Alvibest Issue 1 Vol 2 (nov 2005)

Editor’s Page I believe that the finest of the human race is distilled in its children. The sheer pleasure that young ones bring is amazing in its recurrence and simplicity. Their happiness is infectious and revelatory. Very simple things excite them & were you to let your emotions ride on theirs, like pollen on a dizzy bee, you would find the least effort expended in being happy – a yellow balloon, candy puff, a clown, a school of pigeons through which you can run with arms spread out, a spinning shriek called a merry-go-round ride, a mildly crushing bear hug and finally a walk into the sunset, atop a dear someone’s shoulders. Simple wants translate into peels of laughter and grand tales, spun from the merry air dotted with wide-mouthed kids, their face resting on their palms. Their innocent questions (like in the poem A Child Asks…) and statements make me realise how far from a blissful life I am. The simple joys that I earnestly yearn are easily found in the company of these tiny tots for they are the untainted source of what is truly fine. Recently, a Sunday caught me playing with a girl of four. I was initially reluctant, as I was engrossed in writing an article for this issue! But large, moist eyes framed in a cute pig-tailed cherubic face can destroy the most sternly resolved mind! I enjoyed my morning and noon with her & I was reeling out story after story about what an elephant (which was visiting a nearby temple) was saying (while it kept lifting its trunk) and how it misses its family, how helicopters fly, how mosquitoes are dangerous dragons who will grow big and eat up naughty kids. We were playing all sorts of games & running around the house. I realised how easily I got tired, but happiness unlocks energy which is not available otherwise. After a while I decided to put her to sleep. Whether she needed it or not, I definitely did. While telling her another story & insisting she close her eyes and try to sleep, she smiled slowly. I asked – what happened? – and she replied, “Will you marry me?” I was taken aback for a second but feigned a quick recovery. I replied, “Sure, why not? But what do you plan to do after getting married?” And she gave me a quizzical look with a smile and said, “You can tell me stories and play with me and then we will eat mummoo (kid-talk for food) &…&…& you can tell me a story and put me to sleep.” I was so moved that I gave her a quick hug and kissed her on her button nose. On serious reflection, what more do I need? A good involved conversation, lots of fun & excitement, time shared with dear ones and finally getting to sleep with a smile! I met her after several months and after some time together I asked her, “So, when are we getting married?” She looked at me with a puzzled expression. I continued, “Remember? You asked me to marry you?” She lowered her gaze and smiled shyly. “No, I have to go to school first & … you are very old for me.” I burst out laughing & realised that she was growing up, and would soon stop being a child. This issue of Alvibest is mostly dedicated to children, growth and innocence. I enjoy it when my colleague, in the office, calls me over for a quick tea so that she can tell me her son’s recent antics. A blogger sent me a picture of her son with his head covered with a bucket. “Can things get cuter than this?” she asked me. My sister fires a volley of pictures of her son in cute poses. My friend insists on showing me pictures of her daughter in every new dress she gets (from every angle!). It seems that the happiest pieces of life have a child associated with them; maybe it’s the child in that person. My mother flips through old albums and sighs. She turns around and tells me, “You were so cute as a child”, and, straightening herself, she continues, “Now look at you. Sheesh!” 14th of Nov. is Children’s Day in India. It marks Jawaharlal Nehru’s birthday. He was very fond of children. Back in school we’d get toffees and a pat on our head; kept us happy then and the memories keep me happy now. In this issue, we introduce a few columns, including one which provides us with translation of a renowned work in Tamil literature and a column about a particular writer/artist. The poem Autumn Leaves comes with an interesting metre of aaBcc, which I have never seen before and there are a few nonfiction pieces which should serve as joyous reading. Raju shares with us his experience of reading the very interesting Through The Looking Glass. An Ephemeral Life reveals the ways of men even in the times of great distress and a child’s waning innocence. The article about Eliminating Competition In The Formative Years might provide some insight to parents as well as teachers. Joan C Urquhart’s monoprint is a very interesting art work which we have included in this issue. Included at the end are submission guidelines. We would be very interested in reading your work and including them. Readers, who are interested in contributing time and effort in reviewing submissions, working on the design (we thank all the little ones, esp. Emma, who helped in the making of this issue’s cover design) and layout of the magazine as well as the logistics, are welcome to write to [email protected]. Suggestions and ideas are welcome at [email protected]. We hope you enjoy this experience and join us on this journey. Happy reading.

THANK YOU!

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A “CHILD” ASKS…

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WHEN WE DANCED...

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AN EPHEMERAL WORLD

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WRITER OF THE ISSUE: SHELDON ALLAN “SHEL” SILVERSTEIN

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WHISPERS IN THE CLOUDS

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TRANSLATION: GEMS OF TAMIL LITERATURE

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TRYING TO WRITE NONFICTION

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OMBRALITÀ / SHADOWINESS

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ELIMINATING COMPETITION IN THE FORMATIVE YEARS

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WHO’S LOVE?

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THROUGH THE LOOKING GLASS BY LEWIS CARROLL

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CONFESSIONS OF A BAD MOTHER

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AUTUMN LEAVES

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ART OF WRITING: TELLING VERSUS SHOWING

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POINT-COUNTERPOINT

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SUBMISSION GUIDELINES

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Artwork Thank You!

Poetry A “Child” Asks…

Aditya

I think I'll grow, When I get to know, What the answer is, To the questions I ask.

They are but five; Not wise not high. And counting is easy, From thumb to pinky.

Why do I study planets, Of world so far ‘n comets? Do you know that planetarium, Was a playground, blithesome?

Why need dollars ‘n sterling? Isn't it all confusing? When, what they need is the same, In Bombay or in Brisbane.

Why look up a telescope? Or deep down a microscope? When we miss what is straight ahead, Cottony blue o'er a green bed.

Why do we have marriages? And then.... why divorces? No laws – but I love my mommy. No laws – and my mommy loves me.

Why longer life, do we need? Are they better days we'll meet? More ice-cream? Or a week with five Sundays? What good, if it’s the same, ending anyways?

Let me ask one more Please don't say no! If I should grow, then why Follow, and not probe ‘n pry?

Nonfiction When We Danced...

Anand Krishnaswamy

Avuncular pleasures are few but, aah! such pleasure be they, that any more and hedonism would be redefined. Recently my sister and her four-month old son visited us and then stayed with us for a few months. Amongst the many things we – my nephew and I – did, there is this one ritual which grew to be very dear to me. Before I get into that, I would need to detail certain things which facilitated the birth of this activity!

With all the characters set, and it is a fine feeling of a theatre director that I have now, we shall now study the ritual. I really wouldn’t want to call it that (and I have no clue what my nephew wants to call it) but for the lack of a better word. So ritual it shall be. We designed various rituals and regularly changed their forms to introduce variety for him, but this one was serendipitous.

My mother likes to get all her work – prayers, cooking, cleaning, chores, etc. – done in the morning. No, she doesn’t have her dinner then, but a significant portion of her work gets completed by 11:00 a.m. And while she says her prayers she will not touch certain “things”, which includes babies.

It all began one deceptively common day with his cries, gurgles, and finally a bear hug which thrilled him more than the noisiest toys in his kitty. My sister dreamily handed him over to me. I took him out asking him about the weather and what he thought about the recent evacuation initiative in the Gaza Strip. He stuck his tongue out for both. We really need news reporters like our man here. I walked him up and down the length of our house discussing a variety of things and pausing to obtain his expert expression on them. Soon he got bored, which I believe has little to with me or my conversations but with his sense of time; matters of the world can occupy only thirty minutes of his morning.

My nephew, for reasons unknown, is a lot like me in his schedule. He rises early, goes to bed early (well, if you skip the occasional going-to-bed game of his), must have his food on time and burps exactly 48 seconds after his last mouthful. He is good, I must say, for one tends to morph flaws into benign goodness with the able hands of sophistry.

I decided to strap him to the car-seat, which is basically a basket-like contraption to house a baby, and, when babies are unavailable, can contain washed socks and sundry. He demanded some entertainment. Rattles and soft toys and spinning tops and musical ones were brought out one after another and were operated, sometimes, simultaneously. He

My sister loves to sleep, so much that we were worried that she might go into labour while she was asleep. She stays awake till way after I have fallen asleep and stays asleep for many hours following my diurnal rise. We haven’t noted a single day which serves as an exception.

sulked at the little bouncing toy, which repeated its trick of the past few days and then looked up at me. I took him off his basket and he was excited about what was due in the next few minutes of which I surely had no clue. I walked him up and down the house again, until I reached the audio-visuals room, which is nothing more than the room, which houses all appliances that make usually pleasant controllable noises. With him wriggling on one arm, I picked the DVD with the widest choice of songs and pushed it into the player. Out came a “Long, long time ago, I can still remember” in Don McLean’s voice! Our man straightened his neck and – thank god – stopped squirming. He looked all around him and then again at my mouth. I kept it pursed with a “guess-what” smile. He looked up into my eyes with his head still unsteady on a rock-n-roll neck. When the guitars picked pace, our man smiled. Hmmm. This was interesting. Then I turned him to face the player with all its coloured bands flaring up and falling to the beat. When I turned around, he quickly spun on a still supple axis and kept looking at the rainbow band singing in a man’s voice with some nice guitar tracks. I slowly started swaying him to the music and he shrieked with joy. It was such a delightful reaction from him in the morning. His laughter and such shrieks are pretty much the only things that make the mundane task of babysitting a shade better. He loved it when I sang the “Bye, bye, Miss American Pie” blowing some air in his hair on the “bye” and “pie”. Slowly the dancing got a little bit more like Volkstanz and he was delighted when I spun him around my no-longer-supple axis! His shrieks transformed into “Encore” and he kept pumping his fists!! The song changed to “Summer of 69” and the young rocker was busy head banging – well, not really, but kept moving himself back and forth by pushing against my chest. To a more mellow “Annie’s song” and “When you say nothing at all” he

glided well on the “floor” and enjoyed the slow dance. I was tired sooner than the 4th or 5th song started and I sat on the cane hammock. I made him sit on my lap with his back well cushioned on my stomach. We began swinging to the Tamil number “Thoda Thoda malarnthathenna” from the movie Indira. Soon he was sleeping like, well, a baby. This was just the first day and I happily shared this with my sister who was excited to know that her son had an ear for music. My mom had watched some portions of the various dances we had performed in the room and was happy without much reason! My sister started envisioning the days when he would learn music and croon like Kishore Kumar and funny scenes of him serenading to women, who for all practical purposes weren’t born at that point of time. He was busy sitting in his basket making spit bubbles. The next day was to herald similar fare until he grabbed hold of my jaw with both his hands. I rubbed a really fast swivelling nose against his and after his laughter subsided he held on to my jaw. I looked at him through narrowed eyes and then let a smile grow with the beat of “Pudhu Vellai Mazhai” from Roja. I shut the door and slowly started humming the tune to him. I placed his head against my chest so that he could feel the vibrations. Humming turned to singing and singing turned into a full song with instrumental interludes mouthed to something quite distant from the real note of the instrument. We swayed together and I held him aloft while trying to impress upon him the beauty of some lyrics. Then we were back in the cane basket, the one that held adults and now, held the bond that had grown between us, and swung around till he fell asleep. The following days let him hear other songs and now he could clearly specify which songs he liked; he basically reached out to the

music system. If he didn’t like a song, he would look vacantly at me and slowly frown. I would change the song. His all time favourites were “American Pie”, “Annie’s song”, “Bantureethi Kolu”, “Vaseegara”, “Hungama hai kyoon barpa” and some others, which I have forgotten. Soon he started making sounds to match what he heard. It was difficult to believe that a child so young would do that. He would try to sing, or so it appeared. We would put him in his basket and then place him in front of the TV. In the mornings, some channels broadcast Carnatic music and we would let that play to him. He would listen with rapt

attention and then draw in his breath. He would let it out with what seemed like a cry but turned out to be an accompaniment to the piece being played on TV. I even recorded a few of his recitals. Very interesting. After he left, I haven’t played that disc again. Nothing sentimental, but merely didn’t find enough drive to play it. Maybe I needed someone to dance with me. Maybe I needed him around. Those were fun days when he danced like a baby possessed by the most cherubic and frivolous devils, though I am sure he would deny all of this once he grows up; like how I deny that the reasons aren’t sentimental!

Fiction An Ephemeral World

Anand Krishnaswamy Morning came as moist slaps on his buttocks. He woke up with a start and through the threads of early morning slime in his eyes he searched the sea for signs. He stared at the expanse of undulating gray. Over the past few days he looked at the sea as one does a wife caught red-handed in adultery. He had always turned his gaze on the waves as a farmer might look at his patch of earth; she was his playground, his tilling ground and now she was a graveyard but not as dead as one. Another lusty tongue of brine reached under his towel to lick him. With a recently learned panic he moved back, using his hands to drag him away from the cool infinity that had devoured most of his village and all of his respect for Her; where there is fear, respect is contrived. His wife woke up to the hasty rustling of his retreat and looked around while calling out, “Hari... Hari... kanna Hari...”. Muthu crawled over to her and turned her frightened face towards his. She continued, “Hari’s appa, where is Hari? Is he back? He must be hungry.” “Shush dear, shush”, he replied and hugged her. He rubbed her arms with his sandcovered palms, a roughness unlike what fate had dealt them with the smoothness of water. When she stopped shaking he consoled her, “Lalli, Hari is happy and peaceful.” She looked up at him wanting to question peace in drowning but her tears distorted her face and choked her. She continued sobbing and beat her head on his chest. He looked skyward hoping that the tears wouldn’t rise

but eddy back into his throat. He searched every cloud for something that resembled chubby cheeks and a toothy smile, maybe a cloud that moved as fast as Hari used to between the coconut palms. He looked out into the sea and hoped that at least the sea would be kind enough to assure them that Hari was fine, but she kept shining in the sunlight and throwing up froth. He turned to look at Renu who was lying in the cool shade of a young palm tree. Dancing coins of sunlight on her delicate ten-year-old feet seemed to tickle her in her sleep and made her giggle. Lalitha leaned over Muthu’s shoulder to look at their daughter laughing in her sleep. They had woken to many days with those jingling giggles and he was glad that some things were still left untouched by the recent calamity. His wife wiped her tears on the edge of her saree and walked over to Renu. Suddenly she threw sand on her and started beating her on her back and head. “Laugh, will you? Tell me. Laugh, will you?” Renu woke up crying and shouting with surprise at being woken up thus. “Amma, please don’t. Amma, stop it, please. Amma, help me”, Renu cried, trying to escape her mother’s blows. Muthu winced at hearing her instinctively call out to her mother to save her from her mother’s beating! “Why didn’t you die? What use are you? Laughing like a jackal. Laugh, will you?” “Amma, please ma.”

“You should have died. You should have drowned instead of Hari, you wretched burden.” “Amma please don’t hit me. Ayyo”, Renu shrieked and all the birds flew off the nearby trees. Finally, Muthu decided to intervene. “Enough Lalli. Now, go get some wood. I said enough”, and he threw her away from his daughter. Renu rushed to hug her father trying to hide behind him while carefully watching her mother’s next move. Lalitha stared at him and then at her daughter before she spat on the ground and left to pick the firewood from the damp groves on the other side of the road. Renu was still sobbing, her frail body beating involuntarily against Muthu’s ribs. When she saw her mother cross the road she said, “Appa, I won’t be a burden. I will help. Please, don’t pray that I should drown. I was only dreaming of how you and Hari used to tickle me and...”, she started sobbing. Muthu pulled her closer and wondered whether things would be normal again. He ran his hand through her hair. He noticed that the back of her dress was mostly ripped apart. She would have to manage with this till the hut was ready and some utensils were purchased. It was good that she wasn’t a woman yet. He slowly pushed her away and asked her to go back to sleep. She shook her head and sat leaning against the palm tree. Muthu stood up to explore the beach around him. Many people were sleeping in the open. Those who had muscle and some money managed to get a place in the tents that the people from the city were putting up. He had to go there today as one of the officers had promised him one for his family. He had to get some food too. The best option was to get firewood before others did. If all the firewood was with him then someone would bring their food over to cook and he could barter some wood for a handful of rice or some fish. He had to be careful too and not deny Babu’s men the firewood. Rumour had

it that Krishna, who was also bartering firewood, had not met with an accident on the day after he refused Babu’s men some firewood. It was difficult to trust anyone nowadays. Muthu collected the dried palm mats that he had made for his family and rolled it securely. He had to place it on top of a tree such that no one would notice it. He placed it high up and asked Renu to keep watch. Dry palm leaves were a scarcity too. If Renu spotted someone climbing the tree, all she had to do was shout and Muthu had enough time to rush over and grab the thief. From his perch he saw Renu looking up and he was quickly aware of his minimal clothing. She will become a woman soon, he thought to himself and descended. “You stay here and keep an eye on the mat. If you see someone even look up at it, call out to me. Ok?” “I will fight him and scare him away.” Muthu smacked her on her head and said, “Just call out to me.” From within the folds of his towel he brought out his partly smoked beedi (a thin, country cigarette) and licked an end of it. He needed to smoke but didn’t want to exhaust this one. Maybe he could ask some of the city people who came in those vans for a beedi. After all they were here to help them. While walking towards the water for his morning ablutions, Muthu met Nelson. Muthu and Nelson nodded at each other and were about to cross ways when Nelson stopped and asked, “Muthu, how is Hari’s mother today?” It was common custom to assume that tragedy only hits the womenfolk. “She is better but without the food and a girl to bring up, it is difficult.” They paused looking out towards the sea. “Maybe you and your family could go to the camp they set up yesterday near the church. I know Father Pereira to be a kind man and he would welcome your family.” He paused a little before continuing.

“They also give some free food twice a day.” “Really? Is there enough for the three of us? When do they feed us? No money at all?” Nelson nodded and shook his head appropriately. “Will they take our women away?” “Muthu, are you mad? This camp is with the church. All the good Christians from the city have come to help us. Why would they do something like that? Father Pereira is a nice man. He is god fearing and knows the true message of the god.” Muthu had no time for religion nor was he interested in the character of people as long as he got to eat something. Even if they asked him to clean the toilets near the church he was willing to do so. He turned around and was about to go when he stopped and turned back to Nelson who had already squatted near the water front. “Nelson, you haven’t told others have you?” “Umm. No. They set up the camps only yesterday.” “Thanks. No need to tell others. We are friends and have always gone out fishing together, so you told me. Ok? No need to tell others. How is Anjalai’s mother?” Nelson nodded his head and Muthu, after an uncomfortable moment, turned around and ran towards where his daughter was. “Renu, go wipe your face. Let’s go and get amma and leave for the church.” “What happened, appa?” Muthu was already climbing the tree to retrieve his mat. He threw a twig and a few leaves that he caught in his fist at Renu. “You cur, do you have to ask so many questions? We are going to the church because they are giving us food.” He jumped from the tree with the mat. He scowled as he landed and got up with a limp and grabbed Renu’s hand as they headed in the direction in which Lalitha had gone. “Free? They are giving us free food?” “Yes, now keep running.” Renu suddenly stopped in her tracks and Muthu ran a few steps before realising that.

“What is it you wretched girl? Why can’t you hurry?” “You are going to sell me off to someone there? Why would someone give free food? I know, you and amma are going to sell me off. Please appa, don’t do that. I won’t be a burden. I won’t complain for food”, Renu pleaded and took a step backwards. Muthu pulled in a deep breath and shook his head. “I will never let you go. You are my child. Amma only spoke in anger in the morning. She misses Hari and she is confused. All three of us stay together unless the sea swells again”, he said and looked towards the sea. Renu turned around and looked at the sea as if worried that the sea would return to correct its mistake of taking the wrong child. She walked a few steps towards her father without taking her eyes off the sea and then she turned around and stopped. “Truth?” “Truth” Renu ran towards her father and then they both started running towards the groves. They found Lalitha collecting some wood and tying them together with strands torn from her saree. “Lalli, let’s go. Leave the wood here.” She looked up startled at the mat and the girl barely able to run apace with her father. “Where do you want to go?” “Near the church. They are giving free food.” “What? Why would they do that?” Muthu went and grabbed her hand and then let it go. He bent down to untie the wood and took the strands together and used them to tie his mat. “Some people have come from the city and have set up a new camp near the church. They are offering food to everyone out there. We need to rush before the supply is over and before they change their mind.” He grabbed her hand and pulled her along. He made sure that mother and daughter were on either side of him. Renu had already been careful about that.

They ran towards the church and reached there only to notice that many people from the village had already queued up before them. He looked around and felt the bile rise. “Damn greedy fellows. They have reached here before us. Lalli, you try to edge nearer to the supplies and tell them all kinds of woman’s problems that you are facing. I will go through the other queue. Renu, come with me.” Lalitha ran half the distance and then slowed down to a walk as if she were suffering from something that makes one limp and bend over. Muthu watched her performance and wondered “How many times has she done these things with me?” but he realised that now wasn’t the time to worry about such extrapolations. He practically dragged Renu down the mud path and reached the line outside one of the tents. He tried to join ahead in the queue but people shouted at him and pushed him back. He tried to fight back, but there were too many people. He stood quietly in the queue. Ahead of him was the grand old man amongst fishermen, Nachchu. Muthu gave him a slight bow and stood behind him. Nachchu had become an outcaste amongst the fisher folk. He had not lived up to the tradition of passing on tales of the seas and other pieces of wisdom. He should have known how to read the skies and the waves and predict the swell of the tide. Everyone thought he had not served his role. Nachchu turned around to look at Muthu, but Muthu looked away. Nachchu waited long enough for Muthu to look at him but returned to facing the head ahead of him. Muthu scowled at the back of Nachchu’s head. “You too think I should be dead, Muthu?” Muthu was taken aback and managed to mutter something. “Unnh? I didn’t hear. You too want me dead, right?” Nachchu asked again now turning around and facing Muthu. Muthu looked him straight in his eyes and then saw the queue move before returning to Nachchu’s unwavering gaze.

“What is the point growing so old and not being of any use, ayya?” “I wanted to be and I still want to be, but that sea can never always be understood. In my 70 years around here I have never seen her behave like that. My father never told me stories of her swelling so destructively. How can I know everything?” Muthu softened and placed an arm on his shoulder. “At least you could have saved some children and not hurried to save your life”, said the person who was standing ahead of Nachchu. Muthu and Nachchu stared at him. “What else do you expect me to say? Anil was just ten feet away from you and you could have swam up to him and saved him. But you wanted to save your dirty old life.” Muthu removed his hand from Nachchu’s shoulder. Nachchu turned around to look at Muthu. “Muthu?” Nachchu looked into Muthu’s eyes before continuing, “Had I swam then we both would have died. There was no way I could save anybody. The best way was not to come in their way.” Muthu looked away and said, “You could have tried, ayya.” Nachchu kept looking into Muthu’s eyes hoping to see something human in them. “Ok. Then I will not come in your way too.” Nachchu left the queue and walked away. Muthu wanted to call out to him and ask him to forget things but before he could do that the man standing in front of him said, “Serves that old wastage right” and other people around him murmured their assent. Muthu realised that they might be right and let Nachchu walk away. The man in front of him spat on the mud and turned to Muthu. “When are you getting converted?” “What?” asked Muthu and realised that Renu was not with him. He stretched on his toes looking around and found her nowhere. “They are going to convert you, right? I was asking you when your ceremony is.” “Convert? Convert me to what?”

“Christianity? Why do you think they set up this camp here? They have come to spread the message of their god and they...” “But I don’t want to convert.” “Shush, don’t tell them that before they give you the food. And how does it matter whether you are Hindu or Christian? You need food and a hut. Karthik mama in the temple is not giving you any so you might as well convert to Christianity or anything.” “What do they do in a conversion?” “I don’t know. I told them I would get converted on Sunday. Seems a good day for them. You can tell them the same thing.” “But Nelson told me...” “Oh! Nelson was the one who sent you here?” he smiled. “He has sent a lot of people out here and such hunters are promised food and a hut in exchange. He seems to be doing a good job.” “Nelson didn’t tell anyone else. Only me.” “How do you think so many people got here? Nelson and other ...”, he looked around before he decided not to use the word which swayed treacherously on the tip of his tongue and said, “other Christians have been sent out to bring in the sheep. But how does it matter? We are being fed.” “But won’t the goddess be angry that you did this?” “The goddess can feel anything. She didn’t protect my son nor is she giving me any food” he paused before continuing, “No god exists. Everyone, even these people from the city” he paused to move ahead with the queue, “these sweet talking people are all here for a goal. Do you think they would care if we tell them that we don’t want to convert? They would simply stop feeding us and give some silly reasoning for that. Trust me. Play along and stay alive.” Muthu was silent. Would Lalli agree to this? Where was she? Where is Renu? Was this man speaking the truth? Why did Nelson lie to him? He was hesitating wasn’t he? Why do they want to convert us? What else would we have to do? Will they take our women away?

He kept mulling over these and more while waiting his turn. He prepared himself for any kind of question that they might have to ask. When the man ahead of him started collecting the food parcels they asked him, “So when are you planning to move closer to the Holy God and live in his grace and kindness?” “What?” They lowered their voice, “When are you going to church for the ceremony?” “Oh! That. This Sunday.” They were not convinced, but put on a smile and said, “Jesus is great and kind. He will rid you of all your worries and pains and give you a pleasant life. Only if you realise the truth and follow him.” He smiled at them and nodded his head before turning to leave. He looked at Muthu and said, “Remember what I said.” He left the place hiding the parcels under his shirt. “Dear Child, you seem to be troubled and have lost a lot. Was it your child? Your wife? I am sure your hut doesn’t stand anymore. We are all sorry for you.” Muthu nodded his head and couldn’t take his eyes off the curd-rice bowls and fish curry. “Jesus hears you and wants to make you feel better. He will take care of whomsoever you have lost. You must believe in Jesus and follow his way.” “Yes, I will.” Lalitha arrived just then. “Hari’s appa they say they are going to make us Christians. What is all this?” “Shush, Lalli.” He smiled at the nuns behind the counter. “They are nice people and their god... our god is here to help us.” “But what about our goddess? No, we can’t sin like this.” The nuns behind the counter stiffened. “You must speak to our Father Pereira and discuss this with him. You are keeping others away from the gift of god.” And she raised her eyebrows towards the ever growing queue behind them. “No, no. My wife is not in her senses. She has lost her son and is hysterical. We are

sure that we want to convert. Please don’t listen to her.” The nuns gave him a smug grin and covered the large bowls of food. “I think you should talk to Father Pereira first. He will help you find your true spirit and guide you towards the grace of god.” Muthu realised that all was lost. He glared at his wife who still didn’t understand how her husband could betray their goddess. He smacked her on her head and left the line. Suddenly, he turned around, dropped his mat, ran towards the counter and scooped large quantities of curd-rice in his hands and ran away with his wife following him. People shouted from all directions but none left the queue. The policemen standing nearby couldn’t break the queue quick enough to chase them. When Muthu reached a safe place he sat down under a tree. He offered Lalitha one handful of rice and started eating from the other hand. “What about Renu?” Muthu then realised that his daughter was missing for a long time. “Keep some for her in your saree and don’t let anyone see it or even smell it.” He started scraping the rice, which stuck to his chest while on the run and licked them off his fingers. “It has been a long time since we had proper food.” Lalitha was busy gulping down her share. Muthu suddenly started hitting her and shouted at her. “Who asked you to open your mouth? Do you think I wanted to convert? We could have at least taken the food and then left the place. We need not have returned on Sunday for the conversion. You wretched woman. You are the singular reason for all my losses and misery.” He started kicking her and shouting profanities. She tried to cover herself but continued eating and even picked the morsels that fell on the dry leaves. Muthu realised her dismal state and stopped hitting

her but kept throwing insults at her and her character and her entire family. Once they were done, Lalitha burped and Muthu stared at her. They suddenly burst out laughing and hugged each other while laughing. The trees were good protection from the road and many a passerby. He reached under her saree for what he had missed over the past few days and she too thrust her stomach towards him. Suddenly they heard voices nearby and broke away from each other. Someone was shouting that some TV van had come and people were running in a particular direction. Muthu rose to notice a dish antenna far down near the camp. “Let us go from the other side. Maybe they have some clothes to give us” Lalitha straightened her saree and got up. They walked around the camp to the other side They managed to take the long route to the site where they saw a van parked with the dish on top. There were few people holding, what Muthu now recognised as, cameras. Some fancy looking men and women were talking into microphones facing these cameras. “How do they just talk without anyone talking to them?” Lalitha asked. “I am told they are paid for that. Very rich people they are. They have big cars and bungalows in the city.” “Just for talking? I am sure that Vasanthi would do well in this business, and her husband without her.” They rushed to the spot and kept walking between those handsome people. Some of Muthu’s friends were crowding around the ladies hoping to be caught on camera. “This will go on TV, amma?” one of them asked the reporter. “Cut. Cut it out. Maya, we need to roll again”, shouted the cameraman. “Why don’t you guys keep these filthy men away? I will not do a retake again. This will be the last time”, shouted the lady who was called Maya.

“Sweetheart, you will do it again and again till we get it right.” The men were shooed away and some of the security was called in to keep them away. One security man asked the cameraman, “Will you let me come on camera? I will keep them away. No money, just 2 minutes.” The cameraman looked at the lady he called Maya, who shrugged. “Fine, but you will have to say whatever we ask you to.” They kept shooting something over and over again. Muthu asked one of the men who was shooed away, “Are they giving out clothes?” “Not these people. These people are from the TV. Pastime.” Muthu was disappointed and turned to Lalitha. “Let us go back behind those trees”, she said with her eyes on the ground. “No. Not now. Where is Renu?” They looked around and started calling out to her name. They lowered their voice as they neared the camp lest they get caught. One fellow fisherman walked past them and asked them what they were looking for. Muthu told him. “Your daughter? I think she is there with the TV people.” Muthu was surprised. What would Renu have to do with them? They walked back to the vans and looked over shoulders to check within every small circle. They finally spotted her sitting on a rock with a strange tattered doll in her hands. They walked closer to that crowd. “Why doesn’t someone explain to this brat in her language?” shrieked the reporter. Renu immediately jumped to her feet and told the cameraman, “Ayya, I am sorry. Did I do something wrong? Should I be crying more? Is the dress not torn enough?” The cameraman got down on his haunches and held Renu by her shoulders. “See, kid you need to play with your doll. When I wave my hand you should throw it down. Then this nice auntie will come to you

and ask you what happened. And then you have to tell her the following 3 lines and cry simultaneously. Don’t cry too much and act natural. Say these lines with me: What do I do?...” “What do I do?” Renu repeated. “Where do I go? ...” “Where do I go?” “My parents were washed away in the sea and I have no one in this world for me. Go on, say it.” “What do I do”, she sniffed and continued, “Where do I go? My parents washed away the sea...” “No, damn it. It is were washed away in the sea.” “Haan. My parents were washed away in the sea and I have no one in this world for me” and she burst out crying. Lalitha began crying and started to go over to tell Renu that they were alive but someone pushed her back and asked her to shut up. Renu immediately stopped crying and smiled at the cameraman. “Was that correct?” “Good girl. Now go and sit there and wait for me to wave my hands. Ok?” “Ok”, she said and went and sat on the rock. Muthu and Lalitha looked at each other with confusion. “We are rolling now and 1 and 2 and go.” “This is the fate of this village after 6 days of the tsunami striking their shore. Families are broken and people still comb the beach to find loved ones. While the government and the opposition are busy blaming each other, these people lie in wait for relief – relief from such a life.” The cameraman waved at Renu and Renu stood up and threw the doll to the ground. “This girl is one of the survivors and has her own tale to tell”, said the reporter and walked over to Renu. In broken Tamil she asked Renu, “What happened little girl? Where are your parents?” “What do I do?” Renu sniffed and rubbed her eyes. “Where do I go?” she asked the reporter and held on to her hands. “My parents were washed away in the sea and I

have no one in this world for me”, she said and she burst out crying. The reporter patted Renu’s head and disengaged herself. “This is the sad story of over a thousand children along this coast. When will their problems be solved? Only time will tell. This is Shobhana Rajkumar Mulchandani reporting for WhatNext? Channel.” “And….Got it. Great job. Wonderful.” Everyone started clapping and the reporter was finally smiling. Someone near Muthu spoke to his neighbour, “Smart kid. She sure knows how to make money. For all you know, she might never have had parents in the first place. Women and girls can always survive with their tears and body.” Muthu lunged at him and started hitting him. Lalitha tried to stop him and other people joined in the fight too. The policemen rushed with their whistles and started pulling the men apart. “He is a mad man. He simply attacked me.” The policeman looked at Muthu and asked, “Aren’t you the man who ran away with the food?” Before Muthu could reply, the policemen started beating him up and Lalitha shrieked and shouted and finally the men stopped. “That will teach you right. Trying to create problems, are you?” Renu heard the confusion but wasn’t aware of her parents’ presence. She walked up to the cameraman. “Please give me my money” “What? Oh! Yes. Here keep this.” “But you said 100 this is only 20.” “Cheeky girl, you know the difference? Have you ever seen a hundred?” Renu had not but was shrewd enough to nod her head. “I only have 50 with me. Here take it. Hey! Return my 20... hey! Get that girl.” But Renu was already running between the men who were more interested in the thrashing that Muthu was getting.

When Muthu managed to get up he asked Lalitha, “Where is that wretched girl?” Lalitha looked around to find Renu missing. “I don’t know. She is not here.” They stumbled over to the cameraman and asked him about Renu. “That urchin ran away with my 70 rupees. This village is full of thieves. You people deserved that tsunami.” Lalitha stared at him and then spat on him before helping Muthu walk away. They went and sat beneath a nearby tree and she started wiping the blood off his cheeks. “That girl has become a whore”, he said. “Hari’s appa, I told you she was a burden. Now let her take care of herself.” “Give me that curd rice.” Lalitha unwrapped the parcel she had made for Renu and both of them sat to eat it. “Can you believe it? She killed us while we were alive. What kind of a child would do that?” he asked between mouthfuls. Lalitha continued to eat her food. The sun began to set beyond the dark greens of coconut palms. Muthu realised that there was very little chance of his getting a new boat to go fishing or even convincing someone to hire him. They sat for a long time without speaking and in mute coordination rose to return to their bed on the sands. “We have lost our mat”, he said. “I saw a thatch roof lying unclaimed in the groves” “I doubt whether it would be available now.” “Let’s pass through the groves. If it is not there we will go make ourselves one” she said and then paused. “Shall we stop at the goddess’s temple before going home?” Muthu started walking without replying to her. The goddess hadn’t saved his son and had also left him bereft of good food from the camp. When they reached the temple they saw a large tent erected at the side of the temple. “I told you. Aatha would surely protect us and our family” Lalitha said and started running towards the temple.

Muthu followed her in an embarrassed run. He was ashamed to look inside the sanctum sanctorum but bowed his head at the altar. They quickly rushed to the tent to ensure they get their food before it was exhausted. They both stood in the queue and awaited their turn. “See? I told you. We needn’t change our religion. Aatha will take care of us.” Muthu nodded his head and kept looking at the earth near his feet. How could I be so silly and forget the goddess? Why did I go to that camp? I should have come here in the first place and maybe found some work too? Tomorrow I shall return here. “Muthu? You are Muthu, right?” Muthu looked up at Babu. In sheer fright and respect Muthu undid the little cloth that he tied around his head and held it in his hands. “I thought you were basically collecting firewood and bartering it for food. I heard that you refused to give my men some wood.” “Ayya, I would never do that. Anytime your men wanted something, I gave it to them. This is my word.” One of his men walked over and whispered in Babu’s ear. “Oh! It wasn’t you. Good. We don’t want unnecessary qualms, right?” Muthu nodded his head vigourously. “Who is this? Your wife?” he asked and looked at her from head to toe. Muthu looked at Lalitha and then at his feet but said nothing. “Hmmm. Anyway, what are you doing here?” “Ayya, my child hasn’t had food for many days and she is lying ill at home. I thought we could take some food and” he peeped over the few shoulders that barricaded the table on which supplies were placed, “and some clothes.” “Come with me”, Babu said and then looked at Lalitha, “and you too.” He took them to the other side of the temple and put his hands on Muthu’s shoulders. Babu’s man stood nearby and Muthu kept looking at him.

“The situation is like this. There are lots of evil men trying to convert our men and women into Christians and Muslims.” “Muslims too?” “Oh! You didn’t know? Go near the pond near Karrupayyah’s house. They have set up a camp there.” “This is so unfortunate. Why don’t people come here?” Lalitha asked. “You shut up”, Muthu said. “Why shout at your young wife, Muthu? She is right. Hence, we decided this. If they steal our men we will steal theirs.” “Perfect. That is the right thing to do, ayya. You are very clever”, Muthu said. “Hmmm. So, this food is primarily for people who we plan to convert.” “But we believe in the goddess too. Couldn’t you spare some for us? Just a little. My daughter is nearly dying, ayya.” “Sorry Muthu. Come after a few hours and if there is anything left you can take it home” Babu said and then turned to look at Lalitha. “There might be a lot so both of you should come.” “Before our dogs eat them up”, Babu’s man said and started laughing. Babu burst out laughing too. “Ok? Now go home or sit somewhere on that side”, he pointed to the dykes on the other side of the field. “At least some cloth ayya.” “For your wife?” “No. To at least cover my daughter’s body if she dies tonight.” “Come on, Muthu. One who wasn’t killed by the sea cannot die so easily. Come tomorrow.” Muthu and Lalitha left silently. They walked towards the grove without a single word exchanged. When the silence got too heavy to bear, Lalitha decided to say something. “We should have asked the priest.” “Shut up. With you revealing your breasts I am sure even the priest would have mistaken you for a whore.” “What? What did I do?”

“Had you not behaved like that in front of them, we would have got food and clothes. He must have thought you were up for a price.” “I didn’t do anything.” “Did you see how they were looking at you? Don’t act innocent.” “Then why didn’t you sell me to them? At least you would have had your food and clothes.” “Aaah! Now you want the company of the rich men?” and he started hitting her and kicking her. She started howling and ran into the groves. He chased her and threw stones at her. She hid behind a tree to escape them and his blows. Finally he got too tired to do anything but walk. She kept a safe distance from him and walked ahead. “The thatch was here”, she said and started looking around in vain. He sat down and started crying. Muthu shook about his shoulder and wailed. “What did I do wrong in my life? Why do I have to suffer? Didn’t I behave nice with you? And you, god? And you?” he looked towards the sky and screamed. “Hari’s appa, please. We will find some way to get out of this. Please, please don’t do this. How can I manage things if you break down?” Lalitha said and joined in his crying. They hugged each other and sat there in the darkness of their lives. When they finally reached their spot on the beach, they found Renu sitting leaning against the young palm tree. “Appa, amma. Where were you? I was so ...” “You wretched whore! What did the man from the city do to you? How much did he pay you?” Lalitha shouted and started thrashing

Renu. Renu managed to escape and from a distance of a few yards replied, “Why? What happened? He promised me 100 but was trying to cheat me with a 20.” “Aren’t you ashamed of yourself? Selling yourself for money. We are poor and hungry but not a family of whores and pimps.” “What? I didn’t sell anything. They merely wanted me to sit on the rock and cry while they took pictures... no, a movie of me. All I had to do was cry and make it look like I was a lost child.” “And you said that we were dead.” “Oh! You saw the shooting?” she asked with excitement, but seeing the look on their face she killed her smile and continued, “That was just a line that they wanted, Appa, doesn’t mean anything. If they were giving us food and clothes in exchange for one line, what’s the harm?” Muthu and Lalitha looked at each other. Muthu sank to the sands and Lalitha hugged the tree and cried softly. Renu carefully walked over to her father with a lungi (long piece of cloth used to wrap around the waist) in her hand. “Appa, this I bought for you.” Muthu looked at her without saying a word. Renu placed it a little away from where he sat and backed off. She turned to her mother. “Amma, I found this thatch in the groves and decided to drag it here for ourselves.” Lalitha fell to the sands and started crying. Muthu beckoned Renu to come and sit on his lap. “You are not a burden, my child. We are sinners” he said and hugged her. Renu burst into tears too. Lalitha crawled over and patted Renu on her head. “Appa, some TV people are coming to the other side of the village tomorrow.”

Column Writer of the issue: Sheldon Allan “Shel” Silverstein

Lasya If you are a dreamer, come in, If you are a dreamer, a wisher, a liar, A hope-er, a pray-er, a magic bean buyer… If you’re a pretender, come sit by my fire, For we have some flax-golden tales to spin, Come in! Come in! --Where the Sidewalk Ends (Cover flap) In this issue we feature one of the most reluctant writers of children’s stories and poems. Known to many lovers of poetry as a poet whose poems bring out the sheer simplicity of language and the starkness of certain images and life, Silverstein started out as a children’s writer much later in life. Putting it in his own words: "I never planned to write or draw for kids. It was Tomi Ungerer, a friend of mine, who insisted... practically dragged me, kicking and screaming, into [editor] Ursula Nordstrom's office. And she convinced me that Tomi was right, I could do children's books."

Silverstein was, till 1963, mostly a cartoonist for Playboy, a scriptwriter and a poet. He, later, also wrote songs for Dr. Hook and the Medicine Show. In 1963, he wrote Uncle Shelby's Story of Lafcadio, the Lion Who Shot Back, which is a story about a lion who gets hold of a hunter’s gun and practices long to become a good shot. Then he becomes part of a circus! This book didn’t do as well as his next book which slowly shot him to fame. In 1964 he wrote and published, The Giving Tree. This is a story of the relationship between a tree and a little boy who grows up borrowing whatever the tree has to provide, leaving the tree with nothing more than a stump towards the end. Soon after publication, this story found its way into sermons, bedtime stories, moralistic lectures, the butt end of feminist ire and, recently, into email chains too! No matter how it was received, its popularity grew. Silverstein was born in 1930 (or 1932. There are sources which support either year!) in Chicago, Illinois and grew his own unique style of poetry. He recalled his early years as follows: "When I was a kid - 12, 14, around there - I would much rather have been a good baseball player or a hit with the girls. But I couldn't play ball, I couldn't dance... So, I started to draw and to write. I was... lucky that I didn't have anyone to copy, be impressed by. I had developed my own style, I was creating before I knew there was a Thurber, a Benchley, a Price and a Steinberg. I never saw their work till I was around 30."

This helped him develop a style which wasn’t pretentious and seemed to flow as one might expect to hear him speak. Rhythm wasn’t always present and slang wasn’t unwelcome in his poems. His wildly humourous creativity was an integral part of his poems. A poem, to him, was not merely for

literary effects, but for a whole array of purposes like humour, deep thought and sheer joy. His love for simplicity is best captured in his words during an interview. No, you should never explain the philosophy behind anything either. The philosophy behind it isn’t important. The question is, if your work is weak and lacking so that it needs explanation, it isn’t enough, it isn’t clear enough. Make it so good and so clear that it doesn’t need any further explanation. After all, you can’t run after every person that buys your book and say, “Now come over and have some coffee and I’ll tell you what I really tried to say in this book,” or “You don’t know what I tried to do in that movie. See, what I was really trying to do, you don’t know what I did.” They know what you did. They know what you said.

Some of his pieces are too simplistic to be awarded a status beyond that given to a limerick, but Silverstein wasn’t out to gather accolades although he was inducted into the Nashville Songwriters Hall of Fame and his song “A Boy Named Sue” won Johnny Cash the Grammy. His poems resembled the outpourings of a little child. Like this one (Poem: Colors): My skin is kind of sort of brownish Pinkish yellowish white. My eyes are greyish blueish green, But I'm told they look orange in the night. My hair is reddish blondish brown, But it's silver when it's wet. And all the colors I am inside Have not been invented yet. It is difficult to return from any poem by Silverstein without smiling. For all the popularity he has earned now, he was a fairly reclusive person and shunned publicity of any sort. Most biographical information is derived from his interviews which were few. After the one with the Publisher’s Weekly, he totally stopped giving interviews. "So I'll keep on communicating, but only my way. Lots of things I won't do. I won't go on television because who am I talking to? Johnny Carson? The camera? Twenty million people I can't see? Uh-uh. And I won't give any more interviews."

Post-1981, he concentrated on producing plays for adults. The much talented man (once noted as the world’s only writer-cartoonist-composer-lyricist-performer) died of a heart attack on 10th May 1999. He shall be much missed by his aficionados. Unlike most creatives, Silverstein appealed to people of nearly all age groups. "I would hope that people, no matter what age, would find something to identify with in my books, pick one up and experience a personal sense of discover. That's great. But for them, not for me”

More Information: The Archive: http://members.tripod.com/~ShelSilverstein/ Homepage: http://www.shelsilverstein.com/ List of books: http://www.americanpoems.com/section/Books/Author/Shel+Silverstein Make your own Bookmark: http://www.shelsilverstein.com/pdf/bookmark.pdf

Artwork Whispers In The Clouds

Joan C. Urquhart

Column Translation: Gems of Tamil Literature

AgniBharathi The art and literature of a particular country and particular age reflects life as it was in that place at that time. This was perhaps the primal reason why art and literature themselves came into existence – the desire for mankind to break the boundaries of both space and time. In that respect, Tamil literature stands in a unique place. Not only does its ancient literature reflect the life of people in that era, but also in a way it was the literature that dictated the life of people then. It is this aspect of Tamil literature that I shall try to present by means of translations and appreciation in this column. Tamil language is supposed to have been taught to the Sage Agasthyar by Lord Shiva Himself on the Podhigai Mountain. Agasthyar wrote the first grammar for the Tamil language, Agathiyam, which is now lost to the world. The first known work of grammar that we have today is the TholkAppiyam written by Agasthyar’s disciple TholkAppiyar. Tamil grammar by itself has a unique methodology. Like in any other language with a written script, the Tamil grammar too progresses from letters, sound forms, written forms to words, their different forms as nouns, verbs, adjectives, etc., on to sentences, prose, poetry and so on. But the uniqueness lies in the section of grammar called poruL ilakkaNam. Literally this means the grammar of meaning. This particular section lays down the discipline for the external (puRam) and internal (agam) life of a person. The puRam section deals with his/her life in the society where he/she displays attributes like wisdom, chivalry, generosity and so on. The agam section deals with the intimate and romantic relationships as well as other facets of human relationships and interaction, which cannot be disclosed in public. The various emotions and images that come out in both these aspects of life are connected strongly with aspects of Nature and a poet has to use only those images and objects of Nature that comply with a particular emotion or incident. This creates a very tight bonding between life, art and the world, creating a peaceful harmony between man and Nature. It is a regular practice in Tamil literature to start any work with a salutation to the Gods. This work too should have typically started off with a poem that is a salutation to the Gods. But just to take it a step further, it might be interesting to start off with a poem that is supposed to have been written by the Lord Himself. This poem is the 2nd poem in the work kuRunthogai, which is compilation of agam based songs written by many authors. This poem also finds mention in the thiruviLaiyAdaR purANam written by the poet paranjOthi munivar in the thiruvAlavAik kANdam, tharumikku poRkizi aLiththa padalam. This work describes the various sport and miracle conducted by Lord Shiva.

Transliteration (An alphabet in uppercase requires greater emphasis. “z” should be pronounced as “yuh” while touching the tip of the tongue to the roof of the mouth. “c” is pronounced as “ch” as in “chow”. A “u” at the end of a word simply adds a phonetic “uh” with minimal stress on the “h”) KongguthEr vAzkkai anjciRaith thumbi KAmam seppAthu kaNtathu mozimO Payiliyathu kezIiya natppin mayiliyal SeRiyeyiR Rarivai kUnththalin NaRiyavum uLavO neeyaRiyum pUvE

Meaning per word fragrant flowers/studying and selecting/life/wings hidden/bee of high clan/ desire or bias/without telling/that which was seen/will (you) tell?/ that practised or is familiar with/long time/friendship/of a peacock nature densely arranged teeth/maiden in the fifth phase of life/than tresses more fragrant/are/you know/flowers

Summary The hero (who is in love) asks the bee that forages the flowers for honey if those flowers have a fragrance better than the locks of his lovely maiden (thereby also hinting that his heroine’s tresses have a natural fragrance).

Word by word meaning konggu thEr vAzkkai anjciRai

thumbi kAmam seppAthu kaNdathu

fragrant flowers (also refers to the mountainous land surrounding Coimbatore) studying and selecting. life hidden wings. The word actually splits into two separate words, ‘am’ meaning hidden + ‘ciRai’ meaning wings. The word ‘am’ is again a derivation from the word ‘agam’ which means inner thereby meaning that the wings are hidden inside. bee of high clan. The word for a normal bee in Tamil is vaNdu. literal meaning is desire. In this context it refers to bias. without telling. that which was seen.

mozimO

will you put in words? The root is the noun mozi, which refers to language. The suffix ‘mO’ transforms the verb mozi to a question. payiliyathu practise/is familiar with. This comes from the root payil, which means to practise. A person who practises something is supposed to be familiar with it. Hence the same word is applied in the context of being familiar with people as well. kezIiya for a long time. Also, the extending sound of the ‘I’ following kez is called an aLabedai. This happens when the poet finds a word too short for musical effect (innisai aLabedai), grammatical rules (isainiRai aLabedai) or to alter the meaning of a word to make it a qualifer (poruLisai aLabedai). In this case an extension of sound in this manner is allowed. The aLabedai used in this case is an innisai aLabedai. natppin of friendship. mayiliyal of the nature of a peacock. The word splits into two words as mayil + iyal. Mayil means peacock. iyal means nature from which the word iyalbu or character, is derived. seRieyiRRu densely arranged teeth. The word again splits into two separate words – seRi being the adjective for densely arranged and eyiRu for teeth. The extra R in eyiRRu makes the whole word a qualifier for the next word that appears. arivai maiden, more specifically, a woman in the fifth phase of her life. Tamil literature classifies the life of a woman into seven stages namely – pEdhai, pedhumbai, manggai, madanththai, arivai, therivai, periLampeN. Arivai should be in the age of 25-30 kUnththalin than the tresses. kUnththal means hair. The suffix ‘in’ here introduces a tone of comparison. naRiyavum more fragrant. The root word is naRi which is a qualifier meant to indicate smell. uLavO are. The word uLavO is a distorted version of the word uLLavO. uLLa is the equivalent of the verb ‘be’ in its different forms viz., is, are, etc. nee you. aRiyum knowing. The root word is aRi from which the word aRivu for deep knowledge is derived. pUvE flower.

History As mentioned earlier, this song was supposed to have been composed by Lord Shiva Himself. This was set in verse many centuries ago. The ruler of Madurai, seNbaga pANdiyan, once had a doubt as to whether the hair of a woman had a natural fragrance or it acquired fragrance by the application of various perfumes. He announced a competition offering a reward of 1000 gold coins to any poet who could write a poem to resolve his doubt. A poor orphaned Tamil poet by the name of Dharumi needed this money dearly. So he went and prayed to the presiding deity of the Madurai temple, SomasundarEshwarar. Hearing his pleas, the Lord Himself took the form of a human poet, composed this poem and gave it to him. Dharumi presented this poem in the assembly of Tamil poets to the King. The King, impressed with the poem, offered the prize to Dharumi. However, another renowned poet by the name nakkIranAr objected to this poem claiming that the meaning of the poem was wrong and no woman could have natural fragrance in her hair. A dejected Dharumi went back to the Lord with the poem and narrated all that happened. The Lord enraged that somebody could find fault in His poem stormed into the assembly challenging nakkIranAr. The poet was unfazed even after knowing that the composer of this song was Shiva Himself. Shiva further enraged opened His third eye to the poet. The poet, unable to bear the heat of His third eye, fell into the poRRamaraik kuLam (the golden lotus pond) of the

Madurai temple. At length, when the Lord’s anger subsided, He brought the poet back from the pond and bid the King to give the reward to Dharumi.

Appreciation This poem falls under the agam (or inner life) category of Tamil poetry. It belongs to the subdivision of the agam called kuRinji. Agam is divided into five thiNais. Apart from these, two rarely used thiNais are the kaikkiLai and perunthiNai. The former is one-sided love and the latter is misfit love. The five thiNais called agaththin ainthInai (the five thiNais of agam) are kuRinji, mullai, neythal, marutham and pAlai. Each thiNai has its own muthaRporuL (first object), karupporuL (object of substance or quintessence) and uripporuL (object that belongs to this thiNai). MuthaRporuL of a thiNai refers to the topography, the time of day and season of the thiNai. KarupporuL has many aspects such as the animals, the birds, flowers, music, vocation, etc., that is typical to that thiNai. UripporuL refers to a particular action or a particular incident in the romance of the lovers. In the verse quoted above, kuRinji thiNai is the land of the mountains. The seasons for this thiNai are kUthir and munpani (The seasons of dry cold and early snow). The time of the day is yAmam, night. The birds of this land are the peacock and the parrot. The animals are tiger, elephant and bear. There are much more details, which we shall exclude from this discussion. The uripporuL -object that belongs to this thiNai -- of kuRinji is the act of union. This is called as puNarthal (the Tamil word for union). In the verse above, the first word konggu is rather interesting. Konggu nAdu (the country of konggu) is the land that surrounds present-day Coimbatore, Tamil Nadu. This land has acquired the name konggu from the fact that it has (rather had) lots of fragrant flowers. The areas surrounding Coimbatore and Palghat are mainly mountainous regions. Thus with the very first word, the land of the poem is set. The hero conveys in subtle words that his lover’s tresses have natural fragrance that exceeds the fragrance of any flower. And this he does by asking the bee, which is an expert in the knowledge of fragrant flowers. Even here, the hero does not ask a common bee but the bee of the highest clan, the thumbi. The aspects of kuRinji thiNai are established by the reference to flowers, which are common in the hills and the comparison with the peacock, which is a bird of the mountains. Also, the fact that the hero knows the fragrance of the heroine’s tresses is a subtle hint that they have united intimately. The hero asks the bee very clearly to not give him a favorable answer merely because it is from his own land.

English Rendering: Oh Noble bee! Who discerns well Flowers and nectar of a heavenly scent. Speak true, such my doubts dispel. My beloved, as dainty as a peacock, She who is with well-set teeth. Have you known A sweeter fragrance than milady’s locks?

References: http://www.tamil.net/project madurai http://www.tamilvu.org/library

Nonfiction Trying To Write Nonfiction

Rajesh Nagani I had no clue what I was getting myself into. Over a casual conversation with the Editor (whom I shall call Ed hereafter) I offered to write an article for the forthcoming issue of Alvibest. He was glad that I offered and asked me what I would like to write – fiction, poetry, nonfiction or something else. I asked him what was lacking. He said, “Nonfiction writers are fewer. Many haven’t explored its forms as much as fiction and poetry have been explored.” Then he mentioned the journal called Creative Nonfiction being one of the very few that have taken initiative in exploring the various facets of nonfiction. I had never heard of the magazine, but I have hardly heard of half the things he talks about! I was spurred after listening to him talk about the various sides to nonfiction and I offered to write one for him. He smiled and said, “Sure”. As I said, I had no clue what I was getting into. I returned home and decided to write a fair sized piece of nonfiction. I seated myself in the bluish light of my laptop and held my fingers a few inches above the keypad. What do I write about? I didn’t want to write about some vacation I had recently; did enough of that back in school. I looked around my room and thought to myself, “Can’t write about that vase. It’s a marriage gift and Sashi will surely want to add her opinion of her uncle who gifted it. The bookcase could be an interesting topic, but what do I write about it? Went and picked it up at a yard sale and that’s about it.” I kept going to each and every item in my room until I realised that I had left

all the clothes on my chair and I should rush and dump them in the washing machine before Sashi starts complaining about having to do all the work. I realised I needed some samples of nonfiction before I could write mine. So I hunted for some samples online. I found some on Creative Nonfiction (why didn’t I think of that before?) and on a few other sites. I read some of them and kept asking myself “What is nonfiction?” I searched for an answer to that. Many sites threw up some answers, which I distilled to: anything that is not fiction or poetry is quite likely to be nonfiction. One site actually said that even diary and journal entries are nonfiction – seemed too broad a category. Book reviews and interviews were also called nonfiction. I was more confused than ever. I called up the Ed and asked him for some pointers. He asked me to read R.K.Narayan’s Writerly Life. I wasn’t sure whether I could find a copy in Luxemberg and asked him whether it was online. Of course, it wasn’t. I was planning on ordering a copy (and hence, delaying my ordeal by another week or two) when my wife walked into the room and asked me why I looked so worried. I told her about my task at hand and how I felt that I could write only after reading Writerly Life. She was quick in rushing into our study and returning with a book, which she kept slapping against her palm to rid it of its dusty inheritance. “Here”, she said and walked away. I kept staring at the book wondering how I had forgotten that I had the book with

me all this while! Sashi must have brought it along. My books never gathered dust. I read the book and thoroughly enjoyed myself. Narayan writes effortlessly and his works aren’t highbrow stuff. I think good writing is essentially this and not the difficult and convoluted style of writing that many writers resort to. After reading his works I had a rough idea about what to write. I could write about the bike trip my friends and I had gone on near the Alps. I had so many pictures from that trip. I rushed to my cupboard and extracted the albums one at a time. There were marriage albums and college albums and albums of my days in school. I liked the purple one with silver embossing on it. My brother-in-law had gifted it to me. I found the album with our vacation snaps in it (which also contained the biking trip’s pictures), but I decided to spend some time with the purple one. I poured over the pictures slowly and with an ever-growing smile. Maybe I should write about how the kids added salt in the jalebi (a sweetmeat) mix that the bawarchi (cook) had made. Maybe I could write about how my aunt Sarla fussed over all the sarees that mom had bought. How about the amount of jewelry purchased for a typical wedding?

Sashi looked so nice in that picture where she was just about to bend down and touch mom and dad’s feet. Perfect picture. Maybe I could write about what my wife went through before she got married. Maybe I could write about how none of that mattered. Maybe I could write about dholis (palanquins) and ghoda (horse)-rides at a wedding. About the attire of the bride and the groom. About the menu and how much effort goes into it. About Neelu’s conversation with her future sister-inlaw; Sashi had told me everything about it. About the dance after the wedding in the wee hours of the day! How dad danced with mom, and then with Sashi. Simple bhangra numbers but so much joy. There was so much to write in just 10 sheets of photographs! I started pacing my room trying to pick from the possible topics. I would love to write about the biking trip, but I was more involved in the scenes in my purple album. And then it struck me. Why not? I pulled out my laptop and started typing in the latest experience I had had: trying to write nonfiction.

Poetry Ombralità / Shadowiness

Joan C Urquhart Long little, dark little, silent little shadow, rich in fascination, quiet like a dream and filled with contradictions. where do you sleep at night? do you leap into another realm? or do you telescopically retreat inside a womb-like substance through my feet? I hope that what persuades you in will push you out again. Short little, shy little, shifting little shadow, uncontained by hands and time, you are too easily persuaded by angles of projection. why do you disobey me? how can you grow one shape but still invent a hundred more without my help, if you are filled with nothing but dark air? Strong little, strange little, loyal little shadow, you remain beside me day and night (with light) unless I disappear. It is clear that you surprise me; if water cannot drown you, if stones cannot crush you, if paper cannot hide you, what makes you disappear? But most of all, I wonder why you are the paradox that I most want to draw.

General Eliminating Competition In The Formative Years

Anand Krishnaswamy The formative years should serve the sole purpose of helping the child learn and realise the mechanics of the world as well as the internal mechanics of the self. It is unfortunate that the formative years are nearly entirely spent in preparing the child for a job and earning a living. It is the responsibility of parents and teachers, alike, to help the child understand things without bias and accents. Once a child learns about something then she is free to work on it or apply it, as she deems fit. To thrust responses to information or knowledge is not a part of true education. One such response that is often thrust on young minds is that of competing. Competition has taken on the role of measuring the extent to which one has learnt something and the extent to which one can apply something learnt. In this article we shall look closely at competition, why we should eliminate it in the formative years and how the formative years would transform in the absence of competition. Before we delve further into the necessity of competition, we should first understand the mechanics of competition. Competition helps establishes supremacy. That is one of the essential purposes of competing. Competing requires a context. The context is usually an activity, which is considered worthwhile. What I mean by worthwhile is that the activity helps secure an acceptable lifestyle for the pursuer. If the activity was trivial or something which didn’t provide such security, then there would be little reason to compete as the rewards of such a competition would not be of value.

Hence, the competition should not only help establish supremacy but it must also provide desirable rewards. Supremacy by its very nature is exclusive. Pursuit of the highest laurels is also the pursuit for exclusivity. Little interest would be cast on a competition, which rewards every participant equally richly or meagerly. What matters finally is gaining a quantum of respect in a society, and such should be that quantum or the respect itself that none match it. Were one not to be respected for one’s achievements then little worth is seen in competing to project the achievement. Recognition is implied as well. The recognition need not be at an international or global level, but competing must beget recognition for it to be of any interest. Hence, to summarise, competition is required in order to establish supremacy and provide the rewards of such a supremacy, which includes recognition and respect. Now we shall consider the need for competition. Why do we compete? Why seek supremacy? Why seek exclusivity? Why seek recognition and respect? This might appear to be a ridiculous bunch of questions, but it might be worth delving into. Propagation of the self takes many forms and appears in myriad guises. The need to be respected is one such ruse. The desires of the ego are very strong and competition is what feeds it. Were it not for the ego, competition would make no sense. What is it that seeks respect? What is it what seeks exclusivity? What is it that seeks supremacy? What is it that wishes to be secure, always? If one is

comfortable while being a king and a pauper, then he wouldn’t compete. How does competing take form? Competing stems from comparing. People involved in the same activity (from concrete activities like say singing to generic family of activities like earning a living) are compared against each other. This might arise explicitly or implicitly. Once the comparison reaches a point where definiteness is sought, competition is defined for that activity. Without comparing there cannot be competition. Comparing is active when one’s worth or relevance is threatened or even questioned. Amongst a bunch of labourers at a construction site, the one who works quickest or longest is considered the better man and he might be paid an extra bit at the end of the day. The writer who appeals to a wider audience is in demand and publishers will bend backwards to get a contract with him. Ours is a world which recognises winners, and winners are picked by comparing and competition. But the activity itself does not require competition or comparison. To dance well, to be a good doctor, to be a good archer or to be a good student does not require competition. One can be all of this without competing. There are some who strived to better themselves not to be more competent against another, but for the sole purpose of doing justice to a task and reveling in it. Vincent Van Gogh is a famous painter. He wasn’t a famous painter while he was alive. He had sold but one painting before he died. His failing health did not deter him from continuing to paint. He did not compete but he painted as well as he could. Another example is of a sportsman by name Harold Larwood. Many will instantly recognise him as the man who defined bodyline bowling. But his wasn’t the dream to bowl bodyline. He was passionate about cricket and sought to perfect the art of bowling. I still recall scenes where his captain would place a coin on the pitch and ask Larwood to bowl such that it would bounce off the coin. Larwood always

made the coin flip. Present day cricket doesn’t have any such bowler. This is what he has to say about his early experience (quoted with permission from the Larwood family and Miles Orchard, the site administrator of haroldlarwood.com): ‘At the age of 17, I was promoted to the village's first team. Bowling in sandshoes because I didn't own a pair of boots, I sent down 20 overs during the match, even though I'd worked down the mine all the previous night.' 'I remember the game as if it were last week. After a few overs my nose began to bleed. Team mates, men they were, urged me to leave the field. I refused and kept on bowling. Down the mine I dreamed of cricket; I bowled imaginary balls in the dark; I sent the stumps spinning and heard them rattling in the tunnels. No mishap was going to stop me from bowling in the real game, especially this one.' 'My nose bled worse than ever, spattering my shirt. I was again advised to go off but I continued to bowl. Then a ball caught the middle stump. My next delivery scattered the incoming batsman's wicket. Although feeling a bit weak by now I got ready for one more, and hit the off stump. It was my first hat-trick.' 'Cricket was my reason for living.’

For such a person, competition makes little sense. When he decided to join the Nottinghamshire County Cricket Club, he was offered the same amount he was paid at the mines! There wasn’t much reward apart from the joy derived from sheer passion. Competing and comparing is for individuals who seek reassurance from the outside world and who do not find sufficient joy and satisfaction in the task of their choice. I personally feel that this deserves acknowledgement and shouldn’t be merely cast aside as something purely pedantic or esoteric. Great many things are clearer once we recognise the truth in that. When the act alone is not sufficient and the accolades awarded to the actor are considered more

important than performing the act to one’s sense of completion, competition is essential to serve these egoistic wants of such men and women. This has laid sufficient foundation for us to understand the need to eliminate competition in the formative years. Although the formative years, as a phrase, would apply to the time while one learns something new, I am currently interested and focused on the formative years in the sense of the initial schooling that most children receive before the age of twenty. The initial years for the child are essential because their mind is a blank sheet of paper. What we instruct and what we expose this child to are vital to note. While a child is learning there is no necessity to compare her with another child. Learning is an absolute activity and the child deserves attention until she can understand the subject thoroughly. In our current system of education a teacher spends X amount of hours teaching a subject. It is unlikely that all the children in her class can grasp the subject in the same amount of time. Hence, the teacher feels that it is wise to provide the children with nuggets of information, with points to remember, as these are quantifiable and help in covering various aspects of the subject at hand. It is also easy to relate effort and time required when a subject can be broken down into such chunks. What we need to do is not make the job of the teacher easier but the purpose of the lesson realised. If a child requires 10 hours to understand a subject, then the child should get 10 hours. The child might understand the same thing in 7 hours if taught differently. Before we proceed with outlining why and how competition must be eliminated from the formative years, we must realise that this calls for enormous energy and patience on the part of teachers and parents. Parents cannot outsource learning to the teachers unless they are totally incapable of instructing or investigating a subject.

Teachers who are reluctant to expend such large quantities of energy shouldn’t be teachers. Parents, who aren’t prepared to learn how their child learns and help their child in learning correctly, would do well by not expecting their child to be a topper and definitely not blaming schools and teachers. Parents and teachers play a complementary and supplementary role in the formative years of a child. We shall first see why competition must be eliminated and then how. A child has no need to establish supremacy while she is still learning. While she is learning, all her energy should be focused on understanding the matter at hand thoroughly and internalising it. It does little good, if a child “learns” Physics very well and tops the class in the exams but is unable to apply it to life or recall the principles later in life. By avoiding competing with her peers, a child learns how to learn collectively and constructively. There is no destructive rivalry that comes into play. Each one of us, I am sure, has enough stories about how someone in our school days would not share notes or lie about not having prepared for the exam and still score and in some nasty cases, even steal another person’s notes preventing him/her from preparing well for the exams. If students weren’t compared, there would be little need for any of this. A child who is a slow learner, which isn’t the same as someone who is stupid, is affected when constantly compared with other people. The slow learner, more than others, should focus all her attention on learning, as she cannot afford to be distracted by anything. Competition constantly distracts her. Most students learn a subject in order to score high marks and dispense with it! It might appear that by eliminating competition we might create an atmosphere where children will not bother to learn, because they have no exams to pass. We shall address this shortly.

Competition also prevents teachers, parents and, most importantly, the student from realising what her true passion is and where her natural abilities lie. By insisting on studying a battery of 10 subjects in a set span of time, the child has little time, energy and drive to figure out what is it that she likes to do. This is vital. A child should spend the initial years of her life to understand about the various possibilities in this world and the various activities one can indulge in. If a child is interested in pottery, then the school and/or the parents must realise it as soon as possible and help the child realise various facets of pottery as well as the lives of potters. Knowing about the lives of potters is not to instill fear or raise insecurity but to help them shed any idealism that they might hold about something. It is vital that a child is exposed to the entire spectrum of reactions, responses and consequences that surround an act and this should usually follow a phase of letting her enjoy the act and “getting lost” in it. The formative years are fruitful if and only if they can reveal the true passion of a child. It is quite likely that a child doesn’t hold any specific passion, but the school should strive nevertheless in finding out a few areas where the child’s interest lies. In an odd case when the child holds no interest and reveals no passionate appeal towards something, then preparing the child with tools necessary for a delayed realisation or a quotidian lifestyle should suffice. Exceptions require different approaches and the approaches cannot be covered extensively in this article. Revealing the results of exams must be stopped. Exams per se are fine as they help the teachers understand how clear a particular student is about a subject. Exams also help the teacher explain to the student’s parents about the progress of their ward as well as the areas where attention is required. Giving the parents a number is pointless. Were a teacher to tell the parents that their ward has scored 86 would elicit (amongst a few other reactions) a “What is the

maximum?” and once they are aware of that, they would move to “So, is that good? Where does he stand in the class?” and hardly ever a “Does this mean he has understood the subject well and can apply this at various points later in his life?” Children must be taught to respect assessment procedures. This might not be expected of children in early schooling, but must be gradually introduced to the child. An exam should not be presented as something scary. If a child is made to realise that she is being assessed continually, then she will find it difficult to be afraid for such long stretches of time (effectively for a whole year) and will find it difficult to give her best throughout the year. What we will get to know about the child is her complete understanding and internalising of the subject matter. The assessment must involve more than one person in order to avoid any human prejudices from creeping in. Occasionally, parents (preferably of a student in another level/year) should be invited to discuss the subject matter with the children and present their impression about how well the students have understood the subject. Of course, there is a lot of energy and patience expected of the adults. Who else, if not they, should be interested? We shall not be going into teaching methodologies and innovation/creativity in teaching, but the school will do well in bringing the children in regular touch with people who have used what the children are learning, in real life beyond the textbook. Relevance of a matter to the real world is essential. Once a constantly flowing assessment process is in place, students are comfortable learning for learning’s sake without the sword of exams and comparisons and parental frowns, hanging above their head. A child who doesn’t show interest in a subject can have the subject postponed to a later year. There will be a mandatory list of subjects that a student should be familiar with before

leaving school whether it takes them ten years for that or fifteen. The order in which they are presented doesn’t matter always. No one fails and eventually everyone passes. All of this needs to be worked out with continuous interaction between teachers and parents. In such an atmosphere a child is more open to passionately pursue a particular activity. Even sports are taught in order to perfect the role of each player and not merely in order to win. An athlete is taught to perform to his best ability. It is the coach’s job to bring out the best in him. Aikido is a good example of an aggressive sport nurtured with the least sense of competition. Sports coaches can do well to spend time with Aikido masters and learn the way of fighting without competing. Winning and losing are presented as mere consequences, but the course, as something to be relished. With competition eliminated, a school is more receptive to otherwise worthless pastimes. Origami sessions, cricket, pottery, volleyball, ballet, karate, folk music, tai-chi and other activities can be introduced as a part of school-time activities, letting the child choose what appeals to her senses and allowing the child to taste them all if she wants to. The child is more comfortable learning something with the curiosity of a baby holding a rattle for the first time. If an activity catches the eye and mind of a child, then the child will naturally explore it further without being forced to do so for currently popular reasons.

Now we shall very briefly look at the life of a student, who has been nurtured in such an environment, beyond the formative years. The formative years should help the child gain a more holistic view of the world and not prepare the child for the wrong world. By nurturing the passions of some and freeing the minds of nearly all the students, a school prepares a child well enough for the world. The child enters the world as a youth with a sense of performing a job for the sheer joy of performing it and always giving it his best. When he is assured that he is giving his best, he tends to fret lesser. If the youth finds the job uninteresting, then the youth fearlessly and in a well-planned manner, shifts to another vocation. A child who was made to realise her capabilities and to enjoy one’s work will not be entirely uncomfortable in a world, which is out to compare her with others. Given that she is pursuing her passion or her area of strong interest, her sense of worth is derived from her activity and there is a good chance that her attitude might infect others as well. It is likely that she might be drawn into the world of comparison, but one can expect that she is aware of her decision. With the backing of the school (which is a lifelong support system) and of parents and peers, the youth is not bogged down by fears and pressure to be successful in a shallow sense. Success is bred holistically and from within. Competition is not something base and needn’t be shunned, but one should be aware of the mechanics of the mind and in such still awareness, clarity is gained.

Fiction Who’s Love?

Ferdinand Thomas “Hah! There he comes, that scoundrel!” For a man given to the nice upbringing in the midst of mooing cows and the gardener’s warmth, Davies’ vehemence was unusual. I was saved from the blend of ale and spittle by the expanse of tavern wood that lay between us under the pretext of a table. I turned slowly, masked by a vanishing white moustache of foam, to look at the target of such rebuke. Richlow Spitz walked from behind the tables like a tree’s reciprocating sway.

searching for a face that was looking hard at me. Fortunately there were none. “Worried, Master Reggie? Me thinks, you are,” and before I could protest in defense, he continued, “Fear not, for your father’s business carried him far and long enough that he wouldn’t return before day break, and if he did he wouldn’t look for you here.” So saying, he winked at me and guzzled the remainder of his drink.

I returned my gaze to Davies. With the vain hope of telekinesis followed by a sillier want of reducing the distance between them by a mere squinting of the eyes, Davies hammered his empty mug with the hope that his cynosure, now seated on a tripod near the bartender, would get hurt and fall unconscious.

“Mighty good ale, Master Reggie.” “That is why I asked you to get me here, Davies.” I was beginning to realize that I would be the only one to be addressed as “Master so-and-so”, which was enough for any perky ear to rise in alert. I was trying to avoid all conversation with him but he was the only one who could have got me such ale, without my father’s notice.

“Come, come Davies. One couldn’t have wronged enough to be greeted thus & still roam freely on the street.” “Your father keeps me far from the streets this man walks on, Master Reggie. He bows lower to your father than to the Mayor himself. Be not deceived by his looks; I know him better than that stool, which seats him for his daily drink. He is a scoundrel of the worst kind, if there ever was one, and a nasty one at that.”

He looked a little uncertainly at my mug before barking out an order of two pints to Teresa. Teresa gave me a smile before scampering off to clear the orders. “Don’t you let her make you feel good, Master Reggie. These girls need a smart man to walk in so that they can have a comfortable few days.” I felt the blood rise to my cheeks. “Thank you Davies; anyway I wasn’t interested.”

The ale seemed to set his tongue wagging a lot more than it would have back home. I gave a quick look around the place,

He kept drumming his fingers and kept looking at my mug. I drank it slowly, for fear

of letting it rise uncontrollably against the downward press of my senses. “Drink and be merry. This is the finest I have ever had, and I have had a good many of these.” He patted his barrel paunch with a pride that seemed ridiculous to me. He turned around to check what was keeping Teresa. She was standing with Spitz. Davies rose and staggered his way towards her. I was afraid that the infamous tavern fights, which I had only heard of, would break loose. I gulped the ale and readied myself to pull Davies out anytime and rush out of here. Or better still leave him here and run away nevertheless. Over the length of the mug, which poured ale down my throat on the inside and outside, I saw the bartender intervene and hand two mugs to Davies. Davies still stood there for what seemed like eternity, and glared at the man he called a scoundrel. When he moved towards the table, the ale I drank seemed sweeter and more relieving. “Why must you” and I burped loudly, letting loose a rushing footsteps of claps from nearly every table. I covered my mouth and continued. “Why must you be so stupid, Davies,” I hushed at him when he finally sat down, “Why indeed? You could have become such an embarrassment.” “That scoundrel wants service before me. I called the pints first, Master Reggie, you know.” “Now stop it there and right now, Davies. I think you talk silly. What could he have possibly done to make you so red under your collar?” He looked at me with the ale splashing in his eyes and his tongue hanging out as if to catch any stray drops. “I mean what did he do so wrong?” He drank half his mug in one gulp and said, “You know Teresa?” “Don’t we both?” “Not this little twerp,” he barked and drank some more, “the pastor’s daughter.”

“Oh! May god rest her soul. I do know her, Davies, but why bring her into this tavern?” “She died.” “Of course, I know that and...” “He killed her.” I don’t know how my face looked or how much my eyes bulged out, but it brought Davies’s head down on the table heavily. “What?” “He killed her, that scoundrel did,” and he kept thumping his fists while not lifting his head from the table. “But wasn’t it pneumonia that killed her?” He rolled his head for the length of his forehead darkening the soft wood through its passage and I accepted that as a no. “What happened, Davies?” I shoved my mug aside. The miner beside me helped himself to it. “He made her love him and when he had had enough of her, he left her to herself. He used wiles of sorts unheard to lure her and that beast enjoyed himself while it lasted. He ruined that pretty girl. She had entrusted him with everything that was hers and her honour that belonged to her father.” I looked up at the scoundrel. He sat on his stool with his single able arm on the counter. “When she confessed her love to him, oh! she must have done it so dearly, Master Reggie, so sweetly with a little tilt to her head and those pink lips” he broke off and looked up to the heavens and smiled at the bunch of cobwebs likening them to Teresa’s dusty specter looking down at him, “He told her he was a traveling salesman, and didn’t stay in a place too long. Can you believe that? A man tells a lovely lady that he has to rush off to sell soap cakes! That broke her heart and she jumped off the cliff into those cold waters. Some fisherman saved her long enough, before the pneumonia that he had given her, killed her.” “What do you mean he gave her, Davies? Come now, it was her…”

“Were it not for his craft she wouldn’t have jumped into those waters. Me says, he pushed her.” I wouldn’t argue with such a saddened man, as much as I wouldn’t with anyone who sat beside me and had such thick eyebrows decorating the free rim of my mug. I looked up to see that scoundrel limp his way to the door. A shimmer on his breast caught my eye.

“What’s that, Davies? He wears his flask around his neck?” “That silly Mayor gave him a medal for saving a child from running under a carriage. Them horses are intelligent, and broke his knee and travels. Got that arm too. Funny world, Master Reggie, rewards a murderer and kills a lovely lass.”

Reading Reminiscence Through The Looking Glass by Lewis Carroll

Raju I remember reading this book many years ago. I liked it without falling in love with it. For someone who was looking forward to counting his age in double digits, this book came as a nice fantasy story. I read it once and left it on the bookshelf. When I entered my post graduate studies in computer science, I found many highly recommended books decorating the line below the chapter title with quotes from this book as well as from Alice in Wonderland. It is said that Through The Looking Glass is a sequel to Alice in Wonderland, although I am still to find any allusion to that. I wondered how computer scientists found a correlation between what Lewis Carroll wrote with individual chapters in programming and other areas of computer science. That was one of the reasons I decided to read this story again. I am glad I did. Through The Looking Glass is a delight to read and there is abundant joy for readers at various levels. The story is at once delightfully imaginative, philosophical and entirely nonsensical with each reading leaving us wondering which is which. There are a variety of places where the story appears to have a deep philosophical purport and the fantastic characters and events reveal themselves as mere disguise for something less shallow than cheerful entertainment. At places the story introduces silly characters and events associated with them. These characters leave us tickled long enough till the next character and event roll in. There is a lot of Nonsense writing, a genre presented by very few writers in the world. Carroll was known for his Nonsense writing, which formed the basis for several theories and articles about them. The interesting thing with Nonsense writing is that, it lends itself to a variety of interpretations. Consider the Jabberwocky, `Twas brillig, and the slithy toves Did gyre and gimble in the wabe: All mimsy were the borogoves, And the mome raths outgrabe. "Beware the Jabberwock, my son! The jaws that bite, the claws that catch! Beware the Jubjub bird, and shun The frumious Bandersnatch!" He took his vorpal sword in hand: Long time the manxome foe he sought -So rested he by the Tumtum tree, And stood awhile in thought.

And, as in uffish thought he stood, The Jabberwock, with eyes of flame, Came whiffling through the tulgey wood, And burbled as it came! One, two! One, two! And through and through The vorpal blade went snicker-snack! He left it dead, and with its head He went galumphing back. "And, hast thou slain the Jabberwock? Come to my arms, my beamish boy! O frabjous day! Callooh! Callay!' He chortled in his joy. `Twas brillig, and the slithy toves Did gyre and gimble in the wabe; All mimsy were the borogoves, And the mome raths outgrabe.

And my reaction to this was not different from Alice’s reaction. “It seems pretty,” she said when she finished it, “but it’s rather hard to understand!” (You see she didn’t like to confess, even to herself, that she couldn’t make it out at all.) “Somehow it seems to fill my head with ideas --only I don’t exactly know what they are! However, somebody killed something: that’s clear, at any rate------“

Such a poem can be interpreted any way one pleases. Now that is Nonsense writing at its best, but do pause to look at this poem at different levels. Alice’s statement “However, somebody killed something: that’s clear, at any rate”, makes me wonder about the current state of international affairs. Were I to explain to a child the current state of chaos in the world, I am sure he would summarise similarly for me. Nearly most items in the newspaper or on a news channel revolve around some killing somewhere, and both killer and victim are usually anonymous. And there is little doubt that it does fill the head with ideas! Jabberwocky has found its place in so many forms of art and human interaction. Carroll’s interpretation of a part of his own poem is as follows: "I am afraid I can't explain 'vorpal blade' for you--nor yet 'tulgey wood', but I did make an explanation once for 'uffish though'! It seemed to suggest a state of mind when the voice is gruffish, the manner roughish, and the temper huffish. Then again, as to 'burble', if you take the three verbs 'bleat, murmer, and warble, then select the bits I have underlined, it certainly makes 'burble', though I am afraid I can't distinctly remember having made it in that way." --Letter, December 1877 Source: Graham, Eleanor. "Lewis Carroll and the Writing of Through The Looking Glass", Introduction to Through The Looking Glass. In Alice's Adventures in Wonderland/Through The Looking Glass, Puffin Books: Great Britain, 1981.

But one thing remains in spite of all the interpretations -- this poem is jolly good reading! There hasn’t been a time when I read it and not ended up smiling. Even after reading Humpty Dumpty’s explanation of this poem, it did not lose its initial charm and twinkling, lyrical quality.

The story starts with a layout on a chessboard along with a sequence of moves, which should get any interested player to what is depicted on the picture. I didn’t quite bother myself to verify that, but the Preface does claim that “it is correctly worked out, so far as the moves are concerned.” I wonder what else needs to be correct, but the Preface proceeds to confuse things a bit. What follows is a poem, which is very sweet. I read from a source mentioning that this poem is from Carroll to Alice who had grown up since Alice in Wonderland and was no more the innocent and interesting friend of Carroll, but a fine lady wedded and lost to society. The truth in this was not verified but I wouldn’t be surprised if the reason behind this was the loss of an innocent little friend to the ways of the world. I loved the following stanza the most, in that poem: A tale begun in other days, When summer suns were glowing-A simple chime, that served to time The rhythm of our rowing – Whose echoes live in memory yet, Though envious years would say “forget.”

The illustrations by John Tenniel and Henry Holiday are wonderfully apt throughout the story and makes one pause and appreciate the strokes. It is said that Tenniel’s inability or disinterest to illustrate a particular chapter lead to its entire omission from the story. We shall return to this lost chapter later. I loved the way the story starts, though one might debate that the story started much earlier than the first line in Chapter 1: Looking-Glass House. The author creates a sense of suspense right at the outset with the following start: One thing was certain, that the white kitten had nothing to do with it:-- It was the black kitten’s fault entirely.

The dialogues in the story are very lively and help the reader gain an idea of the personality of the speaker. I enjoyed the near real-life conversation that Alice has with the black kitten: “Do you know, I was so angry, Kitty,” Alice went on as soon as they were comfortably settled again, “when I saw all the mischief you had been doing, I was very nearly opening the window, and putting you out into the snow! And you’d have deserved it, you little mischievous darling! What have you got to say for yourself? Now don’t interrupt me!” she went on, holding up one finger. “I’m going to tell you all your faults. Number one: you squeaked twice while Dinah was washing your face this morning. Now you can’t deny it, Kitty: I heard you! What that you say?” (pretending that the kitten was speaking.) “Her paw went into your eye? Well, that’s your fault, for keeping your eyes open— if you’d shut them tight up, it wouldn’t have happened. Now don’t make any more excuses, but listen! Number two: you pulled Snowdrop away by the tail just as I had put down the saucer of milk before her! What, you were thirsty, were you? How do you know she wasn’t thirsty too? Now for number three: you unwound every bit of the worsted while I wasn’t looking!”

The author reveals that Alice is a very naughty girl by letting her talk to herself about the consequences of saving up all her faults and punishments. She wonders aloud what would happen if they did that to her, and prison appears as one the possibilities! Carroll does not create a situation to reveal Alice’s naughtiness but lets her present it without making her sound guilty about it. The dialogues, thus, help reveal more about the character and this is true about most of the characters in this story.

The story is basically about a girl who imagines a different world behind the mirror, a world where everything is just like what it is in front of the mirror, but simply the other way around and different in the possibilities it holds behind the walls beyond which Alice is unable to see from where she is (i.e. in front of the mirror). She soon finds herself in the different world and her adventures, while she strives to become a Queen, form the rest of the story. What I shall present below are the pieces I loved and the portions that made me think, although both categories are not mutually exclusive! The story starts out with a scene in Alice’s house while she plays with her kittens. There is this interesting description of the snow outside, which captured my attention. “Do you hear the snow against the window-panes, Kitty? How nice and soft it sounds! Just as if some one was kissing the window all over outside. I wonder if the snow loves the trees and fields, that it kisses them so gently? And then it covers them up snug, you know, with a white quilt; and perhaps it says, “Go to sleep, darlings, till the summer comes again.” And when they wake up in the summer, Kitty, they dress themselves all in green, and dance about— whenever the wind blows— oh, that’s very pretty!” cried Alice

The imagery is wonderful and I loved it. Winter has always been treated as a cold season and this dialogue presents winter in its warm and loving form. Very interesting. Then Alice passes through the mirror and lands in the world in the looking glass. When she goes beyond the walls, which had restricted her view of the new world, she finds herself in a garden whose paths always lead her back to the house until after a conversation with the flowers in a flower bed, she realises that in this world she would need to do things backwards and walks in the opposite direction in order to head where she wants to! In the midst of the conversation with the flowers, she is offered an interesting explanation as to why flowers talk. “How is it you can all talk so nicely?” Alice said, hoping to get it into a better temper by a compliment. “I’ve been in many gardens before, but none of the flowers could talk.” “Put your hand down, and feel the ground,” said the Tiger-lily. “Then you’ll know why.” Alice did so. “It’s very hard,” she said, “but I don’t see what that has to do with it.” “In most gardens,” the Tiger-lily said, “they make the beds too soft— so that the flowers are always asleep.”

Then she meets the Red Queen who swiftly takes her through the woods. When they finally stop, the Red Queen makes a fantastic statement, which I could immediately relate to the busy running around that people do in the present day. “Well, in our country,” said Alice, still panting a little, “you’d generally get to somewhere else—if you ran very fast for a long time, as we’ve been doing.” “A slow sort of country!” said the Queen. “Now, here, you see, it takes all the running you can do, to keep in the same place. If you want to get somewhere else, you must run at least twice as fast as that!”

The Red Queen gives her the strategy (as a sequence of moves on a chessboard) to become a Queen. Alice gets into a train and starts out on her adventures. She finds herself under a tree with a very large gnat for company. While enumerating the name of insects that frighten her, Alice and the Gnat have an interesting dialogue! “Of course they answer to their names?” the Gnat remarked carelessly. “I never knew them do it.” “What’s the use of their having names,” the Gnat said, “if they won’t answer to them?” “No use to them,” said Alice, “but it’s useful to the people who name them, I suppose. If not, why do things have names at all?”

I couldn’t help smiling while wondering -- why indeed do they have names? The Gnat points her to an insect in their world, known as the Bread-and-butter-fly. “Crawling at your feet,” said the Gnat (Alice drew her feet back in some alarm), “you may observe a Breadand-Butter-fly. Its wings are thin slices of Bread-and-butter, its body is a crust, and its head is a lump of sugar.” “And what does it live on?” “Weak tea with cream in it.” A new difficulty came into Alice’s head. “Supposing it couldn’t find any?” she suggested. “Then it would die, of course.” “But that must happen very often,” Alice remarked thoughtfully. “It always happens,” said the Gnat.

A very matter-of-fact discussion about the ways of the inhabitants of the Gnat’s world. The pure inevitability of certain things and their acceptance is worth noting. Also, it would be worthwhile noting the stupidity in holding some things as essential to survival (like weak tea and cream) when they might not be so. Alice then enters a wood where everyone forgets their names and no one has a name. One scene in here touched me deeply about the intimate relationship between innocence and ignorance. Alice meets a Fawn who doesn’t remember who she is. They decide to walk together for a while till they reach the end of the wood where they should start remembering their names. So they walked on together though the wood, Alice with her arms clasped lovingly round the soft neck of the Fawn, till they came out into another open field, and here the Fawn gave a sudden bound into the air, and shook itself free from Alice’s arms. “I’m a Fawn!” it cried out in a voice of delight, “and, dear me! you’re a human child!” A sudden look of alarm came into its beautiful brown eyes, and in another moment it had darted away at full speed.

I don’t know exactly why, but I felt very sad after reading that. Soon, Alice is on her way and meets Tweedledee and Tweedledum who sing the famous “The Walrus and the Carpenter” song to her. The poem too has a very deep message hidden well inside it and a source online gave me a new perspective. Such is the brilliance of the writer! Alice goes on her way and meets the White Queen. When Alice feels depressed the Queen cheers her. I enjoyed the conversation after that. “... Let’s consider your age to begin with— how old are you?” “I‘m seven and a half exactly.” “You needn’t say “exactually,”” the Queen remarked: “I can believe it without that. Now I’ll give you something to believe. I’m just one hundred and one, five months and a day.” “I can’t believe that!” said Alice. “Can’t you?” the Queen said in a pitying tone. “Try again: draw a long breath, and shut your eyes.” Alice laughed. “There’s no use trying,” she said: “one can’t believe impossible things.” “I daresay you haven’t had much practice,” said the Queen. “When I was your age, I always did it for half-an hour a day. Why, sometimes I’ve believed as many as six impossible things before breakfast...”

I couldn’t agree with her more! What is the point in believing only that which is possible? I shant recount the adventures till Alice meets Humpty Dumpty. This chapter is very interesting and Humpty Dumpty also provides the explanation for the Jabberwocky, which is best read in person than discussed here. I enjoyed one dialogue between them, though.

“I don’t know what you mean by “glory,”” Alice said. Humpty Dumpty smiled contemptuously. “Of course you don’t— till I tell you. I meant “there’s a nice knockdown argument for you!”” “But “glory” doesn’t mean “a nice knock-down argument,”” Alice objected. “When I use a word,” Humpty Dumpty said in rather a scornful tone, “it means just what I choose it to mean— neither more nor less.”

If everyone held on to that belief it would surely make the world a wonderful place for conversations! But what I liked is what I understood Humpty Dumpty to say – people should understand what the person is trying to say rather than introduce their individual connotations. When Alice meets the White Knight (and many say that Carroll fashioned that character to resemble himself) in Chapter VIII: It’s My Own Invention, there is this one scene when the Knight, who can barely sit steady on his mount, falls into a ditch and continues talking as if nothing happened. “How can you go on talking so quietly, head downwards?” Alice asked, as she dragged him out by the feet, and laid him in a heap on the bank. The Knight looked surprised at the question. “What does it matter where my body happens to be?” he said. “My mind goes on working all the same. In fact, the more head downwards I am, the more I keep inventing new things.”

By far the most true statement I have heard about a creative mind, and so well cloaked is this truth. There is a good deal more of my favourites, but I’d rather not dwell on each of them lest the reader feels little enthusiasm to go and pick up a copy of the book and read it for oneself. Chapter IX: Queen Alice is a very interesting one and I couldn’t help reading it over and over again. I had also promised the reader earlier in this article to discuss the Lost Chapter. It is said that John Tenniel objected to the inclusion of this chapter named, “A Wasp in a Wig”. The omission is most likely due to Tenniel’s disinterest to illustrate that chapter as was indicated in a letter to Carroll. It’s a very interesting chapter and I wonder why Tenniel was reluctant to draw a picture for it. There are plenty of possible pictures I can think of. I enjoyed that part when the Wasp tells Alice that tying up the face is good for conceit. “You’d be cross too, if you’d a wig like mine,” the Wasp went on. "They jokes, at one. And they worrits one. And then I gets cross. And I gets cold. And I gets under a tree. And I gets a yellow handkerchief. And I ties up my face - as at the present." Alice looked pityingly at him. "Tying up the face is very good for the toothache," she said. "And it’s very good for the conceit," added the Wasp. Alice didn’t catch the word exactly. "Is that a kind of toothache?" she asked. The Wasp considered a little. "Well, no," he said: "it’s when you hold up your head - so - without bending your neck." "Oh, you mean stiff-neck," said Alice. The Wasp said, "That’s a new-fangled name. They called it conceit in my time." "Conceit isn’t a disease at all," Alice remarked. "It is, though," said the Wasp: "wait till you have it, and then you’ll know. And when you catches it, just try tying a yellow handkerchief round your face. It’ll cure you in no time!"

Indeed, it is quite a disease one can do without!

In all, a very splendid book that brings home an understanding, usually unique, with every passing reading. I would strongly recommend it to every reader who enjoys a bit of insightful reading which gives you the option to switch to a very casual perusal, at any point, without feeling guilty of having done injustice to the story or of self-indulgence in light reading.

Reference: 1. Online PDF version of the story (with some typos): http://www.birrell.org/andrew/alice/lGlass.pdf 2. Lenny’s Alice in Wonderland: http://www.alice-in-wonderland.net/

NonFiction Confessions Of A Bad Mother

Anonymous I would add an extra nine months, but for the record I’ve been a mother for nearly three years now. I never wanted to be just a mother. I wanted to also be a mother. I was going to show the world that motherhood would not stop me from doing anything that I would otherwise do. So I packed in as much as I could in three years - from going on trekking trips to running playgroups to writing to working. I did not just want to make a point. I wanted to hammer it in, over and over again. I was possessed. Gradually, I became a monster that wanted to do a hundred things including being a mother. I was spending so much energy doing my other activities that I came to regard motherhood as an impediment, something that stopped me from going to musicals or having friends over for dinner or even having a peaceful conversation with my husband. I searched for that single instance when it all changed – it was like trying to locate the spot where the first wave welled on the sea. The resentment that unfortunately gathered strength was, at times, directed towards my boy. You are the reason why I don’t have a social life. You are what keeps me from taking up a full-time job. Look what you’ve reduced me to; those kinds of things. Such were the thoughts festering in my mind when a casual conversation with a friend turned things on its head. She uttered the magic words “just embrace it”. It was as if a trigger had been pulled. A coin dropped, a lever clicked and things just fell in place. Don’t fight it. Absorb it. Go with the flow. The simplicity of the thought was so startling to me that I wondered why I hadn’t thought of it earlier. I now understand that as my son grows older, he will need me lesser with the passing day. But I will continue to worry about him, all my life. Has he had his dinner? Did he eat his five portions of fruit and veggies today? Why is he sniffling? Could it be flu? Has he applied to this University? I wish he wouldn’t drive so fast. Is he interested in her? Isn’t he too young to be married? You might say that I am being excessively harsh on myself and on mothers who get back to work 6 weeks after delivery. I am not for a minute suggesting that once we give birth, we must drop everything and abandon our individual pursuits in favour of full-time motherhood – of course not. I know I can never do that. I will never stop planning for my next big adventure. But I know that my priority has changed once and for all. And there’s no point trying to think otherwise. It only leads to conflict, one that I cannot resolve satisfactorily. And the sooner I accept that I am anchored for life, the easier I can make my journey. There’s no point fighting it. I can never be fancy-free as I once was. No, I don’t say that with regret. It is a mere statement of fact. Now, if you will excuse me, I can hear my son coughing. I hope he hasn’t caught the virus going around.

Poetry Autumn Leaves

Vani They say it’s time for leaves and browns, Red, yellow 'n orange garb for grounds. I wonder why none stop to ask a leaf's tale... As we fall and collect in mounds, None stop to tend our gnarled frowns.

We were five friends, to each a brother. Loved the same bloom and … another! Autumn came tossing along, and we thought, why not? We will fall when we want, in turn, Telling tales that, in our hearts, burn.

Off he jumped, the Lusty one, Sailed, so suave, under the Sun. Cried when he saw young girls teased by the winds, "Dear Nubile! Take me, with you, home." Soon pressed he was ‘twixt her tome.

The Fatherly one stepped off next. Left us advice under some pretext, A little boy came prancing along to catch a brown. Fatherly played, dodged ‘neath his chin, But let the dear child finally win.

Then it was Artsy – the refined. He sang paeans that he had designed. And he spotted his soul up on a green bench. "Dear poet with the pen you dearly hold," "Will you write my poem, so far untold?"

Then the Shy one we coaxed again, "Let night fall, till then I will refrain." The Moon swam softly in the starred Black lake. No living soul did watch him descend, But the Moon lit Shy till the very end.

I readied and steadied for the act; I wasn't so eager; should I retract? Always honour your word and season, Fatherly had said. I shrugged and jumped, for falling sake. A frivolous whiff carried me to a near lake.

Our dear tree said with a sigh. “All are gone, and now these five. No season for me; I, but, stand tall and see. They say it’s time for leaves and browns, But none stop to tend my gnarled frowns.”

Column Art of Writing: Telling versus Showing

Anand Krishnaswamy In this column we shall explore various facets and constructs that help us create a written piece not merely as numerous words and syllables strung end on end, but as a work of art which, like nearly all examples of art, create a sensation in the audience, in our case, the reader. Although the emphasis would be on fiction, certain issues would be devoted to nonfiction as well as aspects of writing in general. Readers are encouraged to put forth their queries, comments and interests to [email protected] with the subject as "Art of Writing: <month>"

In the earlier part of this column we had explored the power and necessity of showing in order to create a sensation. As much as we shall agree that it is of utmost importance to seduce the reader into the story and make him breathe and live every scene, we should also realise that the reader is human, and living every detail of the story would only leave him too tired to react appropriately as the author desires. An able writer should wield the sword that creates sensational gashes on the naked breast, not too often lest his art become trite and boring. Describing every scene and passing thought in the protagonist’s mind and in the minds of every appearing character can leave the reader with a tome partly read and discarded. It is vital to recognise the apposite time and situation to evoke the reader’s emotions. This is one of the critical factors which go ahead to make a story a well received tale, to which readers connect and go ahead to make it a best seller in the true sense of the phrase. What we shall discuss in this part of this column is the purpose of telling and some

hints to help a writer decide when to employ showing over telling and conversely. As is true about most elements of an art, nothing is etched on stone. We shall now discuss various situations where telling is more appropriate than showing. Each of them has its individual purpose and mastering each of them is equally important. There aren’t many stellar examples of telling that one might recall from novels or popular short stories, hence, most examples are constructed for the purpose of this article.

Settings and passing scenes: Although a story is a writer’s free expression, it does well to have him lay it out to deliver the effect he so desires. While reordering and reshaping the story, one needs to massage the emotive portions to heighten an effect and strip the blubber off certain other chunks of the story. If a story is long (say, a novel) then some scenes are bound to enter merely to serve the purpose of maintaining the flow of the story and not let it appear as news articles in the story of the world as told by the morning newspaper. The major characters will definitely go on a long drive, or meet near an elevator and wait nervously till their respective floors arrive, or order breakfast while deciding how to go about getting all the money out of the office from under the boss’s nose; the author cannot afford to describe each of these scenes in detail. It would be easier and sufficient to say:

Richard decided to order some more coffee while he worked on the numbers on his laptop.

This is sufficient in most contexts. If the coffee or the act of placing the order was to be used to reveal something about Richard or the setting, then the author might elaborate a bit more, but this is not often required. Another example is: She decided to wait for him in the lobby, where there were more people.

This is usually preferred over an elaborate paragraph describing the lobby or an internal monologue (which we shall come to soon). The reader would do well to note that the latter half of the sentence above also shows us something about the relationship between the protagonist and the person she is waiting for: she doesn’t want to meet him alone. Consider the following piece. The street looked strangely familiar. The hardware store was where he was expecting it to be although the ice-cream stall was obtrusively near the veggies and fruits shack. The broken tile on the pavement was exactly where he lowered his eye to, but the hustle around the dry cleaners wasn’t expected. He walked down and across the gramophone record store, the coffee shop, the garage and stopped for a second near the clock shop; no, this was not how it used to be, but then what was.

This piece has something interesting in it and the reader would do well to re-visit it before reading further. The telling is used to create the location or setting details, but is also used to create an abruptness one feels while suddenly placed in a vaguely familiar locality. Here telling is used in a form of showing (the abruptness and a kindling familiarity). This style was put to wonderful use by Dickens in many of his works. We could transform this into an immediate scene but it might draw the attention of the reader away from what might be the crux of this portion of the story (which the writer must decide).

Such scenes have a purpose, and telling best suits that purpose. Usually the “shown” parts are artistic and a writer is lured into believing that only these parts are worth spending time over. This is farther from the truth than one realises.

Rhythm And the truth is that rhythm must be varied and pulsating in a story, esp. a long one. If the story is brief in length then there might not be much opportunity to vary the rhythm before the story ends. But apart from shortshort-stories, telling can be used to vary rhythm and let the reader catch his breath. A continuous stream of intense pieces and/or immediate scenes, as mentioned earlier, will leave the reader exhausted and the effects that arrive later will tell less on his (dulled) senses and the writer’s efforts will be all in vain. Joyce would often string one such piece after another. Virginia Woolf in Mrs. Dalloway makes it a very heavy-breathing reading too, albeit a worthwhile effort. Unfortunately, it doesn’t always impress readers.

Repetitive action Many of us have seen movies, which centered on a sport. Seabiscuit, Bloodsport, Lagaan, Rocky and a few others come immediately to one’s mind. What one notices in these movies is that the best fight, the best presentation of the sport is saved for the last. There are some sporting events that are depicted throughout the movie too, but none of them have as much emotion and suspense as the final piece. Repeated events are run through quickly in the form of various newspaper headlines or announcements on radio or such means. Older movies used a directorial technique of showing the passing days of training or workouts as quickly flipping pages of a desk calendar in the background with the main characters doing their ordained activity in the foreground. These are nothing but motion picture’s ways of telling. If we observe the design of a well-

done movie, we have very many hints to help us structure our written works. This necessity and technique is not restricted to sport based movies. Repetitive actions in stories are best presented in a varied manner. Some need to be told and some need to be shown. A typical technique used by many writers is to provide a slightly detailed “first-look” at the activity or sport with some good showing, then create a scene of shown tension, so that the readers start feeling the protagonist’s need to succeed or avenge. Then a few scenes of repeated action which lets us know how the protagonist is building his/her web and then a final scene or two where the reader’s pent-up emotions are forced to burst over the crumbling dykes of suspense. A popular fiction novel like Rage of Angels does not elaborate every court scene nor does Robin Cook go into the medical details of each scene in his books.

Character and physical traits Fairly vital to most stories is the image that they create in the reader’s mind about the main characters of the story. In very short stories, character development or showing the actor’s character might not be possible. They can employ telling to give the reader a quick picture of the actor(s). In a novel or any long story, there is sufficient space to let the characteristics of the major characters evolve and be shown. Although, telling can be employed to provide these details, they should not be used to provide an anatomical description of the character. Something like: Jacob was short, about five feet and was blonde. He liked to wear expensive suits and traveled in a Merc.

is surely unwelcome and quite likely out of a user manual about Jacob. Terse showing and telling are often confused and the best way to tell what is the best means to employ at a given point is to answer the question “Does

this characteristic feature help the reader get a better picture and/or love/hate/despise/empathise with the character?” Depending on the answer to that as well as the length of the written piece, the writer should be able to arrive at the best strategy of providing details about the actors in the story. The above sentence could be better presented as: Jacob nearly always looked up, whether he was seated in his Merc or standing erect talking to someone and flicking blonde strands off his Armani; not when he spoke to himself in the mirror.

Exposition I remember reading Arthur Hailey’s books where he would present detail after painful detail across several pages. I would readily skip those pages. There are other authors who do the same in order to provide a certain realism to their story. Exposition provides details without taking the story forward. Telling is by far the only means of achieving this. A writer who cares a lot for details as well as the need to create an air of realism would do well to tell clearly and convincingly. A certain element of creativity can be introduced, like a scene with two mechanics working on a car and having a part technical and part personal conversation, sprinkled with an acceptable dose of “telling” details.

Interior monologues Interior monologues are best suited for stories told in the 1st person. Some writers do present 3rd person thoughts as interior monologue but that is not always the best idea as it would appear as if the writer kept jumping into every character’s head and presented what they were going through. Interior monologue should be unobtrusive. Since one doesn’t think in scenes – well, most people don’t – telling is best suited for portions of interior monologue. Graham Greene used the tool of “imagined” dialogue very well in his splendid story, Awful when you think of it (available online). It is about an

incident when the narrator is left alone with a baby in a wicker basket and how he holds a conversation with the little one. This is a fine case of interior monologues projected as dialogues.

Change of setting/scene Often a writer needs to change the scene without providing details about what transpires between the end of one and the start of the other. The protagonist is likely to lock her house and then be in the office, and no one would be interested in the bus she took or the change she forgot to collect from the conductor! It would be fine to say:

Lila locked her house and rushed to work. As she walked into her office, she saw the clock on the wall glaring at her: “You are 10 minutes late.”

This should suffice. There is no necessity to elaborate every single minute after the click of her lock and the click of her heel as she steps into her office. We have discussed some places where telling is best suited. Reading good literature and some well planned practice should enable a writer to know when showing or telling is required. In the next issue we shall discuss another facet of writing.

Fiction Point-Counterpoint

Govindarajan It was amazing to watch them arrive at Mr. Seth’s house before the first yawn of the early morning sun touched the highest leaves on the eucalyptus trees that lined the walk. All of them in shades of white, white, offwhite, ivory, white lost to the blue of detergent, grey turned white due to age or bleach or both and hair which hastened to out-whiten the thinning mane of the nearest head. They wore caps to look serious and white canvas shoes to look young and determined. Maybe the sun chose not to hurt their pride and arrive before they did. Maybe the shadow of light always precedes light itself, for they were a shadow of what they were, although Mrs. Rajarathinam was a well filled shadow. It seemed that the order in which they proceeded from house to house gathering their battalion of early morning walkers, reflected the energy levels; the least energetic being injected with numerous curled fists pumping up and down as energetic as aerobic artists on TV and variously pitched “Come on Mr. Seth. It is luhvely” cries waking confused birds. Then they would go for an hour’s walk down the road without looking up at the eucalyptus trees, which calmly looked down on their pates and toothless laughter. The winds tried to mimic their belly laughs, but such depth was never known to vagabonds. Today they returned early. Mr. Seth’s daughter and her family were in town and they had promised the young Sarika a long

trip in the zoo. Sarika had entertained all of them the previous evening with her antics of how she imagined “el-fants” would sway their trunk when they saw her and how “jil-lafs” would walk and she swayed her neck back and forth to their merry laughter. Mr. Seth asked his wife to bring the tea to the garden and all of them sat in a small circle, fanning themselves. Sarika had woken up and she came running out in her chemise. She rushed to sit on her grandfather’s lap but he held her at a distance, “No Rani (queen), I am all sweating. Chee, chee. I am dirty. We’ll play after I have a bath. Ok?” She turned on her heels slowly and looked for some patron. “Ajit, I still think that Advaita holds the key to the essence of life,” said Mrs. Rajarathinam quickly, before the child picked her palpitating laps as her human throne. “But what about those who haven’t heard of Advaita? Would they never attain salvation?” wheezed Ajit Kumar Tandav. “But…,” started Mrs. R. “See, philosophy is something we need to explore without starting with the end in mind”, said Mani. “What do you mean, Mani,” asked Gaurav Kumar. “It’s like this. Let’s look at life. How was this created? Shouldn’t we understand that before figuring out the best means of attaining an end which we do not know to be good enough? What is it that matters? Why are we here? What are we meant to do? There has to be a reason. The reason can’t be Vedanta or Zen or things like that. And then there is…”

“I want to play with my Dolal Duck…” “Sweetie, go and play with mommy. Dada (grandfather) and his friends are talking here.” Sarika stayed and played with her Donald Duck stuffed toy and whispered into its ear hoping that someone would get curious to know what she said and lean over to ask her. “Life is not meant to be such a struggle. We are losing focus of what is right in front of our eyes for something that we do not know. Why struggle to get something if that is what life is meant to find and enjoy?” “But I agree with what the Buddha said that life is but suffering.” “That’s humbug. Why should it be? We have Buddha on one side and Osho on the other and Osho has a following…” “Oh, come on. You aren’t going to compare them, are you? Buddha was …” “Mrs. Rajarathinam, why are you against Osho?” “Exactly, we already have goods and bads and that is what is driving our lives. We have stopped enjoying life. We are more concerned about what will happen to our souls and what will happen to us after this life. Will we reincarnate? Will we go to

heaven? Will we reincarnate in many forms? What happened in our past lives? What should we do to mend our soul’s way now? Is our soul infinite? Are we part of a whole or we part of a different whole? We want to know the higher truth when we don’t know truth at various levels below that higher truth. We want to reach the heavens but care little about this earth. We have stopped enjoying what we have and have stopped respecting the basic fibres of our life. I think we should…” Sarika shot up and put her hands to her mouth and started laughing. She ran out of the circle formed by the walkers, turned around and laughed. “Sari, what happened?” asked Mr. Seth and then, looking at the periphery of the circle they had formed in the lawn, he cried out, “Sarika, what have you done? What is this?” And everyone stared at the laces of their shoes tied together and their once white shoes transformed into a canvas of toothpaste and brown streaks of mud splayed across. Sarika ran in shouting on top of her voice, “Mommy, mommy, see what happened to Dada and his flends…”

Information Submission Guidelines

Editor We would like to invite submissions to Alvibest for future issues. Alvibest will be out in the first week of August, November, February and May. We would like to assure the writers that all rights belong to the author. Currently we are considering submissions in the following categories: i) ii) iii) iv) v)

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