pothiz july-2010
TRANSCRIPT
Contents
Inaugural Issue ............................................................................ 3
The Soul is a Battery ................................................................... 5
Elegy .......................................................................................... 11
The Matrimonial Clock .............................................................. 12
Goodbye Mrs. Boa .................................................................... 20
Barberic Times .......................................................................... 21
Oops! I made you a Daddy. ....................................................... 27
Thirteen Hours of Fame ............................................................ 29
Inverting the Pyramid (Jonathan Wilson) ................................. 33
Practical Lessons ....................................................................... 36
God Promise ............................................................................. 41
The Idiot .................................................................................... 44
सना फचऩन ............................................................................... 50
City's Seasons ............................................................................ 51
फटी होन का ददद ........................................................................ 53
Divine Sisterhood ...................................................................... 54
From the Publisher’s Desk
Inaugural Issue by Pothi.com Team
Dear Readers,
It goes without saying that we
take immense pleasure in
presenting to you the
inaugural issue of Pothiz –
Pothi.com’s online magazine.
We see Pothiz as a natural
extension to our efforts of
providing the young and
unheard voices a platform
where they could engage, be
heard, get valuable feedback
directly from their readers
and flourish into wonderful
wordsmiths. While Pothi.com
remains an open platform for
a variety of publishing
endeavors, Pothiz is going to
be a more curated collection
of creative writings. Our hope
is that this collection will
encourage readers to delve
into and discover the hidden
gems in the proverbial “long
tail” of writing.
We received close to a
hundred entries and selecting
a few for your reading
pleasure was not an easy
task. At Pothi.com, we
particularly respect the fact
the each individual has his or
her own taste in reading and
writing. So, apart from the
entries that made it to the
main issue, we are also going
to put up some of the other
entries we have received on
the website. Do read them
and give your praises or
constructive feedback to the
authors through comments.
Coming to the entries
included in the issue, the
Featured entry ‘The Soul is a
Battery’ delighted us with its
interesting and novel take on
ghost stories. It entertains, it
frightens and it leaves you
nodding in agreement with
the feelings of the characters.
We hope you enjoy it as
much as we did.
Amongst other stories, ‘The
Matrimonial Clock’ will
resonate particularly well
with the urban career
oriented professionals. It is a
story of how they have to
cope with the conflicting
needs of matrimony and
career. ‘Thirteen Hours of
Fame’, ‘Practical Lessons’ and
‘The idiot’ are the stories
about the opportunism, the
hypocrisy, the good and the
bad in common people – just
like you and me.
While ‘Barberic Times’ and
‘God Promise’ are there to
tickle you, ‘Goodbye Mrs.
Boa’ is a sweet, but profound
tribute to Boa Sr., the last
speaker of Bo Language in
Andaman islands. She died
earlier this year. Other poems
‘City’s seasons’, ‘Elegy’,
‘Divine Sisterhood’, ‘फटी होन का ददद’ (The Pain of being a
Daughter/Girl, Hindi) and
'सना फचऩन' (Empty
Childhood, Hindi) touch on
the various stories, pleasures
and pains of our human
existence. ‘Oops! I made you
a Daddy’ is a cute, little
autobiography by a day old
baby (ghost written by his
father).
Finally, as you all battle with
the fever of Football, do not
forget to read the review for
‘Inverting the Pyramid’ by
Jonathan Wilson. The book
provides an interesting
insight into how the
gameplay has evolved over
time and how the game is not
just about the magical
players!
We hope you enjoy the
collection. Do send your
feedback on the magazine
and also on the individual
entries. Entries are also
invited for the next issue of
the magazine. The deadline is
July 16, 2010.
Pothi.com Team
Featured Entry The Soul is a Battery
by Vivek Ramakrishnan
‘Do you believe in evil
spirits?’
It was Neha. Always the first
one to get scared. It must
have been the story, thought
Arjun.
They were sitting around a
campfire on the banks of the
Ganges near Rishikesh. Their
bodies were aching after a
day of rafting and kayaking. It
was one at night. They were
all stone drunk. Ramesh,
assistant to their rafting
instructor, had concluded his
story just ten minutes back.
It was Sheila’s story. Sheila
had loved a guy, Arjun. Arjun
smiled as he thought of the
bout of leg-pulling that he
had been subjected to just
because of the common
name. Sheila and Arjun were
madly in love, but their
parents were opposed to the
match. They finally decided to
elope. They planned to meet
one night at the very spot
where today’s campfire was
arranged.
Sheila arrived first. She
waited for hours. There was
no sign of Arjun. His parents
had apparently discovered
their plan, and had convinced
him not to go. At around
three o’clock that night,
Sheila realized that Arjun
would not come. She calmly
walked into the raging
Ganges. Her body was never
found. Arjun was found dead
two days later – his body was
floating on the Ganges.
Ramesh had noted Neha’s
discomfort at this point, but
had carried on. He appeared
to be enjoying himself. ‘To
this day, people say Sheila’s
restless spirit roams the area,
and looks around for Arjun’,
he had said. Ramesh had
looked directly into Arjun’s
eyes as he said this, and Arjun
felt a chill run down his spine.
‘Arjun! I’m talking to you!’
‘Well, let me think! Don’t you
want a proper answer to
this?’
He was lying. He had thought
about this earlier. He had a
very good idea of what he
was about to say. But he
wanted everyone to believe
that he had concocted his
beautiful theory in a matter
of minutes, i.e. after he was
asked the question. He
wanted to impress everyone
with his brilliance.
He put on a very sombre
expression.
‘The soul is like a battery’, he
declared.
‘A what?!’He heard many
voices exclaim.
‘A battery. Think of a dry cell.
What does it do? It gives life.
You see, if I put a dry cell in a
flashlight, it gives life to the
flashlight, so to speak. If I put
it in a clock, it gives life to the
clock. Now compare this to
the soul. What does the soul
do? It gives life!’
He saw a few drunken heads
nodding. He went on.
‘Well, if I put a dry cell into a
flashlight, and then remove it
and insert it in a clock, does
the clock start behaving like
the flashlight? NO! The dry
cell can only give life, you see.
It cannot retain or transfer
any properties of its host. A
soul too, merely gives life. It
may give life to a dog’s body,
and then the same soul may
later give life to a human
body, but the human will not
show any characteristics of a
dog, just because he has a
soul that was once in a dog’s
body.’
Again, a few nods.
Encouraged, he went on.
‘That is why I can say that the
only evil spirits that exist are
the ones that we have
currently consumed! And I’m
not too sure that those are so
evil, now that I think about it.’
He winked. ‘You see, for an
evil spirit to exist, it would
become necessary that the
soul retain some knowledge
about its prior host, which, as
I have demonstrated, is not
possible!’
A voice shot up. ‘Dude! You
have not demonstrated
anything! All you have done is
present an idea, which has
never been tested.’
Arjun defended, ‘Well, it fits,
doesn’t it? It explains
everything so well. The
analogy is so perfect, it
surprises me. And of all the
possible explanations, I
believe mine is the one that
makes the most sense.’
‘Besides, the story our dear
Ramesh narrated must be
some stupid legend that
these ignorant villagers
blindly believe. Tell me, why
would these guys even set up
a camp at the very spot
where Sheila is supposed to
have drowned?’
‘Ramesh told us that the
owner of the camp did not
really believe in the story. He
loved this spot, and insisted
on setting up his camp here.
If you remember, Ramesh
also mentioned that hardly
any instructors were willing
to work for the camp’. This
was Neha again.
‘Ramesh has had one drink
too many. I really think we
ought to sleep now. It’s 2AM
and we are set to go rafting
over the real rapids early
morning at 7AM – ‘The Wall’
and ‘Return to sender’. We
need the sleep. And Neha,
please don’t start believing
such nonsense. I don’t want
you tossing and turning the
whole night, and ending up
with no rest tomorrow
morning. We’re going to need
all the energy we can get!’
‘Arjun, don’t mock these
legends. Many of them are
true. Besides, it’s you who
should be worried – it’s Arjun
she’s looking for after all! And
I’ll bet that you are scared
too, underneath that façade
of yours’.
She looked really annoyed.
Arjun let it go at that. He got
up and went back to his tent.
The others followed suit.
****
‘Arjun! Arjun!’. It was a
whisper at first. He ignored it.
‘Arjun!’ The voice grew more
forceful. Arjun glanced at his
watch. It was 3AM. He
covered his head with his
blanket and tried to sleep.
‘Arjun!’ There was no
mistaking it. Someone was
definitely calling him. It was a
female voice. Something
inside him warned him not to
get up. But then, he had to
find out. ‘It’s Neha’, he
thought. It had to be. Though
how she managed to chalk up
the courage to venture alone
outside her tent in the pitch
dark was something he could
not imagine. Neha was trying
to scare him. He would scare
her instead, he thought.
‘Arjun!’ The voice was not at
all like Neha’s. It sounded too
confident. It was pleading,
and yet very cold. For some
strange reason, it did not
even seem human. Arjun
noticed that his hands were
trembling. Why should they?
‘The soul is a battery’, he told
himself. He had to get up.
Neha had put on a good fake
accent, he thought.
‘Arjun!’ This time it was
followed by the sound of
anklets. Just like in the horror
movies. Neha was really
leaving no expense spared.
Arjun had always wondered
why the characters in horror
movies would invariably
follow the sound of anklets,
ultimately resulting in their
untimely death. But he found
that he too felt an insatiable
curiosity to explore the
source of the sound.
His knees were knocking. ‘The
soul is a battery’, he
reminded himself again. He
peered out of his tent.
‘Arjun!’ There she was. A
veiled woman. She seemed to
be looking directly at him.
She beckoned, and Arjun felt
compelled to walk towards
her. She laughed a cruel
laugh, and then turned and
started walking towards the
river. Those anklets! He had
to follow her. Neha was going
too far. He could not let her
have the satisfaction of
spooking him. And yet, a
voice in his heart warned him
that it was not Neha.
The woman seemed to float.
He could not tell for sure of
course - her saree was
sweeping the ground, so that
her feet and slippers were
not exposed. He knew that
something was just not right,
but he could not help
following. She now waded
into the river. Neha would
never do that! Or would she?
She was very annoyed today
– and she looked like she
would go to any extent to
teach him a lesson. At any
rate, he was too drunk to
think straight.
‘The soul is a battery’, he kept
chanting as his foot touched
the cold water. He realized
that the current was
powerful. She stopped. She
was only slightly ahead of him
now. He put his second foot
in. Even so close to the bank,
he could feel the force of the
water. She moved slowly
ahead now, looking back
often to see that he was
following.
He touched the water. He
scooped up some water and
splashed it on his face. The
cool water seemed to clear
his head. He realized that his
firm conviction in his theory
had started crumbling. His
beautiful theory meant
nothing now. How could he
throw away all that he
believed in? Is it just enough
to preach, to believe, and not
to follow? He had always
thought of himself as one
who followed what he
preached. But now, he only
knew one thing – he had to
run! The woman seemed to
sense his discomfort, or, as
he knew deep in his heart, his
fear. She looked back to see
that he was indeed following
her.
NOW! She had turned ahead.
This was his chance. He
turned around silently.
Making as little noise as
possible, he started making
his way back to the bank. He
was almost at the bank now.
She turned.
‘Arjun!’ A savage cry! It was
definitely not human. He felt
his blood freeze. She was
rushing towards him. The fury
of the river seemed to
multiply. He ran with all his
might. He was at the bank
now. She was making a mad
rush, he was sure, but he
dared not look back.
His brain had stopped
functioning. It had frozen in
fear. His legs somehow
carried him on. Safety! He
had managed to reach Neha’s
tent.
‘Neha!’ But the bed was
empty. His mouth went dry.
He needed to find someone!
Someone human!
‘Arjun!’ He did not dare look
up. A hand was on his
shoulder. He finally looked up
and saw Neha smiling.
‘What are you doing here so
late?’
‘I….I just came to check that
you were okay. You know,
you were so scared…’
‘Actually Arjun, you’re the
one that looks like he’s just
seen a ghost. What’s wrong?’
‘Nothing yaar. I try to show a
little concern, sensitive being
that I am, and these smart
retorts are what I get in
return!’ He hoped that it was
convincing.
She laughed. Why was there
a twinkle in her eye? Was it
her, then? Had he really
annoyed Neha so much that
she had performed this
elaborate ritual just to get
even? He knew that Neha
could go to great lengths if
she was determined to do
something… and yet...
But he would never ask. How
could he? If only he had had
the courage to stick to his
beliefs. If only he had trusted
his own theory that he had so
zealously defended. If only he
had followed the mysterious
woman, caught up with her,
and exposed her for the fraud
she was. ‘After all, the soul is
a battery’, he smiled bitterly.
About the Author
The author believes that he is
a classic case of the 3 idiots
syndrome - Engineer from
Pune University + MBA from
IIML, and now blundering
along in life, Vivek writes for
release. He also plays the
guitar for release, but his
neighbours seem to prefer
the writing!
Image Attribution:
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/
File:Oyuki.jpg
Poetry Elegy
by Ananya S Guha
a poem
symmetry
line, curve
dash, comma
ambience
a poem
cemetry
the moment
it is born,
dies...
About the Author
Ananya S Guha lives in
Shillong and works in the
Indira Gandhi National Open
University. His poems in
English have been published
in numerous journals,
magazines, ezines, websites
in India and abroad. He can
be contacted at
Story The Matrimonial
Clock by Shweta Ganesh Kumar
Tara took off her jacket and
hung it on the peg behind the
main door of the apartment.
It was slightly cold this time
of the year in Bangalore. She
rubbed her hands together
for warmth and took out her
wallet. This went into the first
drawer of the wooden chest
of drawers she had in the
sitting room. To the right of
that, went the keys to her
beloved three year old car.
Next on her agenda was a
shower, dinner and the
midnight re-run of FRIENDS
and then she would settle
down with her laptop. This
last, was the most important
activity of the day. It was all
about her search for a soul
mate.
Tara Narayan, thirty-six, lived
in Bangalore and was a
successful TV producer who
owned her own apartment
and a car. And she was single.
And ready to do more, than
mingle. She had broken up
with her long time boyfriend
more than eight years ago.
He had wanted to settle
down and she had not. She
had just started making her
mark as an assistant producer
in a children’s network. Tara
had barely any time for
meeting him at dinner those
days. Edits, props, production
schedules, and auditions with
precocious kids - these were
the only things on her mind
back then. She could not
think of taking time out for a
wedding. The idea of
shopping for a trousseau or
getting through the very
many ceremonies involved
with a wedding filled her with
dread. She was in love, but
she had no time or the
inclination to get into
something that would mean
making changes in her work
life. She had ended up having
a long talk with her boyfriend.
He had understood. They had
parted amicably and
remained friends. Over the
years, he had gotten married
and was now settled in
Sydney with his family.
Tara had moved on too. She
had grown from an assistant
producer to a producer to a
senior producer and now an
executive producer of two
shows for the Kids Only
Network. She had bought a
mid-sized apartment in sub-
urban Bangalore and fallen
into a comfortable routine of
work, life and mostly laid-
back weekends. She was
successful and happy. But
these days she felt lonely.
It wasn’t as if Tara had
renounced her love life
completely after her break-
up. She had gone on the
occasional date, some set up
by friends, one set up by her
brother-in-law egged on by
her sister and a few with the
people she had met at
industry parties. But she had
always felt the stark lack of
connection. There had even
been a fling with an office
colleague. However, that had
ended in a couple of months
resulting in awkward silences
and a hurried shuffling away,
when they ran into each
other at work. After that,
Tara had made a mental note
to never get involved with her
colleagues.
She had been happy enough
as long as her friends had
been around flaunting their
single status with her. But the
number of their tribe had
dwindled by the time Tara
had hit thirty-four. Now all
she got when she called them
for an impromptu dinner or a
drinking session at her house
was excuses. ‘Sorry Tara!
Rajat is out on a business trip
and his mum’s over for a
visit’, ‘Oh I wish I could make
it, but Pinku is teething’. It
was weird how the years had
transformed her friends into
the very people they had
once vowed they would
never be. And just like that,
Tara’s social life had changed
from hip and happening to
staid and stagnant. Saturday
nights had once been
synonymous with a night
round town at Purple Haze or
Pecos. Now Saturday nights
had become the nights Tara
curled up on her couch,
watching a DVD, as she
munched on Chinese
takeaway and gulped down a
drink or two. In her words,
‘Pathetic!’ And adding to her
misery, were her relatives
who seemed worried about
her situation, as if, the future
of the world depended on her
marital status. They had sent
across photographs of eligible
bachelors, proposals from
suitable families and even
arranged the odd, innocuous
meeting in a coffee shop.
‘Just go see him Tara, you will
see why he is the one,’ they
had said. The meetings,
though, had been invariably
stilted and strained. Tara had
returned home, annoyed at
having been bullied into
meeting strangers. ‘That’s it;
we’re doing this my way
now!’ She declared. If she
was the one who was putting
herself out there, then it was
only fair that she would
screen and select the people
she was going to meet. What
she needed to decide on
though, was a method.
The traditional methods had
failed her. And she had to
admit that she was tired of
asking for a table for one or
having to order two meals to
hit the minimum home
delivery limit. She was also
certainly done with the
meaningless, random dates
that meant she would be
making fake excuses half way
through to escape from
turning into the sleeping
beauty at the restaurant. It
was time to get a digital fairy
godmother in her quest for
prince charming. That meant
only one thing in India, online
matrimonial sites.
One click and Tara found
herself in a parallel universe
filled with people like her;
people who were waiting to
meet their perfect other half.
There were sites for singles,
divorced men and women,
widows and widowers and so
on and so forth. The profiles
on the sites were organized
according to caste, age,
height, personal preferences
and so on. There was no
dearth of choice. There was
an ocean of information out
there. Reviews, testimonials
from happy couple and blogs
from disgruntled users.
Tara was hooked. Before she
knew it, she was signing on
www.madeinheaven.com.
Though the title was a tad too
cheesy for her, it claimed to
be the best site for men and
women in her age group. But
even as Tara uploaded her
profile, the site’s logo worried
her. It was a clock titled ‘The
Matrimonial clock’. As the
page loaded, the clock would
start ticking from the first
point that was a stick figure
of an unhappy single to the
last point which had two stick
figures holding hands. And it
was called a match made in
heaven.
Though the corniness made
her cringe, she ignored it and
continued to key in her vital
statistics. ‘Height? Hmmm,
that ones simple,’ she
thought, “5’6” she typed in.
‘Age? Thirty-six. Should I add
and four months? Maybe I’ll
just leave it at that. Onto the
next, complexion… what sort
of a racist question is that? I
am not answering that one.
Next… She went on and on,
filling up the blanks in her
profile. ‘Tall, age above thirty-
six, employed in Bangalore
and…’
The registration process
completed, Tara had received
her new identity. F1734. She
could now browse through
other profiles and send them
enquiries or even chat with
them online. She did not
want to seem like a desperate
woman though. She was far
from that, anyway.
Today, it had been three
months and few days to her
first step in the online
matchmaking world. Tara
settled down for her nightly
search. ‘So, let’s see what’s
been happening in the
heavenly inbox,’ she
muttered to herself as she
waited for the mails to load.
She had received a number of
‘Expressed interest’ mails so
far. This meant that these
members had wanted to
access her personal
information and photographs
and possibly even meet her in
person. However, she hadn’t
yet found anyone interesting
enough to take the discussion
out of the web realm. She
had chatted for a couple of
weeks with one guy, but had
stopped after she figured the
guy just seemed to be looking
for an online buddy.
Today, there were three
‘Expressed interest’ mails.
There was also a direct mail.
It was from M5892 who was
thirty-eight and was a
software engineer based in
Bangalore. His name was
Vikram Balakrishnan. He had
liked her profile and wished
to meet her in person. Tara
took a closer look at his
profile photograph. He
looked nice, young looking,
tall and casually dressed. She
could see the Eiffel Tower in
the background.
Tara replied to him, fixing an
early dinner date at Karavalli,
one of her favourite seafood
restaurants. She switched off
the computer and went to
bed with a faint smile on her
face. Maybe her matrimonial
clock had started ticking after
all.
Vikram was waiting at the
table, when Tara walked in a
couple of minutes after 7 pm.
She patted her hair down, a
tad self-consciously. She had
picked up a new red kurta for
the occasion. Teamed with
her jeans, she thought she
looked pretty good, even if
she said so herself. Vikram
smiled at her, as she took her
seat. ‘Hi, sorry I’m a bit late.
Just got stuck in traffic’, Tara
smiled, as she started the
conversation off.
‘That’s fine. Bloody Bangalore
infrastructure! I had to leave
from home, some two hours
in advance to make it on
time. This city really sucks
sometimes!’
Tara nodded as she listened
to him. She was also busy
processing the two bits of
information that she had not
gotten from Vikram’s profile.
One, that he had a slightly
high-pitched voice with a
whiny tone to it. And two, he
didn’t seem to like Bangalore
a lot. To Tara, the city was
home, her security blanket
and on some days, her only
companion. She could not
think of living elsewhere,
even for a second.
Vikram broke into her
analysis. ‘So what will you
have? Let me call the waiter.’
He half- turned to gesture to
the waiter, only to proffer yet
another bit of information to
Tara. He had a bald patch the
size of a one-rupee coin in
the middle of his head. She
preferred a head full of hair,
no matter what the texture
was. She was fine with
shaven heads and even
baldheads. The patch
however caught her
unawares. She was not sure
how she felt about it. For
now, she clamped down on
the ambivalent feelings and
concentrated on the menu in
front of her. ‘I’ll have a Vodka
with Coke and lots of ice
please. And for starters the
prawns salad.’
Vikram gave her a strange
look and ordered a beer with
French fries. He asked the
waiter to come back for the
main course order later.
‘So tell me a little about you.’
Tara asked pleasantly,
mentally hoping she hadn’t
sounded like a prospective
employer at the start of an
interview.
‘You drink?’ Vikram
responded.
‘Yup. Doesn’t everyone these
days?’ Tara replied,
wondering what he was
getting at.
Vikram had a disapproving
look on his face. ‘Hmmm, I
don’t think I read that on
your profile’, he said in a tone
matching his expression.
Tara gave him a disbelieving
look. She shook her head. ‘No
Vikram. It’s right there under
habits.’
He raised his eyebrows and
opened his mouth to say
something but stopped
himself, as the waiter
approached the table with
their drinks. He took a swig of
his beer, without waiting for
Tara to finish mixing her
drink.
As soon as the waiter left, he
picked up from where he had
stopped, ‘I have gone through
your profile Tara. I don’t think
I would have set this up, if I
knew you drink alcohol. I
don’t think its right.’
Tara got angry, as she replied,
“Vikram, it’s right there under
habits. Secondly, you are
drinking yourself.’
He shrugged and said, ‘Ya,
but its different for me. I
mean, you are someone I was
considering getting married
to. This is not something, one
expects in a wife, na. It’s bad
enough that you’re over
thirty-six and that you work in
the TV industry. I mean that’s
ok, you can leave your job.
But I guess, the drinking is
what will have to stop first.’
What shocked Tara the most
was his matter of fact
delivery. He had spoken as if
he was talking about the
weather. Vikram’s
monologue had left no space
for any discussion.
Tara opened her wallet and
took out a five hundred-
rupee note. She laid it on the
table and stood up. Vikram
looked at her questioningly.
Tara made a wry face, smiled
and said, ‘Sorry Vikram. This
is not working. I just realized I
like the M5892 better than
the Vikram Balakrishnan.
Goodnight and best of luck.
This should cover my part of
the bill.’ Vikram nodded and
nonchalantly pocketed the
money. Tara turned, rolled
her eyes upwards in a quick
gesture and walked back to
her car.
A long relaxing shower later,
Tara was back in front of her
computer. She had time to
kill before the Chinese food
got delivered. ‘What a
complete waste of time!
That’s it! I’m going to delete
my stupid profile. I cannot
believe I met up with an
imbecile chauvinist pig like
this.’ She logged on and
waited for her profile to load.
As she searched for the
delete button, a text box
popped up. She had a direct
mail from M3321. She read
the short message and leaned
back. ‘Wouldn’t hurt to check
out the guy and then delete
my profile, na’, Tara thought.
As she leaned forward and
clicked on M3321, the
matrimonial clock started
ticking again.
About the Author
Shweta Ganesh Kumar is a
writer and a freelance travel
journalist. She has
contributed articles for
‘Chicken Soup for the Indian
Spiritual Soul’ and ‘CBW’s
India’s Top 42 Weekend
Getaways’. Her short fiction
has been published in
Australian Women online,
Single Solitary Thought, and
the Asia Writes project. She
writes a column for The NRI
magazine. She can be
contacted at
om
Image Attribution:
http://www.flickr.com/photo
s/aldaron/536362686/
Poetry Goodbye Mrs. Boa
by Nazrul Haque
Boa, an eighty-five-year-old
woman was the last member
of the Bo tribe and the last
speaker of the Bo language.
She lived in the Andaman
Islands. Boa died on January
26, 2010 and in her death she
took her tribe and language
with her. The old woman was
very lonely in the last few
years of her life as she was
the only surviving member of
one of the oldest human
cultures on earth which lived
in the Andaman Islands for as
long as sixty-five thousand
years. She had no one to
converse with as she was the
lone speaker of Bo. Her death
may go unnoticed but it is a
bleak reminder to all of us.
Goodbye, Mrs. Boa!
We shall miss you.
The last of a tribe,
a lost language,
and those memories
You carried,
for the last 65,000 years.
Alone.
Aren’t you happy, Mrs. Boa?
In death you are reborn.
Just after crossing the bridge,
You shall meet them all.
Won’t you laugh again?
Will you joke about us-
In ‘Bo’?
Goodbye, Mrs. Boa!
Soon
We shall depart too,
Just like you,
Lost and lonely.
Civilization is a great burden.
So is being human!
About the Author
Nazrul Haque is a Guwahati
based author.
Image Attribution:
http://www.flickr.com/photo
s/dsumin/4261244100/
Humour Barberic Times
by Abhijeet Deogirikar
The dentist’s chair has been
famed to be the scariest of all
chairs. Ogden Nash has even
written an eloquent poem
about its horrors.
I’m pretty sure Ogden Nash
never went for a haircut. For
me, the barber’s chair is right
up there with the worst of
them. If you want a haircut in
a foreign land, that is.
Barbers in my hometown are
pretty good at their trade.
You tell them how you want
your hair cut, and they do the
needful. They generally do
not try to be consultants (one
did venture to ask me if I
wanted to do away with my
moustache. But he quickly
realized his mistake). All in all,
they generally do not step
out of line.
In contrast, the barbers I
came across abroad were a
different species altogether.
They see art in their work,
which is a good thing. They
see modelling clay in their
customers, which is the bad
part.
The first time I faced this
predicament was in the good
city of New York, my first visit
abroad.
Part I: Case of the Spanish
barber(ess), New York
A haircut is something I must
get every month. Call it good
or bad, it has become my
habit. To me, a haircut is like
mowing the lawn so short
that you don’t have to do it
for another month.
Not so with the Yankee
barbers. They probably view
it as a hibiscus hedge that
needs to be trimmed and
shaped, so that people can
applaud when you win the
‘best kept garden’ trophy.
I had seen the general
representation of punk-
haired individuals in
Hollywood movies. And I
knew about the zeal of the
hair-stylists of New York. As
such, I had reasons to be
concerned. I might walk in as
myself, and walk out as
somebody who I wouldn’t
care to meet in the street.
The other thing that bothered
me was the concept of
‘unisex’ parlors. I won’t mince
words. I am NOT comfortable
with a lady cutting my hair.
Don’t get me wrong; it’s just
that women have far too
much on their minds already.
Due to which the results for
my hair could be potentially
unspeakable, albeit
spectacular. The visionaries
who came up with the idea of
unisex salons must have been
true die-hard adventurers. Or
bald. Both kinds would fail to
see my point of view.
To return to my tale, I
entered the only salon which
seemed to employ a
gentleman. It also employed
two ladies. It was a gamble,
positioning yourself to be the
nth customer, so that the guy
could attend to your haircut.
I gambled. And I lost. Just my
usual run of luck.
I told the Spanish lady:
‘Please make it short.’
This galvanized the good lady
into zealous animation. What
followed were the words that
I still have nightmares about:
‘You want SPIKES, right?’
I was told that in the US, if
you wanted vegetarian food,
don’t ask for just ‘veg’. Ask
for ‘Asian veg’. Nobody told
me what to say if you wanted
a short haircut. The words
‘short haircut’, apparently,
were insufficient. This was
the U.S. of A.
In adversity, they say, a man
rises to his true potential. I
dutifully rose to my true
diplomatic potential. Slowly
but surely, I explained to the
lady what I wanted. She
seemed to understand (I
doubted that she fully
understood English. And I
knew more about the tribes
of the Kalahari than I knew
about Spanish. So it was no
mean feat).
I got the haircut I wanted,
and she got a big tip. Big by
my standards, anyway.
I was in New York for several
months. By and by, I learnt
the trick of getting what I
wanted, while still respecting
the craftsman’s art. I found a
desi barber.
Part II: Case of the Portugese
barber, Vancouver
Lightening never strikes the
same place twice; it’s an age-
old adage. I have stopped
believing age-old adages.
The second time lightening
struck me in Vancouver, in a
small salon. The fact that it
was small was why I had
decided to walk in. Small,
hence utilitarian, my
intelligence told me. I should
have left my intelligence at
home.
The elderly owner (he was
evidently an immigrant)
pointed to the legendary
chair.
In a fight, it’s best to land the
first punch. But hindsight is a
wonderful thing - it never
fails to tell you what you did
wrong. The attack came
without any warning: ‘I’m
going to give you a new hair-
style. Your’s is totally
outdated.’
In the brief span of a few
seconds, three important
facts were thrown my way:
a. This grand-fatherly
character didn’t like my
‘hairstyle’. Now, as far as I
was concerned, ‘hairstyle’
is a word reserved for the
fairer gender. Gentlemen
always had a ‘haircut’.
Simple. But this guy
thought differently. Or I
was way behind the times.
b. He intended to do
something about my
haircut.
c. He wasn’t asking my
permission to do it. He
hadn’t articulated a
question. Or even a
suggestion. It was a
statement of fact. ‘I’m
going to give you a new
hair-style’. Just like that.
At times like these, one
wonders if Monalisa really
wanted to be painted that
way. If Michelangelo’s David
was happy to be sculpted in
that form. Or was it just the
‘I’m going to, and there is
damn all you can do about it’
attitude of their creators
(God rest their souls)?
Admittedly, both turned out
to be amongst the greatest
masterpieces in the history.
But then, some people are
luckier than the others.
For the next hundred and
eighty seconds, I patiently
listened to the salon owner’s
flattering monologue about
how my haircut was grossly
outdated by at least ten
years. How no one parted
their hair on the left side any
more. Or any side, for that
matter. How he could make it
better.
In the midst of this hair-
splitting, I cast one vile glance
at the older man’s crown, in
hopes of extracting a
modicum of revenge. Eye-for-
an-eye stuff. A bald pate
glimmered back at me. Not
my lucky day, this one.
At last he paused, expecting
to find total agreement with
his expert opinion.
‘I’m not really looking for a
change of style. Just make it
short’.
‘You sure? I am thinking of
giving you a cool style. Like
George Clooney’s.’
He was persistent, I grant him
that. I was terrified. He might
not achieve his lofty goal, but
he would die trying, leaving
me halfway there! I tried to
put the disturbing thought
out of my mind. It was
impossible, even with the
large mirror in front mocking
me with the nasty
possibilities that lay ahead. I
was ready to bolt out of
there, and the hell with the
eighteen dollars.
Then the truth sunk in:
eighteen dollars! No way!
Maybe he’s right. Maybe he
could make me look a bit like
Clooney. But then again,
maybe Santa did exist, after
all. Anyway, it was my hair we
were talking about, and the
question wasn’t up for a vote.
It would be cut just the way I
wanted it.
‘Thanks. But I just want it cut
short’, I asserted. Grudgingly,
he gave in.
Hair stylists chat a lot while
plying their trade. They have
to. Imagine someone snipping
away at the back of your neck
in utter silence. Unsettling,
isn’t it? So they keep up a
steady ramble about one
thing or another.
‘Where are you from, my
friend ?’
‘India. A place called Pune.’
‘Have you been to other
places, apart from
Vancouver?’
I could honestly muster the
names of a few places around
the world that I had been to.
And a few that I hadn’t been
to.
I got in a quick question of my
own: ‘Where do you come
from?’
‘From the land of Vasco da
Gama’, he answered. So he
was from Portugal. ‘Da Gama
discovered India’, came next.
The first bristles of hair rose
on my wrists. I’m particularly
sensitive to any affront, real
or imagined, to my country’s
glory, and would have liked to
point out to him in great
detail how, unlike Greenland,
India didn’t have to be
‘discovered’ by anybody. And
that great civilizations had
thrived in my land when the
early Europeans were just
graduating past cave
paintings.
But it seemed a rather harsh
reaction to a relatively
harmless, though erroneous,
line picked up from history
books. Besides, he was the
one with the scissors. I’m
tactful around people with
snipping blades in the vicinity
of my ears. I have rather large
ears, and would like to keep
them that way. I decided on
strategic retreat.
He went on for a while about
the beauty of Vancouver. It’s
neatness. Serenity. Stuff like
that. Then onto Portugal, and
its countless virtues.
‘So which city did you like the
best, huh ?’ I knew the
question was coming. He
expected me to declare, ‘
Vancouver !’, or maybe even
some praise for Portugal. (I
didn’t recall if my recently
published list of ‘places
visited’ included any in that
country).
‘My hometown, Pune, is the
best of all.’ Take that, Vasco !
I had got my pound of flesh.
The score was even again. (I
would have loved to say
‘bestest’, but he still had the
scissors).
‘Yeah, home is where the
heart is’, he conceded. And
where stylists do what they
are asked, I could have
added.
Not much banter ensued
after this. Once he felt he had
done his best, he stood back
to review - nay, admire - his
handiwork. I let him. He put
away the towel from my
shoulders, and put down his
assortment of artists’ tools. I
let him.
‘Howz that, huh?’ You could
have heard ‘Voila’ in his
voice. It was time to deliver
the blow.
‘Make it shorter’, I said curtly.
It was heartless, I know. Even
Wicked. I enjoyed it
immensely! I was going to
make him earn every one of
those eighteen damned
dollars.
He was finished. For another
ten minutes, he snipped away
dutifully. I got my hair cut
exactly as I wanted it. He got
his lesson. Fair deal.
‘Thanks, Mister Bruno.’ I said
on my way out. I had read the
name off the license hanging
over the mirror, but he didn’t
know that. The old man was
somewhat impressed. He
wished me a happy new year.
I wished him the same.
Perfect gentlemen.
About the Author
Author can be contacted at
m
Image Attribution:
http://www.flickr.com/photo
s/invisiblehour/3095269052/
Experimental Oops! I made you a
Daddy. by Techknowbaby
*Blink Blink*
Hmmm, this uterus is starting
to push into me now... I'm
getting cramped.
Wonder what the date is?
Hey Mom! Moooooommm!!!
mommyyyyyyy!!! What date
is today?
1st June! Isn't this a little
early for you to be imposing
your uterus onto me!!
I'm still enjoying the tasty
treats your friends made you
eat at your baby shower two
days ago! Stop trying to push
me out will you.
*Soothes the uterus down*
There there, I'm not leaving
you and going just yet. We'll
be friends for some more
time, me, my umbilical cord,
and you!
2nd June
Ouch! Mom stop pushing me.
*Gags* I'm not getting
enough air! Help, Help...
*Kicks frantically with each
contraction* I can't take this
anymore... I'm too lazy to
fight this *Heart Rate Falls*
Ohhh everything's going dark.
I'm feeling numb. Hey, wait a
minute! Come back here!
You, yes you anterior wall of
the uterus... What's the big
idea letting so much light in!
Arrrrgghh, there's a knife in
your belly!!!
*Bright Lights* *Blink...
Blink... Blink*
Oh Crap! I'm out!!! Better
start crying before that scary
looking paediatrician whacks
my bottoms! *Waaaah
Waaaahh*
Ohhh Mommy you're pretty!
Who is that monstrosity of a
man with a cap and mask!
That's dad! You have got to
be kidding me. How could
someone looking like that
produce something as cute as
me!
Okay, smile for the camera!
Gosh, I'm tired now! Enough
for the first day of my life.
About the Author
Techknowbaby is the author's
newly born son, who wants
to express his feelings to the
world (something like Look
who's talking but better!). His
dad writes too but like all the
fathers he wants his son to be
recognized first.
Address:
The Crib
c/o Dr. Mulchandani
40, Strand House,
Opp. Strand Cinema,
Colaba, Mumbai
Image Attribution:
http://www.flickr.com/photo
s/jon_ovington/4281583092/
Story Thirteen Hours of
Fame by Jatin Pathak
Sitting on a chair, spinal cord
straight as a cricket pitch, the
eyes of Panditji were scrolling
fast on the kundli of nine-year
old Manav Sharma. With the
right hand he adjusted his
spectacles, giving the
impression that he has found
something of great
importance. Manav’s mother
pulled her chair closer to
Panditji.
Her face was dull and her
eyes were full of worry. And
why not, she had a genuine
reason to worry. Her son had
fallen from the second floor
of the building last night. But
miraculously he did not get
even a scratch. The whole
family had spent the night in
the civil hospital. Doctors did
a complete check up and
found no injury. Everyone
was amazed. She kept the
boy close to her the entire
night, holding him tightly as if
someone would take him
away. She summoned the
family priest next morning.
‘Long, very long’, said Panditji
and started calculating
something on the finger tips.
‘At least seventy-two’, he
added ‘the boy will live at
least till seventy-two years.
You should not worry at all
Mrs. Sharma.’
This changed the expression
on Mrs. Sharma’s face. She
felt relaxed and leaned
backward on the chair like
she had just finished a horror
movie with a happy ending.
‘Shanta, bring some milk and
biscuits for Panditji’, She
screamed at the maid.
‘One more thing’, said
Panditji, holding the kundli in
his left hand with straight
arm and giving it an eagle eye
view. This created suspense
again. ‘The boy will do great
things, he is born to change
the fortune of this family. He
is the Kuber of your dynasty.’
He said as Shanta-bai served
milk and biscuits.
‘PanditJi, then what is the
reason for yesterday’s
accident? ’
‘Unfavorable planetary
conditions. You should offer
red cloth with cow’s milk to a
temple today. Also the vastu
of your kitchen is not good.
You have to change it to
make sure the food remains
pure and safe from evil
spirits.’
Suddenly a voice from
neighborhood intercepted
them.
‘Sharmaji, Sharmaji, Sharmaji’
And a tall lean man, their
neighbor, entered the house
in a white kurta-pajama.
‘Mrs. Sharma, Where is
SharmaJi?’
“He is sleeping” She replied.
‘Sleeping? Haven’t you read
the newspaper this morning?’
He said waving the local
newspaper Kapurthala Times.
‘No, we do not subscribe to it’
’Manav’s photo is on the
front page’, neighbor said and
started reading the story.
‘Miraculous escape for a
nine-year old boy. Doctors
have said that the boy
possesses a lot of mental
strength and is genetically
capable of enduring more
pain than normal human
being. They have requested
the district deputy collector
to provide funds to the
hospital so that they can buy
apparatus to study boy’s
gene-structure. They have
also suggested that the boy
should choose sports as a
career and bring fame and
glory to the town and the
nation. They have called our
Manav the Gem of
Kapurthala.’ The neighbour
finished with a big smile and
handed over the newspaper
to Mrs. Sharma. She was
proud of her son.
‘I have already said the boy is
special. He will bring change
to the nation’, Panditji
jumped into the
conversation, taking away all
the credit.
‘His kundli is similar to Lal
Bahadur Shastri’s’, Panditji
said while picking up his bag
and turning towards the door
to leave. He was certainly not
aware that the former Prime
Minister Lal Bahadur Shastri
died in his sixties, fifteen
years short of his calculation.
Friends and relatives kept
coming, asking for Manav.
Shanta-bai got busy serving
the guests. Manav received
lots of toys as gifts from the
guests. He became famous in
his school and talk of the
town. His arch rival in school,
Diksha also came. In the
afternoon Mrs. Sharma
received a call from the local
TV channel that they wanted
to interview the boy for an
episode of “My town, My
Pride”. They would send a
reporter in the evening for
the recording. This electrified
the atmosphere. The proud
mother told everyone about
it. Mr. Sharma, the father of
the boy, was giving tips to
Manav for the interview. He
coached him to tell the
reporter that he wanted to
choose cricket as his career
and win the world cup for the
country.
At around 5 P.M the reporter
came with the cameraman.
They started setting up their
apparatus. Tarikha Singh, a
former wrestler from the
town, also came at the same
time and started talking to
the reporter. He said that he
came to convince Manav’s
parents to let the boy to
choose wresting as a career.
He believed that one day
Manav can bring the Olympic
glory to the town. Tarikha
Singh was happy to come in
the news after a long long
time. The mother asked
Manav to go and take a bath
before facing the camera.
While Manav was going to
take the bath, his old
grandmother came to put a
dot of kajal on his face. ‘Kisi ki
nazar na lag Jaye’, she said.
But the little boy was in a
hurry and was very excited
about facing the camera. So
he avoided her and went
straight to the bathroom.
When Manav did not come
out of the bath for a while,
his father went to fetch him.
He banged on the door,
‘Manav, come out soon beta.
TV Channel people are
waiting. Manav!’ There was
no response. Getting a little
annoyed, he forced open the
door only to find Manav
sprawled on the bathroom
floor. The boy had slipped in
the bathroom and had died a
quick death. In an instant, the
atmosphere changed
completely. The mother was
inconsolable. She was cursing
herself for not offering the
milk and cloth in the temple.
The whole town talked
philosophically about the
power of destiny. The doctor
and Punditji did not attend
the cremation ceremony.
Next day, Kapurthala Times
carried a small column on this
incident quoting Tarikha
Singh that the boy’s death
was a big blow to the
wrestling’s future. The local
channel telecasted the story
of how the child lived his
thirteen hours of fame before
dying. Perhaps he survived
earlier only to live these
thirteen hours.
About the Author
Author can be contacted at
Image Attribution:
http://www.flickr.com/photo
s/clexow/3254678299/
Book Review Inverting the Pyramid
(Jonathan Wilson) by Sriyansa Das
Football, Jonathan Wilson
writes in the prologue of
‘Inverting the Pyramid’,
… is not about players, or
at least not just about
players; it is about shape
and about space, about
the intelligent deployment
of players, and their
movement within that
deployment...
Yet, no one remembers
football this way; it is always
about the Peles, the
Maradonas, the Rooneys and
the Messis and never about a
team or how eleven players
played. The beauty and
appeal of the football lies in
the fact that it is both
exceedingly simple in the
conception, and yet allows
for enormous complexity in
the game-play. There is thus a
history to be told of this
complex game-play, and
Jonathan Wilson tries in this
book to trace the tactical
evolution of football from the
early days to the modern
form.
The first basic question is that
in a ‘simple’ game like
football, do tactics and
organization matter at all?
Arrigo Sacchi, the former Italy
and A.C. Milan coach, to
prove the efficacy of
organization,
took 5 players [playing per
his rules]…. they [the non
agreeing players] had 10
players … they had fifteen
minutes to score against
my five players, the only
rule was that if we won
possession or they lost the
ball, they had to start over
10 meters inside their own
half … they never scored.
Not once.
Organizing a team allows a
team to effectively utilise the
space on the pitch. Or to get
one or more of the
opposition players out of the
game by denying them the
time or the space to operate.
As formations evolved,
players with time and space
started getting less of it
leading to some innovative
coaches searching for space
in some other part of the
pitch. The entire tactical
evolution of football, Wilson
demonstrates, can thus be
seen as a story of spaces
found and shut out over the
pitch.
However, it isn’t just the
formation that is important. It
is also how players play
within it. On how the early
players operated, Wilson
writes,
… one of the founding
fathers of the game felt it
necessary to explain to
others that if one of their
team-mates were charging
head-down at goal, it
might be a good idea to go
and help him – although
expecting to receive the
ball volitionally seems to
have been a step too far.
Passing the ball to a team-
mate sounds very basic and
intuitive part of the game
today. But it has not always
been considered so. Even this
concept has evolved as a
technique at some point of
time in the footballing
history. So are concepts like
switching positions, pressing
opponents and retaining
possession no matter what.
Each of these techniques
came up in response to some
earlier development. In
recent memory, when Inter
Milan won the semi finals of
Champions League against
Barcelona, Jose Mourinho
talked about how he taught
Inter to play without the ball
because Barcelona would
almost never give up
possession.
The story of football is as
much of people and places as
it is of how the game is
played or the formations
used. Jimmy Hogan, Herb
Chapman, Bela Guttman,
Helenio Herrara, Alf Ramsey,
Rinus Michels, Valery
Lobanovskyi and many others
find mention because of their
ideas on football. In a rather
dry book, the author is at his
dramatic best when he
describes these men who
have changed the game.
Football, the author
demonstrates, has also got a
cultural angle. Often a culture
chooses football as its
spokesperson; whether it be
the influence of the
intellectual cafe culture of
Vienna on the Austrian
Wunderteam in 1930s or the
concept of La Nuestra that
defines Argentinian football
to this day, football and the
way it is played has never
been just a game.
The single greatest reason to
read the book is that it allows
fans to see the game in a new
way. After reading this book,
it will be hard to ignore the
player who runs across, as
Messi stands over the ball
facing two defenders; he
provides an outlet for a pass
or even better draws away
one defender, allowing Messi
to nutmeg the one remaining
and score a brilliant goal. It
will a little hard to claim that
it was only Messi’s genius at
play.
Image Attribution:
http://www.amazon.co.uk/gp
/product/1409102041/ref=pd
_lpo_k2_dp_sr_1?pf_rd_p=10
3612307&pf_rd_s=lpo-top-
stripe&pf_rd_t=201&pf_rd_i=
0752889958&pf_rd_m=A3P5
ROKL5A1OLE&pf_rd_r=0ZMR
DZ3S9WR9TJ17MDPE
Story Practical Lessons
by Sree
‘Want a condom?’ he asked.
‘Excuse me?’
‘I mean to say do you need
condoms?’
‘No thanks! And why are you
asking me?’ she became
irritated.
‘Because ... errr ... we are
running an AIDS awareness
campaign as part of our CAS
activity and so we are
distributing condoms to
spread awareness about the
importance of practicing ...
err ... safe sex’, He blurted
out his practiced answer,
barely looking up to meet her
eyes.
‘Where do you study and
what exactly is this CAS?’ She
asked twisting the scooter
key around her manicured
fingers.
He was distributing condoms
at the gates of a discotheque
wearing his school uniform.
On seeing a scooter stop, he
had approached the rider
eagerly. However once the
helmet came off, the rider
had turned out to be a
beautiful, short-haired girl in
her late twenties. Her male
rock-star costume, complete
with the heavy metallic
chains and steel bracelets had
fooled him and now he was
caught in an embarrassing
situation.
‘CAS is Creativity, Action and
Service and it is a part of our
curriculum in New Era
International School. We
undertake a social service
project each month and this
month happened to be the
AIDS awareness month’, He
explained awkwardly.
‘So you are advocating safe
sex, eh? Do you even know
what sex is like in the first
place?’ She asked.
He dug his shoe-tips into the
ground and tried to think of
an appropriate response.
Suddenly she grabbed his arm
and started dragging him
towards the discotheque
gate.
‘Come; first enjoy the life
young fella! Then you can go
wage a war against AIDS!
What do you say?’ she said
playfully.
Come, be my escort for the
night and I will help you pass
through those bloody
guarded gates. Are you
game?’ She queried.
‘I am sorry but I am not
dressed for the occasion’, he
offered a lame excuse.
‘Oh, don't ya worry about
your damn prep school
uniform. I'll cook up some
story about a fancy dress
theme we are having
amongst us friends for the
night. Awww... come on, you
can’t let such an opportunity
pass. Have you ever been to a
happening place like this
before? You are not even
eighteen, I guess. So I'll
sponsor all the booze and
smoke for you. You just hang
on to my arms and see the
magic unfold. I am bored of
my regular escorts anyway.
Let us dance away this night
together’, she smiled
suggestively, playfully lisping
her words while running her
sharp nails against his
forearm.
He tried to hide his flustered
look behind an idiotic smile.
This was a golden chance and
he couldn't let it pass. He
loosened up his tie, gave a
nervous smile and nodded his
head.
They proceeded towards the
gates. As they were about to
step in, two strong arms
stopped them and they faced
the raised eyebrows of one of
the hulks at the gate.
‘Okay, okay, take it easy,’ She
backed off. Then she turned
to him and smiled a
wonderfully smug smile like a
school-girl caught in her act.
‘We'll find something else to
do. I tell ya, let's go to my
small hide-out. We’ll watch a
movie on the DVD and we can
dance a little too. I've a good
music system. You wanna
come?’ She asked.
He looked at her disarming
smile and said yes.
As he rode pillion on the
scooter, her fragrance tickled
his senses and sent a tingling
sensation down his spine. He
had never been this close to a
female body. Myriad
thoughts raced across his
virile mind. He wondered
what story he will have by the
end of the evening to tell his
friends the next day. His heart
thumped with excitement.
The evening was pregnant
with alluring possibilities.
They reached her small flat in
the suburbs of the city. As he
entered he noticed the well-
kept room. A show-case filled
with books, DVDs and CDs
was standing against the wall.
On the opposite side was a
single comfortable sofa in
blazing red colour with a few
virgin white cushions. The
walls of the room were
painted in a pleasant lemon
yellow. A single large painting
adorned its wall, overhanging
the sofa; a painting of red
roses in a black vase against a
window sill. She closed the
door behind them and locked
it.
As he settled down on the
sofa, she fetched a bottle of
wine and two glasses from
the kitchen and began to
pour the red bubbly liquid.
She offered one glass to him
which he took with shaking
and sweaty hands. She went
back to the showcase and
selected a DVD to play on the
music system. As the soft
song started playing, she gave
him an inviting look and
gestured him to come and
dance with her. He rose to
her command and joined her,
swaying slowly to the rhythm
of the music while his pulse
raced and his heart thumped
with excitement. Being close
to her he realized that
underneath those loose
fitting hip hop clothes she
had a petite and thin body
that he could easily cocoon in
his athletic arms.
They danced for a while,
taking breaks in between to
sip the wine. No words were
exchanged. The silence
stoked the fire of excitement
in his mind with each passing
minute. Then she abruptly
stopped the music, inserted a
disc into the video system
and sank down on the sofa
gesturing him to join her at
her side. He settled down
beside her, their bodies
almost touching each other.
As the movie played, the
wine, the romantic dance and
the physical closeness began
to make him restless.
Gathering his courage, he
slowly placed his trembling
hand on her thigh. She turned
to him and smiled sweetly. He
felt encouraged by her
response. His heart-beats
now echoed in his ears as he
felt the warmth of her skin
through the thick clothes. She
took his hand and started
stroking her cheeks with it.
Then she spoke in a quiet
tone.
‘Can I share a secret with ya?’
‘Sure!’
‘I am suffering from AIDS?’
He froze as if bitten by a
snake. His hand twitched as
his mind tried to assimilate
the significance of the
information she had shared
with him. The warm romantic
feelings gave way to cold
fear. His body withdrew from
any contact with hers. He
wanted to get up and bolt
through the door but he was
stuck to his chair.
‘Are you serious?’ He said half
expecting this to be a bad
joke.
‘Yes, I am an HIV positive
person’ she said in a sad tone.
‘You probably want to leave
right away, eh? I know you
are already running away
from me in your mind.’ She
stood up and started pacing
the room. ‘Look, I had no
intentions of tempting you
into some foolhardy act
tonight. I just wanted to show
you the real danger of AIDS
that exists in our society, the
careless attitude that people
in general have about its
dangers. I am sorry for giving
you such a rude shock but I
hope this is a practical lesson
for you and you will use all
the precautions for your own
self when the need arises.
Whatever you learn in
classrooms is all very good
but becoming sensitive
towards these issues in real
life is what matters. I hope
you understand that it is not
about distributing free
condoms, but about being
responsible and being aware.
Take care!’ She held the door
open for him to leave.
And as he hurriedly left the
house, she called out from
behind, ‘Hey, can you also do
something about the rotten
attitude people have towards
HIV positive people? Maybe
you can start with yourself!
You did not even thank me
for the evening or mention a
sweet goodbye. Anyway,
Good night and sweet
dreams!’
About the Author
The author is a general
practitioner of medicine by
profession and a writer by
compulsion of the muse that
invades her being on and off.
She is married with two kids
and has an easy, comfortable
life. She dreams of chaos,
though.
Image Attribution:
http://www.flickr.com/photo
s/foundphotoslj/466713478/
Humour God Promise by Vibha Batra
God: Earthlings lie way too
much, tch tch! I want to make
an example of a liar so that
people are scared to lie.
Yamaraj: Why don’t we kill
them all?
Chitragupta: Then there will
be no one left on earth.
Narad muni: Yeah, it’s that
bad!
Yamaraj: Why don’t we take
human form and try drilling
sense into their heads?
Chitragupta: What an idea,
sirji!
Yamaraj: So you are coming
along?
Chitragupta (shifts
uncomfortably on his throne):
Umm, err, I have some
important business to attend
here. Why don’t you guys go?
I will hold fort.
God: Let’s do it, Yammy.
Narad?
Narad muni: I’m on sick leave
starting tomorrow.
Yamaraj: Looks like it’s just
the two of us.
God: One minute, what do
we go as?
Yamaraj: Let’s see, we are
used to luxury. So it makes
sense to go as film stars or
bureaucrats or industrialists
or…
God: Or politicians?
Chitragupta: They lie for a
living, sir.
God: Won’t that be
interesting? We will test
ourselves. We will stay on as
long as we speak the truth.
The moment we lie, we will
be transported back to
heaven.
Yamaraj: Where do they have
the worst politicians on
earth?
Chitragupta (scratching his
head): They are the same
everywhere. In some
countries though, if they
make money, they do some
work too.
Narad muni: Lord, go to India.
Their politicians take the
cake.
Yamaraj: Deal!
God: Tathastu!
Whirlpool engulfs them.
Next second, God and Yama
are standing inside Mumbai’s
Legislative Assembly.
Swearing in ceremony is in
progress.
Yama is in disguise. His
assumed name Y.A.M. is
called out.
He speaks into the mike:
Main, Y.A.M., shapath leta
hoon ki main…
His speech is rudely
interrupted by a mike that
comes flying on his face.
Close on its heels are some
murderous looking manoos.
They pounce on him, rough
him up and send him
sprawling to God.
God: Kai zhala? Kai zhala?
Yamaraj: (groaning) You knew
we were supposed to speak
only in Marathi?
God shuffles uncomfortably.
Suddenly, there’s an
announcement in Marathi:
Now, Shri G.O. Darshan will
read the party manifesto.
God puts on His glasses,
walks to the podium and
speaks in Marathi.
God: Mahan Neta Sena will
make Mumbai look like
Shanghai, MNS will provide
power, roads, infrastructure
to every village…
The words have barely been
uttered by God when the
whirlpool engulfs Him and He
is transported back to the
heaven.
Yamaraj: (left alone and
scared in the Assembly)
Devaa…
About the Author
Chennai based Vibha Batra
has a Masters in
Communication from the
University of Madras. A
copywriter by profession, she
has worked in some of the
leading advertising agencies
in the country. Her first book
Ishaavaasya Upanishad, a
translation of her
grandfather’s, (the late
scholar Vishnu Kant Shastri)
book, was published by Rupa
and Co in 2007. Her poetry
collection titled Tongue-in-
cheek was published by
Writers Workshop in 2008.
Her collection of short stories
'A Twist of Lime' was
published last year by Think
Big Publishers. Her short
stories and poems have
appeared on various literary
magazines (Dignity Dialogue,
Muse India, Clockwise Cat,
Long Story Short, Kritya, Asia
Writes, Jaalmag) and
anthologies (Vanilla Desires
by Unisun and Just Plain Bad
Luck by Prakash Books India).
She is an avid blogger on
Sulekha and is currently
working on her next book, a
novel.
Image Attribution:
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/
File:Yama%27s_Court_and_H
ell.jpg
Story The Idiot
by Abhishek Sahaya
‘What the hell! Why do they
always do this?’ It would be
an understatement if I say
Mr. OLD BALLS was furious.
Yes, Mr. OLD BALLS is the
name I have given to my
HOD. He is not aware
obviously for otherwise it
wouldn’t have taken him long
to chop my head off. I don’t
really blame him for his state
of mind. Handling new
manufacturing projects is a
tough job and it can easily
bring out the evil inside you.
He has been working in this
department for more than
twenty-five years — that’s my
age. I joined this hell three
years back, something I was
dying to do during my college
final year. So what they said
in the college is true —
mechanical engineering
students reach hell after
dying.
The news for the day was
that another design change
number was issued by the
R&D team. It was a MINOR
change according to their
project lead — a change that
would call for further MINOR
changes in the holding
fixture, making its cost go up
by not less than three lakhs.
Mr. OLD BALLS immediately
asked me to check on the
ordering status. Another bad
news — the PO was released
three weeks back and we
were half way through the
DAP. This is why I always try
not to meet any deadline.
Had we delayed on the
ordering, we could have
saved at least one lakh
rupees. But a MISTAKE once
done is done — there is little
point regretting later.
Anyway, this is everyday
business for our team and it
hardly affects me now. What
does affect me, however, is
my cell phone ringing on my
desk while I am standing in
Mr. OLD BALLS’ cabin. I
literally ran out to take the
call. It was HER.
‘Where are you?’ A normal
employed person like me will
be working in office on a
working day at 12:42 in the
afternoon, but girls just can’t
see the obvious.
‘Office!!’ I replied, trying not
to sound irritated.
‘I am in the bus’, she said. She
was on her way to office. She
would take a bus to Dadar
and then a local to Andheri
every day. One more thing
she would do every day is to
call me when getting bored
waiting for the bus or train.
My friends often told me that
I am nothing more than a
time pass for her. But there
was one small problem – I
loved being her time pass!!
‘I am in a very bad mood
today’ she said. For a
moment, I got a weird
thought — am I talking to Mr.
OLD BALLS? I immediately
checked my cell phone. It
flashed her name on display.
God! Everyone is in a bad
mood today. ‘What
happened? I thought you
were supporting Italy!’
Italy had defeated France in
FIFA World Cup Final two
days back.
‘Not that stupid. Sanket isn’t
picking up his phone.’
Now this was something that
didn’t do any good to my
mood. She met Sanket at the
weekend MBA classes some
4-5 months back. They have
been ‘just friends’ since then.
That’s what she always told
me. My friends used to tell
me that I felt insecure
because of that guy. I would
go mad at them for even
thinking like this. There was
no way I could be jealous of
an IDIOT. Yes this is what I
used to call him – Her IDIOT.
She didn’t know about this of
course. I never felt that this
IDIOT had any credentials to
be my competitor.
There was nothing special
about him. He didn’t have
parents – lost them when he
was in 11th standard. He had
been staying with his
maternal uncle since then.
She once told me while
having dinner at a restaurant,
‘You know, his uncle charges
him for staying with them.
Such a Bastard!!’ She
wouldn’t use foul language
normally.
‘How did he pay during his
school days?’ I asked.
‘Used to work for the local
cable guy. Part time. He was
always good at videography.
He would shoot at various
birthdays and marriages to fill
up his uncle’s pocket. Rascal!’
She was getting better with
swearing.
‘Oh!! That’s why he is
working as a cameraman for
that News channel. Must be
finding it very easy at work
with all his experience.’ I
thought I wasn’t being
sarcastic.
‘But it’s really exciting, isn’t
it? Covering all the news. He
even gets to meet some
celebrities. You know, when
he went to cover the
premiere of Fanaa he met
Aamir Khan there.’
I can never forget how she
bunked school thrice to see
MELA — such a diehard
Aamir Khan fan!! No wonder
she found a cameraman’s job
more exciting than a project
engineer’s.
Anyways, this was how things
had been going for last few
months. She would spend all
her time talking about that
IDIOT of hers. And did I feel
jealous of him — of course
not, what rubbish!
‘I don’t know where he is.’ I
came back from my
flashback-cum-IDIOT
introduction dream.
‘Actually I forgot to wish him
last night.’ It was his birthday
—11 July. ‘He must be going
mad at me!!’
I wished he actually got mad
and went away from her.
‘I think I should buy him some
special gift. That would
probably fix it up. But what
shall I buy him? He likes
sunglasses a lot. He is also
very fond of wrist watches.
But I guess he bought a Fast
Track last week. What about
a Tie? It would look very nice
on him.’
Whenever she started
reciting her IDIOT-Chalisa I
always turned myself into a
mute listener.
‘Rahul, will you please help
me buy a gift for him?’ If
there was one thing next to
impossible, it was me saying
NO to her. So it was decided.
We were to meet after my
office at a mall near her office
to buy something for that
IDIOT of hers.
It was 15 minutes to six. At
my office, we had spent last
three hours shouting at each
other in a CFT CONCERNS
RESOLUTION meeting. In that
period I kept getting an SMS
from her every ten minutes. ‘I
think a photo-frame will be a
good option!’ ‘How about a
wallet?’ ‘I already bought a
greeting card, will show you
when you are here!’ ‘How
about a surprise dinner
party? Just the three of us!’
Mr. OLD BALLS was shouting
at everyone for the late
design changes. He was
worried about was the
increase in the fixture cost. I
would have bought that
fixture with my own money
and spent the rest of my life
paying EMIs, if he could make
her forget that IDIOT and
direct those feelings to me!
In another half an hour the
meeting got over and I
started towards the canteen.
I got another SMS — ‘Its
confirmed, dinner at 8:30.
Venue we’ll decide together.
Are you out of your meeting?
What time you coming?’ I
didn’t feel like replying. My
mind was completely
screwed up. I reached the
canteen. Everything felt
gloomy. Empty places all
around.
But wait! That was strange. I
looked around in the
canteen. There was an
unusual silence in the hall. No
one in the queue, no one
having snacks. Then I realized
that people were all gathered
around the TV set kept in the
corner. No one was saying
anything beyond a hush. I
spotted Sujit standing there.
‘What’s happening?’ I asked,
keeping my voice as low as
possible.
‘Where were you?? There
have been several bomb
blasts in Mumbai.’
It took me some time to
digest that. My eyes froze on
the TV set. They were flashing
Breaking News – 3 Blasts in
Mumbai Local Trains. Within
next 5-6 minutes the count
went up to 6. Everyone in the
hall was shocked. Were we
under an attack or
something? I noticed the
reporter on the TV screen. I
had seen her somewhere
before. I had actually met
her. She was Harshita Seth –
IDIOT’s colleague. We were
watching the News channel
that IDIOT worked for. That
meant the cameraman who
was taking the shots being
shown was none other than
Mr. IDIOT. For a moment I
forgot about the bomb blasts.
I was again thinking of her,
that IDIOT, his birthday gift,
surprise dinner party. Just
then I got another SMS – ‘Hey
I booked a table at The
Appetizers. Couldn’t resist.
Dying to meet you both.
Come soon.’
I knew she wasn’t dying to
meet me. My eyes went back
to the TV screen. Perhaps I
was imagining, but I saw
Harshita looking at me. She
had a strange smile on her
face as if she was mocking
me. Perhaps everyone except
me had realized that I was
nothing but a time-pass for
HER. She only cared about
her IDIOT. All her feelings
were for him. And that IDIOT
was right in front of me,
carrying his idiotic camera,
focusing on a local reaching
Borivali. Suddenly I felt a
surge of mixed emotions – of
anger, of grim, of betrayal, of
rejection, of REVENGE. I
prayed that the IDIOT should
die in those blasts.
BOOM!!!!!
There was an earthquake
kind of scene on the screen as
the camera moved
haphazardly. For a moment
we couldn’t see anything.
Everything was covered in
dust and smoke. Then slowly
everything went quiet and
still. We could see the dead
bodies lying around. There
had been a blast in the train –
the 7th blast of the day for
the records. It took a while
for the situation to sink in, to
accept what we had just
witnessed.
And then I found my entire
body shaking and an entirely
new feeling overwhelming
me – feeling of GUILT.
I was not responsible for
what had happened. My not
praying for his death would
not have prevented the blast
from happening. But I did
pray – out of anger, out of
jealousy, out of rage. I had
degraded myself. I could see
no difference in people who
planted the bombs and
people like me. Both were
self-centred, malevolent,
greedy, covetous and
dissolute. People who wished
to kill those who had done
them no harm, who hardly
knew them, who were busy
fighting their own lives for
survival! Both represented
the most inhuman aspect of
the human nature.
The IDIOT was gone forever. I
always wished for this day
but when it finally came, I
didn’t have courage to face
the reality. My mobile rang
and I picked it up, my eyes
still stuck on the TV screen.
‘Where are you? I sent you so
many messages. I am with
Sanket right now and we are
waiting for you near my
office. He took a day off from
work today. Make it fast and
(in hushed voice) do bring a
cake; I forgot.’ She giggled.
There was nothing I could
say. I felt tears rolling down
my cheeks. I was smiling at
the same time. It was the
best feeling I have had in my
entire life. I would go and
celebrate tonight. The blasts
had killed the IDIOT within
me!!!
About the Author
Author is a mechanical
engineer, currently working
for Mahindra & Mahindra.
Image Attribution:
http://www.flickr.com/photo
s/uggboy/4719633193/
Poetry (Hindi) सना फचऩन
by Mohit Sharma
वो किसी िी गोद भ चढता, अऩनो ि िऩड गद ियता, ऩहर सहाय स.... औय किय एि ददन
खद चरता।
रडखडाती चार स चीज बफगाडता, किय ततराती जफा स भदद िो ऩिायता, फड बाई - फदहन ऩय गससा उतायता।
सिर ना जान िी जजद ियता, िारनस दखन ि लरए रड
भयता।
छ ऩिय डबफ भ िीड - भिोड
ऩारता, कमा होता ह दखन ि
लरए.....ऩौधो भ शऩ िा ऩानी डारता। २ औय २ िो जोड ना ऩता, नई कपलभो ि गरत गान गाता।
ऩय उसन ऐसा ि छ नही किमा, ....शामद दसय अनाथो िी तयह वो बी फचऩन भ फडा हो गमा।
About the Author
The author is pursuing Post
Graduation from Lucknow
University. Published articles,
poems and stories in regional
magazines and newspapers.
Published ideas and scripts in
Raj Comics.
Poetry City's Seasons
by Babitha Marina Justin
marriages are like migrations
to
cities, the unfamiliarity and
the task of getting used to
them;
my weathered feathers in
new city,
combating heat and cold
when the first summer
climbed
the greens stems to dry its
succulence to twigs, a snap
of the finger,the tension
of the thumb and index
finger,
it cracks no matter who wins.
winter, with its creeping
chill, froze every frill
at home, hardened knuckles
refused to move, seasoning
life's
spices well, warm inside
covers, cold when the day
broke,
room heaters sustained the
dull
gray city clouds that let not a
speckle of sun ray filter to the
ground,
portholes of windows let in
the chill
of an unfamiliar blizzard that
grew
colder as the day progressed
city crept on me by inches,
wrapped the chill, the
discourse of familiarity was
not
hateful but comforting, it's
roads
intersecting at cross-roads,
circles and traffic, grew on
in degrees till I learned its
maps clumsily like my veins,
its
arterial alleys waited to be
venipunctured,
tread on,
explored,
trundled by
feet and dust,
their whispers
abrasions,
when heels click
and kiss
the ground
I learned how to love hate
the lost cities of the self,
nostrils echoed my
breath like tunnels,
my tongue tasted the
forbidden
in the visceral depths of
floating
hunger that worsened day by
day,
my eyes were the alert
sensors
to my mind's needs, the red
lights
flashed to say I have to stop
and proceed at green,
I touched the muck of the city
and loved it too, there I saw a
piece of my sky mirrored
in its murky brown...
About the Author
Born in Kerala, South India,
Babitha Marina Justin had her
PhD in travel writing and
gender studies from the
University of Hyderabad and
an M. Phil in
Art History and Aesthetics
from the School of
Languages, Jawaharlal Nehru
University, New Delhi.
Since then she has been
teaching literature and
language in various parts of
India, like the Northeastern
Hill University, Meghalaya
and Indian Institute
of Space Science and
Technology, Trivandrum.
Her poems have appeared in
an anthology of travel poems
called “Journeys” edited by
Graham Vivian Lancaster
FPMI and Dr. Shaleen Kumar
Singh published by Trayberry
Press / Alexander House,
Johannesburg, South Africa,
Taj Mahal Review: An
International Journal Devoted
To Arts, Literature, Poetry
And Culture, Kritya, Creative
Sapilins, Journal of Post
Colonial Literature,
www.postcolonial.org and
also in various literary
journals across the India. Her
short stories are also being
anthologized. Her research
papers on travel writing,
identity studies and fine arts
and cultural studies are
periodically published in
journals and as book
chapters.
She has performed poetry
readings in many national
and international poetry
festivals in India, has been
the featured poet in English
at the BBC and DC books
sponsored Poet's Meet in
Trivandrum and she is also an
avid blogger, her blog site is
http://marinasravings.blogsp
ot.com
At present she lives in her
hometown in Kerala and
dedicates her time between
teaching, researching,
parenting and poetry.
Poetry (Hindi) फटी होन का ददद
by परिमॊका गपता
अकसय
अऩन घय की छत ऩय
खडी हो कय
जफ नीर चॊदोफ स तन
आकाश की ओय दखती हॉ तो- सयज की आॉच स परऩघरता आसभान
जहाॉ भय बीतय
एक परऩघरन सी बय दता ह
वहीॊ ,
धयती की सखत जभीन ऩय
परी, ढयो उजास
भझ उकसाती ह कक
भ बी तीखी धऩ स फखफय, अरभसत हो आकाश भ उडती ननही सी चचडडमा की तयह
चोच खोर कय
अऩन ऩय ऩॊख परा कय
आॉख लभचौरी का खर खरॉ हवा क तज झकोयो स झभता
ऩड
भझ औय बी उकसाता ह
झभन को भ ततऩय होती हॉ तो भाॉ की कपकरभनद आॉख भया यासता योक रती ह भ जानती हॉ कक
उनकी किकरभनद आॉखो क
बीतय
एक लसहयन बयी ह
जो चाहन क फावजद
भझ तक नहीॊ ऩह ॉचती आकाश औय धयती क फीच
टॉगा
उनका बिशॊक बम
ननही चचडडमा नहीॊ जानती जानना बी नहीॊ चाहती कक अननत आकाश क
इस छोय स उस छोय तक
वह अकरी नहीॊ.... ऩॊख परा कय उडत
आदभखोय चगदध
हय ऩर लशकाय की तराश भ ह।
About the Author
रगबग सात-आठ वषद की उमर स लरखना शर कयन वारी परिमॊका क अफ तक कई ऩि-ऩबिकाओॊ भ कहाननमाॉ, कपरवताएॊ, रघकथाएॊ आदद छऩ चक ह। इनकी चाय ऩसतक िकालशत हो चकी ह जजनभ स दो ऩयसकत ह। इसक अरावा इनहोन कादजबफनी सादहतम भहोतसव भ शरी भोतीरार वोहया क हाथो कहानी-िनतमोचगता भ अनशॊसा ऩयसकाय बी िापत ककमा ह।
Poetry Divine Sisterhood
by Sonia Sarkar
I.
At October’s full moon
Her effigy rises like jagged
cliffs
Gulps lesser gods whole
The city she saved paints her
a killer
Ruby red demon-slayer,
stained savior
Rage like a drought-ravaged
tigress
Eight arms make for
treacherous dancing
And as many worthy weapons
of destruction:
An octopodic death machine
That men’s armies could only
dream of
She is Elphaba to Athena’s
Galinda
Dark-skinned queen of
queens,
Branded to one billion lambs
of sacrifice
Though she returns home to
a husband who
Prefers his snake, his
bombastic trident
In pastel-shaded cartoons
they assign her soft
sinusoidals,
While she tosses thunder
from abstract prehistoric eyes
And although she too has
launched a thousand ships
No one will call her by name,
(Parvati, Kali, Durga?)
As they devour the fruits of
her labor
As they dress her in fancy
flora
II.
Lakshmi: nobody’s consort
Maiden in waiting
Careful now
Pull that shimmer sari closer
your penchant for the
cerulean gaze, your thrill for
the well-defined jaw
is it any coincidence that your
lotus flower draws gods?
*A twinkling Diana laugh*
Makes Indra’s court catch
their slender breath
white-boned shutters corset
closed
suspicion s l i d e s its way
through the heavens like
golden thread
You hold your own, draw
them down with your owl
eyes
Flutter stories, sarcasm, and
sass
With your card games, with
your slow song
Quick before he overshadows
you,
Descends down to the earth
ten rescues over
Escape with your
explanations, coming fast and
thick
A snake charmer’s basket:
Your hidden compartments
He should fear your milky
oceans
He should worship you
III.
Apocalypse comes simple
In myriad languages and
religions
Happens like this:
Amidst the elation, rabble
turns rabid
The cherry blossoming is
lovely
Pleasingly, humankind preens
poetic
But once an era,
The attention is
overwhelming
The deities have drunk one
too many
Stumble into court
imperiously smashed
redemption
So, blue-woman: muster your
golden arrows,
Spin your chakra, controlled
weave
Cross the border
Into worlds free of
stretchmarks
Created, sung into being,
skeeballed true, by you
Vacation has bitten to a close
too soon, again
Flip a switch, turn a donkey
wheel
Churn the seas.
It pains you to disturb the life
aquatic
In that way
***
Announcements
Entries are invited for the
next issue of Pothiz. Details
are available on Pothi.com’s
website. Deadline for
submission to the next issue
is July 16, 2010.
---
This issue can also be
accessed online at
http://pothi.com/pothi/maga
zine/issue/july-2010/