THIS & THAT

Well...thanks to Indiblogeswaris, I had to make a movie about myself. I did think of a collage...but where's the drama in that? We had to be honest and all that...so the movie is as abstract as possible. I bet you'll enjoy the music though ;)

©Sumana Khan - 2014

Courtesy - http://thehindu.com

Two years ago I got a ‘writing’ request that took me by surprise. I was asked to give a write up on the Anantha Padmanabhaswamy temple for a community website. I was of course pleased to accede. I’m not sure if people liked what I wrote though – it was the time when the temple had grabbed the attention of every Indian. The revelation of spectacular treasures in the belly of the temple played out like India’s own version of Templar riches. But to me, the gold and whatnot were a non-story; my focus was more on the sheer timelessness of this temple, and all the stories associated with it. That, to me, is the real treasure. At the outset, I’d like to acknowledge two websites that I referred to – they gave me wonderful details -

1) http://en.sreyas.in/abode-of-the-divine- this has a reproduction of a wonderful article by Princess Aswathi Thirunal Gouri Lakshmi Bayi

2)http://enchantingkerala.org/kerala-temples/kerala-temple-vigraha/katu-sarkkara-images.php- this has a detailed description of the Katu Sarkara yogam process.

Ancient temples fascinate me. Many great dynasties evolved their own individualistic architecture styles – for example, the Puri Jagannatha temple by the Ganga dynasty is so distinct from the Chola architecture of the Brihadishvara temple down south in Thanjavur. But even more than the structure itself, the genealogy associated with some of these temples is mind boggling. It feels like looking into a long, long tunnel, only to see a speck of light far, far away. I mean yes, there are ancient structures all over the world. They are all accurately dated – and in most cases, we know who built the structure. In India, some of these structures are so ancient, that their origins merge with ‘mythology’. There is a reason why I put the word mythology in quotes...because barring the hyperboles in the many stories, one thing stands out – almost every important character can be traced back to several generations...and even lifetimes! Such accurate documentation of family trees that spreads across eons is not possible if you are writing fiction. Also, the wealth of information in the collective Hindu mythology is not written by one single author. This makes me conclude that several important ‘mythology’ names that we know of actually existed in some form or the other.

Let me digress a bit...and give you an example. We know that in Hinduism we believe that ‘Manu’ is the initiator of humankind. Manu is not the name of a person – it is more of a position. Just as ‘Indra’ is more of a position. ‘Manavantara’ is the lifetime of a Manu. Each such lifetime runs into three hundred odd million years. So each Manavantara runs in a cycle – mankind is initiated, dynasties are formed, there is good and evil, and finally everything winds down and the Creation is destroyed....only for the cycle to start again.

Our Vedic literature identifies fourteen such Manavantaras – complete with the list of the ‘Manu’ for that age and the family branches. We are currently in the 7^th one. The Vishnu avataras we refer to all took place in this Manavantara. The Manu of this age was King Satyavrata, also known as Vaivasvata. Remember the Matsya avatara...the first avarata of Vishnu? Vaivasvata was informed of a ‘great deluge’ that would swallow mankind, and the Lord instructed him to build a boat, and fill it with seeds, and various animal species to repopulate the earth after the deluge. Sounds familiar? Noah’s ark anyone? Vishnu then assumed the form of a giant fish – in my mind it is a swordfish. Adisesha took the form of a rope. The boat was tethered to the fish’s ‘horn’, and was steered to safety when the pralaya hit the earth.

We are also called ‘mAnavas’ – because we are decendents of Manu. If you dig in a little, you can trace all the descendents of Vaivasvata – including the famous Ikshvaku (or Suryavamsha) dynasty – the most revered descendent being Rama himself. And you can trace the ascendents of Vaivasvata all the way to Brahma. Which is why I firmly believe these are not ‘mythologies’ but historical records.

Coming to the Padmanabhaswamy temple, it can be traced all the way back to Treta Yuga (and beyond?), when the sixth incarnation of Mahavishnu in the form of Parashurama took place. We are talking of hundreds of thousands of years...and I can’t get my head around it. Legend has it that Parashurama himself directed 12 Namboothiri clans of that region to conduct the spiritual affairs of the temple estate. There is a fascinating political history when it comes to the clans, and their association with the Padmanabhaswamy temple. But the important point here is - right back in the Avataara of Shri Parashurama, the temple was in existence. The temple finds mentions in our puranas – Skanda Purana and Padma Purana, and in Nammazhvar Tiruvoimozhi (3085-3095). Some parts of the temple are new – as new as 18^th century. But buried under those sands of time, I am sure there are portions of the temple which are as ancient as the mountains itself. Like the presiding deity, the temple itself seems to be ‘Anantha’ – timeless - it was always there, and it will always be there.

The timeless temple premises have been considered a Mahakshetra for thousands and thousands of years. There are 108 Divya Deshams, and Anantha Padmanabhaswamy temple is the 59^th. But more interestingly, when does a ‘temple’ become a Muktishal or a Mahakshetra? It is not just by the size of the temple premises, or the patronage it enjoys. There are 10 principle factors that have to come together for a temple to become a Muktisthal. It is believed that perhaps Shri Padmanabha Swamy temple is one of the few which has all the ten divine characteristics.

Antiquity – Indeed the origins of this temple are wrapped so deep in time; that one cannot even comprehend the length of so many years
Presence of records – It is said that the temple is in possession of over 30 lakh records – written on scrolls, embossed on copper plates and stone tablets etc. It is believed that when it comes to possession of vast amount of historic literature, the temple could well be the topmost in the world.
Origin in forest – The temple is said to have its origin in the surrounding Ananthan Kaatu (forest).
Royal connections – Right from the earliest mentions in the scriptures, it is evident that the temple has been the seat of royal patronage.
Proximity to ocean – Close to Arabian sea.
Historical importance – indeed the temple has been the seat of power, charting out the history of Malaya Nadu (Kerala). In fact Vaivasvata Manu himself ruled over ‘Dravidadesham’.
Situation at an elevation – the temple is not on a hill, but it seems it is on an elevated land. Perhaps now it is not perceptible. Perhaps eons ago, the temple was indeed situated at a height.
Artistic grandeur – the temple is majestic and royal with outstanding sculptures. It is said that Vishnu is ‘Alankarapriyan’; and thus, this abode befits Him.
Grandeur of festivals – the temple is most famous for Alpasi, Painkuni utsavas, Lakshadweepam, Murajapam etc. It attracts thousands of devotees who come to pay respects to the Lord during these festivities.
Mention in Ancient literature – The temple finds a mention in our sacred Puranas as well as the sacred Divya Prabandham.

The splendour and the divine enigma of Padmanabha Swamy temple does not end there. The centrifugal force of this place is undoubtedly the presiding deity. The imposing moola vigraha is a massive 18 feet in length. The Lord is seen reclining on the three coils of Anantha, in a Yoga Nidra posture (hence the name Anantha-Shayana). His Right Palm extends over a Shiva Linga in chin mudra. Brahma is seated on a Lotus (Padma) that arises from the Lord’s navel (nabhi) (hence the name Padmanabha). It is believed that Maharashi Agasthya is in Maha-Samadhi under the Lord’s feet. It is very rare to find the Tri-Shaktis in one place – Maha Vishnu, Shiva and Brahma; but then Shri Padmanabha Swamy temple is all about rarities.

Talking of rarities, the Vigraha has been fashioned from a method that is unique to Kerala. The method is known as Katu Sarkara Yogam. This is an extremely complicated process, and is very different from sculpting. Firstly, under the process of Katu Sarkara, the Vigraha has to be fashioned at the spot where it will be installed. It cannot be made elsewhere, and transported elsewhere. The Vigraha is fashioned as per the rules and guidelines given in Thantric texts. Six essential steps are elaborated in preparing the Katu Sarkara Bimba (or vigraha). Each step resembles the formation of a human body – starting with fashioning the support frame (skeleton), to adding tones and structure (flesh) and wrapping the structure with ‘silk’ (skin). Needless to say, the process is lengthy, allows for no mistakes and has to be done only by a supreme craftsman. It is said that the Padmanabha Swamy was crafted by Balaramaykonidevan.

Specifically in this case, when the support frame for the moola vigraha was prepared, it was lined with 12008 Saligramas, brought on elephant back from the Gandaki river in Nepal. As the outer body covering, parts of the vigraha are in wood, parts of it are in solid gold. All this is masked by the katu sarkara paste, preserving the vigraha from the onslaught of time and organisms (including greedy human kind). But definitely, the heart of this Moola Vigraha are the 12008 Saligramas.

It is said that even an ordinary householder’s home emits divine vibrations when a Saligrama is worshipped every day. When 12 Saligramas are worshipped in one place over a significant period of time, the place assumes the powerful vibrations of a Muktisthal or a Mahakshetra. Such being the case, what could be the effect of 12,008 Saligrams being worshipped in one place – all embedded in the Lord’s body? Indeed, the power of a transmitter can be felt only through a good receiver. Similarly, only the highly attuned can receive and withstand the cosmic explosions of 12,008 Saligramas.

If you, unlike me, can withstand crowds...the next time you visit Padmanabhaswamy temple (or any ancient temple for that matter), try to find your connection through time and through history.

© Sumana Khan - 2014

Courtesy - http://www.guideingechos.com

I finally watched The Conjuring over the weekend...and was kind of glad (at the same time, deeply regret) that I did not watch this in a cinema hall. It is such a refreshing change from the Paranormal Activity series – as I mentioned elsewhere, there is only so much jerky camera movements and swaying chandeliers one can take.

The movie as such is replete with horror clichés and yet, straight off, it assumes a cult status. That’s what thrilled me to bits – director James Wan (Insidious and Saw) is so brilliant that the movie is a classic precisely BECAUSE of the clichés. It takes off where the Amityville Horror failed – taut screenplay that puts you on the edge throughout the movie. Both The Conjuring as well as Amityville Horror are allegedly based on true stories; both investigated by the same paranormal researcher couple Ed and Lorraine Warren.

The Perron family – parents Carolyn and Roger, five daughters and a dog, move to an old and creaky house in the countryside of whatsitsnameville. Sure, the house is all painted and neat on the outside. It has the mandatory creepy-tree-at-the-edge-of-a-murky-pond and a tree-lined approach road. Inside, the house is all old wood and banging doors and creaking stairs. But the Perrons bought this house in a bank auction – so there is that hint of financial constraint – they probably got this at a bargain. Seriously, can a large family find a spacious home such as this one in the city? Nope - they'll have to stay put come what may.

As in The Exorcist, the horror in The Conjuring unfolds slowly. Knocking sounds in the night. All the clocks stop at 3:07am. Putrid stink that seems to move around the house only in the night. Bruises that look like blood clots on Carolyn’s body...the doctor puts it down to iron deficiency. Half way through, the ‘manifestation’ makes itself known and the movie proceeds to a crescendo of a climax that’s guaranteed to leave you palpitating.

The Exorcist has set such a high benchmark for any theme dealing with demonic possessions, that anything on this genre is predictable. So, in The Conjuring, you kind of know in every scene what is going to happen. Yet, the screenplay is so perfect that despite the predictability, it jolts you. I guess the anticipation of the horror is more fearful than the horror itself.

If, in The Exorcist ‘there is something in the attic’; in The Conjuring, it is the cellar. But yes, the scene in The Exorcist where Christine (Ellen Burstyn) goes to investigate the attic was infinitely more terrifying given the pin-drop silence. You can watch the scene here.

In The Conjuring, in what has probably become an iconic still of present day horror, the fear kind of dissipated with the ‘environmental’ sounds – framed photos crashing, creaking doors and off-key piano notes emerging from the dark recesses of the cellar. What further works against the horror (and yet, makes it so supremely entertaining in a cheesy way) is the disbelief I suppose – I mean okay, you kind of know there is an intruder in the house, so would you step inside the dark cellar (whose door kind of creaked open)? Nonetheless your knuckles turn white as the scene proceeds. Here's a clipping of the cellar scene :)

Perhaps what makes The Exorcist a cut above the rest is the emotional investment it draws out of you. A vulnerable single mother, a young teen, a troubled priest, a very likable cop – you care about each and every character. There is an instant connection established between you and whoever is dominating the scene. This is something I missed in The Conjuring. Sleep-walking kids to a cranky teenager – all cute, but I could not really care about them as much as I rooted for Regan in The Exorcist.

The final exorcism in The Conjuring was blood curdling, paisa vasool horror. But...yes...there is a but...nothing can beat the horror of a rotating head...not even upturned, levitating chairs to which the possessed has been tied. The long drawn ritualistic exorcism scene (see video clip ) in The Exorcist never left me for months – ‘The power of Christ compels you’ chant haunts...and haunts some more, making your skin crawl.

To its credit, The Conjuring works amazingly well and accomplishes all that is expected of a horror movie – it makes you jump long after ‘The End’. I did the mistake of watching this movie on a day when the wind outside was 60mph. It did not help AT ALL that some of my doors began their gentle knocking.

As a parting shot...I always wonder when I watch these movies with dimly lit hallways and corridors – have they not heard of tube-lights?

©Sumana Khan – 2014

Months ago, a friend got in touch with me. I think we corresponded after a gap of more than two decades. We were in school together. It was a given that Padmashree would stand first in every test and exam. Not because she learnt by rote, but because her IQ was a cut above the rest (and I was at the other end of the spectrum ;)). You’d think (and I’ve seen) that the academically-inclined usually formed their close-knit circles – but not in this case. There was a good balance of the studious ones and ones like yours truly in our group :)

Even so, I remember Paddu as a soft-spoken girl, always helpful and good fun in her own quiet way. Even as a child, she was a voracious reader – and I suppose that kept our group together – the love for books. I’ve spent many happy summer afternoons with other friends in Paddu’s house – sometimes calling spirits on a make-shift Ouija board; other times making ‘charts’ for the school class room. I remember the quietness of her house – there was a special silence in Malleswaram houses on hot summer afternoons – in Paddu’s house, the silence was punctuated by our giggles, or by her sophisticated gramophone scratching away as it recorded a serious AIR program for her mum.

The only time I’ve seen her distressed was when, in a particularly nasty Chemistry test, she was one of the six or seven (in a class of 40) who’d managed to pass. She was distressed because she’d probably scored the lowest mark of her academic career – nonetheless, the highest mark awarded for this test. I remember this vividly because I was absolutely shocked to see that I’d passed the test too – scored the passing mark of 45. The teacher was even more shocked – she actually re-counted and re-totaled my marks before handing over the answer paper to me in utter disbelief...as if she'd seen the four-headed Brahma next to me.

Naturally, I was not at all surprised when I connected up with Paddu and found that she has a PhD in a bio-chemistry branch. What’s more, when she’s not prodding molecules, she writes astounding poetry. Still, I was not surprised. But I was surprised when she asked me if I could edit her daughter’s story. I chuckled...how cute. Her daughter is 11. The working title of the story was ‘Miscalculated Magic’...now it has been renamed as 'The Spilled Potion' :)

I sat down with the story right after my academic submissions. I was reminded of the many summer holidays back in primary school when, on the last day of the final exam, all I looked forward to was stacking up on the chaklis and reading tonnes of Secret Seven or Famous Five (later on, we graduated to Hardy Boys and Nancy Drew, but secretly, all of us continued to read Enid Blyton). I opened Little Mishal’s (that’s how I call her in my head) doc – only to realise it is not a ‘small’ story. It was a neatly formatted document; 42000+ words; 84 A4 sheets. Whaa?? Little Mishal is 10 or 11. Whaaa??? I was gobsmacked.

The surprise did not end there. I started reading and forgot to edit. I had regressed back into childhood – of curling up on the bed on a stack of pillows; munchies at hand; lost in the world of some strange adventure where grown-ups (or being one) were irrelevant. I was at once impressed by the narration, the strong voice of the protagonist, the complexity of the plot – and above all – the humour. It is only on the second round of reading that I started to edit. I did only line edits and did not touch anything else – I wanted to retain Little Mishal’s voice.

The story is quite unlike the magic world of Potter, and even though potions play an important role, there is no Snape-type character (thank god). Add magic and mischief – the result is a howlarious catastrophe. So there’s Zoe and her regular, boring family – Mum and Dad and a very cute, very annoying little sister Allie. Indeed, aside from the teensy fact that they are a family of witches and wizards, you’d not even notice them – because...well, they use magic only to do the dishes and other chores. It so happens that one day Zoe is so super-annoyed with Allie that she turns the latter into a bunny...only to realise she needs a potion to transform the bunny back to Allie! The catch – the potion does not exist – it will be invented only 200 years in the future. So if Zoe has to get poor Allie back, she has to time-travel! Oh what a brilliant read! I enjoyed it so much.

Little Mishal’s portrayal of a regular family is too funny – for someone so young, she’s an astute observer of the idiosyncrasies of the grown-up world. Her imagination of a technologically advanced future world is quite stunning and...surprisingly believable. Her language is lucid, and way above average. I’m not talking just about the vocabulary – but also about her innate ability to describe situations, emotions, expressions, scenes and her structured thought flow. I wish she makes this into an adventure series – there is a lot of potential for more magic mishaps and mayhem!

The book is available on Amazon– both as paperback and ebook. What’s more, Little Mishal is giving away the proceeds to UNICEF’s Children’s Education Programs. Yeah Little Mishal is not so little where it matters. Bless you hon.

Amazon USA: www.amazon.com/Spilled-Potion-Mishal-Imaan-Syed/dp/1494276968
Amazon India: www.amazon.in/Spilled-Potion-Mishal-Imaan-Syed/dp/1494276968
The author’s accompanying website: www.mishalsworks.com
Please like the Book Page on Facebook: www.facebook.com/thespilledpotion
Follow the book on twitter: www.twitter.com/mishalsworks

© Sumana Khan - 2014

It’s been a while since we've stayed in a hotel for a holiday, here in the UK. The white sheets smelling of a funny detergent; the tray with the creamers, tea bags and teensy packets of Nescafe...not to mention two sad cookies in clingwrap; windows invariably looking out to the parking lot or the service entrance – all comfortable no doubt, but so...so insipid and unremarkable.

But it’s not even that fancy notion that has put us off the hotel circuit. It’s more of a practicality – food. Despite being a vegetarian (of the Iyengar variety), I’m quite spoilt for choice for great food – even in the remotest parts of this country. But on a long break – there’s only so much pasta and soup and curry one can have. Before long, the palate rebels and I start hallucinating for a plate of puliyogre. Or...damn the bread and cereals for breakfast...how nice to have a plate of hot upma followed by filter coffee? Culinary hallucinations aside, the problem is more with dinner. Returning to the hotel after a long hike, the last thing I want to do is to comb the hair and powder the nose and head out again...in search of a restaurant. Given the fact that we mostly take breaks in rural locations – the restaurant-hunting-for-dinner becomes another trek. There’s always the village pub of course – but ‘getting ready’ for dinner after a gruelling day of walking, walking, walking is a horrid chore.

So the long and short of it is that we take our breaks in self-catering cottages. That’s when I realised how easy it is to carry India in a backpack. And how quickly, like a cat, it takes very little for me to make a place ‘my home’. Also, many of the places I’ve stayed in bring back a piece of my childhood in Bangalore. The Bangalore where one could hear birds all through the day; where people respected plant life – if a coconut tree obstructed the projection of a balcony, no problem...one just left a circular opening for the tree and built the balcony around it; where there was a general quietness for the best part of the day; and more importantly – the cooking sounds that was such an integral part of this tapestry.

The self-catering is also a teensy rebellion against the corporate culture – they take my money and in return, I get wifi and blandness? No thank you. The holiday homes are mostly family-run. I’d rather give my money to such entrepreneurs who give me so much more than ironed sheets. They give me views and moments and memories.

For example, we stayed in this cottage in Derbyshire. In a previous avatar...somewhere in the 1800s and early 1900s, the cottage was a cow shed :) And a century or so later, there I was – turning a tiny portion of this lovely cottage into India. The transformation does not take much effort. I belong to the non-Tupperware generation. This means I have an obsession of reusing dabbas...like how, back during my childhood, empty Horlicks glass jars became the thoor daal dabba and Bournvita plastic bottles were airtight enough to store chaklis. So in my kitchen, most of my lentils and pulses are stocked in reused Nescafe and jam jars. For holidays, I have smaller bottles - ones that stocked tomato puree or honey on retail shelves.

Now, line any kitchen counter with my reused bottles – all so colourful - the golden yellow of the turmeric; or the earthy brown of coriander pudi; the rich redness of the kashmiri mirch; or the grainy black of mustard seeds. Add to this...the Most Important Appliance an Indian can’t do without – a much battered pressure cooker. Mine is not even the sleek Hopkins one – I can never figure out how to put the lid on for that. No, mine is sturdy-as-a-tanker Prestige pan. And that’s it. The pressure cooker and the spice dabbas - the kitchen becomes a perfectly workable Indian one. The English cottage will now hold aromas similar to that of a house in Melkote...once my hing and mustard and tamarind start their work :)

Sure, it might seem as a chore – this cooking and cleaning up on a holiday. But for me – the food is ALSO a part of the holiday. A bit like those people in Chandamama who’d set out to meet their relatives in a neighbouring village – a 2-day journey by bullock cart. The journey, a holiday in itself, enriched by chaklis, kodubales and all kinds of savouries, packed in porcelain jaadis or jars.

So imagine staring placidly at scenes such as this; as you wait for the third whistle of the cooker. That’s holiday for me.

Or, after a mid-morning five mile walk on the countryside, just as you are climbing a steep cobbled street, the noon sun quite drying up the tongue – I can assure you, no smoothie or soda can do the work of chilled yoghurt on hot rice – yes – the good old mosaranna.

Or of sitting in a spot such as this; thinking of nothing and everything, the mist curling around your feet – and then enjoying a pleasant walk back home, knowing you’d soon be united with an adhrak chai.

Or of venturing out on morning such as this...the wind sharp enough to behead; only because there is a strange beauty when the dark clouds droop to the sea – and rushing back home to a lunch of hot rasam with roasted papad to unfreeze the bone marrow.

Or of sitting out in the sun, Kishore Kumar or Dr.Raj playing on the iphone; dozing off on a book that smells of mothballs, occasionally swatting the buzzing bottle flies, reaching that state when you can’t make out if it is the buzz of an overhead glider or some giant fly, and finally jerking awake when the church bell tolls...and realising it is time for lunch...tadka daal (with a fresh lime squeezed over it) and roasted aubergine, roasted tomato, baked potato...all mashed and spiced with green chillies, coriander and a dash of finely chopped onion as a side...

Or of sitting under some old, old yew tree overlooking a lake...and eating chapathi rolls stuffed with beans and carrot palya.

Or of patiently waiting for the sun to set, just to see the sea turn molten metal, without having to worry about restaurant reservations...and after that lovely sunset, you can walk back in the purple twilight thinking of nothing more than veggies tossed in hot Maggie...spiced with some dried oregano. Yes, that’s holiday for me.

And that’s how I carry India around – in the food, in the aroma, in the music. Consequently, the whistle of my pressure cooker, the hissing of my mustard or cumin tadka, the sizzle of finely chopped onions in heated oil seasoned with curry leaves and green chillies... all these have added to the music made by the church bell, the the song thrush and the robins J Now that's an audio imprint on the English countryside!

Once upon a time, there was a tall and proud Mango Tree in a nondescript village. Indeed, the only redeeming factor about this dirt-poor village was the tree. The Mango Tree, as in the case of other great trees, had stood quietly, resolutely for many decades, giving forth its fruits summer after summer; spreading its shade year after year. Nothing affected this great tree – not the withering poverty around it; not the searing, dusty summers; not the frosty, brutal winters and not even the bellowing monsoons. It just stood, and worked through its karma – to bear fruit, give shade and provide shelter to myriad birds.

In spring and early summer, when its fruits were still raw and green and tangy, the koel made its way to the Mango Tree. The koel was the Tree’s favourite guest - she was a renowned singer: the herald of a first love, the announcer of spring, the coaxer of an early sunrise. She was a shy one, the koel, and so, the leaves of this great tree hid her as she sang forth lustily.

The Mango Tree, however, was cursed with a terrible destiny. One night, the koel flew away when noises from hell reached its ears. The puzzled tree listened, shushing the wind that was sighing through its leaves. Yes, there were those terrible noises – the screams and hyena laughter. Surely it came from netherworld. Had the earth split open and had the filthy, evil undead escaped from below? The Mango Tree’s fear came true. Indeed it was the undead. They were dragging two children by the hair, and marching towards it.

The Mango Tree shuddered. ‘Give me freedom,’ it begged and pleaded some god. ‘Give movement to my roots – this minute! I can protect my children. Yes, they are my children. I have seen them sit in my shade, sharing food and life. They have played on my lap; rested against my trunk; eaten my fruits. Set me free! Set me free this minute! I shall fling the undead back to the netherworld.’ The Tree wept in vain. The undead had arrived with their cackling laugh. The Tree looked on, immoveable – still calling out to the silent god.

The undead flung two ropes on the branches of the Tree. Soon, the Tree had two new adornments made of flesh and bones. It cursed its strength – oh why did its branches not break – the way those delicate necks had snapped? The branches barely creaked as the children swung; the undead laughed some more, smoked a cigarette or two before returning to the Netherworld. Silence befell, and no one heard the rent of anguish and rage of the Tree. ‘Give me movement at least now,’ the Tree cried to the still silent god. ‘Let me fold my branches, hide my children, save their dignity in death...at least do this,’ it pleaded. A silent sky stared back at it.

The sun – that heartless bastard – rose in all his bloody glory. The Tree stood helpless, motionless, naked, revealing to the world its new burden. A crowd collected, like flies on shit, and gawked at the spectacle. They stared and stared. Some took out mobile phones and clicked photos. Only then did they bring the children down.

In a way, my public shame is good, the Tree thought. The Tree had heard of the young King and his Queen. It had heard travellers talk of hope - of a new, modern era under this well-travelled King. The Queen too was a bold woman, it had heard. The Tree was sure the King would mount his fastest horse, and come with guns blazing. Surely the King’s army would drag out the undead. Chop their heads off, drive a stake through their undead hearts. Yes, the Tree thought, the King and Queen will give justice to my children. After all, The King and Queen have two little princesses and a prince and they would surely know; they would surely feel the Tree’s heartrending grief.

No one knows what the King and Queen thought in private. Did they sit by their children in the night, holding their hands, thanking the silent god for this better life? Did they thank the stars that no undead could come near them? Did they, like this silly author, think of those two writhing children in their last, terrifying moments and shed an angry, scalding tear? We will never know...never know.

Seriously, what did that stupid Mango Tree know of the world and its ways? That lump of wood had been rooted to the same spot for decades. What did it know? The undead had become the kingmakers. They advised the king - ‘Oh King! The image of the kingdom is more important than a bag of bones swinging from a tree. The whole world is now suspecting that the undead move freely in your kingdom. Your duty is to dispel this notion. Those two dead...errr...things...it is their fault for being born so poor and lowly,’ they spat. ‘The world is after your throne, my Lord,’ they tittered. ‘Hold on to your throne tightly. Allow us to take care of this mess.’

Indeed, the undead had closed their cold hands on the young king’s heart. He was no longer moved by bodies of children hanging from a tree. But he could not be seen sitting quietly. So he opened a giant chessboard which had the names of all his soldiers. He moved the names around in a random fashion to pass the time.

‘The King is busy – he is making a strategy to deal with the undead,’ the undead kingmakers pacified the world. Indeed some of them even said, (in the silkiest tones) ‘Look, those bags of bones were probably ravaged in the right way for the right reasons. This happens by accident.’ The world - the stupid, arrogant world with many such bags of bones - rattled even more angrily. The undead were taken aback. What was wrong with the world? So they brought in the policeman who was a storyteller in disguise. He said the undead were not involved at all. How can the world be so silly – there are no such things as the undead. This was all done by the people who had given birth to these set of bones.

The Mango Tree shook and trembled. It waited and waited for the King and his army. Every time dust rose on the road, the Tree rejoiced – the King had arrived, it thought. But the King never came. The dust...well that was because of the undead – hundreds and thousands of them crawling about like dung beetles.

The Tree tried to uproot itself – why should it bear fruit, give shade to this land of the undead? But it was cursed. Cursed to stand still, live for another hundred years; have many such ropes encircle its branches.

Soon, the world will go to sleep, forgetting the Mango Tree and its burden. The undead have won yet another round. If anyone is keeping track, here’s the score – Undead – several thousands: Silent god – NIL.

What if I answered the door and you stood there,

Adjusting the jasmine strand on your plait

Smiling, chuckling, teasing

As if you’d never been away?

What if I answered the phone and you said ‘Hello?’

The smile radiating through your voice

Entering my ears and warming my heart

As if you’d never been away?

What if I turned a corner on the street

And ran into you as you’d turn and say

‘Shall we buy this?’

As if you’d never been away?

What if I watched the sunrise

And turned around to see you next to me

Saying ‘It’s beautiful isn’t it?’

As if you’d never been away?

What if I sat with a frown and

I suddenly feel your hand on my head

And hear you say, ‘Silly little worrier!’

As if you’d never been away?

It’s not wishful thinking I know,

I’m sure there’ll come a time

When the ‘what ifs’ will become ‘it is so’

At a special place where people don’t go away

Until then, Happy Birthday!

I’ve couriered a toothy smile and a happy thought

(For you wouldn’t accept anything less)

On a ray of dancing sunlight

And I cherish your response

In Hamsa’s eyes

And in my own breath.

Courtesy - http://brontec.thefreelibrary.com

Pilgrimage is a “Long journey of search; especially one of exalted purpose or moral significance.” Going by that definition, two years ago, I undertook a pilgrimage. Not to any place of worship; but it was a personal shrine for me...and my journey was a pilgrimage no less.

On one of our road trips, The Husband gave me a treat...a 70 mile detour on our return route, all the way to the Bronte Parsonage at Haworth – home of the Bronte sisters who have moved me like no other authors. I had a strange sense of restlessness in my stomach. It’s the way you’d feel if you were meeting a long-lost family member for the first time...or perhaps a lover you’d only exchanged anonymous notes with. The traffic, in keeping with the weather, was miserable, increasing my restlessness. Finally we were out of the cluttered roundabouts; out of narrow lanes flanked by tired brick buildings of aging towns...out on to empty roads and vistas of green slopes masked by curling fog.

Carpet in Bronte Hotel :)

We stopped for lunch just outside of Haworth, at the aptly named Bronte Hotel. It was a quiet weekday afternoon with only a handful of guests in the dining area. I could hardly taste the excellent food...I was too busy gaping at the walls, the carpet...everything. It was all filled with her impressions – her silhouette, her portraits. For the kind of shy, reticent person she was, I wondered what Charlotte would say if she saw this. Well, I thought, Charlotte would probably take it in her stride...but Emily...she’d throw a fit for sure.

Outside, the sun came out weakly through a fracture in the clouds. But by the time we were done with lunch, the fracture had healed; the sun had disappeared and a stinging drizzle caused a pressing greyness that I’d visualised only through Bronte novels. Yes, I associate Bronte with roiling clouds and grey-green moors, much the same way I associate Byron with sunny skies, soft grass and ruby lips.

The streets were narrow, steep and stone buildings frowned upon us from either side as we drove into the village. As we ascended a bend, I saw a church spires slice the grey sky in the distance and thought which one; which one! But we’d reached. I tumbled out of the car even before he had turned off the ignition. The drizzle was a million ice shards on my face. But I was rooted. To my right was her house. To my left was the church where her father had been the pastor. And where she now lies below earth.

The parsonage is a typical Georgian house. A neat cube with those typical sash windows. I don’t how much of it was renovated. But nothing much of the interior plan has changed as such. The rooms are of modest size. There was one room I particularly wanted to see – the parlour – in this case, also the dining room. If you’ve dived into Victorian novels, the parlour is the place of action; the epicentre of all the drama. A room that often witnesses the tumultuous, yet quiet lives of women who were allowed very few choices of ‘becoming something’ in life – it was either become a governess or marry well. A room where the ladies would spend the best part of the day bent over their sewing, drawing or piano. A room that would witness many silent tears, clasped hands and stealthy kisses. The Bronte parlour, however, saw the birth of the most prolific literature that I’ve ever read.

The parlour is a cosy space, with a fire grate, some shelves, and dining furniture. The three Bronte girls – Charlotte, Emily and Anne often spent their time in this room, quite late into the night, pacing around, writing and dissecting each other’s works. How I wished they’d switch of the electric lights. I wanted to see how this room looked...with that opaque greyness of the outside barely lighting the place. I imagined the girls on those cold, cold Yorkshire evenings, as darkness pressed itself against the windows; the wind whistling through the chimneys blowing soot and snowflakes on the grate. This room would be lit by oil lamps; the girls squinting over their manuscripts – arguing, debating, teasing – should Rochester be quite so intimidating? Or should Heathcliff be such a foul tempered heathen?

What kind of spirit it takes to chisel away at a manuscript as if one’s life depended on it? In the girls’ case, in a way it did. They were far too intelligent to settle for ‘marrying well’ or being governesses forever. As women, they were obviously not allowed to take up any other careers that were considered ‘for men’...or in other words ‘unladylike’. The long winters would have been particularly claustrophobic – there is not much of a chance for any outdoor activity (walking being the principle one) – so the only way these remarkable girls could remain sane was to keep their imaginations active.

It’s not as if it was a peaceful household either. I imagined all those evenings when the girls cowered in the parlour, or in their beds, as their brother, high on booze and opium would start his violent rants, hurling abuses. Once he had even set fire to his own bed. There was no escape for the girls – no loving arms they could fly to, no promises of a life filled with the love of a husband and children to look forward to. Their escape route was only through that coarse paper and nib.

Charlotte lost her beloved sisters and brother in rapid succession. It is the darkest grief that can smother anyone. I thought of the silence of the house then – with only Charlotte scratching away at her paper, or just walking around, as if that physical exercise could somehow dissolve the grief.

Charlotte’s simple wedding dress is held in a glass case. She was a petite woman; almost too close to Jane Eyre in temperament as in appearance I suppose. Simple, quiet; full of fire. I could not help but smile thinking of her in this pretty dress. Her happiness must have been sweeter, yet bitter – what joy had her siblings been around...especially Anne and Emily. Her wedding was the first happy occasion that house-of-death was witnessing.

I stood in Charlotte’s room. There’s the bed on which she died. She had died full of hope. She’d found her Rochester and her M. Paul Emanuel. She was going to be a mother. How on earth can anyone take that away from her? Wasn’t burying all her siblings not enough? No...the powers that be can’t be that unkind. She died in the hope that she’ll see many tomorrows. I suppose for all the pain that life had flung at her, she had died happy. Like the weak winter Yorkshire sun, life had smiled at her, if only momentarily. Unlike her sisters and brothers, at least she had seen love, success. 38 years...she’d lived long enough someone up there had decided.

I did not realise my breath was hitched, my throat ached and my eyes stung. There are many great authors – but none that have affected me like the Brontes. Their struggle was relentless. The oppressive, inescapable atmosphere at home; the lack of financial security; the diseases that plagued Victorian England; the lack of nutritious food; their own their frail bodies...and finally a house that seemed to consume the family one by one...it is enough to strike the sturdiest man down – spiritually and mentally. More fearsome than the death and diseases, they struggled against the imprisonment of the mind that was enforced on them...on account of their gender. They made a remarkable escape. An escape that did not require their physical bodies. It is no wonder their words did not emerge merely from of a clever brain. It stemmed from somewhere very deep – where language is immaterial. That is why those words still thrum and throb with a life force. That is why hundreds of years later, a girl growing up oceans away, in a completely different culture, in equally modest circumstances could resonate with those words.

We are lucky. We don’t have to go through the pain Charlotte went through. Life was a vulture that kept pecking away at her – a piece of heart, a shard of mind, a chunk of soul. She took her revenge. Quietly, word by word. Time, that heartless scavenger of wounds, could not erase her...can never erase her. At the end of the day, the Brontes were not just great writers as far as I’m concerned. They represent the eternal struggle of the human spirit to express itself - despite all the moral, social, religious shackles society squeezes us into. Have the Brontes inspired me to write better? I don’t know. But I do know that if the words just come from a vocabulary retained in the brain, it’s never good enough.

“Do you think, because I am poor, obscure, plain and little, I am soulless and heartless? You think wrong! - I have as much soul as you, - and full as much heart! And if God had gifted me with some beauty and much wealth, I should have made it as hard for you to leave me, as it is now for me to leave you!” Charlotte Bronte – Jane Eyre.

Yeah. The Brontes...they made me a thinker.

I’m participating in the International Author’s Day blog hop. Debdatta Sahay, a clever gentleman whom I’ve never met, is responsible for this brilliant idea of dedicating a day for celebrating authors (find him here). Considering we have international days for kidneys and hearts, this was really long overdue I’d say.

Now then, I had to write something special for this, yes? So I figured I’ll give you some gyaan. No, no...I can’t tell you how to win friends – I don’t have many. The few I have prefer to keep in touch online. The ones who live nearby invite me for tea whenever they need a good laugh. I can’t tell you how to make money either – I don’t have any. I can’t tell you how to impress the opposite sex. Nope...you shouldn’t be taking that advice from someone who writes daft poetry and discusses boson theories. For the rest of the things that affect your life, I’m sure there is an app floating around somewhere...or at least a tickling video on Buzzfeed. But, there is one thing I can tell you. Behold! I reveal the secretive training I received in storytelling. It was quite intensive. In fact, I did detail this out in my resume when I applied for a certain highbrow university - my application was rejected with much frostiness. There! You’ve been warned.

The storyteller training commenced much before I could distinguish between the fountain pen and ball pen. Wait...what am I saying...it goes way back. Some would even term it ‘hoary past’. Yes, the first training took place in the days when I used the chalk more as a snack than as a writing instrument. This was even before my regular imprisonment in a school began. I was in some kind of a ‘pre-school’...in an era when the term ‘pre-school’ was not yet in vogue. There was a community centre known as ‘Samskruti Kendra’ near my place. It was where all the snot billowing kids of the locality became ‘isskool’-ready. We learnt our alphabets, numbers and stories of crows throwing pebbles in water jugs.

Like everyone of my generation, we began language learning the old way – the teacher would write the alphabet on our slates, and we had to trace it till it got imprinted on our brains. There were only two teachers – one elderly lady, and another younger one who came on and off. The elderly lady was simply known as ‘Kannadakada Madam’ or the bespectacled teacher. I don’t know if the Samskurti Kendra trust paid her a salary or if she did this as a hobby. But the Kendra was her life. She called all of us ‘putta’ or darlings...but was equally swift with some shaming punishment when her patience was tested.

I had one of those ‘abacus’ slates – cutting edge technology as far as I was concerned – learning math and language on one device. One day, I suppose I got tired of tracing ‘O’ and ‘Ou’ of the Kannada alphabet. My piece of chalk had become a stump. I chewed it up promptly. No chalk, no more writing. Kannadakada Madam made me rinse my mouth and widened her eyes till I could trace every red nerve curling around her pupils magnified by the specs. She wagged her finger and said don’t ever eat chalk. EVER. I trembled. Okay...so I figured that ingesting chalk is frowned upon.

Amma promptly told the doctor in Nagaratna’s clinic and soon, I had to drink all kinds of concoctions to replenish calcium and iron and whatnot. Even so, chalk-chewing continued. I cooked up several versions of Mystery of The Disappearing Chalk. Much to my dismay, the adults always cracked the mystery. It had something to do with my tongue blisters and a white residue all around my mouth. Ergo – my first lesson in story-telling: cover all bases.

I was also, for some reason, very curious about Kannadakada Madam. She was a petite and thin woman; all her strength was concentrated in her larynx. Her spectacles were the no-nonsense ‘soda glass’ ones with sturdy black frames. She hardly wore any jewelry: perhaps two glass bangles on the right hand and a watch with frayed strap on the left. Her long hair was always oiled and braided in a single plait. Every Thursday, she probably visited the Raghavendra Swamy mutt next door: she’d have a bud of a sampige flower inserted in her plait, and whenever she bent down to check our slates, akshate would drop all around us from her head. She had just the two or three sarees, and just the two or three basic colour blouses - black, white or some other neutral colour. She always smelt of home cooking – pepper rasam, gooseberry pickles and dosas.

The younger teacher was more fastidious in terms of fashion. Her sarees were from Garden, neatly pinned unlike Kannadakada Madam’s hasty wrap. Her blouses always matched the saree and were impeccably stitched (many mums took details of the tailor from her). Her hair was always styled in a kind of loose plait that allowed for pinning of a lush rose just below the ear. She wore glass bangles matching her sarees and ‘drops’ oscillated from her ears – sometimes they were huge ‘Uma gold’ rings, or sometimes, long, long jhumkis. She also wore a thin, glittering chain that swung just below her breasts; depending on the saree, a matching pendant adorned the chain. She was supposedly following the fashion trend initiated by a Kannada actress Padma Priya – her block heels proved it beyond doubts. Even today, if I get a whiff of Vicco Turmeric, I remember this young lady.

Despite her lack of glamour, it was Kannadakada Madam who held my fascination. I somehow assumed she lived in the school itself, although Amma said she had a house nearby. It was only when I was older I realised Madam was single – possibly unmarried.

The last I met her was probably twenty years ago. I had just graduated, and Amma and I were loitering around Malleswaram when we happened to pass through Samskruti Kendra. There she was – just the way I remembered her. Sitting at a wrought iron table, frowning at a register. She was frailer for sure – but the strength of her voice had not diminished. She still called me ‘putta’ and marvelled that I’d ‘grown up so fast’ and ‘was I still eating chalks’. When she came to know I’d graduated, her happiness was pure, unabated. She gave me a sampige flower, akshate and kallusakre prasada from the mutt. ‘Be well-known for good deeds and change the world. If you can’t do anything, do vidya daana,’ she blessed.

Why did I feel like crying that day? I don’t know. There are some people who touch your soul effortlessly. She was like a boulder in the midst of a river – the river can change course, rage around in a torrential flood, or evaporate in a searing summer. But the rock stands impervious to everything. Did she have anyone at home? Did she look after aged parents? Did brothers and sisters visit her? Did she own at least one silk saree that she wore for weddings? I did not know anything about her life; not even her name. Sometimes that’s good...this not knowing...it retains a magic of human complexities.

Well – that taught me the second important lesson of storytelling. No matter what genre, characterisation is king. It drives situations, scenes and POV.

Anyway by the time I graduated to the fountain pen, my story-telling abilities had reached a peak, thanks to homework being persistently sacrificed at the TV altar. I thought I was a smooth operator. Imagine my surprise when my bluff was called easily. I never factored in the possibility of my teachers meeting up with my parents. That was my third lesson in story-telling – character conflicts, red herrings, the villains and the obstacles, and above all, the importance of tying up all ends.

I duly applied my newly acquired skills in story-telling during History lessons. I believe this can be considered as an official start to my writing career. Somewhat on the lines of Rider Haggard’s ‘She’, I managed to dramatise the Mughal invasions of the Indian subcontinent to a thrilling extent. I believe the staff room was plagued with delirious laughter for days together. But, I did not score well since I got the names of the invaders and the invaded all wrong, not to mention the atrocious dates. If I had it my way, I'd have Buddha preaching peace to those Ghazni and Gori psychopaths. I learnt my fourth important lesson in story-telling: the devil is indeed in the details.

In high school, an abysmal performance in Trigonometry (I could never remember the relationship between the sine, cosine and tangent) earned me detention. As a punishment, I had to write an essay on my ‘failure’. I believe I enjoyed the punishment rather thoroughly. I learnt my fifth important lesson in story-telling – motivation for character actions. What drives a character?

But perhaps the most important lesson of all – a good writer is not necessarily a good storyteller. Magic happens only when the two interweave, like a pattern in a loom. For that, you need to keep your soul accessible. You never know who will quietly imprint a lesson and fade away.

Happy storytelling!

© Sumana Khan 2014

Smile!

There’s a delight in having flowers on the windowsill. I bought a couple of sunflowers this week, and it’s nice to look up from my laptop, to see those bright, bold, yellow smiles. A friend of mine, who is bonkers over sunflowers, said it brings a sense of harmony in her. For me, it’s the lilies. Pink lilies. Not only because they are stunning, but also because their fragrance reminds me of home. Lilies are the closest I can get to that whiff of jaaji, mallige and sugandharaja that envelopes our markets during festival times.

Coming to think of it, the fragrance of mallige is interwoven with all my childhood memories. Vegetable shopping in Malleswaram market also included flower shopping. We’d normally buy a moLa (a strand measured from the palm to the elbow) or two for the daily puja. We’d buy from one of the women sitting on the footpath, their flowers in a bamboo basket covered by a wet cloth. The key to buying a good moLa was to ensure the jasmines were still buds, and of course the flowers should not be tied too loosely into a strand. After passing these strict examinations, the strand would be carefully packed into a moist viLedele.

The jasmine would remain fresh for about twenty-four hours. The buds would open up shyly, dispersing what I consider the fragrance of heavens. This coupled with the smell of ghee-dipped wicks, camphor, agarbathi and tulasi – if peace had an aroma, this was it. By evening, the jasmines would be in full bloom, drenching our home with that hypnotic scent. After the puja, a small strand would find its way to Amma’s plait – and even today, if I get a whiff of jasmine, it is Amma’s hair that I remember...and that’s what lilies do to me.

Lilies!

But more than mallige, jaji leaves me swooning...in a nice way. Those jaji creepers are truly stairways to heaven. In the bus that ferried me to work, one of the girls was very popular with the guys. She did not know it...and I don’t think any of the guys overtly made it clear that she was desired. She was very pretty in that traditional way – but I think the secret to her popularity was the strand of jaji or mallige in her single plait. Yes...there is something immensely charming about a face that’s got mallige peeking from behind the shoulder.

When mallige was not in season, my favourite was the fragrance-less kanakambri - that riot of orange heaped into mounds in every push cart. I learnt to ‘tie’ flowers into strands with kanakambri. Kanakambri has a slightly long, delicate stalk, so there’s a certain way to hold the flowers in place and weave the twine without crushing them. There is a meditative peace in tying flowers into strands...as with anything you can fashion out using bare hands.

Perfection

For some reason, I’m not very enamoured by roses. Of course they are stunning, both as buds as well as in full bloom...but they don’t have the same effect on me as lilies do. But there is one thing that fascinates me in all these beautiful flowers – the intricate symmetry of it all. From the way the petals curl and fold over in a bud to the perfectly tapering petals...the beauty, eye watering.

I can’t for the life of me remember where I came across the Sampige tree. Was it at a temple? Or someone’s home? Well...I tell you...Sampige trees are something...especially when the flowers bloom. Sampige is not at all subtle like the mallige. Oh no. They are little fragrance bombs. So strong that a lot of people get a headache. I only remember seeing this tree in full bloom, a stunning combination of yellow interspersed with green; an incredible fragrance all around. With every whisper of the wind, some of the dried petals would shower down. It was love at first sight for me. Love breeds dreams. So I dream of having a Sampige tree wherever I stay. You know...build a circular katte around the tree so one could just sit under its heaving branches...or lie down for an afternoon nap. Squirrels running up and down the trunk. Flowers fluttering in a yellow downpour. Chances of this dream being realized are slim. So I did the next best thing. Created an entire flower estate in my book. There. I knew being a writer is useful in some ways.

Meanwhile, I make do with the lilies. This small home I stay in packs the scent of the lilies quite tightly. So whenever I return home and open the door, for a second...just for a fleeitng second, I’m back at the sampige tree...I’m back to the time when I sat tying kanakambri strands...I’m back watching Amma insert a hairpin holding mallige into her plait.

I often wonder what kind of flower I’d be? What kind of flower are you, dear reader? Are you like the jasmine – plain, unassuming, but radiate your energy, your essence, your fragrance taking everyone by surprise? Or are you like the sampige – famed far and wide? Perhaps like the sunflower? You are just stunning and big and beautiful – eyes are drawn to you immediately? Or are you like my lilies? A complete seductive package?

Me? I don’t know. Perhaps I’m an inflorescence...a collection of this and that...something that catches your eye momentarily J

Back after a long time, isn’t it? My classes don’t start till the end of the month, and I have some prep work for an upcoming research module. Besides, I’m catching up on my reading. Serious reading. It’s the way I used to read back in student days...during summer hols. Morning to really late into the night. I even manage to stir the rasam with a book wedged between my thumb and pinky – so far no major culinary disasters have taken place.

That book tag in FB that everyone is snarling at could not have come at a better time. I caught on late – by then people were getting annoyed – how their timelines are being flooded by these pompous lists; how everyone is suddenly pretending to have eclectic taste in literature. Sheesh! So anyway, I sent the list only to the two people who’d tagged me. The list, as I understood, was supposed to be the ten books that came up in your mind at that instant...and not the ten books that made you look terribly intellectual to your ‘friends’.

It is rather telling – that the simple act of reading a book – one of the singular, most lonesome, quietest activities – even that has been turned into some kind of a showbiz. It was indeed very revealing to see that some of the FB folks who mostly put up lame, sorry-ass posters on ‘how to love yourself’ or ‘how to be strong’ were actually Kafka readers. Why, I even saw Dostoevsky thrown around by some who cannot figure out the plural from the possessive. Ah! They were being bookalicious (have I coined a new word?). You know...wanting to appear sexy by choice of books.

Now, coming to my list... it was interesting to see that despite having devoured many classics, the books that did stick to my mind were mostly pulp fiction, unknown authors of unknown crime books and a couple of the usual suspects. Later on, for want of better things to do, I analysed this impromptu list. I realised that these books bubbled up in my memory instantly because I could still remember how I felt when I’d read them. Yup. Reading a book is an experience, not just an activity. For example, I have Bram Stoker’s Dracula on my list. Its mind-numbing brilliance aside, I have a strange memory associated with the book. I

Courtesy - eBay

bought my first copy when I was on a project in Texas. It was an anniversary edition – hard copy. There was no artwork on the jacket. The cover was plain, blood red. The title was printed in a small, gold coloured, slightly calligraphic script along with the ‘dracul’ symbol. That’s it. It is, by far, the most beautiful book cover I’ve seen – captivating in its symbolic red. I ran my palm over the smooth jacket and traced the embossed title...and I can still feel that touch. That’s what I remember when someone says Dracula. That book cover first, and then the rest – the Harkers and Transylvania and the Count himself. The book cover was similar to the photo alongside. Unfortunately, I did not have space to carry the book in my luggage...so I donated it to the local library.

Courtesy: http://openlibrary.org

A couple of James Hadley Chase also appeared on my list. The epitome of pulp, yes? Here’s what I remember of Chase novels – the artwork on the cover. None of the photoshop crap we see today. It was proper artwork – as in someone sat and did those illustrations. The later editions worked with photographs. Without fail, almost all of them had provocatively attired women. Healthy women I must add! I guess if one picked up a Chase because the cover showed a stripper with a gun...well...the book would be a huge disappointment. Yup. No hanky-panky unlike Irving Wallace or Harold Robbins. Just plain vanilla good old crime story. And the titles. Always makes me chuckle - "Miss Shumway waves a hand"; "Well now, my pretty"..."This way for a shroud"... :) Most of the Chase novels I read as a teen were bought from second hand bookshops – so they had well-thumbed pages, and a slightly naphthalene smell. Writing pulp in itself is an art. You can’t afford to ramble on, yet, you must spin a story that goes at breakneck speed. But, you must not lose grip on the characters – your readers must care about them. That’s a tall order, and not everyone can do it. I remember reading Not Safe to be Free during summer hols (that made to my list). It’s set in Cannes and opens up the world of Hollywood celebrities. Something exciting for a teen lolling in Malleswaram eating kodubale to read about, yes? The story is about the murder of a starlet – and the unlikely perp.

Courtesy: http://openlibrary.org

In fact, recently, Appa bought a stack of Chase novels – so that I am well-stocked when I visit him. These are new prints, so the book cover artwork is lost actually...but what bliss to read them! I read Come Easy – Go Easy during my last visit. Only three characters. Unputdownable. Chase gives a lesson in storytelling.

Psycho by Robert Bloch made it to my list. It’s probably because my jaw fell when I saw the book. Alfred Hitchcock gave Norman Bates a face, a voice, flesh and blood. Bates is in the top ‘villain’ list of this century. So I imagined the book to be ...well...1000 pages or so. Nope. Psycho is a very slim 190-200 pages. First written in the late 1950s, the book does not dwell on pop psychology. It just gets down to business. The narration is stark, and that means the reader’s imagination is exercise

Courtesy: http://moviepilot.com

d to the maximum to create the terror. The famous ‘shower scene’ is hardly a couple of sentences. But yeah, you do hear the screaming violins in your head. Beneath all that starkness, you get to peel the layers of complexity and sickness of the human brain. Oedipus complex is a thread running through, never overt (unlike King’s more explicit portrayal in Mr Mercedes), never on the surface, yet bubbling up now and then, discomforting you...making you squirm. In those 190 odd pages, Bloch manages to create the first psychopath of modern crime literature, a character that will surface in your head in the least expected moment.

You may not have heard of William Katz either. I have read only one book of his. Some twenty-five years ago. And I can never, ever forget the sheer thrill of reading that library co

Courtesy: http://openlibrary.org

py. It was a novel called ‘Surprise Party’. It’s what one would rate as “f*ckin A”. A wife plans a surprise party for her husband’s birthday (or is it anniversary...can't remember). She wants to invite his school mates as a surprise. She gets in touch with his school. No records of her husband. She gets in touch with uni, college...same story. Has she married some kind of a secret agent? Who the hell is her husband who has no past? Makes you gnaw your knuckles, yes? Imagine spending quiet summer afternoons reading this.

This weekend I met a friend after 12 years. She was passing through London to celebrate her 60^th. We had a wonderful day together. I wondered what it is that bonded us – two women from different generations, different cultures (aside from the fact that Jennifer is great fun, kind, sensitive and very giving)? I think I got my answer when I went to pick her up from the hotel. I was late, and she was seated in the lobby in calm repose, reading a book. Yup – that’s a kindred spirit right there. We are a world-wide community I suppose. Us book-carriers. There’s always a book in our huge handbags. Have to wait? Like for the bus, the train, the airport, the boyfriend, the husband? No problem. Let’s quickly see if the serial killer has struck again. Or, if we are unable to open the books, we stand with a blank expression, staring at nothing – because we are thinking - why is Mrs Littlewood having an affair with the plumber? Can’t she see he’s going to kill her? Yup. While travelling, we don’t want to read about immigrants’ identity problems...you know the protagonist is in Weston-Super-Mare eating fish n’ chips and reminiscing about macher jhol his great-grandmum used to make back in Burdwan. Oh no. We want to read about a guy who can shake the system. Take on the White House. Knows all the crafty secrets of CIA. Who’s been in ‘Nam and Afghanistan and what have you. Who’s a killing machine but really, a nice gentleman. We Want Jack Reacher...bas! Yeah, in her two-three weeks trip, Jennifer has finished five Reacher novels.

Guess we are not bookilicious. Nope. We don’t read to ‘build an image’. We read to quench a thirst. That's the bond.

Now if you’ll excuse me, I have to get back to the body found in Bath...

© Sumana Khan - 2014

Courtesy - Clipart

We all know there’s a dark side to any social networking site; much the same way there’s a dark side to the society we live in. Facebook is no different. It’s no secret that escort services and other sleazy rings have adopted FB to expand their scope of operation. For people like you and me – who probably use FB to post our blog links and the odd travel photos (without our mug shots) – this underbelly is always unseen. It is some kind of a netherworld that operates below the radar. Or so I thought.

I’ve always been a stickler for privacy settings – even if the photos I put up are of trees and benches in lonely places. So it came as a surprise when I realised how close the danger lurks. A blogger friend of mine posted in our group in a right state of panic. She came to know that her profile photo was being used as the profile photo of another user...a woman with a very traditional south Indian name. A couple of us investigated further and sat back disturbed. The fake profile has more than 2700 followers. I don’t have to tell you the purpose of the profile. I suspect that the photos put up on that profile, like my friend’s, are ‘stolen’. As in, most probably the woman does not know her photo is being used for titillation. Oh, and don’t get me wrong. These are not women in the dreaded Western Outfit. My friend, for example, a mother of two kids, is clad in a kanchivaram. This photo was probably taken in a family function. That’s what stung me; angered me.

Despite a churning stomach, I followed up on this profile. My friend’s photo was shared once, by another fake profile. I hopped over to that profile – more photos of women. Some were staged – probably call girls, but there were many photos that looked like they’d been ‘lifted’ from different FB users. Unsuspecting saree-clad women; smiling into the camera, doing puja, standing at a beach and so on. These photos too were shared from other fake profiles. Some of the pages led me to R-rated stuff. Most of the girls featured in these pages are young – they should have been safe – in their homes, studying for a degree, setting up their future. What is the horrible story behind their trafficking, I wondered.

The other day, there was a message being circulated on FB. It began somewhat this way – ‘A guy sends you a friend request. You don't know him, but he's got a cute profile picture, so you accept’. Apart from the condescending assumption that women are dumb enough add a stranger because he has a ‘cute’ profile, the message displays our strong conditioning – something that sleaze-rings exploit. Here’s our first conditioning: Stranger = Man = Bad Person. The fact is that most of the sleaze profiles have names of women. Not slutty names. But traditional, innocuous ones like Sandhya, Leena, Deepa and so on. The person behind the profile may be a man – but he knows that both men and women accept friend requests from women far more easily. The second conditioning – it is only little girls who are in danger of being trafficked. Welcome to a sick world. Paedophiles swing both ways. Thirdly - don’t be under the assumption that only women’s photos are circulated this way. Sure, women are perhaps more vulnerable, but I’m sure there’s a similar operation with male victims too.

What we came across is just an atom of the whole setup. There are thousands of sleaze pages. If one sits down for a meticulous investigation, the complexity and layers of these rings would be quite mind-boggling. Anyway, we reported the pages to FB, without much hope. The pages have been setup in a clever way – they don’t break any of the terms and conditions. Of course, FB takes down objectionable images when you report them – but photos of women clad in sarees – even if some of them are in a state of undress – don’t really break norms. Consequently, some of the profiles were taken down, but reinstated within 24 hours ‘upon revision’.

Two of my friend’s profiles were impersonated – they notified FB, one of them even showed documentary evidence of her identity – but the FB team was unable to shut the fake profiles. When I say ‘unable’, I really mean the response was vague and frustrating. My friend has lodged a complaint with the cyber crime cell – but that’s moving at a glacial pace. Understandably, one’s photo being put up on another profile is the least of their priorities.

First and foremost, it’s important to understand security and privacy features of FB. Here are some salient points –

1) By default, FB sets the privacy of your profile picture to public. You can change it to friends.

2) Avoid putting family photos as your cover. The current cover photo is always public, and you can't edit it. You can, however, edit the privacy of older cover photos.

3) If, as a blogger/writer/artist/entrepreneur etc. , you need to add strangers on your friend list, use the restricted list at the first instance. A person on the restricted list can only see your public posts.

4) For every post, every photo, you can individually select privacy.

5) Please understand how cookies work. By trade laws, all websites are allowed to use cookies. Cookies are a way of tracking your internet habits. That is why, if you have been browsing a product on Amazon, you'll probably see it on the ad bar on FB. FB is not spying on you - it is the entire internet that is interested in you as a consumer. Be aware of this. There's no such thing as absolute privacy on the internet.

6) Please understand how platform applications work. If this is enabled on FB, your activities on other sites can be pushed as notifications to your timeline (and newsfeed). For example, if you read any article on, say, The Hindu, while you are logged on to FB, and you leave a comment, ‘like’ or ‘recommend’ the article etc - it comes up on your timeline. Be aware of this. If you don't want to advertise what you've been reading, what business service you have used and rated, your running/jogging/walking route...TURN OFF platform applications.

7) Same goes with advertising your location - so if you've been to some place, eaten somewhere, are sitting in an airport - we all know. Be aware of this.

8) Be vigilant when you access FB through mobile devices in public wifi hotspots. Change passwords regularly. Also, avoid logging into FB from another application as much as possible. For example, clicking on a FB notification link from your personal email ID.

9) Please search your name in Google - and click on images. It's good to do this at regular intervals. If your photo is being used inappropriately, you will at least know the website.

10) On FB, there is an option to disable your name and profile appearing in public domain searches. Please select that. If, for some reason, you do want your audience to reach you (because you are running a business, etc) then I would recommend buying a separate domain name, building a website and directing your folks to that. Keep FB for social purposes only.

11) Use FB to reflect your real- life behaviour. Before you put up a photo, think - in real life, is this the photo I'd show an acquaintance I've only met once or twice?

12) Children are very vulnerable. Do think about how and where you want to share their photos. Even for a casual observer like me - when I browse a profile that's not well-regulated in terms of privacy - I get to know these all details just by looking at status updates and comments: Where the husband and wife work (and therefore an assessment of their income); what kind of house they live in (through photos); which city they stay; how many kids; where the kids study; the kids' appearance; typical routine of the family; holiday plans; previous holidays; number of people at home.

13) You can tweak your privacy setting to disallow your name from being searched in FB. You can control who can send you friend requests.

14) You can also disable the 'follow' button. 'Follow' allows people to keep track of your public posts WITHOUT being your friend. So if you are lax about your privacy settings, just about anyone can keep a track of you.

At the end of the day, there is only so much an individual can do to use FB (or any networking site) responsibly. I am more concerned about the ethical responsibility of FB. There is a thin line between freedom of expression and freedom of oppression. FB must to do more than just rely on a user-monitoring/feedback mechanism to keep a tab of dubious profiles and pages. As of now, based on what we came across, FB is skating on thin ice – it has unfortunately provided a platform for sexual exploitation.

I suppose the first question you want to ask me is, ‘Why don’t you all deactivate your accounts?’ Personally speaking, I use FB for all the right reasons and not just to satiate some narcissistic needs. But more than that, I think of the many women who are unaware their photos have been circulated. I think of those girls who have been made to pose for those photos. I realise I’m tired of looking away. This time, I will stand my ground. And fight for decency.

© Sumana Khan - 2014

Can any of you interpret this dream?

Courtesy - Clipart

It is afternoon or nearing noon. A friend (whose face I can’t see, but I ‘know’ she is my classmate from college) and I are walking down a road. It’s one of those narrow roads of Bengaluru – the one you find in any old area of the city that’s not been touched by builders. In my dream, I’m in one such older part of Koramangala. Anyway we are walking and from somewhere this huge black bull appears. It’s like one of those Spanish fighting bulls.

Next thing I know my friend and I have run inside a compound of sorts to get away from the bull. There is no house here – just a ledge...a porch actually....what we call as ‘jagli’ in Kannada. Seeing that the bull will be upon us, I communicate with my friend to clamber on to the ledge...sure that the bull can’t reach us there. We both are now on the ledge – but the bull begins to buck. I can sense that in a couple of attempts it can easily jump on to the ledge. I motion my friend to run to the far end as the bull continues its attempts.

Once we reach the other end, we leap to the ground, and are out of the place in a jiffy. We run out to the road, and from this point onward, it is just me in the dream...although I ‘know’ my friend too has run to safety. So I begin running. Unlike in a typical nightmare where you cannot run, here not only am I running, but I’m also strategising and thinking. There is no fear. As I run, I keep my eyes peeled for a safe place to hide. But almost all houses have very low compound walls, or worse broken walls. I run for a good measure and finally turn into a narrow street two lanes away. I see a multi-storeyed house and I dash into it. Presumably I climb the stairs and am hiding in a place where I can see the road.

I see the bull. But next thing I know, it’s been lassoed. Children – all as young as 5-6 – are dragging the rope, as the bull struggles. I am worried about the children...how can those tiny hands have strength to match a tug-of-war with that mighty beast? What if they come under the feet of the bull? But the bull loses. Now some elders have joined. The spirit of the bull is completely broken – it is now tamed. As I watch, the whole crowd has now brought the bull inside the vatara. (The stairs are now very wide). There is some kind of magalarthi kept on the bulls head. There is some ritual (but it’s not clear)...but I remember seeing a man pat the bull – a job well done – of taming the wild; as if it is a regular practise. I remember thinking how quickly and deftly they subdued the animal.

Anyway I catch hold of someone in the crowd ...a young girl...and ask her if there is a rear exit to the building. She is all sweet and friendly and says yes. The next thing I know, the bull has turned into a woman. A woman who is probably in her 40s. Dark skinned, single plait, kumkum, in a very ordinary saree. She is sitting on her haunches on the road in front of the house...as if recovering from a bout of dizziness. I once again ask someone else – an adult, a woman this time – if I can use the rear exit. I tell her I was running away from the bull, and it would be awkward to walk in front of it/her. Even as the woman says of course I can use the exit, the Bull Woman is now climbing the stairs.

For some reason, I feel very embarrassed. Won’t it be insulting for the Bull Woman to see me...after all I was the one who ran away from her and brought her here? Even as the other woman is (probably) pointing me to the direction of the exit, I say ‘It’s okay; it’s okay.’ Now, I don’t want to further insult the Bull Woman by slinking away. I decide to go down the stairs, even as she is coming up. We see each other; I don’t think there was any exchange of words. Just a glance. Then I’m out on to the road.

But I start running again, you know...just in case. The road is different this time – it’s not like those narrow roads I saw earlier. This is a main road – wide, wide. Traffic. But hell, the whole footpath – a very wide footpath – is crowded with oxen as if in a cattle fair. I even spot a camel (I think). I weave my way through them. Finally I’m out on the main road, lit by the orange mercury-halogen lights. My mobile is out of charge; but I figure my friend is safe. I think about how much money I have – should I take an autorickshaw or the bus?

The dream disintegrates from here. And thankfully I woke up. And yeah...I did not watch anything remotely connected with any animals. Most of my dreams are lucid and ridiculous – I mean once I dreamed that I was reluctantly getting ready to go to college. Amma is yelling at me to finish my uppittu. I open the main door and hello...the road has disappeared. In it's place there's a very muddy river. Not just that - there a good number of hippos too, yawning and lolling about. I remember feeling glee - abba! Now I can't go to college and when Amma sees hippos, she'll forget about uppittu.

But as far as my lucid dreams go...this bull run one really takes the cake. So...any ideas what on earth this dream means? :) If not anything...this can be a future fantasy fiction project.

Courtesy: Clipart

As a part of Write Tribe’s prompt, today’s is a ‘list blog’. I figured I’d give a list of practices I employ whilst working on a manuscript. Sharing it with all you writers – would love to hear your ‘rules’ too J

1) Plan to write a solid chunk– perhaps 1500-2000 words in one sitting. Depending on what you are writing, this chunk should more or less take a piece of the story to its logical conclusion – example, a chapter or a set of chapters describing an incident, introducing the conflict etc.

2) Select a time of the day/night when you can write relatively uninterrupted. This is especially difficult if you are working and have a family. But do find those quiet pockets of time.

3) Outside your writing time-slot, when you are finishing up your regular chores, keep writing mentally. In fact, this occurs quite naturally when you are chest-deep in your manuscript. You go over dialogues, characters, situations in your mind relentlessly. This ‘marinating’ time is very essential - if this is done, your writing time is most productive. So whenever you are not writing, THINK about your writing. It is akin to meditation, trust me.

4) Research – depending on what you are writing, you may need to research– it could be a place, a time period etc. Do this research during your non-writing time. Try to research more from books that deal with the subject matter, rather than a generic internet search. If possible, talk to experts; visit the place/monument/building/locality under consideration. In my case, if my manuscript requires extensive research, I do a major part of it before I start with Chapter 1.

5) When you DO sit to write – TURN OFF the internet. The biggest interruption is not the cat or the kids – it’s your pinging inbox and facebook alerts. Feel free to turn off whatsapp too.

6) TURN OFF mental interruptions too. Don’t sit down to write while neglecting other unfinished tasks – they can nag, nag, nag. Don’t sit down to write when you are very angry or upset. Calm down. And when you have to sulk, then you sit and write.

7) Don’t wait for some magical, nirvana-type perfect frame of mind in order to write. You need to answer only one question - Am I Pissed Off? No? Well park your butt and write. If Yes, then go to point 6. You don’t have to be in an ecstatic state of mind to write. Neither do you need to be emitting delta waves.

8) Don’t wait for all the right words and sentences to be formed in your head before you sit to write. Don’t say ... let me think of something spectacular and then write. Chances are you’ll never write. No one gets awesome words and sentences on the first draft. You have to start with “It was a dark and stormy night” and work your way from there. Yup. Build the incline before putting the jazzy escalator.

9) In most movies the writer goes to a lovely cabin by a lake, or by the beach, or in the mountains to finish the manuscript. Trust me, the place does not matter– it’s the will that counts. If the voice in your story is strong ...you can even sit in the kumbhmela and write your manuscript...the noise outside becomes inconsequential when the voice of your protagonist takes over.

10)Get a good chair with butt pillows.

Happy writing my lovelies!

© Sumana Khan – 2014

Courtesy - Clipart

There’s often bewilderment when someone with a history of depression commits suicide. Same goes with someone with history of addiction. There is an erroneous judgement that depression – especially clinical depression – can be overcome by life-style changes, and by ‘being happy’ and ‘positive’. Similarly we think addiction – be it alcohol or substance abuse – can be overcome by willpower alone. What we need to understand is that in these cases, the biggest threat to life comes from within. Today’s Write Tribe's blog prompt is about answering a question. So I’ll try to answer the question about the biological basis of depression and addiction.

I’ll try to use very few technical terms...but even so, bear with me as we tour our brain. So, let’s start with the very basic neurotransmitters. These are chemicals that help ‘transfer’ signals from one neuron (brain cell) to the next. So...let’s say you see a slice of raw mango smeared with salt, chilli powder. Your body’s first ‘reaction’ to this visual stimulus is to salivate. So when I say ‘signals’, I mean a series of electro-chemical reactions

The world of neurotransmitters is delicate, precisely balanced and a LOT of vital body functions depend on optimal levels of these chemicals. Even slight variations can affect you in different ways – insomnia, increased/loss of appetite, aggressiveness and so on.

In the case of depression and addiction, two important neurotransmitters play a critical role – Dopamine and Serotonin. Both these are vital in the overall functioning of the human body. For example, serotonin regulates mood and feeling of wellbeing. It also regulates your sleep cycle, and it is the neurotransmitter that signals ‘hey stomach is full, stop eating’. In other words, it regulates the portion of food you can eat (the brain tells you...this is enough on the plate). Yeah...if you are the one who is known to eat 30 dosas and 80 idlis in one sitting...consuming quantities disproportionate to your lifestyle and body weight, stop being proud of your ‘prowess’. There’s probably a malfunction in your serotonin levels. You might find yourself suffering from insomnia, you are needlessly impulsive, restless, aggressive and always fidgety. Dopamine on the other hand, is very critical for cognition, memory, learning, attention and motor functions.

Research has implicated low serotonin levels in depression. The low level could have various causes – hereditary, diet, life style. This is one of the reasons a class of anti-depressants known as ‘SSRI’s (Selective Serotonin Reuptake Inhibitors) have become a standard prescription for depression. They help increase the serotonin level, alleviating the symptoms of depression.

Low serotonin level is also known to increase the probability of alcohol addiction. In fact, it becomes a vicious cycle. Low serotonin makes one reach out to stimulants. Since alcohol directly hits the bloodstream, there’s a rush of serotonin, giving that immediate spike of energy and loss of inhibition. But that ‘high’ cannot be sustained. Once your drinking session is over, the serotonin drops to its original levels – the depression hitting you like a bucket of ice water. So you again need the stimulant – you reach out for more alcohol.

All this is fired by the brain’s reward and reinforcement system. The nucleus accumbens is the ‘pleasure centre’ in our brain –– it forms a reward circuit. For example, when you see something pleasant – it could be your favourite food, or your favourite person – that ‘pleasure’ you feel is because of a surge of dopamine neurotransmitter in the accumbens. The nucleus accumbens is lined with several dopamine and seretogenic receptors. The dopamine molecules latch on to the respective receptors – like a key being inserted to a lock – this is the ‘activated’ state. So what happens when you take a drug such as cocaine? The surge of dopamine is so high that there are not enough receptors for all the dopamine molecules to eventually latch on to. The result is that there is a high content of dopamine floating in the reward circuit – so the substance abuser experiences a sustained ‘high’. With repeated abuse of alcohol and drugs, you are essentially altering the levels of these neurotransmitters. This leads to a ‘deregulation’ of receptors – in other words, the brain rewires itself by decreasing the number of receptors in response to sustained high levels of neurotransmitters. Finally, a stage is reached when the receptors are constantly activated – example, D2 high or dopamine supersensitivity condition. This can lead to psychosis, schizophrenic symptoms, loss of memory, delusions of grandeur, onset of Parkinson’s. For example, some severe abusers of crystal meth believe there are bugs running beneath their skin – so they literally gouge themselves to remove the ‘bugs’. Because the brain is now accustomed to a very high level of stimulation, the individual can no longer find pleasure in everyday environment – there is a marked disinterest, apathy, nothing can make the person ‘happy’ – this condition is known as anhedonia. The victim now reaches out to drugs/alcohol over and over again to regain that ‘pleasure’.

Even in the case of depression in the absence of addiction, the mind becomes an absolutely dark place – like a maze of underground caves with no exit. One does not see the purpose of getting out of bed – everything seems futile. There is a marked lack of energy, like a deflated balloon – every small movement seems to expend an enormous amount of energy – one would rather sit still on the couch, hungry and thirsty, rather than walk up to the kitchen, open the fridge door and find a bottle of water. It’s like watching someone implode. Suicide is unfortunately a common outcome. The sufferers are persistent in their attempts. You have to understand that these are not suicides committed to escape an external situation...but this is more of a release from a prison of the worst kind...a mental prison.

We see all kinds of enemies around us – rapists, murderers, terrorists. But when your own mind turns against you...you’ll probably come face-to-face with the worst enemy there ever was. God forbid.

Courtesy - http://www.amazon.com

I’m quite in awe of Nicole Kidman. It’s not easy to be as superbly glamorous as her, and yet, take on roles that deeply disturb us, challenging us to peek outside our safe moral frameworks...into that scary amoral vista that exists like peripheral vision. I mean I had to blow my brains out after watching her in Paper Boy. She brings out disgust and sympathy in equal measures. Or what of her exasperating fragility in Stoker? Perhaps her gray roles hit hard because she’s able to process changes in the character in a very nuanced way. She can transition from a smile to a sulk to downright fury without raising her voice. Guess that’s why the directors like to zoom a close up on just that one dialog or scene of her’s. I tell you it’s fascinating to watch her chiselled face crumble, her pupils dilate, as her character literally comes undone. Check this out –

So when Birth was screened late one night on, I vaguely remembered Nicole was in the movie. I was in no mood to watch a drama but curiosity made me stay put...I mean what an ambiguous title that is – BIRTH. It was the opening scene that drew me in actually. It shows a man jogging in a snow-covered Central Park, with the camera following him. It’s a lengthy scene – almost five minutes – enough to make you turn off the TV impatiently, had it been shot the wrong way. But director Jonathan Glaze (searing Sexy Beast and scarring Under the Skin) has turned this scene into poetry in motion. It is one of the most beautiful opening scenes I’ve ever watched - stark, yet stunningly aesthetic, and soaring background score – oh so hypnotic, so hypnotic. Your eyes never move away from the running man’s back and soon, it’s as if you are running behind him, keeping rhythm to his foot falls. The music yanks you up to a different place. As the man enters the dark maw of an underpass, emerges, circles around and re-enters only to collapse in foetal position – you know that Birth won’t be an ordinary movie. How much of thought has gone into shooting that symbolic scene representative of the title? The hair at the nape of my neck stood up in awe.

We come to know that the man who passed away mid-run is Sean, Anna’s (Kidman) husband. The story takes off at a point where Anna has moved on, and is now engaged to Joseph. It is her birthday, and her family (mother, sister, brother-in-law and fiancé) have gathered to celebrate in her ultra-posh Manhattan apartment when a 10-year-old boy walks in. He’s a stranger, and asks to speak to Anna. Amused, she indulges him. The boy says his name is Sean...and he is Sean. Anna’s Sean. He asks her not to marry Joseph.

The boy stalks her, and as the movie progresses, we see the cracks in Anna – she is of course still deeply in love with her deceased husband. We see her disintegrate into a person who has lost all sense of reasonable logic. While there are scenes that are extremely disturbing, you are also moved by Anna’s turmoil. But beneath all this, there is a tight knot of creepiness all through the movie. The child, superbly played by Cameron Bright (X-Men: The Last Stand as the mutant Leech) makes you uncomfortable and you can’t figure out why. Perhaps it is his unsmiling face, intense stares? You never see him run, yell, jump like any other young boy. Perhaps it is his tone when he speaks – an adult tone in a child’s voice. No indecision, no looking for guidance.

But I also think the creepiness is because of the hushed atmosphere of the rich – high ceilings, click clack of high heels, the freezing New York winters. But you know, for me, the discomfort was partly because of a memory association - the high ceilings and Anna’s haircut – it was so very reminiscent of Rosemary’s Baby.

I’ll not tell you how the movie ends, of course. But the resolution of the plot is hardly the highlight of the movie. It places before you greater concepts to ponder about. For example, as Anna (and us) begins to believe that little Sean is indeed the reincarnation of her husband – she disassociates the body from the spirit so to speak. In her mind, that Sean’s physical body is 10 years old becomes inconsequential. What matters is The Sean – minus body – whatever you call that identity...that essence she had loved, and continues to love...that’s all that matters. It makes you wonder about the version of ‘love’ we bandy about – so tied down to flesh and blood that will eventually rot away – is it all there is to it? For something as glorious as love...why is it so imprisoning, debilitating?

Kidman effortlessly carries the burden of the movie (without taking away credit from Bright). It’s easily one of her career greats – the amount of acting she can do just with her eyes is astounding. It is scenes like the one below that propels Jonathan Glaze in the genius category – it makes you become one with Anna, and you think as if you are her, as you watch every tension line unravel on her face. While you are it, don't miss Alexandre Desplat's (Argo, The King's Speech, The Curious Case of Benjamin Button...) soul-stirring score.

Birth is certainly not a popular movie – and it will leave many disappointed, perhaps even a tad disgusted. But that’s what all great works of art are supposed to do. Only art and literature have that power to push your boundaries, yank you into zones that are distinctly grey, make you think about things that are too uncomfortable. If civilization has made any spiritual progress at all (in the right direction) – it is because someone somewhere wrote a piece of prose, a piece of poetry, a piece of music; painted a canvas, a cave, a wall, a roof – a piece that made you stop in your tracks and challenged the way you think.

A wonderful advantage of being a writer is that you get to connect with some truly fascinating people. I mean, what would you plan for your 60^th birthday? A special puja? A family reunion? Or perhaps an exotic holiday for a week? Well, Deepak turned sixty recently. In celebration, he donned his leather gear, hopped on to his Enfield and set off on a 13000-kilometre road trip with his friend, Aditya Raj Kapoor. If that’s not fascinating...what is?

Men in Black - Deepak Amembal (left) & Aditya Raj Kapoor

I’ve never ‘met’ Deepak in the literal sense. Four years ago, when the first edition of my book came out, Deepak (then a stranger) was one of the first to buy it, read it and review it. He reached out to me with very kind and encouraging words – the only thing a debut author needs.

Ever since, I’ve been a quiet follower of Deepak’s travels – both on his wheels as well as through his camera. Here’s a link to his photo-streams: I’m sure you’ll agree with me...his photos are very kinetic capturing life in all its vibrancy, urgency and colours.

https://www.facebook.com/pages/Deepak-Amembals-Magiceye/116036178413774

Deepak and Aditya are just back from their epic road trip. Trust me, it was a feast to open Facebook each day this handsome duo was on the road. Fascinating updates of places, people, food, bike parts filled my newsfeed...what a refreshing change from all the usual whining and preaching doing the rounds J

I requested Deepak to do an interview for my blog...and here it is J

1) My earliest memory of a travel was probably when I was 5-6. It was my first journey in a train. What is your earliest memory of a journey...and why do you think it has stuck with you all these years?

Deepak: My earliest memory of travel is when I flew with my mum and younger sister from Mangalore to Mumbai in a Dakota. Must have been just around 5 years old then. The scene that has stuck in my mind and can still vividly visualise it is of the flight purser coming to strap on my seat belt during the time the aircraft flew into air pockets due turbulence. Inevitably he would be jumping in the aisle as the aircraft would drop precisely at the time when he was right next to me and his hands reaching out to my seat belt. I enjoyed it thoroughly as for me it was like sitting on a ride in an amusement park.

2) When was the first time you realized your travels were not just about a “holiday” – but a way of life?

Deepak: An annual visit to our ‘native place’ was the done thing during our summer holidays. The trips were generally by train if tickets could be procured or by private buses that operated between Mumbai and Mangalore. And so it happened that I was stranded in Mangalore without a ticket and had to perforce return to join my new class in school. I must have been around 12 years old then. After asking around I found out that a friend’s uncle was a driver in one of the companies operating the buses on this route. Connected with him and he promised that he would ensure I wont miss a single day at school, however full the bus might be. On the morning I reached the bus stop with my bag and met him at the bus terminus. He made me sit in the driver’s cabin on a makeshift seat and said I might have to travel all the way to Mumbai (around 24hours) on that seat. I was thrilled as it seemed to be a great adventure. And boy, did I have fun! Getting down at every little stop for chai and meals, chatting with the drivers and my first taste of ‘life on the road’. Have never looked back J

3) All of us, at some point in our lives, would have thought “I wish I can do that”. Only very few do everything it takes bring those dreams to fruition. I realised that calling your travel bug a ‘hobby’ would be underplaying it to a very, very large extent! Travel for you is more of a calling. Did you have to take any conscious decisions, make long-term plans to make your dream come true? Is it as simple as “have bike, will travel?”

Deepak: Travel is in my genes. My grandmother used to travel alone till she was in her late 80s! My parents too were great travellers and used to ensure we had a vacation every year albeit to our ‘native place’. Hence travel was something that was naturally a part of my life. After marriage to a wonderful girl who shared my love for travel, we did take conscious decisions of saving up for travel by avoiding splurging on frequent fine dining and continuing with our routine life till vacation time when we let go! A certain amount of planning is needed though most of the time it is ‘have bike/car, will travel’ specially when we travel with family.

4) What are some of the practical aspects of cross-country rides? For example, the budget...breakdowns...sore muscles...

Deepak: We generally plan on a shoestring budget, keep a bit aside for emergencies though if ones vehicle is well maintained, the chances of breakdown are very rare.

Sore muscles are felt on return from the holiday J

5) Your latest itinerary was absolutely epic! Can you give our readers your route? When did you plan this trip...and what all preparations – including mental – did you do?

Courtesy - Deepak & Aditya

Deepak: After retirement, I realised that the children are grown up, busy with their lives and wife too is waiting for retirement. That decided for me. In 1982 I had done an All India trip on my Yezdi with 4 other friends but had missed out on Ladakh so I thought of riding to Ladakh and being atop on my 60^th birthday last year. Unfortunately due to a sever attack of sciatica just 3 days before I embarked on my ride, had to postpone the plan.

And then I met Aditya Raj Kapoor, a retired management consultant, now into acting, writing and directing following the footsteps of his illustrious father – Shammi Kapoor. We were members of the same riding club – Bisons Ride Hard. Soon we realised we had similar dreams of riding and we started planning almost 4 months prior to our actual departure. What started off as a simple ride to Khardungla pass turned out to be an epic 73days, 13000kms ride across the country. Mentally, we were prepared for a long time.

Made a list of essentials to be carried, procured riding gear and were helped in route planning by Mr. HV Kumar (https://www.facebook.com/groups/hvkumar/) who is a highway wizard, and by Dr. Alap Mehendale for our medical needs and Mr. Vinod for our bikes.

6) What are some of your funniest, heart-warming memories from your travel?

Deepak: We were riding in the desert somewhere between Barmer and Bikaner in Rajasthan. For a long time we had not sighted a single shack/dhaba for chai. The road was deserted too. Finally we spotted one and happily rode towards it and were parking our bikes when a young lad of around 12years of age saw us and ran inside. We assumed he was going to arrange for tea. Aditya went behind him to place our order for chai and the boy ran further inside and disappeared. We were wondering what happened and there was nobody else there to ask. In a couple of minutes a jeep drove in and a hefty man jumped off and came towards us asking us what we wanted. He laughed out loud when we told him we wanted chai. Apparently the young lad thought we were dacoits/terrorists because of our riding gear and called his uncle for help. Later we all got talking and he refused money for the tea and biscuits.

"Dacoits"

7) Did you have any experience that scared you off your socks?

Deepak: None actually.

8) What goes on in your mind when you are on your iron horse and an endless road moves like a conveyor belt below you? What do you think about?

Deepak: Think about various things. Actually it is quite a spiritual, meditative, introspective experience. Apart from the ride itself I tend to think about my past, my present and my future. I delve deep into myself.

9) Travelling opens up the mind in a way no university degree can. Do you think travel has changed you – as a person? If yes, can you share in what ways?

Deepak: Yes. It has made me tolerant, patient and an optimist

10)I guess the journey excites you more than getting to a destination. Even so, which is that one place that has lured you again and again? Why?

Deepak: India because it is indeed incredible and would take a lifetime and more to understand its mysteries J

Courtesy -http://creative.sulekha.com/violation-of-vedabati_409309_blog

In keeping with the tradition of retrospective analysis, yesterday’s rape case too was discussed on two favourite themes – what was the lady’s score on “rapeability” – and irrelevantly, who is better (or worse) – Modi or Kejriwal (this discussion takes place irrespective of the core topic in question). In this case, the answer to the first question was easy for many ‘analysing’ the news – the lady was culpable. Returning late in the night – check. Dozed off in the taxi (ergo, she must be have been drunk, some surmised) – check. There was collective tongue clucking – women of this country will never learn.

But, there was a ‘new’ theme. Some actually saw a silver-lining in the crime, and pointed out that the lady was lucky: this was “just” a “normal rape”. Unlike Nirbhaya, this lady did not have to deal with the iron rod, or the driver calling more of his friends. The lady is lucky to be alive. So, we have finally reached this stage of desensitization. But what would you expect? In the recent ‘Mango tree’ case involving the three hapless children, the country’s top investigating agency declared it a suicide. Yes, you fools with your placards and candles. The girls woke up in the middle of the night, marched to the mango tree, climbed it, selected their respective branches, tied one end of their dupattas to their neck, the other end to the branch, and hung themselves. The spokesman for this agency also fulfilled the mandatory rule when dealing with cases of a girl’s death under mysterious circumstances – question her character. The case has now been turned against these dead children’s families – firstly, for filing a “false” case and then perhaps, they’ll be prosecuted for ‘honour killing’. So, don’t you see this urban lady raped by the taxi driver is lucky? Hell, he even dropped her back. Lucky, lucky, lucky.

So, we are done with the “lucky” victim analysis. I thought at least now someone is going to focus on the perpetrator. But no. The second entity responsible for this rape is Uber (the first being the victim). Don’t miss the undertone in many esteemed comments on the news report – Uber is an American company (very, very WESTERN) getting funding to expand in India...hmm...CIA conspiracy perhaps? To do what? No one knows. But better to be suspicious, no?) Forget your stoopid GPS aps, the newspapers say with much anger. Did you do background checks on the driver? The news folks are stern, I tell you. Even so, excuse me while I double up and laugh at this question. What background check are you talking about? How do you do this check? You must be checking up on the non-existent centralised criminal database, yes? That comprehensive query output on sexual offenders of India? What are you matching it against? Fingerprints? DNA? Oh must be PAN Number...or perhaps Aadhar card? No? Ration card? Passport? Okay, sorry about the sarcasm. I guess by background check you meant hiring a third party to conduct the basic address-proof, criminal record verification. I have to laugh again. Sorry about that.

In any case, in a macabre twist, the Nirbhaya case seems to have inspired the rapists to a larger extent rather than shake the concrete-like apathy of policy-makers. You’d think a crime so horrific would set a furious pace to initiate changes. I mean this crime exposed the dregs of psychopathy crawling on our very streets. So when the previous government set up the Nirbhaya fund, I actually thought they will use it to modernise the police force. Set up a separate special victims unit. For a country dishing out IT services to the world, I thought the government will call for tenders to develop a centralised offender’s database. Bring in more forensic psychiatrists, analysts, detectives. Adopt investigative and crime prevention techniques employed by many countries all over the world. Upgrade training to our police force. (Are you calling me an idiot? I bow my head; I asked for it.) This is what happened ...

The Nirbhaya fund was allotted 1000 crores. There were three important proposals placed forward for the use of this fund (http://pib.nic.in/newsite/PrintRelease.aspx?relid=101789)

Enable mobile phones with SOS buttons. It’s not elaborated who will get these SOS messages, how quickly they’ll be able to track the location – especially in cases where the assault takes place in a moving vehicle. But yes, the key point here is – you, yes, you woman-about-to-be-raped – it is your responsibility to fish out your mobile phone and press that SOS button before the rapist beats the crap out of you.
GPS tracker in every public transport, and CCTV. You can also lodge complaints through IVR, email, SMS. This is going to be implemented in 32 towns initially. So good luck listening to ‘Press 1 for Hindi; Press 2 for English’ as someone unzips.
That SOS thingie is going to be available in trains too.

That’s it. Those are the proposals. Makes you feel safe already huh? Like you’re with Batman or something. These proposals were given the go-ahead after “several rounds of consultations”. Must have taken place in the bi-annual Dim Wit conference. But not to lose heart – there is always the NCW – they had promised to “raise awareness” and do a “vulnerability mapping exercise”. I’m unable to find the article, but somewhere I read the NCW also planned to rope in our silicon and steroid Bollywood folks for the ‘awareness’ campaign. Yipee. Like...maybe you’ll smell so pungent after rubbing Zandu Balm on your butt that you’ll be left alone. As of Jan 2014, the funds were still unused.

Let’s be honest – rape can never be eliminated from society completely – it is the truth all over the world. But the difference lies in how swiftly and sensitively the crime is handled, protection and dignity to the victim, early prosecution. I mean – did you know that in an identification parade, a victim of rape has to identify the rapist by actually touching his elbow?

We have to completely overhaul the system and it has to be done through a comprehensive public-government participation. For a start, we can send our ideas/proposals directly to the PMO. If not anything, I want to tell the government to stop wasting funds. I mean, this was one of the projects cleared in 2013 - "'Design and Development of an affordable Electronic Personal Safety Device' is being implemented by IIT, Delhi for development of personal security device in the form of a wrist watch.” Unless one can taser the bastards using the wristwatch, it’s money down the potty.

Like I said, there is a provision to interact directly with the PMO. I will be doing it – and I’ll keep you posted. Will it count...I don’t know. If not anything, I will feel a little...just a teensy little better about myself: less of a loser – another useless armchair activist with a broadband connection.

Courtesy- http://www.filmibeat.com

Kannada movie industry is undergoing a transformation of sorts – it’s like watching a pupa change into a butterfly. Sure, we still have hackneyed plots and remakes, but even these show glimpses of technical brilliance, not to mention great attention to detail in terms of settings and costumes.

A major reason for this transformation is the surge of young talent – they are brash, bold and passionate about movie-making, unafraid to push the boundaries of commercial cinema. The movie that everyone is talking about this year has to be Ulidavaru Kandanthe – a literal translation given by the makers is ‘As seen by the rest’. Written and directed by Rakshit Shetty, the movie clearly is Shetty’s personal, devoted tribute to Quentin Tarantino and Robert Rodriguez. Here’s a guy who absolutely lives and breathes cinema – it’s not possible for a sane person to take a risk with this kind of script. Borrowing the stylistic elements of Kill Bill and Sin City, and putting it through a Rashomonisque narration, and yet, doing all this with authentic Kannada flavour – it is the work of a wizard.

Shot exclusively in Malpe, the movie deals with the death of a local thug. A reporter follows up on the events that led to his murder – so the movie, like Kill Bill, is narrated in ‘chapters’. We are even treated to our own version of Nancy Sinatra’s Bang Bang - ‘Knock Knock’ J We are introduced a motley crew of sorts – who are all linked to the death in both direct and indirect ways.

Asymmetric and non-linear plot-lines work only if the actors are par excellence – and so is the case in ULidavaru Kandanthe. There is no ‘hero’, given everyone is an important cog in the wheel, taking the story forward. Yet, even in the limited screen presence, you can’t find a single fault in any of the portrayals. But then, great portrayal is just one part of acting - persuading the audience to care about the character is quite another challenge. Indeed why will the audience, constantly fed on a diet of six-pack masculinity and padded femininity, even bother about a bunch of ‘ordinary looking’ folks? There’s a schizophrenic who’s convinced a cawing crow is after him, boding ill omen; there’s the love-lorn boat mechanic, there’s the fisherwoman who has lost everyone in her family...and then there’s this trio of trigger happy small-town bullies. So here’s the wizardry – in both direction and acting – you do get to care, empathise, and think of these characters long after the credits have rolled.

Kishore as the die-hard romantic barely has a two lines of dialogues – but simply towers in the movie. Tara proves why she is indeed the tara of Kannada movie industry. Achyuth Kumar as the crazy man hallucinating about crows is funny and sad at the same time. Rakshit Shetty manages to evoke disgust and laughter. The two young ladies in the movie – Yagna Shetty and Sheetal Shetty – what a refreshing change from false eyelashes and hair extensions. The power-politics of a small community is brought out brilliantly, without being overt, and you realise the sympathy you feel for all these characters is because their lives, like ours, is so inconsequential...so dispensable...it just amounts to nothing.

I simply love the way Rakshit has interwoven local folklore so intrinsic to Udupi region into the plot. Again, this is not done with any overt narration, there’s no “telling the tale” – yet, you are instantly connected to the timelessness of the region. Well for those of you who don’t know, there’s an interesting story of how the Udupi Krishna idol reached Udupi, all the way from Dwaraka. In Dwaraka,the idol was encased in a lump of clay, and no one had any idea about it. It so happened that some merchant sailors loaded this heavy mound of clay in their ship, to be used as ballast. But as they set out in the Arabian Sea, there was a fearsome storm and the ship ran aground near the Malpe coast. Madhvacharya who witnessed the ship’s distress is said to have rescued the sailors. When the sailors wished to reward the Acharya for his kindness, he requested them to give the mound of clay – he knew what it contained. As his disciples carried their heavy load towards Udupi, it split open, and the Krishna idol revealed itself.

Watch out for many more quirks – especially Rakshit’s now famous ‘Cuban kid’ story and the absolutely adorable child nicknamed ‘Democracy’. I have a feeling it’s some obtuse reference to Che J But did I say there’s no hero in the movie? I was wrong. The hero of the movie is the music – it assumes a character of its own throughout the movie. Music director Ajaneesh Loknath is, without a doubt, a great experimenter. It’s unlike any tunes or lyrics I’ve heard in a long, long time. Given the dusty Western outback-type narration, plus the overpowering influence of Tanrantino-Rodriguez duo, Ajaneesh has managed to give an OST that incorporates these influences, while retaining the coastal folk beats.

My biggest regret is that I won’t be able to watch this on the big screen – what a visual treat this movie is! Rakshit serves you with the gathering monsoon clouds, the salty air, the stench of fish, the bubbling rice in a mud pot – and the forlornness that surrounds it all. It makes you ache for a place like this – untouched by time, clinging on to its culture – especially if you are from a city that’s now unrecognizable in spirit and structure.

I’m back, in case you cared J It wasn't a holiday per se – unless you can call jumping into a boxing ring a holiday – but even so, there were many, many, many things that made this extended leave of absence worthwhile. I’m not going to elaborate on the boxing part...but I do want to share the holiday part J

Suffice to say I was really caught up in the thick of things. But when you wake up every day to the view of proud coconut trees slicing up a perfect blue sky, you really begin to laugh at life’s absurdities. I’d found an elixir of sorts - it poured out of life throbbing all around me.

See there was a morning that was particularly taxing. As I stood in my balcony, the filter coffee abetting the acidity, a monkey sauntered by on a neighbour’s terrace. Quite a well-built chap. I suspended my so-called worries and wondered if the simian could get through the grills on the balcony. Meanwhile, the ancestor had hooked a half-grated coconut from someone’s kitchen. He draped himself on a clothesline and had his breakfast. Our attention was soon drawn to a metallic noise. On the narrow street behind my apartment, a weathered old woman sat on the footpath in front of her house. She was pounding limestone and beetlenuts in a brass mortar and pestle, for her paan. My ancestor decided to investigate. It took two seconds for him to swing by and sit on a window sill – a vantage point to observe the old lady.

The old lady reached out to a broom and shook it at the monkey. He yawned and scratched himself. By then his family had helped themselves to some of the beetlenuts. Pandemonium ensued and someone burst a cracker to shoo away the army.

Our apartment is nestled in an old residential area – the sites around us are 60X80 ones or bigger. The houses in this place are at least 50 years old. Over the years, most houses have been extended by the owners – so you have the front portion coated in a tired, weather-beaten white distemper while the extended portions are brighter, even gaudier. Solar water setups gleam on most of the terraces; so do Airtel and Tatasky dishes. The windows are the typical sturdy ones of yesteryears – none of the aluminium business we have now. They are all solid wooden frames, closing on leaf and flower motif grills. And of course, the mandatory Netlon mosquito screens covering all the windows.

I imagine the interior of these houses – cool, dark and the smell of filter coffee lingering the air. You’d probably need to switch on a tube light even during the day. The floor would be highly polished red-oxide or mosaic. The furniture would all be as old as the house – solid teak-wood frames that came all the way from Hunsur. There’d be the puja room with the carved door with lights and temple bells. The kitchen would have Cudappa flooring. But keeping up with technology, most homes would now have wall-mounted LCD TVs. Then there’d also be the bulky landline telephone sets on a corner table covered with a dainty lace cloth. The fridge would have a similar cover, under which all the bills and warranty cards found a home.

This is an area where, I’m sure, the neighbours are closer than blood-relatives – they’ve seen each other’s children grow up, land a job, get married, have kids – the works. Houses are usually known by the name plates set in granite on the compound walls – but I bet they are mostly known by the trees growing within the compound. Most of the sites have a minimum of four coconut trees soaring to reach the sky. Some have jackfruit trees, mango trees...you name it. So one would be from the ‘jackfruit house’ or the ‘Sampige house’. That’s how it used to be back during my childhood. We had the family from the ‘baavi mane’ or the house with the well. We knew their names of course, and we were all very close. But it was always, ‘I’ll go to the baavi mane for a bit’. The women still come out in the morning, to sweep the road in front of their homes, splash water and draw the rangoli. That’s something I’ve not witnessed for more than two decades!

The house that shares a compound wall on my side of the flat is old and huge. Like other houses, the extensions have been built haphazardly – and I suppose some of the portions, self-contained units, have been rented out. From my balcony, I can see their sprawling backyard – what would have once been a flourishing garden area now has some kind of an outhouse. There is the mandatory tulasi katte and the ‘ogiyo kallu’ – the laundry stone. Circular piles of wires and stacks of broken tiles lie here and there. A series of small rooms with blackened chimneys jutting out line the compound wall – they’d be the ‘bisineeru mane’ – or the sauna rooms. Guess they are not functional now. But decades back, these would have huge copper pots sitting on a fire made from wood, charcoal and coconut husks. This would be the place where one would take the traditional castor oil bath.

An old couple live in the outhouse – old but supremely active and feisty. When the old man sneezes, it sounds like an explosion. The old woman’s voice is loud, clear and strong unlike her bent body. Her vocabulary is colourful too – especially when things interfere in her routine. These two are always pottering around – either washing vessels or clothes or drying them. Throughout the day I hear the sneezes, the curses, the slap of wet clothes against the stone, or the clank of vessels being washed – it’s a comforting rhythm.

Then of course there was the baby from a house opposite to our flat. The family lived in zinc-roof outhouse. Every other day there’d be the wail of protest – baby’s oil bath time. His toys were mostly the steel vessels from the kitchen. If he was in a good mood, he’d merely beat the vessels against the footpath. If he was unhappy, the vessels came flying out of the house. His grandmother, a sturdy woman in her fifties, would place him at the doorstep as she went about her chores. He did not like it whenever she went out of sight – so he’d hold out his hands and cry fitfully, as if he were abandoned. So he’d have to be carried on her waist as she dried clothes on everybody’s compound wall.

The watchman’s family in our apartment lives on the premises. They are a young family – Siddu and Rekha have come to Mysore – not in search of a job, but to give a good education to their children. Neither Siddu nor Rekha can read or write much; they want the life of their girls to be different. The two little girls are Keerthana and Sanjana – vivacious and very sharp. They were thrilled that my name rhymes with theirs and had a lot of questions for me – like have I studied in 1^ststandard (grade). I said no, and was promptly asked how come I grew up if I did not even go to 1^st standard. I told them I only grew tall, but I’m still a little girl – that had them laughing for a long time. Sanjana is in 2^nd standard and Keerthana is in 1^st standard. Siddu, being the watchman, has to keep a tab on the contact numbers of various people – from the plumber to the electrician. He also has to keep track of the builder’s materials. He once showed his ‘diary’ – a single-ruled exercise book. All the information is scrawled in a child’s hand – he said that since he can’t write, whenever he has to make an entry, one of the kids do it for him. He is incredibly proud of his girls – and that was so heart-warming.

The girls go to a nearby government school, and they look forward to it every day. At 7 every morning, along with the koels feasting on mango buds and the parrots flying to wherever they go, the twitter of these two kids start. School is a fun place – they get to meet their friends and more importantly, they get good, nutritious lunch. Things are hard for Rekha and Siddu – but they’ve never allowed that to affect the upbringing of the kids. They have fun with them – even if it is something simple as giving the girls a bath. The girls are always neatly turned out – in bright frocks and bright smiles. In the next twenty years or so, I don’t know where Sanjana and Keerthana will be. But they will be more empowered than their mother and father – simply because they’ll be educated. And that’s what we see – incremental changes, but changes nonetheless. Sanjana’s kids will lead a better life than Sanjana herself – and so on.

Before I'd know it, the day would end – in a spectacular Indian summer sunset. As darkness fell, and streetlights illuminated the outlines of the coconut trees and Syntex tanks, darkened doorways pulsed with the light from TV screens. There’d be the odd cooker whistle, and the sounds of washing up after dinner. A cough, a telephone conversation, a late night argument – it would all die down by eleven. Then, invariably, someone would switch on the FM radio on their mobile phone. Someone who probably slept on one of the dark terraces to beat the heat. As Big FM played old Kannada numbers, the cicadas would start their incessant thrum in accompaniment to a Dr Raj or a PBS song. And I wouldn't know when I’d drifted off. If that’s not a holiday...what is?

Drifter

Fascination - Anantha Padmanabhaswamy Temple

© Sumana Khan - 2014

The Conjuring

The Spilled Potion - Magical Mayhem!

© Sumana Khan - 2014

India In My Backpack

Curse Of The Mango Tree

Happy Birthday Amma!

Pilgrimage

The Art Of Storytelling

Flower Power

Are You Bookalicious?

Sleazebook

The Bull Run

The Write List

The Downward Spiral

Birth - Movie Review

Decoding A Biker

Where Do You Go To My Lovely?

Ulidavaru Kandanthe

Shangri-La