he started off to work. He heardthe shell crack but walked on; mindful of the slime that
was pulling his shoe to the road. Yesterday, Tall friend had
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amboyantly walked up to him, draped his arms around his
shoulders, like old times, and asked ceremoniously, Whydont I see you at all nowadays? How have you been doing?
I hardly see you. He laughed, even before the curt replycame, Busy.
The cool morning began to absorb the warmth of the
gentle sun when Short friend had reached the bus stop. The
hard road began to pick up the reections cast by its golden
rays. Short friend walked on them. He smiled, rememberingthat the sun shone on everyone alike. As he sat down, the
bus stop and the angsana tree faithfully stood their grounds,
watching with him the frivolous trafc. Straining to hear, they
stood in silence, as he took a conciliatory stand, I will not
be like that, one day! Under the aloof sky.
The clouds of the past year did not turn up on timeas they had promised. The scorching heat had escalated this
year. The sun seemed to have gone on a warpath, showingits supremacy on anything and everything that was leftuncovered. By now, the angsana is protesting to let its soft
and tender owers to bloom, for they would wither and
drop before it could boast its elegance. It waited, for thetreacherous rain to pelt out from the sky and secure itscomfort.
Short friend waited at corner of the little road before
turn into the main road. He looked to the left and to theright. Every morning it has became his routine, and everyday, he did not forget to take one last look at his pretty tree
before he left for work.
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It stood by the tides, he would remember.Strangely, the tree, that was already looking gaunt,
looked double today.
Wait a minute, he slowed himself before turningleft. He knew his tree. He took a closer look for inspection.Squirming his eyes, he discovered that it was familiarity,
which was sticking to the trees silhouette, and it, wasnone other than Tall friend. Tempted to drive away, he
remembered the angsana and the bus stop; he surely cant beselsh, can he? They were looking at him, werent they? After
all, didnt Gandhi say, You must be the change you wish tosee in the world? He checked himself and the indicator,blinked right.
Tall friend was looking up and away when Short friendstopped his brand new metallic black car at the shoulderof the little bend by the roadside. He lowered the powerwindows.
Hop in; its going to pour now, he shouted out toTall friend.
Tall friend half smiled, his eyes rotating in their sockets.He stood still, scrutinized the driver and the car before
mechanically rolling the textbook that he was carrying intohis armpit. Grappling the handle somewhat carelessly, he sat.Nice car, he complimented.
As Short friend drove away, he saw from the rear
mirror that the angsana was smiling, putting out for therst time, its pale green buds, and the bench on the busstop gaping its mouth wide, shouting to him the unheard
Congrats!
Paul Gnanaselvam has publishedshort stories in theanthologies Write Out Loud andUrban Odysseys and ASIATICa literary journal.He currently teaches in the
Department of ModernLanguagesand Linguistics at Universiti TunkuAbdul Rahman (UTAR),
Kampar, Perak, Malaysia
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PerchsCieChabatzDentrar
KualaLumpurPerformingArtsCentre(KLPAC)
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A permanent search for equilibrium. This Frenchcontemporary circus troupe presents a playful and perilousworld where circus meets theatre of objects. Its a storyof a man and a woman, one in the air and the other on the
ground. Two worlds, two completely different views of the
world. A show that invites its audience to be in the stars.
Une recherche permanente de lquilibre. Cette com-
pagnie franaise de cirque contemporain nous propose lavision dun monde la fois prilleux et tout en jeu et mou-vement, o le thtre rencontre lobjet. Cest lhistoire dun
homme et dune femme, lui dans les airs, elle par terre. Deuxunivers, deux visions totalement diffrentes du monde. Unspectacle qui vous invite dans les toiles.
Production / Chabatz dentrar
Co-production / La Mgisserie, Ple Culturel de Saint-Jun-
ien ; le Sirque, Ple Cirque de Nexon ; le Thtre de Cusset, scne
conventionne Cirque ; La Batoude, Centre des arts du Cirque de
Beauvais ; La Cascade, Maison des Arts du Clown et du Cirque de
Bourg-Saint-Andol ; Le Moulin de lEtang, Billom ; le centre cul-
turel Yves Furet, La Souterraine ; le Service Culturel de la Ville de
Riom ; SHEMSY Ecole Nationale des Arts du Cirque du Maroc ;lInstitut Franais de Rabat, Kenitra et Sal ; le Service Culturel de
la ville Tremblay-en-France, la DRAC Limousin ; le Conseil Rgional
du Limousin ; Le Fond Leader Chtaigneraie Limousine.
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'Perchs' - Cie Chabatz D'Entrar - given to us by AllianceFranaise and the French Art and Film Festival 2012, is whatthe French are good at simple stories, well told and with aslightly surreal edge to them. Last night, after wending a long
way into the velvet and sparkling city of Kuala Lumpur, andbeyond, from my suburban home - we eventually discoveredKuala Lumpur Performing Arts Centre (KLPAC). That home
for all things performance based was secreted within a park
at Sentul, almost hidden amongst the verdant foliage andponds of robust Koi carp.
As we waited to shufe our way to the theatre hall
we were becoming increasingly bethronged by the usualkissy, kissy, lovey, lovey wet-cheeked crowd who generallyturn out for such city theatre performances. I could not help
but notice that in this multicultural, multi- ethnic equatorialcity of Kuala Lumpur there was a large (ish) crowd of paleEuropeans and a much smaller crowd of locals. It could
have been the expat French contingent ocking to support
their motherlands endeavour, or simply a lack of interest onbehalf of the more local inhabitants of our emerald city, butthe disparity was noticeable.
It was a ne performance, spoilt only by an irritatingly
rude blonde woman who was objecting to my cameraclicking, and brusquely demanding that I cease. No amount
of explaining would sufce that harpy who then proceeded
to chitter-chatter her way through the entire performance hence making more noise than my few camera clicks couldever have made. Nevertheless, and despite aforementioned
harpy, those few short minutes being enthralled by'Perchs' - Cie Chabatz D'Entrar will live on in mymemory long after that spell-weaving troupe has packed upand returned back to the land Libert, galit, fraternit.
The story of 'Perchs' - Cie Chabatz D'Entrar, wasa far from straightforward romance. In its own unique way
that story of enduring love and equilibrium was reminiscentof Antoine de Saint-Exupry and his engaging tale of the
Little Prince blended, perhaps, with all the charm of LeFabuleux Destin d'Amlie Poulain (Amlie) and the beguiling
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humour of Jacques Tatis Monsieur Hulot. The performance
was a delightful, charming, balance between theatre andcircus, referencing both while maintaining uniqueness
unquestionably French. There was a ne matureness in the
story (and performance) seldom seen in these equatoriallands, unfortunately.
With the long legged movements of the only twocharacters/actors on that stage at KL PAC, as they were
strapped onto their stilts, I was, at once, reminded oftwo things. One was of the French philosopher Jean-PaulSatre and his theses on balance, equilibrium - and the
other, of certain memorable works by the Spanish painter
Salvador Dali. Dali, if you remember, had irted with the
French Surrealists, and painted Sur ralit in his ParanoidCritical method. As I watched Anne-Karine Keller and
Olivier Lger perform, those be-stilted gures reminded
me of Dalis elephants. There was a grace and elegance to
those elongated, spindly, legs which brought to mind DalisTemptation of St. Anthony. That revelation brought homethe weight - physical and metaphorical, that those stilts
carried on that KL PAC stage oor, and the nuanced layers
of meaning spinning like plates before us.
The short love story we were presented with, wasin itself simple. Middle-class lovers play in circus inspiredchoreography. Theirs is the perfect life. They play, they tease,
but the darker side appears as their societal position doesnot allow them to bend and pick up the caste away spoons/saucers which have been scattered - littering the stage.Tragedy arises in mans fall; there is the pain of separation,
realisation of sacrice and the joy of reuniting amidst all the
bathos and pathos of a remarkable performance, minimaliststage set, and music which both brings to life the actionson stage as well as audibly perfuming the theatre. The
disappointment, if disappointment it was only in the entire
length of the performance.
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rchs Creative Teamthor/Interpreter: Anne-Karine Keller, Ol-er Lgerht engineer/ scenographer: Silvre
rthoux
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images supplied by Alliance Francais Malaysia French Art & Film Festival 2012
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ignatius yeo....is a mortgage specialist and a sketcher with a passion forcapturing landscapes and citycapes. Many of his works are
about his home - Singapore, and other countries. He has hadexhibitions in Singapore and Manila, Philippines. His worksare included in the book Urban Sketchers Singapore Volume1 co-published by the Urban Redevelopment Authority
(URA) and the Urban Sketches Singapore; and a book - solelyabout his art, is in the works.
fruit stall atTelok Blangah Mall
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exhaust duct @ Little India 2
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kampung
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mysterious place
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tg pinang
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bukit mertajam.
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I dont remember the kind of girl I used to be before my awakening tosilence. I am sure though that I was never the kind who thought there wasa need to express myself in some way, or to tell my side of the story to
others. The silence that came in search of me must have uprooted any
trace of such a desire. But when my twenty-nine-year-old son was recentlystruggling to describe me to one of his new colleagues, I felt it was hightime I found my own way of interfering.
It is easy to defend yourself when others describe you the wrong way,but its much tougher to explain what you really are, especially in the caseof a person like me. In a way, whatever my son said was true, but there
were certain things which he couldnt talk about. I thought I had only onechoice leftto transform myself into a story and leave it to those whowere willing to accept it. And then there was this question about the length
of the story I wanted to become. I can only talk about what is left betweenthe wordsthe fragments that could ll up an imaginative mind that
leads to something which is full of missing portions. When all that is saidmakes a fragment in itself, what is not said can only add just a little more.
So, it will not be an epic by any standards.Well, she was not well. mentally, you know. Not that she had to
depend on us for everything.she could look after herself quite well anddo all the household chores. Butyou know, she had these spells at
times and it was never a good idea to leave her alone near waternear awell, river, or sea
My son and his friend pretended soon afterwards that they hadforgotten about my disturbing presence and started talking about other
thingsmainly about what they were reading and writing recently. I toopretended not to listen to their talk about post-colonial identities andcultural representations of nationality. I knew what they were talking
about, and I didnt care. I had the freedom to linger on like a pampered catin my sons room or the verandah when he talked with his wife, little son,
friends, or father. I had gained a level of invisibility that people usuallyattributed to animals which cant comprehend in full, or respond to,
human conversation.I was even better than a cat, because I never made any noise or sought
short story
silent womanby jose varghese
previously published in Postcolonial Text, Vol 6, No 4 (2011)
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attention from them. Actually I thought they were relieved as long as I
stayed indoors and did the things I was good atcooking food for them,cleaning, washing, and staying silent all the time unless someone askedme something. I had the freedom to answer them in monosyllables,
meaningless nods, and also to say things which were not really intelligible,because I was not well, you know, mentally.
I knew they would return to the topic of me sooner or later, becauseof the recent incidents which made me a character t for the role of aprotagonist in some strange story.
The rst time I jumped into the well was ve years ago. But I was
rescued by a man who worked in the nearby rubber plantation. It was early
morning, and he heard the loud thud and splash before I started owing
down the cold water. He knew it was the crazy woman who fell in thewell because he caught a glimpse of my white sari.A few moments ago, I was looking at the water deep down which
looked dark green from above. As I dived into it, the overgrown ferns benttheir fragile leaves to brush me momentarily and left white powderystreaks on my bare arms and face. Or I imagined so. The thud and cold
shocked me for a second. But then I was owing down.
I heard sea waves roaring and wondered whether the well containedthe sea beneath it. And then, the voices cameno, not the meaninglessvoices that come to schizophrenics. The voices that came to me were the
ones stored in my consciousness, in whatever levels or layers that your
psychotherapists will describe for you. I heard clearly the rst lessons of
Carnatic music I learnt as a child, in the denite, husky voice of myteacher in her late forties and in the shrill, shaky voice of the ve-year old
me. And also the slokas from the nearby temple, that had become a part ofmy early morning essence. Maybe that was one voice which came fromoutside the water, not from my consciousnessI am not sure. Also, the
highly contrived musical notes from the bansuri of Hariprasad Chaurasiawhich came from the dilapidated tape recorder of my son, whenever hewas feeling low (which was quite often).
And that music I couldnt name
The music from a movie my son watched with a friend, and I wasallowed to watch in my cat-self. A movie by the Polish director KrzysztofKieslowsky, about the blue colour of human mind. There were movies by
him about the White and Red of human mind too, but I liked Blue morethan them. It had a lot of music, loss, melancholy and authentic innervoices. And water too, which I loved. There is a sad woman in it who triesto kill the music in her. The music of losses, of a husband and a child who
died in an accident. My own losses were different, of a more abstractnature, but I knew what she felt like. Among the many strange things she
did was an attempt to drown the music in a swimming pool. But it keepscoming back, in full voice when she has to pop her head out of the water,
and in mufed persistence when she tries to hide her face underneath.
They re-played it a few times, talking about diegetic and non-diegetic
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sounds in the movie. I didnt get all that, but was fascinated to see it again
and again.You may not believe it, but she used to read a lot all kinds of books
from everywhere. She was educated in a convent school, and learntEnglish when she was very young. A bright student loved beyond religious
boundaries by the nuns, as my grandmother used to remember. But whenshe started falling in love with Jesus and his Virgin Mother, and startedcarrying a rosary in her bag, the Brahmin community decided enough was
enough. She was just sixteen years old then, and was quickly married offto the government clerk my father was. No one knew what was happeningin her mind because she was strangely silent most of the time.You need to be silent to know the music that comes to you. There
should be silence around you too, but they did not let me know my musicthat day. There were voicesreal voicesabove me, and they thought Iwas drowning, and a man came down in a rope and pulled me up by my
hair from the water, to meaningless voices which did not know what theywere doing.I felt so sad to see the shame on my sons face, and wished I thought
of him earlier. But all sane people will agree with me that there are
moments when you fail to control yourself, when you are in a spell, whenthe silence in you leads you to water.
Did I care for anything else? No. It was my son who kept waking me
up from my spells. It was not that I was a doting mother. I felt no special
pride in being a mother. I gave birth to a daughter rst, who died soon
after she was born. Everyone was afraid that I would have a nervousbreakdown. But I didnt care, and I was already the crazy woman anyway.
She just looked like a worm to meI never saw her open her eyes. It wasgood that she never heard anything, other than the roaring of the sea inme. It was good that her thoughts died before they were born. But it was
my son who made me sad. He opened his eyes, cried faintly, and stayed inthis world. It was a tragedy. I always felt pity for him, the kind of pity outof which love of the purest kind emerges.
His friends were all losers like him. They believed they could change
the world, like the European youngsters of the 1960s. But they were notable to explore the freedom of the Sixties, to have the fun, as they say.They were in the wrong time at the wrong place, with mothers who were
crazy or ghting for independence; and fathers who were drunkards or
losers like them, or dead and gone; and some had siblings who openedtheir eyes and managed to cry louder than them. And all the people aroundthem were buying things which should not have been boughtlove,
family, dignity, education, jobs.My son and his friends had drowsy eyes. They were all the time
reading and thinking, and ghting to nd a place for themselves in aworld which had lost any notion of justiceeven the kind that exists in
the wilderness. No wonder they were all losers. Education, intelligence,honesty, sincerityall these were no more the kind of commodities that
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were in demand. They were the elitist idiots who would be mists
anywhere they went. I felt pity for all of them. And I loved them all, andgave them the best tea and snacks I could make. And I got books in returnfrom all the libraries in which they were members.
When you read so much, people expect you to talk about it. But Iwanted to be silent, like Sister Miriam in the convent. It was she who used
to supply me books, some covered clandestinely in brown paper. No onereally had any idea what those books were about or where they came
from. She didnt talk much to anyone else but me. She was studying forher Masters in English Literature in the university in a big city where shestayed in another convent, and came to stay in a room next to mine only in
the weekends. She had to convince the Mother in our convent thatwhatever she was reading and doing during her studies did not result in theloss of even a fragment of her faith. One day she came to my room, all intears: I knew this dear, Mother Clara will not allow me to do my
dissertation on Sons and Lovers. I need to tell Father Paul about this. I willnot get good grades if I cant do my dissertation on something I like. I
looked at her for a moment and said: But Sister, I feel Paul never nds it
easy to choose between Miriam and Clara. This made her stop crying,and we laughed together and read new books the whole night.We had silent meditations in the convent during which no one was to
utter a word, usually for a week or so. I was very happy to be silent, but
when Sister Miriam was around, we made it a point to talk secretly. Once,she told me how she embarrassed a handsome young priest during the
silent meditation in the hall which stood between the seminary and theconvent. It was soon after the lunch in the meditation hall, and shefollowed the priest to where he went to wash his hands. She stood behindhim and murmeredIn the beginning was the word, and what was that for, Father?
What?He turned around awkwardly and found her smile peacefully at him,
as if nothing had happened.
Once we watched a few movies at home. One of my friends who was
doing a Film Studies course came with a lot of DVDs of movies made inIsrael, Latin America, Spain, Sweden, Poland, Austria, France, Germany,Iran, Koreayou name it . We hired a TV and a DVD player. The world
came to our village, in bits and pieces. She loved to watch all thosemoviesaround twenty of them. We did not take any break and watched
ve movies everyday, to save the rent. She would just sit cross-legged on
the oor with her eyes glued to the TV screen, and would hurry up to
make tea and food during the breaks when we changed the DVDs. Wewaited for her to return before we played anything. I found her very
attentive and contented throughout, except for once. There was a moviecalled Sacrice by Tarkovskyoh, you know about that? You may
remember a silent child in the movie, referred to as Little Man. A very
intense movie where Little Mans intellectually inclined father sacrices
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everything that he values, including his intelligence in exchange for a
better world. And he burns down his house. Yes, exactlyit has thatlegendary long shot towards the end where he is chased by people fromthe asylum and taken away in an ambulance, as the house burns down in
the background. Little Man is seen afterwards speaking his rst words:
In the beginning was the word, why is that papa?
She started laughing loudly when he said thiswhich was, you know,totally out of place, awkward. She looked maniacal. This left us a lot
disturbed, not to talk about the confusion and agony caused already by themovie.
It was Sister Miriam who rst told me in her hushed voice about the
hidden pleasures of reading a book, and also about the need to be silentWhen you contain so many books inside you, your connection withthe world is on an altogether different trajectory. The mundane affairs oflife bore you as much as your bookish thoughts bore those who dont get
any of it. That is why you should learn to be silent, and to carry on aneternal, imaginary conversation with interesting people from those books.Whom do you want to speak to today, Miss Alice in Conventland? Gregor
Samsa, Lady with the Pet Dog, or Zorba the Greek?I told Sister Miriam that there were some in the convent who thoughtshe was crazy.They are right. I am crazy the way the Virgin Mary and Jesus were
crazy. But I dont want to be worshipped later. Because I have committedmany sinslike reading Lolita, Lady Chatterleys Lover and The Last
Temptation of Christ; and I even made a bright, young, innocent studentlike you read them too, ruling out any possibility of a religiousconversion.And we started giggling. I told her that I loved the blue robes of Jesus
and Mary, and also the blue beads in the rosary Mother Clara gave me.
She told me blue was a colour that made many people gloomy, but it wasa beautiful colour, beautiful like gloominess itself. She said she used topaint once, and was fond of the different shades of blue. She said she
stopped painting because she knew what she held in her mind would come
out through her painting, and everyone would be shocked. I asked herwhether it was a good idea to stop doing what one likes to do, and she toldme that it was alright; that refusing to do what one was good at was some
kind of a protest; that silence had a lot of power, and that it was thestrongest weapon in the world. I was not totally convinced then.Her silence was annoying at times, but we got used to it. For her mywife and son never existed. I dont know about her feelings towards me,
but there used to be some sort of communication between me and her,from the very beginning. I dont know when she stopped talking to my
fatherseems it could have been from the day they got married. Hecarried her like an unavoidable burden, as long as the marriage wasfunctional and she didnt complain about the housework.
It was only once that some really evil young men came to our house,
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pretending to be my sons friends. They came early in the evening, and I
asked them to wait for my son. He was travelling long distance for hiswork. It took him two and a half hours bumpy ride by bus to reach backfrom his work place.
They started talking ill of my son right in front of me, as if I was ananimal who had no idea about human language. It didnt upset me that
they underestimated me so much, but the things they said did really upsetme.
They said my son was an idiot who knew nothing about the world;that those who think too much of the right and wrong of life will end upbeing eternal losers; that they havent even read a fraction of books he
kept in his small book shelf (which was nothing, because he did not havemoney to buy many books, and got his books from the library); that theywere smart to play the right cardsof religion, politics and bribeswhileidiots like my son were trying to educate the new generation about human
and animal values; that they were in the system and my son will never beanywhere near it; that they compensated for the bribes they paid for theirjobs with their wives who came with money that was enough to buy
luxury cars, build multi-storied houses, and live the life which suits it; thatthey were here in this lowly fossilized house of idiots who belonged to theonce highest caste only because they had to borrow some books andadvice from him, though it was shameful for college professors to borrow
such things from a school teacher; that they had no other choice than toregister for a PhD now, or they will not get the promotion; that they will
have to nd someone who will write their theses for a handsome fee; thatmy son was so stupid and incapable to make some money at least thisway; that they feel glad anyway because the teachers pet in all classes hasmade it only so far in life while they had it all
I felt like spitting on their faces and kicking them out of the house.
But thats what supposedly normal people do. I decided to play themadness card. I made some really strong tea and added two mightyspoonfuls of salt, instead of sugar, in each cup and took it to them on a
nice tray. Then I went quickly to the kitchen and came back with a big
knife and sat down on the oor next to their chairs, and asked them howthe tea was. They had started to sip it, and I could see that none of themreally liked it. But since they were the kind who were in the system, they
did not dare to speak out the truth and said that it tasted really good. I gotup and locked the front door and told them that our neighbors dog wasfond of the tea I made and it would come and bite them if they didnt giveit their tea. They had to drink it as fast as possible to avoid this. I saw how
silent and scared they all looked now, as if I were the dog. I sat down on
the oor again and pretended to shape my toenails with the big knife and
looked at their direction occasionally. I smiled at them and encouragedthem to drink the tea. All the smart, rich, successful idiots sat there anddrank the tea, excused themselves before my son came, got into their a/c
cars and ed, never to come back.
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No one knew when she fell into the well the second time. She was not
at home when I came back from school, and we started searching for her.There was no sign that she went near the well, and it was impossible tosearch in it since it was more than sixty feet deep and almost one third of
it lled with water. We called the re force. They came, and asked us
whether we were sure that she was in it. How could we be sure? If you are
not sure, we cant search, they said. They had rules, which could be bentby a bribe. I decided to pay a bribe for the rst time in my life, but when Iheard how big an amount they needed, I abandoned the idea. I didnt havethat much money with me.When you lead your inner life to the full and close the doors and
windows that let thoughts in and out, you are in a state of bliss. You donthave to spend all your life behaving like actors, trying to convince othersthat what you show comes directly from inside you. You may have to livewith some tagsthe crazy woman, the strangely silent creature, the one
whose screws got a bit loose after reading all that bullshitbut you arebasically free in your world. You are not as mad as those who project falseselves one after the other, and when they look into the mirror, wont
recognize the one they see there. People dont expect much from an insanewoman, and will be grateful for the simple things you are able to do.Those who live with you curse their fate, but so do all who have to livewith someone.
The worst part of it is that you have limited freedom in the physicalworld. You are not allowed to travel, to go near the sea, or even to the well
which is so close to your house. You have to be satised with the waterthat ows down coldly from the taps in the kitchen, in the bathroom. And
the best part of it is that no one sees the sea that roars in you, all day.I have always wanted to travel in a train, but could never do that. Myfather used to take me in a crowded bus to and from the convent school,
once in a month or so. That was all I saw outside the village where I grew
up. Once we went for a picnic from the school. That was the rst and last
time I saw the sea. There were so many girls like me there, in our school
uniforms, and the nuns kept an eye on us. They observed that I was
unusually active and unafraid of the waves. I never got enough of the sea.All my nights after that were lled with images of the sea. Its indeed
strange that what I saw and experienced some thirty years ago remains so
fresh in my mind even now. I feel like a writer or lm director who
chooses certain characters and incidents from the big messy world and letsthem be experienced by others. Its not that other things didnt matter, butthese made a special impact on them.
Trains might have made an impact on me. When I read about peopletravelling in trains or watch movies that feature train journeys, I am
mesmerized. I have no clear idea how one feels sitting near a window andwatching the world move backwards, but I am sure I will like that. Youcan pretend to be in a world where no one really exists or open your eyesand study the faces of others. I imagine there will be a sea of emotions
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oating in a train.
For a person like me the experiences from books and real life have nodifference. In that sense, I have experienced everything in life, in all theplaces of the world, in all possible times. Its much more than anyone
could experience from indulging in what they take for real. They restrictlife to what happens between birth and death, all that falsity which
accompanies each breath.But I never got enough of the sea, the water, the blue, the train
There were local people who offered to search for her in the well, butit was a risky affair, and many reminded me that I will be responsible forit if someone elses life was put in danger. We decided to wait. We
searched in the bus station, train station and the beach. We led a
complaint in the police station, spent two sleepless nights. And on the
third day, her body was found oating in the well, all bloatedThe police
came. They wanted to take it for post-mortem to the medical college,
which was four hours away. My father was upset. So were all ourrelatives. They were concerned about the religious rituals. The policewere nice. They asked me whether I had a complaint to register, or had
any suspicion. I said no. None of the people in the village did create anyproblem. They were all being nice to her, to us, at last. The fact that shewas strange saved us some of the ignominy. The police said there was noneed for a post-mortem and gave the body to us for the funeral rites. We
were lucky, you see.My grandson looks exactly the way my son used to look when he was
a boy. Poor kid, I never accepted him. Or his mother, for that matter. Itwas deliberate. I didnt want to take more people into my world. I tried mybest to shake off my son from my script of the world, but he kept comingback, breaking my spells. My husband deserved pity, but I was afraid togive him that, fearing the untimely emergence of love. I left Sister Miriam
and Mother Clara in the convent, never to meet them again. Sister Miriamgave me a goodbye kiss and asked me to remain strong. Sister Claralooked intently at the rosary with blue beads given back to her by my
father. He told her that we had nothing against them, and were thankful for
the good education they gave me. He just had to think about hiscommunity.
I let in my sons friends to my world, but they never tried to break me
from my spells. They were just nice people for whom you could makenice tea and snacks. I could have made some very good tea for this newfriend whose eyes look so harmless. He is lost in my story, and I can hearthe sea in his deep voice. He doesnt ask what my name was. He doesnt
ask anything at all. Just supplies ller words to let my son get it out of his
system. Yes, the system!
I wonder why a harmless woman had to die this way. I dont believeshe wanted to end her life. She was not suicidal. Just a bit fascinated bywater. Did she differentiate life from death? I dont know. Either she wasmad, or much more intelligent than all of us to face the world with silence.
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I just wish I tried to understand her morethis woman, my mother
Why did someone have to save so many words in a lifetime? Perhapsto deconstruct the means and meanings of communication. In a worldwhere so many voices go unnoticed, what does silence achieve in the end?
Nothing. It just adds to the meaninglessness that surrounds us.A woman, a Brahmin woman, Savitriwife of Krishnamurthy,
mother of Ishvar, mother in law of Lakshmi and grandmother of dreamyeyedVinayak the three-year-oldthats what she was. She should have
remained the same, her existence made signicant only through the pale,
underfed people to whom she was related, if her silence was acoincidence.
She found me, caught me unawares and followed me till here. Hersilence had some power. Her thoughts resonate with me, with the world,even beyond the six minutes of consciousness after she drowned hertemporal self. What else did she have to drown? I can only speak from the
clues I got from Ishvar, ll the gaps in his narration. I shouldnt drown herfully in clichd identities of religion, gender or inner longings.I would like to imagine that she would have loved to be in a train like
this. Did she ever get a chance to travel in a train? Fat chance. But now itseems I am travelling with her. Why was she so fascinated by water? Hadshe ever been to a beach? If yes, what could she have done there?Ishvar said that she loved to make tea for his friends, and got books in
return. The name Ishvar means God. He knows a lot, but not everything.So heavily talented, does he realize what he inherited from his mother? It
would be a disaster if he gets silenced at some stage in his life; or perhapsit wouldnt be.
If she was still alive, I could have offered to take her on a short tripon a train or for an evening on the beach. No, Ishvar might not haveallowed that. He kept repeating that she was not well. I should just have
ended up giving her all my hundred and seventy two poems which have no
takers poor voiceless creatures. She should have nished reading them
in a couple of days, the fast reader she was. What could her silence have
made of it? No one will ever know.
Jose Varghese is Assistant Professor of English Language and Literatureat Sacred Heart College in Kochi, India. His PhD is in Post-ColonialFiction (select novels of Salman Rushdie, Shashi Tharoor and Rohin-ton Mistry) and he is currently working on a research project on theworks of Hanif Kureishi. His collection of poems 'Silver Painted Gandhiand Other Poems' was listed in Grace Cavalieri's Best Reading for Fall2009, in Montserrat Review. He plans to publish a collection of short
stories soon, and facilitates monthly creative writing contests at: http://heart-bytes.blogspot.com/2011/11/writers-forum-contests.html
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A Story of Colors of Cambodia
book launch14th October 2012
At Only World Group (OWG)No.10, Jalan Pelukis U1/46, Glenmari, Shah Alam, Selangor, Malaysia
Charity Hi -Tea vouchers available from
[email protected]://www.facebook.com/groups/138402846288849/
http://colorsofcambodia.org/
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photo essay
angkor wat
pei yeou bradley
A small trickle runs down the
fssure in the stone slabs. Slowly,
without rushing, it fnds its way
into the dry antique tank..
There was a time when that
tank was full. It was a time
of kings. A time of water so
precious yet so plentiful.They would come to bathe,
pray, clear their minds.
It was a time of peace, love,
and joy, before the wars, before
life became meaningless. It was
a time when Garudas ew in
imaginations.
Water would drip, wash
cloth clad forms, vie with Pali
intonations, chants, peace.
Stone were hauled to build
the temple. Time hewn stones,
lowered back to back, side to
side creating the great Wat.
At Angkor.
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lim willett
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lim willett
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sean throw
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sean throw
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sean throw
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sean throw
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pei yeou bradley
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angkor - another viewSketches by the advanced students and teachers of the
Colors of Cambodia (charity) Gallery in Siem Reap,Cambodia
morm maram
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morm maram
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diep kiri
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yon bouch
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morm maram
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Admittedly I was a little surprised, and somewhat excited,
to be invited to the launch of the 1Malaysia ContemporaryArts Tourism Festival 2012. I was puzzled and quietly
expectant too when I read the programme of events forthat day. The events included a speech by YB Minister forTourism Malaysia and the launch of an arts competitionentitled 1Malaysia The Futurists. I was more than a little
curious to see that The (Italian) Futurists were alive and welland encamped within this particular neck of the equator.
That afternoon, there was the usual speechifying by the
government minister the hand shaking and back slapping.Smiles fairly beamed from the stage at the Kuala LumpurConvention Centre, lighting those examples of Malaysian artdisplayed for the purpose of the festival - adorning one side
a different future
launch review
a review of the 1Malaysia Contemporary Arts Tourism Festival 2012 launch
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of that quite spacious hall, on level three. At one point in the
proceedings a gigantic replica eye like something out of aDali lm or Redon pastel, was lit and revolved revealing well, very little actually. It was all a little bizarre.
My view of the stage was constantly obstructed by afemale photographer. She just would not take no for ananswer - not even when asked to back off by the slightly
miffed YB minister herself, so I apologize in advance ifI missed the reference to The Futurists, but I am notconscious of having heard any reference to that bright band
of Italian artists who had created their particular world viewduring the early years of the 20th century. There were nomanifestos manifesting themselves, no painterly referencesto the future, speed, technology, youth, cars, air planes or
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industrial cities. No Filippo Tommaso Marinetti, UmbertoBoccioni, or Carlo Carr either - I was somewhat befuddled.
It seems that it was yet another of those culturalmisunderstandings that I have been having so frequently- since I decided to lay my hat on a metaphorical hat peg,
within my miniscule apartment on the fringes of the mainMalaysian metropolis. The Italian Futurists and their love ofmachines, movement, and fascism were obviously not thefocus of an arts competition. The term The Futurists had
been high jacked by possibly well meaning, but perhaps atad confused, committee attending to the day to day affairsof the aforementioned 1Malaysia Contemporary ArtsTourism Festival 2012 and paid no heed to the previous art
movement of the very same name..Having been kept on tender hooks for practically the
whole event, I had no choice but to shufe down in my seat,
ignore the annoying photographer (and the gentleman withthe mop of silvery hair immediately before me), and get onwith enjoying the show. And there was much to enjoy too.
Ramli Ibrahim and the Sutra Foundation dancers were
stunning. The whole ensemble dancers, Ramli himself - thelighting and music gave us more than our moneys worth.OK, yes I was a VIP guest so it was free, but you know what
I mean. It was superb. The dance theme appeared to be spirit
ramli ibrahim
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and the emancipation of women, but I could be wrong. Itwas a sheer delight and continues to occupy my thoughts
some hours now from the actual event.The anklung musician was a surprise as well. Despite
having been resident in Malaysia for some eight years, I had
not heard one of these bamboo instruments played untilthe launch of 1Malaysia Contemporary Arts Tourism Festival2012.
Perhaps I should explain - the anklung is an instrument
made from hollow bamboo. It resonates when struck andgenerally is comprised of two bamboo resonators tuned tocomplimentary notes. The instrument is shaken to produceits unique note. But - joy upon joy, there was not just a solo
artist - but eventually a whole orchestra admittedly ofschool children, but an orchestra nevertheless, who playedbeautifully as my wife and I hastened off as work beckoned
at that point.All in all the 1Malaysia Contemporary Arts Tourism Festival
2012 was an interesting experience but no Futurists. I idlywonder what that art tourism concerned committee might
come up with next year Post-Impressionist painters who paint indentations made by posts or Dadaist creativeswho only make images of their fathers, perhaps. It therefore
should be most interesting - when the future nally arrives.
anklung
anklung orchestra
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The Shalini Ganendra Fine Art Gallery sits in a cul-de-sachidden somewhere in the far reaches of Section 16, Petaling
Jaya, Selangor, Malaysia. You do need a map to get there,but once there the gallery opens itself up like a welcomingmistress and seduces the visitor with her evident charms.
There is a slight confusion about the exterior areasurrounding the gallery is it a car park, a bar be que area,or a sculpture park awaiting sculptures I chose to believethe latter, trying to seem positive. Like most Malaysia art
galleries it was empty of visitors on the weekday my wifeand I visited. The gallery halls rang with a slight desolationbut nothing too untoward, and in a way it was good not to
have intruding noise as we bathed in the milieus ambience.That day, as we entered, there were two stunning quasi-
erotic ceramic pieces (from Jasmine Koks Sensualityexhibition at the Galeri Chandan) - lying on a smartly
appointed long table. It was sad that we had missed her
gallery review
The Shalini Ganendra Fine Art Gallery
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one-woman exhibition at Galeri Chandan, and those twoartworks of hers made me even sadder. I wanted to rush
over and take my ll of their ceramic beauty, but we were
interrupted by the new gallery minder and offered chilledwater.
We drank our respective glasses of soothing, chilled,water - not wanting to appear impolite, and signed thevisitors book. It was only then, after scribbling our namesin the book reserved for such purposes, that we were free
to wander at will through the two oors of The Shalini
Ganendra Fine Art gallery.
Braving the suburban trafc on that irtatiously hot day,
and praying that parking might be available close by, wehad actually gone to the gallery to see the works of the
Sri Lankan painter - Josephine Balakrishnan. After nally
witnessing that artists striking works face to canvas, it
comes as no surprise to learn that Josephine Balakrishnan
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owering
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Josephine Balakrishnan
bounty
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sunshine sparkle
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buttery
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our protectors
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garden
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cont: grew up in California.
Her work seems to leak West Coast, and to have adistinct Hockneyesque feel about it - bathed as they are inbright California colours, warm hues and alluring tints, butno greater splashes, naked or semi-naked bathers to ogle.
There was a Matisse feel about Balakrishnans art. Perhaps
it was the line work, the colours, or the sheer painterlybravado but, whichever it was, those works were a joy tosee. Though, truth to tell, I had expected more. But isnt that
what we are always being told - always leave them wanting
more.Those bright and vibrant paintings shared gallery space
with the oversized creations of Zac Lee. There was an
incongruity present. The aggressive works of Zac Lee perhaps the product of some strange coupling betweenFrancis Bacon and Georgia OKeeffe, did not sit well with
the energetic paintings from Josephine Balakrishnan, orwith the two gently sexual ceramic pieces by Jasmine Kok.It may simply have been a shortage of space, yet the twodisplays side by side, seemed to detracted - one from the
other. There was a further thought - after strolling the shortcorridor towards the stairs which nagged - just why was oneof Zac Lees digital works relegated to the kitchen food
zac lee
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for thought.
Upstairs, past the quarters for artists in residence, ChinKon Yits marvellous watercolours shone in his one man
exhibition. Kon Yit previously featured in Dusun, has beensketching Malaysia for some time. The upstairs gallery at The
Shalini Ganendra Fine Art gallery was displaying some ne
examples of this masters work. Kon Yit, for the uninitiated,draws painstaking sketches of architecture in minute detail right down to the pencilled expressions on street vendorsfaces. It is unsurprising then that Kon Yits illustrations adorn
many a book about Malaysias towns and cities.The Shalini Ganendra Fine Art gallery is a little out of the
way, but well worth a visit for that gallery is responsible for
some excellent exhibitions and thought provoking art talkstoo.SHALINI GANENDRA FINE ART @ Gallery Residence
No. 8 Lorong 16/7B, Section 16, 46350 Petaling Jaya, Selangor, Malaysia
Tel: +603 7960 4740
Hours: Tues Sat: 11am 7pm
www.shaliniganendra.com
facebook: SGFA
josephine balakrishnan jasmine kok
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dhamma babyby martin bradley
sleep my dhamma baby
let the lotus guide your
dreamsand may the eightfold path
steady your footsteps
and give you mindfulness
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sleep my dhamma babyand in your dreams, rest
may it bring you peace
joy and love to lighten
your busy life
sleep my dhamma baby
and in the morning awaken
with fresh eyesand an easy heart
may a smile brighten your
day
as you brighten mine
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sleep my dhamma baby
the whole world is yoursthe sun and the moon shine
mountains rise and seas
ow
just for you
may this day be the day of
your dreams
when all your wishes aregrantedand your heart is glad
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sleep my
dhamma baby
and uponawakeningrest easy in
my love
and thesweet breath
of the
sunshine
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pei yeou bradley
new beginning
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seeds of nuturing
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somewhere is my dream
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remembering whiteness& other poems
by martin bradley