Guest Column by Kiran Keswani, GAURI TRIVEDI Bangalore-Based Architect

APRIL 2012 On The Road 05 April 2012

Dear Reader, CONTRIBUTORS: Get set to hit the road with Spark’s April 2012 issue— AMRITA SARKAR with some wonderful fiction, non-fiction, art, photography and poetry, as well as two interesting interviews— ANJANA PRABHU one with Rocky & Mayur, popular anchors of the food ANUPAMA KRISHNAKUMAR and travel show, ‘Highway On My Plate’ and another CHIDAMBARAKUMARI PONNNAMBALAM with Rishad Saam Mehta, Author of ‘Hot Tea Across In- dia’. We also have a guest column by Kiran Keswani, GAURI TRIVEDI Bangalore-based architect. JEEVANJYOTI CHAKRABORTY And oh yes, we get started with ‘The Lounge’ segment of JESSU GOODFELLOW Spark this month. We have some lovely articles up there MAHESWARAN SATHIAMOORTHY too, for you to sit back and enjoy!! PARTH PANDYA Happy, happy reading, we will see you again next month! RAM V Editors VANI VISWANATHAN COVER PAGE DESIGN : Vasundhara Vedula YAYAATI JOSHI GUEST COLUMN:

KIRAN KESWANI VOICES OF THE MONTH:

ROCKY SINGH & MAYUR SHARMA WRITER OF THE MONTH:

RISHAD SAAM MEHTA CONCEPT, EDITING, DESIGN:

ANUPAMA KRISHNAKUMAR VANI VISWANATHAN

INSIDE THIS ISSUE

SPARK : APRIL 2012—ON THE ROAD

On the Road—Poetry by Anjana Prabhu No Seat for “Young” Man—Fiction by Jeevanjyoti Chakraborty Interview with Rocky Singh & Mayur Sharma : Voices of the Month Journey—Art by Amrita Sarkar Visiting “The Wonder”—Non-fiction by Gauri Trivedi One Road to Freedom—Poetry by Jessu Goodfellow In the Middle of the Road—Guest Column by Kiran Keswani The Many Moods of the Road—Photography by Maheswaran Sathiamoorthy Interview with Rishad Saam Mehta—Writer of the Month The Road—Non-fiction by Ram V Horn, OK, Please!—Poetry by Parth Pandya

SPARK |THE LOUNGE—APRIL 2012

SLICE OF LIFE |Pizzas, Poopy Diapers and Post-partum Depression by Chidambarakumari Ponnambalam THE MUSIC CAFÉ |Of Cassettes and Ilayaraja by Anupama Krishnakumar STORYBOARD|FILM FREAK| Agent Vinod : Clichés and Caricatures Galore by Yayaati Joshi THE MUSIC CAFÉ| Tuning In to Different Times by Vani Viswanathan SLICE OF LIFE| The Ton of Joy by Parth Pandya

On the Road

On the road, I feel lost. Though I know the road so well. On the road, I stand and stare, Though I know I need to be home. On the road, I sit with rags, Though I know my home is so near. On the road, I stare at wheels, Though I know I can ride the wheels. On the road, I am at crossroads, Though I know I can't stand and stare. On the road, I lay wide awake, Though I know I could be trampled. On the road, I stand and stare, At the wild, where no road is there. So, on the road, I stand and stare, Picking the rags and so off I leap, Into the wild, off the road, To find a path, but not a road.

Poetry by Anjana Prabhu No Seat for “Young” Man

By Jeevanjyoti Chakraborty

A man experiences a strange hollow within him and once he figures out what bothers him, he tries to beat the emptiness by taking a bus ride on a familiar route. What happens next? Jeevanjyoti Chakraborty’s work of fiction will give you the answers. Read on.

“Of course, no seat! Now, keep standing. Fine day to any place as much as he was getting away from this is.” some. Rather, some thing. To be sure, nothing re- He was not very sure where he wanted to go alt- ally serious had happened at home. His wife’s hough he did have his mind made up on what mood had not been particularly caustic. Just the “stop” to tell the bus conductor. He even had the usual venting, the usual sour reminders of things change ready in his shirt pocket so that he did not he had forgotten to pick from the market place, have to reach for his wallet and put on a balancing and the usual complaints and worries of their act while the bus swerved and sped. Old habit. son’s TV watching “problem”. For that matter, Like so many other little things which come silent- even his son had turned off the TV when he had asked him to. Yet, in that routine drama which un- ly through the boring efficiency of routine every- FICTION day use. And boy had he used the bus! He had folded every day in the hour following “Dad’s back often wondered exactly what fraction of his entire from office”, there was a hint of a strange loneli- life he had spent inside that metallic receptacle of ness. Passive thanklessness he had come to ac- passive human traffic. Day after day, on that very cept. But there was something harsher and more same route – from home to office; then back acute he had started feeling recently. Perhaps it was a feeling of indifference he sensed from

again. them. Probably not. Something even sadder per- But this day was different. It was late evening on a haps. Saturday. And, he was not returning home, certainly not going to office. In fact, he was not going As the familiar motions-to-go-through-in-the- By Jeevanjyoti Chakraborty evening had progressed, he had not been able to lay that hollow feel less lonely. It hadn’t. Everywhere, a finger on that strange hidden hollow he felt inside. on all those familiar streets he walked, in the shops Even as his wife had poured out a gossipy tale of one he used, inside the cars he detested, he saw faces – of their neighbours, he had tried remembering if the younger faces – bubbling forth in that stream of life. source of his strange feelings was something from Like he once himself had. Once? the office. Nothing there. Then, without warning, He had to get away even from that. So he had taken from that distant voice of his wife sitting near him, a the bus on that familiar route of his. There, he had bunch of words had fallen like an innocent pebble been greeted by seats full of passengers. And as far on that pool of dark hollowness he had not been as he could see – for he just couldn’t stop noticing able to see for so long. And the ripples had run him now – most of them younger than he was: the set of awash with a realization he fought hard to deny. She chirpy young girls, some of them intently talking into had started talking about his coming retirement - he their mobile phones, the ladies with their kids re- was growing old. turning from tuition, the set of young men with tired It had felt stifling. All the usual talk which he usually faces and neat dresses, the college boys, a couple of soaked in with a practised indifference seemed far older men – but still younger than him - discussing too dry. He had tried watching the news but that the elections, the always-to-be-found-on-buses arm- certainly had not helped. He had to get away from chair cricket specialists, and the rest of the non- all that even if just for that moment. He had hoped descript miscellany. that the stream of life outside would perhaps make

mahin FICTION By Jeevanjyoti Chakraborty

He was a proud cog in the big machinery. Not any tor’s gentle jab at his shoulder: “Sir, please leave more soon. He was ready to be thrown out. He had your seat.” He looked up and noticed a very old never minded not being appreciated. But he always man, bent with age and perilously holding on to the knew that in one corner, he was necessary. He knew handle-bars, standing half-drooped over him. In that that he mattered. That would be no more. one confusingly magic moment, a spark flickered His thoughts were interrupted by the sudden ap- back into his eyes and a flush of that old familiar pearance of a vacant seat in the front row, courtesy chivalry beat back the rippling sadness of his dark the getting down of a gentleman – perhaps the only evening. He triumphantly scrambled up and gallantly one in the bus who was positively older than he was. offered his seat to that old withered man – even helping him along to settle down. As he stood there, “Great! Just great! Of all, this one had to become his heart pounding with excitement, he looked vacant” – the front row was meant for Senior Citi- around to see if the others had noticed what he had zens. The only other “contender” for that seat was just accomplished. Nobody seemed bothered, how- the young man standing next to him. Looking the ever. Come on, people! And then, it dawned on him. “kid” squarely in the face, he knew this was a no- Since that “mighty” act of his had seemed so natural competition. How could he hope to win against this to so many of them, probably not many of them jeans-clad youngster in the duel to forgo that quota took him to be a person to deserve that seat in the meant for senior citizens? Swallowing all pride, he first place– there was absolutely nothing chivalrous resigned to that seat. As he sat there, the last vestig- about what he had done! That thought – their in- es of his denial stamped out by this seemingly innoc- difference– flooded him with a curious happiness, uous turn of events, that stifling feeling returned to and he found himself sheepishly smiling with amuse- him. There was no escape. He seemed to drown in ment. He noticed that the fellow with the red bag, in the hollow sadness inside his very own stream of the second row, was faintly smiling with him. He life. shook his head, looked out of the bus window and Or, was that stream even his own anymore? As he saw the honking-screaming-scurrying stream of life had inherited that seat from the older gentleman, bubbling forth. The stream, he still, definitely, was a probably the chirpy, worried, tired younger faces part of! sitting behind him had inherited his stream of life. Even the thought that he would return next Monday on that same route, towards his office where he Dedicated to an unknown middle-aged gentleman, would matter, brought little respite to this strange who, I saw, get up to give his seat to an older man, sadness that he had never felt before. Why had he while I was sitting behind the Senior Citizens’ row on not realized this earlier? The stories and the jokes Bus No. 44, en route home, in Kolkata on Feb 4, about retirees came biting back to him. No amount 2012. of sighing seemed to ease the strangle hold of that dark hollowness ... And he felt a drowsiness over- coming him. His sad reverie was suddenly broken by the conduc-

FICTION An Interview with Rocky & Mayur

It’s the People Who Make Memories Special!

Rocky Singh and Mayur Sharma

Rocky (Singh) and Mayur (Sharma) anchor the award-winning, cult food and travel show ‘Highway On My Plate’ on NDTV Goodtimes. Their bestselling book ‘Highway On My Plate - The Indian Guide to Roadside Eating,' based on their show, recently won a 'Best in the World' Award at the Gourmand World Cookbook Awards in Paris. To know more about Rocky and Mayur, visit http://rockyandmayur.in

VOICES OF THE MONTH by Anupama Krishnakumar

In an interview to Spark, popular anchors Rocky and Mayur respond to Anupa- ma Krishnakumar’s questions on their show ‘Highway On My Plate’ (HOMP), the book, food, their experiences on the road and dream trips. Don’t miss this interview!

What do you think makes HOMP the show so pop- eaters. ular? What's the best compliment you have re- ceived for your show? What fascinates you about the eateries off high- Well obviously it's our good looks and our lean phy- ways? Is there something about them that people siques :) Seriously, though, from what we have in the cities (you think they) miss? gathered as feedback from fans all over, it’s a few things. The amazing range of food, vistas and peo- The food is prepared and served hot and fresh, the ple that make our amazing country unique are all surroundings are always interesting – be it by the showcased through our show. Our passion for food highway or on the street – and most importantly, and for all things Indian along with the sheer joy we you will always find fellow eaters willing to share a bring to everything we do resonates with everyone story, a song or an eating tip. It's always very com- who watches and loves our show. The fact that we munity-oriented and it’s fun to join complete share great chemistry that can only come from dec- strangers in teasing the cook or the restaurant ades of friendship also evokes a feeling of owner about his food, his portions or his chai. Ever 'apnapan'. The best compliments we receive are tried that in a fine dining destination? when we hear from people how they love to sit down as a family to enjoy the show and how hun- How do you think roadside food in India compares gry it makes them. with what you’ve seen in other parts of the world? Any particular favourites from overseas? What's the sort of research that goes into each INDIA! There really is no comparison. If you weigh show? How do you decide on which place to visit the food of India on one side against the combined and more importantly, once you get there, where cuisines of the rest of the world, Indian food still to eat? wins hands down in every category... taste, rich- Once we decide on a route, the production house ness, diversity, and sheer range of ingredients. research team swings into action and researches Nothing even comes close! the eateries with the best food in the area. We also draw on personal experiences from earlier journeys Tales over food - what are some of the fascinating and conversations with friends and fellow foodies things about people's lives (those who run the in the area. Last and definitely not the least, once place and those who come to eat there) that you we get there we tap into the buzz on the street and have heard in the many, many eateries that you stop to eat at a place that is crowded with happy have visited? VOICES OF THE MONTH Interview with Rocky & Mayur

There are always stories associated with food and to write a book to share our knowledge of the food lovers. There are owners like jovial Tony amazing food, eateries and people we met along Paaji of Tony Da Dhaba the way. The main challenge who peppers his conversa- was that there was so much tions with invective, and to write and so much to rears emus to put them on share, that editing was very the menu. He then serves difficult. The second chal- emu meat brought in from lenge was that of time be- another farm as he cannot cause in the midst of writing bear to kill the birds he we were still traveling, keeps. The jovial Mr. shooting for further shows, Rhumba of the Hot Stimu- and working on our other lating Cafe on Hooker Road projects. The book was (no, we're not kidding written in the wee hours of about the names!) who is a the morning – mostly be- huge fan of Bob Marley tween 2 am-6 am – and it with a wall full of his pho- really was a labour of love.

tos, sings reggae songs as he gives you lessons in Mo- While we discuss food, we mo preparation. There are are quite interested in your poor owners of very small journeys too. I understand and very basic eateries who that both of you have gone can ill afford to be generous and yet would not on road trips together for a while now, even be- take penny for what we ate; there was also an old fore HOMP. What are some of the things that man who chuckled with glee as he told us that he you explore and enjoy about places, apart from pays more tax than the Chief Minister of his state. food of course? :) Every eatery has a story and at many of these We have been friends since 1976 and started our your fellow diners will spin tales that can make road journeys together as far back as 1987. We you laugh, cry, sing or just feel very happy to be would jump into Rocky's car at a moment’s notice alive. with a small backpack and take off in whichever direction seemed best at the time. Often we Talking of HOMP - the Indian Guide to Roadside would read of some place and decide to drive Eating, how was the experience of converting the there immediately, even if it was at 2am in the show to a book? Were there any particular chal- morning. We once drove from Delhi to Haridwar lenges? (a 400 km return journey) in the middle of the Us leetle deefecult Inglis so hardly to write buks! night because we had decided to breakfast on hot That challenge aside, we had so many fans of the puri-aloo from a little hole-in-the-wall shop in show asking us for recommendations for food in Haridwar. We went, we ate, we returned with the places they were visiting. Finally we decided happy smiles. It’s the People Who Make Memories Special! Highway On My Plate

Besides food we prefer places which are closer to in the remote wilderness of Patagonia, which is often nature – be it forests, rivers or mountains. We both called the 'end of the world.' The food, the drink and love watching wildlife and Rocky is a very keen and the amazing people of this far-off continent are jew- accomplished ornithologist. Rocky spent over a year els waiting to be unearthed. driving all across India while Mayur has travelled across more than 65 countries in search of adventure and food. Rocky is a certified Divemaster and loves Lastly, the work that you do combining travel and exploring the ocean depths while Mayur enjoys the food has all the characteristics of a wonderful ex- challenge of long high altitude mountain treks. In ploration. What impact have these trips had on every place we travel what makes the memories spe- you? cial are the amazing people we encounter, befriend, We have a much greater appreciation for how amaz- share meals and adventures with and who we always ing our country is. The cities of India do not do jus- leave with a deep appreciation of India. Every time tice to our country. When you get out there and ex- we leave home we represent our country and we perience the love, the warmth, the welcoming smiles always share our love and stories of India. of perfect strangers just waiting to become friends, and of course the amazing food, then you will know the India we love. What, according to you, is the best way to explore India? Oh, and another personal impact is that between us we have put on close to 40 kilos of weight since The way we do it on HOMP. Get out there, leave starting the show five years ago. your comforts and daily routine behind. The road and a life less ordinary are only a decision away. Do Now it's late and there is chocolate in the fridge. Ah, it for a day, a week, a month, a year or a lifetime but life! do it. Even home will be exciting again when you return.

If I were to ask you to tell us about one dream road trip that you want to do together (and have still not Website : done), which one would it be? http:// After driving 80,000 km across our beautiful country we are still excited about traveling and exploring rockyandmayur.in more of India. We may have travelled more of India and eaten more food across our country than anyone Facebook ever has but we feel we have just scratched the sur- Page face of what India has to offer. Besides that we would love to do a road journey like HOMP across the continent of South America, ending

Interview by Anupama Krishnakumar Journey

Art by Amrita Sarkar Visiting “The Wonder”

Prompted by her inquisitive five-year-old, Gauri Trivedi makes a trip to the Taj Mahal with her family where, together with her daughter, she discovers a whole new meaning to the architectural wonder.

“Is ‘Taj Mahal’ a building?” my five-year-old popped was the knowledge of Taj Mahal’s distinction as one the question from nowhere. I didn’t have to look far of the wonders of the world or maybe it was the to discover the source, it stood bright and right be- memory of its beautiful marble miniatures adorning fore me: the television. Disney channel’s Little Ein- many relatives’ show cases; I said it with a conviction steins were flying over the Taj Mahal in India and that relied more on hearsay and less on experience. though my daughter had just vague memories of her ‘Mesmerising,’ she didn’t quite comprehend, but birth country, the mention of India sparked her ‘special,’ she understood. And before she could go attention. And for once I really have to thank the idi- on to “what’s mesmerising,” I made a deal with her. ot box for igniting the right kind of curiosity. We would plan a trip to Agra during our next visit to India in about a month and visit the Taj Mahal. She “It is much more than just a building. It is a very spe- could then decide if she thought it was special or cial place and one of the most mesmerising places not. The last part was an obvious lure to convey that on this earth,” I responded with the confidence akin her opinion mattered to me even when it came to to someone who had visited the Taj Mahal a number something as big as a gigantic white palace (as she of times. But if truth be told, I hadn’t, not even once. later named the Taj Mahal). And yet those words just slipped out of me. Maybe it

montuschi

montuschi Non-fiction by Gauri Trivedi Non-fiction by Gauri Trivedi

resident like us, so much - tine conditions surrounding this famous attraction made for an ideal visit and in a country boasting of such a large population and for a spot that attracts more than a million visitors every year, mean this feat. Right is from the no perfectly manicured gardens, to the orderly walkways leading to the shoe racks and the gleaming marble steps taking us to the guide returned with tickets in his handsin about six minutes, the point here being paying for the services of a travel guide, though not essential,was undenia- bly beneficial. We stood in a long line(separated by gender) at the entrance. The queue was moved long fast. but There was a little bitscurrying of as pushing can and be expected place at like this one. All the pushing an irritated my com- overcrowded panion, who wasn’t a non that she had a word or two to say about it openly. I guess a certain class of the residents were used to and expected privileged treatment everywhere. We, on the other hand, were just happy to be there and the way. didn’tcame what along mind Before I get down to appreciatingthe beautyof Taj Mahal, a quick mention of thethings that impressed me than other the magnificent itself. dome Thepris- The next morning, we awoke to a fresh drizzle which got meaner by the time we finished breakfast. We waited it out for a enough couple the sun of emerged minutes as if and the soon rain happened. had And never with the rays came back the heat, bursting of renewed energy, any the rain.with vanishing afternoonpleasant being chances of the A guide was hired right from learnt from our earlier travels that in places the like the- hotel. We had se that relied heavily on tourism, things had a certain way of working and if you just gave in instead of fighting the system, the There voyagewere faster means to get around bureaucracy, went smoother. if you could afford them. The ticket counter at the grounds of Taj Mahal looked crowded enough me for to look around for a bench to sit on but our

wishers wishers again -

for honking had not dampened our high -

pointed, the fatigue now setting in. setting in. fatigue now pointed, the only on select dates in a month and tonight wasn’t one of them. We returned, more tired than disap- where two guards lazily came up to us and informed that the Taj Mahal was accessible for night viewing ish dinner, we asked for directions tothe TajMahal at the lobby. A short drive took us to a barricade The ride and the headache suffered on account of uncalled spirits, however. Aftera quick freshen upand a lav- the car. bumpy. bumpy. What should have taken four hours or turned into a so lot more and by the timewe checked into a hotel it was after nearly six hoursof sitting in away inaway less thandid.Apparently, it a Needless year? to say, the ride from Delhi to Agra was long and road road and in a rental car, there was no sign of either. Could it be that the rains washed the good things member her mentioning the redone roads and the free flowing traffic theon highways. But here onthe A friend who had been to Agra last year enthusiasti- cally poured in some itinerary helpand I vividly re- “Since we are going to be in Delhi around that time, to Agra”. visit be good it opportunity a would tionin conversations, tonethe always defiant and apologeticat the same time. instead So of getting into an argument I could never win, I simply said inhibitionsabout ourstay. Theywere the oneswho brought up heat, pollution, corruption and popula- I tried with all my heart I could never convince them that other than safeguarding our health, we had no water in our hands always made people presumptu- ous about us, the visiting Indians.And Iknew even if lers.” lers.” This and many such retorts came to my tongue before I swallowed them in. The bottle of mineral travel in India, we were told by well and again. And every time I heard it from someone, it made me cringe. “It’s our home, we are not travel- The month of August was not the best season to

Visiting “The Wonder” “The Visiting

Non-fiction by Gauri Trivedi

Rachel in wonderland

old old however returned with much more - year -

MANY people wanted to see the Taj Mahal, just like me. ”Once they moved beyond the background and feel feel transported in time, alone in the midstof scores of tourists, miles away from the phers. eager photogra- For some it is the beauty and elegance Mahal of that surpasses the everything. Taj For many it is the joy of witnessing an exceptional architectural mar- vel. For me, I came back with a vision of that opulence no camera could fully capture; in my heart I will always remember Taj Mahal as place of the Mumtaz Mahal, final loved and cherished resting even after her death. The five than that. At first she was awestruck by her monument. I the could read numberatpeople of sheer the eyes which seemed to be saying “Look Mom, so

its its

–

old prejudice against the Emperor whose -

pected. It is the kind of calm that comes when you banks of the thunderous river that the marble sepul- chre reveals a moment of serenity not quite ex- If the front view is that of absolute side of Taj Mahal that toopens the watersflowing of grandeur, the Yamuna exudes harmony. It is here, sitting on the magic does not need to grow on on.and stays your immediately senses you, it captures it wows you the minute you set your eyes on it splendour does not wait for your acceptance, its comes face to face with this symbol of eternal love. love. of eternal this symbol with comes to face face The beauty of the Taj Mahal is like love at first sight, to read and Whatremember. goes unrecorded is the emblematic emotional journeyof each traveler who love for his wife became a legend. became love wife for his But these are mere allonstatistics, paper anyone for guide confirmed, andwe were relieved tobe free of the age who helped built Taj Mahal were cut offon the Em- peror’s orders. There is no truth to it, our travel creation andof all the myths, the most disgusting is the one which says the hands of the skilled workers build and stands out distinctly as a pieceof Mughal architecture filled with marble, mosaic, Calligraphy and motifs. lotA of stories surround this stunning of his beloved wife Mumtaz Mahal. This ‘Crown of Palace’ (as the name translates) took 22 years to hasn’t been said or written about this Mausoleum built by Shah Jahan, a Mughal Emperor, in memory the general public public as the well. general Back to the beautiful Mahal:Taj there that is nothing head for an Indian Nationaldemonstrated aninten- tion tokeep the monument particularly accessibleto come come and visit, was being taken care of just like it should be. Additionally, the entry fee Rs.20 of per but clean and welcoming, it made me proud to see that the structure that became India’s identityinter- nationallyand a gateway forso many foreigners to floors of the Taj Mahal, littlea wet fromthe rains,

Visiting “The Wonder” “The Visiting

Non-fiction by Gauri Trivedi

Picture by Gauri Trivedi

ber nothing of this wonderful trip when she grows up, that I found my abstract; it was simplicity of the Taj Mahal the that struck a chord. From apparent thepallid to color an uncomplicated motifs, its it was artistic masterpiece and yet simpleenough to earn a child’s reverence. That night as we snuggled up in bed, weary but con- tent with the sightings of the come easily. “So, was day, it special for you?” I asked the sleep did not person actually responsible “Mommy, it for was mesmerising,” she the said getting it third right the atattempt. excursion. it it white and not pink? (it’s paint paint

mine and started walking. It was in that plain statement made by a little girlwho will probably remem- behind us and we found her staring at the wall, silent and intent. “I love these flowers on this they are so pretty,”she said, as I wall, clasped her hand in side the Taj Mahal we had a hard time trying tokeep her voice low. In time,she sneaked away a few steps most most earnestly to what the travel guide had to say; Hindi was as fascinating to her as French. Once in- Taj Mahal?” to “Why does Daddy wife?” Of the whole group, she the was one listening only have one pink!) and a few anomalous ones like “What if the came up up below thethe and water river filled from palpable questions like“Why arethe pillars so tall?” and “Why did they as if for little girls nothing isgood enough if it ain’t on to the giganticwhite palace, she had allkinds of

Visiting “The Wonder” “The Visiting

One Road to Freedom

There are clouds in her head Dreams on her shoulders,

But the burdens on her back I am running, I am dreaming, Drown out her soul’s desires. I will force your eyes to see She lives in her misty mind, Who I am, all that I really am, Now the thunder stops its rolling, Giving birth to baby dreams, Now there’s no stopping me. The rain gently singing melodies But the weight gets heavier, I am running, I am dreaming Soothing her raging fires, calming She’s voiceless as she screams As the road unwraps itself Her rushing rivers – as the blood “Look into my eyes, Before me – this is my path In her veins flows more tenderly, See through my emptiness, Of freedom, I wait no longer Her eyes light up, they brighten Catch a glimpse of who I am, For the world’s permission. To new freedom and dewy dawns I am so much more than this…” I am running, I am dreaming, Of new experience. In a moment

Stop this wild hunt for my soul. She will look back to see the road There’s a jungle growing thick This road is mine, I will take it - Behind her – there’d be nothing And convoluted, dark doubts There except a faint gold-dust trail, Taking deep roots in her mind. You will soon know who I am. A breeze dancing with the leaves. But the chaste blood coursing I am a dreamer, I am a seeker Through her veins are turning Of things beyond your control. No jungle now, no storm, no rain - Into a bold, roaring, raging fire. I will fly through wispy clouds, But wispy clouds on glimmering Thick clouds are gathering Lay hold of unearthly trophies, Horizons and a road that grew They will break into heavy rain, I will race right out of my mind Out of her own feisty mind. She will break out of her cage Onto the free, unfolding highway, That one road to glorious freedom, In some unexpected moment, My eyes set on the glorious edges That one way street – we run and run, Her valiant voice will thunder, Of a beautiful glimmering horizon Never back, never, but always forward. “This is me, look right at me, Calling, inviting , opening its arms Always running, and always dreaming, You will never choke me again! Wide, embracing my brazen soul”. So the bright road will keep unfurling Beneath our dainty, fearless feet.

Poetry by Jessu Goodfellow GUEST COLUMN

In the Middle of the Road

By Kiran Keswani Streets in India bustle with life and are full of rich

Street life in India offers you what any good story does experiences. In a guest – a beginning, a middle and an end. Life on the street is column for Spark, Kiran as exciting as a dramatic story or an exciting film. The Keswani offers a glimpse of beginning may be the visual chaos and the maddening life on the streets as she has cacophony, the middle is the mass of people you jostle against as you manoeuvre your way through and the seen it, gently touching upon end is the collection of experiences you leave with. the diverse interesting You may encounter people, goods and autorickshaws. aspects, particularly the Along some part of the street, there are places where myriad paan shops. Text and people pause, at the paan shop or at the Chai shop. photographs by Kiran These are the full-stops in the street before the next sentence begins. You may not be the paan-chewing Keswani. type or the cigarette smoking kind and may never need to stop here. But then, we are often reading the story while someone else is writing it. So, one just reads on.

Unlike a full stop, no two paan shops seem to look alike. GUEST COLUMN

As you near the paan shop, your steps slow down or at least your eyes do, as they flow over the scene in front of you, of someone reading a newspaper (right there in the middle of the road!!), schoolboys buying a packet of chips, a man lighting his cigarette, an el- derly man sipping his cup of chai. If you pause long enough and look long enough, you see this full-stop enlarge and become a page of happenings, a page of sharp detail. I think street life anywhere in India is like that.

The Paan shop occupies as much space in the city as a full-stop does on a page of your story- book .

Each of us chooses to see detail in a different way. I walked through Manek Chowk in Ahmedabad and found that every paan shop differed in its form, the space it occupied, how it positioned itself on the street and the context in which it functioned. The front views and the side views differed too. Often, in the paan shop, you cannot get a side view because it is a ‘hole in the wall’ shop and you find it embedded into a part of building that found its place here before the paan shop did.

Just as there is always a place for the paan after a heavy meal, it seems as if there is always a place for a paan shop in a dense street.

Kiran Keswani GUEST COLUMN

In the Middle of the Road

By Kiran Keswani

This paan shop in Manek Chowk came into existence as a small stall on the roadside, selling paan or betel nut leaf and grew into the multi-tasking shop that today sells paan and much more. You can buy anything here, from cough lozenges to postage stamps. It is also the place where men “hang out” for a quick smoke or a cup of chai as they read their day’s newspaper or share the neighbourhood gossip.

In his book ‘Ways of Seeing,’ John Berger says, “Soon after we can see, we are aware that we can also be The Paan shop is the corner store that sells the seen.” If we can see the paanwallah, we know that he small, everyday things too. can also see us. And how he defines us in this urban landscape, where we are both situated. In his eyes, we could be mere “passers-by.” Some of us are patrons of paan, some are not. Some are in a miserable hurry and others have all the time in the world. And how much time is folded into the length of a street? Perhaps only as much as each of us would give to ourselves and to the street. And when you reach the end, you could still Kiran Keswani is an architect based in be at the beginning as streets connect from one to the Bangalore with an interest in Urban other, making walking in the city that unbounded experience where we see others and others see us and Planning issues. She was a where life unfolds itself as and when you find the time Netherlands Fellow at the Institute for for it. Housing and Urban Development Studies (IHS) at Rotterdam in 1996. She is currently researching the ‘Informal plan of the City’ and blogs at http://indianbazaars.blogspot.com. The Many Moods of the Road

Photography by Maheswaran Sathiamoorthy

Road Trips in India are Never Standard!

An Interview with Rishad Saam Mehta

Interview by Anupama Krishnakumar

An avid driving traveller and photographer, Rishad Saam Mehta turned his passion to profession, and is a popular travel- writer-photographer whose columns ap- pear in major dailies across India. He decided to put together his stories from his many, many road trips across India, into a book ‘Hot Tea across India’ – all of which have a cup of tea whose memory he cher- ishes, apart from the travel itself. Find out more at http://rishad.co.in/

Drives on roads to beautiful destinations and amazing cups of chai: Anupama Krishnakumar talks to Rishad Saam Mehta, author of ‘Hot Tea across India,’ a compilation of road trips he has made over the years, published by Tranquebar in 2011.

WRITER OF THE MONTH WRITER OF THE MONTH

A travel writer and a photographer who has made ple travel drink across India! his passion a profession –what sparked off the interest in you to take this route? Where did the passion for travel find its beginning? How did you actually go about writing the book? What's the sort of material you looked into to It was a childhood filled with driving holidays. My build the narrative? parents loved road tripping and our holidays in India were mostly road trips. As a kid I thought that this I just started putting down funny incidents when I was the normal way to holiday. It was when I was had the time. At airport terminals, while on a flight older I realized that or just when I felt like writing. driving from Bombay to The book is entirely from Delhi is not considered memory. I might have cross normal for most peo- checked distances, heights of ple. So I started writing passes etc., but otherwise it is about road trips to en- all from what I remember of the courage people to go trips. out there and drive. My first camera was a pin- Road trips in India –what about hole camera when I them do you love so much that was four years old so they make you want to hit the photography started at road again and again? that age and I've never been bored of it. Plus I The uncanny knack of India to can write well, so it all throw surprises all the time. came together. Road trips in India are never standard; you just don't know

what to expect or what kind of Tell us how the con- adventures you'll have. And cept of 'Hot Tea across while we all think that driving in India' was born. What India is a pain, there are some made you decide that pretty awesome roads that you should write this book? make road trips a lot of fun. My job entailed driving to a different part of India every month and writing about the road, the direc- Having written a book with chai at its core, you tions and the things to do there. But on these trips I have to tell us where you have had the best chai in have had so many adventures and met so many India. :). What did you love about that tea? people and had so many incidents that were fantastic that I decided to write a book about these trips, Chai is not the core of the book; rather, it is inci- a sort of loosely knit travelogue – and what better dental to the book. The best chai I have had is at the way to sew it all together than with hot tea, the sta- solitary Dhaba at Chotta Dara en route from Chattru to Kaza in Spiti. I love the tea here simply because An Interview with Rishad Saam Mehta Road Trips in India are Never Standard! being the only stall here, the owner can get away As a writer, what does travel writing mean to you? with serving any kind of rubbish tea, but he puts his What are some of the things you focus on when heart and soul into it and the tea has been fantastic doing a travel story? every time I have stopped there. To share what I have experienced. If after reading my story you feel like jumping into the page and Tell us one thing that has fascinated you about the being there right now then I consider my job well truck drivers you have shared your journeys with done. during your travel adventures. They have the best road sense and driving eti- Also, there's this subtle and enjoyable humour that quette. one observes in your book. How important do you think humour is in writing travel experiences? What's the experience of exploring the road on a Very important. My book would be boring without bike like, and what do you feel is the best part of humour. I wrote it with the idea of having people it? What's one memorable trip that you have done fall off their chairs or beds laughing and then sit up, on a bike? dry their tears of joy and plan a road trip. I thrive on humour and laughing at myself. You feel a certain bond with your bike that only long distance bikers can understand. It is the unadulter- ated version of road travel: in your face, close to the Finally, what's the next one coming from Rishad? Is land, the wind in your hair. It has to be done to be it going to be another travel-related book? Tell us understood. The ride from Drass to Srinagar is one I more about it. love – it is scary and stunning and inspiring all at the I have no idea as of now. But yes, there will be an- same time. other one.

If there's a place that you would call heaven on earth (one that almost made you wish you could stay back once and for all!), which one would it Website : http://rishad.co.in be? In India, it would be the valleys of Himachal Pradesh (Baspa, Spiti, Tirthan, Karsog). Abroad – it would be Tasmania.

Do you enjoy reading books on travel? What are your favourites? I read books on big adventure like Wilbur Smith's books. My favourites are Cry Wolf and River God.

An Interview with Rishad Saam Mehta Robert .S.Donovan

The Road

Have you thought about how many different interpretations there could be to the word ‘Road’? Ram V gives you one perspective—a rather spiritual one, in his work of non-fiction. The road is so many things. It is life, time, destiny but it is also simple; a path to be walked on, he says. Read on.

Non-fiction by Ram V The Road No, this isn’t a Cormac McCarthy novel. That’s a differ- keep to it, you’ll come out the other side, a little ent road. This one is shorter and is the one I am travel- battered, a little bruised, wet and wiser for it, just in ling on right now. It is made up of words and where it time to watch that sunrise you’ve always wanted to goes, is as much a mystery to me as it is to you. But the see. words are coming, and I am laying them down one after It isn’t to say that the road is without its perils. Some the other, the best I can, so we’ll see. roads lead nowhere. Some lead to worse. But there is- Would you like to join me then? n’t much to do when you’re on a road to ruin. You must Why do we walk down roads anyway? You’ll find a keep your feet and walk until the road sees it fit to let great many people who will take the logical route and you walk off it. There are those who will stop and walk say, ‘to get to the end, of course’ and you’ll find a great no more and those who will attempt to walk back to where they came from. But it is a fool’s errand. Once many romantics who’ll tell you it’s all about the journey. Me? I say we walk down roads because we must you stop you’re as good as dead and there is never any walk. We must go on. It is the one thing that we do, al- going back; ever. The road, for all its twists and turns ways. In good weather and bad, in good times and dark only ever runs one way; forward. hours, we always walk on; the story of our lives, written Not all roads are great and neither are all of them one step at a time. fraught with danger. But the road in your backyard, Someone wise once asked, “How many roads must a down to that cozy patch of grass where inspiration, it man walk down?” Douglas Adams traveled to the ends seems, truly does grow on trees, is no less important of the universe to find the answer. Bob Dylan wrote a and no less intimidating. We each have our own roads song about it and then said the answer was blowing in to walk down. the wind and I figure, the only way to catch up with the The road is a powerful thing. It has toppled nations and wind, is to keep walking. inspired us to many great things. Ernesto Guevara rode See, the beautiful thing about roads is the fact that all it his bike down a road that led him to a revolution. Gan- takes is one wrong turn to end up someplace complete- dhi walked two hundred and forty miles down a road to ly new. So take that wrong turn. Go someplace new. break a law. If you have the chance to walk on such Live a little. Perhaps all the wrong turns will only bring great roads, take it, keep to it and thousands will walk you back to an old place, but you may see it in a new the road with you. If you betray the road or worse, if light. Then you’ll realize that life on the road is all about you betray yourself, you will find yourself alone and the wrong turns and you’ll realize that you’ve been tak- reduced to a mere footnote in the pages of history. ing all the right turns, when all you had to do was take Now before I lay these last words, to this road’s end, I the left one. have one final thing to say. The road is so many things. Sometimes the road can be scary. The lights are all out. It is life, time, destiny but it is also simple; a path to be It’s raining something evil and there are more holes in walked on. So although a journey may be long and arduous, leading to unclear, yet rewarding ends, all it the ground than in Swiss cheese. In times like those, you can be sure of one thing. The road goes on; past takes to get started on one is a deep breath, a good the dark, on to drier land and higher ground and if you pace and a far stretching road.

by Ram V Horn, Ok, Please!

Poetry by Parth Pandya

Cars from the left Cars from the right Those in the middle Steer with abject fright.

Honking in the front Honking in the back Sound moves in furious circles The car freezes in its track.

White is the smoke White is the sky Mouths are covered in vain Lungs are ready to die.

Buses with no top Buses a story high Inside, a million dreams Float upward to the sky.

Folks on the road Folks off the road Alone among the crowd Walking with head bowed.

Roads to the left Roads to the right People always at crossroads With no end in sight. The Lounge

April 2012 Pizzas, Poopy Diapers and Post- partum Depression

What really does a mother go through with the arrival of her child or children? Is it all happiness and celebration? It’s that and something else too. Chidambarakumari Ponnambalam, mother of two, shares her experiences in a heartfelt piece.

The Incidental Anger of a Reluctant Super-Mom Slice of Life

I was wrong. A year later in our new home, my darling adorable little son Arya arrived with much fanfare. The thing with parenting is everyone who has ever spent couple of hours in the vicinity of kids deems it as life’s important mission to teach you how to raise kids. When I first held my little girl Maya a good four So from the nurse, to my grandmother and her years ago, I felt all the reactions the million baby neighbour, Maya’s daycare provider – everyone told guides told me I should feel – ecstatic, tired, proud me how older siblings will react to the arrival of an- and afraid. But above all I felt an immense love for other baby and what I could do to ease the transi- that tiny human being in my arms, a tidal wave tion. Every lesson sounded valuable but I couldn’t which slowly filled my every sinew, every nerve, and do all of it. every thought and soon pulled me into a realm far With Maya, my husband fell in love with me a se- away from my comfort zone. cond time because I gave him the best gift he could I wanted to be everything to her – the mom who ever ask for – a beautiful daughter. My parents dot- baked cookies because it was a Tuesday, the mom ed on their darling first grandchild and the daughter who would lie down and count grass with her tod- who brought her home. To know Maya is to love dler all afternoon because that was precisely what her. There is simply no other way. So when Arya was marked in the To-Do list, the mom who would joined our family, everyone did their best to make be around 24/7 to chase monsters and build fairy Maya still feel loved. Amma who had come down to gardens. Yet after a few months of doing just that I help us with the new baby and the new house spent started to tire of this gig. So when Maya turned 18 all her moments with her granddaughter; cooking months I took the first job that came my way. her favourite dishes, running in the backyard and The night before I attended the interview, I sat in weaving stories of trains and goddesses, all in the her room and wrote a long tear-stained letter ask- same breath. Somu, my husband, disappeared for ing her forgiveness. I cried the first day I dropped long stretches of time to entertain his daughter and her at daycare, a little more than she did. Handling a to let her know that her Dad will always be around job and a child is easy when you have family helping while I lay alone in the hospital room making sense you. Appa flew in immediately to help with child- of a newborn’s cries. care on the days Maya didn’t go to daycare. Work- At home, I sat bundled up with my son in an up- ing away from home invigorated my mind and soul stairs bedroom while the rest of the family ran that I barely noticed the tired limbs when I reached through the sprinklers in the backyard. I changed home. I cooked new recipes, took Maya out for poopy diapers and gave baths to a newborn all by walks, read new stories. In short, my life couldn’t be myself while Amma and Maya ate icecream in the happier.

By Chidambarakumari Ponnambalam Slice of Life backyard. Gusty summer breezes carried Maya’s I felt alone. To be fair I never told anyone but my tinkling laughter to my wail-ridden bathroom walls. mom. Amma still won’t really talk about it. Or may- It was not that they ignored me but to my tear-filled be that’s her way of dealing with change. I really eyes, the picture was always blurred. Amma can’t tell. I couldn’t talk to my friends. Somehow I brought me food upstairs, Maya toddled in to sing got the feeling everyone only wants to talk about songs to her new best buddy Arya; yet to me, noth- happy mothers. Tired mothers who want to crib ing seemed enough. about their spouses, well maybe, but not sad moth- I hated the huge house. I hated having to go ers filled with murderous rage. What do you tell through a second C-section that made me sit in one such a mom? So I kept to myself, faked happy place to heal while the rest of the world had fun. I smiles every time I forced myself out and bottled it loathed the fact that my husband felt Maya needed all up. I felt ashamed. I, who had always wanted more attention than I did. I loved my kids. But I hat- kids, to be depressed, meant I was a bad mother. ed Motherhood. Six months later, I was off the meds and got a clean “PPD is a figment of the Western world’s imagina- chit of mental happiness. I felt light. tion. Indian mothers do not get it. Indian mothers The baby is now a running, climbing, falling toddler always love their children and would sacrifice every- and older sister is in a typical four-year old ‘why ?’ thing for their well-being.” How I wish this was true. phase, both adding to more confusion to my al- It took a Herculean effort everyday just to smile. My ready overrun plate. I transitioned to a work-from- mood swings were very extreme and every argu- home status with occasional runs to office when my ment left me more vulnerable. I wanted to kill my- family gets under my skin. Our couple-only lunches self but since I felt my husband was a no-good fa- have slowly disappeared and replaced with home- ther, I wanted to kill him instead. Finally I asked for made pizza evenings and screams of ‘Maya! Don’t help. I told Somu and my doctor. I was prescribed you dare drop that plate on his head’. ‘happy drugs’ and lots of love and attention. I am not completely at peace with Motherhood, Somu and I worked on getting me back to my nor- this constant nagging demand of moms to sacrifice mal self, whatever that was. He took one afternoon perfectly shaped eyebrows, of careers, of night outs off every week and took me out for lunch. He lis- with girl friends, of quiet evenings in book shops. I tened to my rants and however silly they may have hate we don’t ask much of the Dads. We are eu- sounded, he never judged me. Maya was sent to a phoric when the bloody man changes diapers and daycare for five days and with my mother-in-law loads the dishwasher twice a week. We sing paeans around to help with the baby, I slowly got back to of the ‘hands-on Dad’ when he puts the baby down working part-time. It wasn’t easy. But the distrac- for naps or builds mammoth swing sets in the back- tion that work provided really helped. I went on yard. Err…who cooked and fed and bathed the kids dates with Maya to reconnect; we made pizzas at while someone was hammering away till kingdom home, we baked more and we painted a lot. I come? worked real hard to make her understand her mom *Sigh* was still there for her. I worked harder to believe in love itself. At the end of this long and arduous journey I have learnt one thing - I love my kids. But to love myself equally is not a sin. By Chidambarakumari Ponnambalam Of Cassettes and Ilayaraja

For Anupama Krishnakumar, cassettes always remind her of Ilaya- raja, the extremely popular music composer from Tamilnadu. And the maestro’s music, even today, takes her down memory lane – back to the 80s and 90s. “Over the last few months, I have realised that Ilayaraja’s music has accompanied me like a quiet com- panion, as I was growing up,” she writes. Here’s a tribute from an ardent fan.

Audio cassettes are now clearly a thing of the past – A.R.Rahman burst into the Tamil music scene. Till they have been brushed away to dusty corners of then, it was the cassettes we recorded off those tiny homes (or perhaps are even out of homes) and of shops that ruled the roost – and when I remember course to the dusty corners of our minds – those these, I can only think of Ilayaraja and his timeless plastic, rectangular devices with two little wheels compositions. These recorded cassettes were my dutifully supporting lengthy strips of brownish-black first tryst with film music as far back as my memory tape carrying the inscribed music from the source to takes me, and this tryst began with listening to the its destination. Cassettes remind me predominantly maestro’s music, starting from when I was as young of the late 80s and the early 90s and to some extent, as three years old. There were a few Hindi cassettes the rest of 90s. My earliest memories of listening to too, but Ilayaraja was the king who ruled our collec- tapes are of those blank Meltrack cassettes that tion of recorded tapes. used to come in blue (60 minute tapes) and green (90 minute tapes) colours which Dad used to buy. He would then write down a list of songs that he would like to record, take it to the small shop that used to record songs on tapes and come back with those blank cassettes that brimmed with soulful creation. Apart from Meltrack, TDK and T-Series are the other blank cassette brands that I distinctly remember. Of course, there were the pre-recorded cassettes that came with covers we died to look at before the re- lease of a movie. In our home though, these cassettes found their ways into our racks only after by Anupama Krishnakumar Of Cassettes and Ilayaraja There is one clear memory of a song I loved that I those years of growing up. No, it’s not just about lis- heard on a gramophone record: a Malayalam song, tening for entertainment sake. Thumbi Vaa from Olangal sung by S.Janaki, (also per- Like I have understood of late, after having taken the formed later as Mood Kaapi in violin) and set to tune presence of his songs around me for granted all the- by Ilayaraja. As a child, I loved that song beyond rea- se years, something about his music makes me go son! I distinctly remember the gramophone record’s back again and again to those compositions even to- flap had the picture of a laughing woman in the fore- day. This is probably because his songs filled my ground with green stripes in the background. After younger years with so much music that I carried that, as far as my recollection goes, it has been all them within me and tied his musical notes to various about recorded cassettes as far as the music com- instants in time. My mom often says that I was ob- poser is concerned. sessed with the song, Eeramana Rojaave from the Over the last few months, I have realised that Ilaya- movie of the same name, as a three-year-old, that I raja’s music has accompanied me like a quiet com- used to keep singing it in a loop. And then there are panion, as I was growing up. I say this with a little bit those quintessentially 80s songs like Devan Thandha of surprise because all these years I have been oblivi- Veenai, Pothi Vecha Malligai Mottu, Thendral Vandhu Ennai Thodum, Senbagame, Ei Orayiram,Sangeetha Megam, Ilaya Nila, En Iniya Pon Nilaave, Pon Mane, Medhuva Medhuva and Man- dram Vandha … ones that I remember humming with whatever lyrics my mind could assimilate as a child – humming them when standing at shops next to Mom, humming them while walking and then later, while cycling down to school, repeatedly singing portions of some songs whose tunes appealed to my mind, as I sat in the terrace, trying to study – sometimes, I remember feeling awkwardly shy too for that gentle madness. Mind you, the entire list isn’t finding its place here because when you begin talking of Ila- yaraja’s music of the 80s when he literally was ruling the Tamil music industry ripping apart the competition, reducing them to miniscule drops in the ocean of music, you don’t talk songs but talk movies that are fondly looked back at even today for the brilliant music – Johnny, Nizhalgal, Mundram Pirai, Meendum Kokila, Raaja Parvai, Sindhu Bhairavi, Mudhal Mari- yadhai, Sathya,Poove Poochuduva, Mouna Raagam, Punnagai Mannan, Nayagan, Karagattakaran and ous to this very simple truth. I have never, except till Anjali... a few gems among many such others. And recently, consciously and truly understood how one fondly remembers the 90s for films like Thalapa- much his music had pervaded my life through all thi, Devar Magan, Chinna Thambi, Mahanadhi, by Anupama Krishnakumar Of Cassettes and Ilayaraja Guna, Captain Prabakaran, Marupadiyum and of Tamil film music will be able to pull out a sizeable Kadhalukku Mariyadhai. list of his ‘popular’ melody songs. My list has many of I revisit these songs and many more even today – these too – but there are these other songs too that through dozens of playlists created on every music are extremely brilliant and perhaps not as popular. If player I can lay my hands on – from the iPod to iPad you get a chance, listen to Kannama kadhal ennum to my laptop (I so love the shuffle option on all of kavidhai from Vanna Vanna Pookal for Ilayaraja’s these) to the USB mp3 player. I should mention here husky voice and some brilliant interlude music, to that long after cassettes died their natural death, I Sithagathi Pookale from Rajakumaran for some very still have with me some of those Meltrack tapes, with interesting beats that last the entire song, to Rasave their cases cracked due to all the travelling they have Unnai Nambi from Mudhal Mariyadhai for the soulful done with me ever since I left home to study at the rendition by S.Janaki that brims with longing and love, to Poova Eduthu from Amman Kovil Kizhakaale age of 17. It is not until 2005, when I moved to Bom- bay to work, that I sort of stopped listening to these for the sheer village rawness that pervades the song, already-slowing-down-due-to- to Idazhil Kadhai Ezhudum from Unnal Mudiyum overuse cassettes and switched Thambi for the honey-dripping melody, to the then fast- gaining- to Nil Nil Nil from Paatu Paadava for its popularity CDs. surprisingly mood-lifting (this is one song that brings me so much joy) music and I remember walking into a mu- rhythm, to Athadi Ammadi from sic store in Colaba in South Idhayathai Thirudadhey for Chitra’s ex- Bombay and discovering much ceptional voice and the pure energy of to my delight, a CD of Ilayaraja’s the song, to Ninnai Charan Adaindhen ‘How to Name It’ – the album from Bharathi for Ilayaraja’s stirring voice that unleashes his potential to and the devotion in it, to Poo Malarn- exploit the instrument that he dhida from Tik Tik Tik for the way the truly is a Master at utilising: the song seamlessly moves from Carnatic to Violin. ‘How to Name It’ is sheer Western rhythm and En Veetu Jannal from Raman brilliance – every time that I have listened to this al- Abdullah for Bavatharini’s crystal clear voice and the bum, it has evoked a whole range of emotions in me song’s tune itself and lastly, to Panneril Nanaindha – from feeling light to experiencing a queer melan- Pookal from Poove Poochuduva for the phenomenal choly that has threatened to throw the mental barri- use of violin and the North-Indian influence on the cades open, ushering in a rain of tears – silent and song. from deep within. It’s true that I have listened to most of his composi- And when we talk of music that moves even the tions, if not all. And time and again, they have filled strongest of minds, how can I forget the evergreen, me with a warmth that is difficult to put down in outstanding and terrific title track of ‘Mouna Ragam’? words. The music has never failed to tug at my heart A musical piece such as this one is so hard to come strings, has eased the mind, filling the being with a by, even after so many years. Or for that matter, the very beautiful lightness. For me, it has always had musical ballad composition from Punnagai Mannan. that true healing power that people say music is said Melody is no doubt the man’s forte, and any listener to have. There’s something definitely unburdening

by Anupama Krishnakumar Of Cassettes and Ilayaraja about listening to Ilayaraja’s songs. got to have is that ear for his musical notes. And Ila- yaraja, I bet, wouldn’t disappoint. As for me, if I ever The coming of A.R.Rahman two decades ago and over think I should undo the knot on my bag of treasured the years, a spate of new composers, both good and memories, I definitely know where to head to. bad, have probably pushed Ilayaraja to the background. Yet, who can deny that the man is pure geni- us? He ruled an era like a king and has given us un- paralleled gems of musical creation – music inimita- ble and transporting. No matter how far we have travelled in time, his songs, joyfully soulful – are here to enthral today and for many years to come. All you

Pictures : Google Images

by Anupama Krishnakumar Film Freak

By Yayaati Joshi

Agent Vinod : Clichés and Caricatures Galore

Agent Vinod is ridden with clichés and caricatures, says Yayaati Joshi. While he went expecting something better or different from the Bond and Bourne films that he has watched, he was disappointed. With only these films to draw inspiration from, it’s not surprising to catch a glimpse of the movies in this Indi- an sleuth flick, he says. Note : Spoiler Alert!

Where would we be without clichés, archetypes, about 242—hitherto an unknown object, but the and prototypes? How would we recreate the same gravity with which it is spoken about leaves no effect as the Bond/Bourne films? These are the sort doubts in our minds that it is a weapon of mass de- of questions the crew of Agent Vinod needs to an- struction. Vinod enters his boss’s room, but not swer. Everything about the film seems to be a rip- without trying to impress his secretary with flaw- off of either a Bond, or a Bourne or even an Ethan less Japanese (a ‘tribute’ to James Bond and Hunt film. Moneypenny?). The film begins with Agent Vinod being briefed Storyboard Film Freak He then goes around the world—Russia, Morocco, Paki- stan and even London, to stop a nuclear bomb from being detonated in New Delhi. Along the way, he shoots (not sharply), runs (not impressively), wisecracks (not witting- ly) and romances (not convincingly). This is where the crux of the problem lies. In an attempt to recreate a desi sleuth with Bond like attributes, the filmmakers mess up both. Neither is Agent Vinod a perfect replica of Bond (so that one can let it pass thinking “Imitation is the best form of flattery”) nor is he an exclusively individualistic identity (so that one can say “Wow, how different from the rest!”). What Sriram Raghavan, the director, ends up doing is taking bits and pieces from many films, and con- solidating them, so that from the viewer’s point of view, there’s almost everything that one could expect—a complete package, so to say, which has some skin show, some mafia type characters, a terrorist hell bent on destroying the nation, and a love interest of the spy.

So far, so mediocre. Post intermission, I was waiting for some hardcore action to make up for the insipid- ness of the first half. But here too, I was only mildly impressed. The usual referencing to the enemy across the fence, and how both nations want peace, just that a few elements would prefer otherwise (this was thankfully subtly stated, not in the chest-thumping jingoistic fashion of Sunny Deol) finds its place. In the second half, we also find out more about Kareena’s character, again a stereotyped, damsel in distress, who is at the wrong place at the wrong time, and is looking to be redeemed by Agent Vinod. Through a series of chases and one-versus-many fights, it finally dawns on us that 242, the “something” that Agent Vinod is after, is actually a nuclear bomb. But that’s hardly a surprise. The ‘surprise’ that Raghavan plants for us is that the attack wasn’t tailored by a terrorist group, but by a businessman, a sort of a war-profiteer, who sends his man to detonate the bomb (it was impossible for me to not think of Le Chiffre and his henchman in Casino Royale). The film ends with Agent Vinod successfully diffusing the bomb, not without the usual drama in which the bomb is diffused only a few seconds before it is about to explode. For the ones who watch fewer films, perhaps this might be a mildly rewarding experience; after all, the film does have some picturesque shots of Morocco. But a seasoned film watcher would immediately realise that a very similar expanse of Tangiers was shown in the Bourne franchise too. To my mind, a better Agent Vinod could have been made if the director had steered clear of all the ste- reotypes and clichés. People who are actually in the field of counter intelligence (like a classmate of mine) tell me that the life of a ‘spy’ is rather boring. The only ‘action’ that happens, happens in bits and

Agent Vinod| Review by Yayaati Joshi Film Freak pieces, and not very regularly. Perhaps this could choreographers have criticised for being unauthen- have been a fine premise for the film—a crude, raw tic. story line, where the sleuth is not very different For me, the film didn’t work at all. I have seen all from a regular policeman (and he doesn’t wear a Bond and Bourne films, and all the MI films too, so I tuxedo). But then, who’s to say? Saif maintains his was expecting something better, or something verve and suave, and another name is added to the different. But for what it’s worth, while exiting that already long list of charming spies. He asks for cinema hall, I heard a couple chatter: “It wasn’t that chilled beer while being held at a gunpoint, he great”. That should say it all. speaks shudh Hindi (but grammatically incorrect) after saving a foreign looking risqué woman, in fact he does everything that one would have expected Film Freak is an exclusive monthly column by Yayaati him to do. Had there been an element of surprise in Joshi, who, well, is a film freak. Going forward, It will the portrayal, I’d have enjoyed it. Same with Ka- feature movie reviews and essays on various aspects reena—the only saving grace is her mujra, which of Indian and world cinema. Do you own a copy of our anthology, ‘Sparkling Thoughts’?

Order it now at http://pothi.com/pothi/book/anupama-krishnakumar-sparkling-thoughts Tuning In To Different Times

by Vani Viswanathan

Vani Viswanathan laments the music of today and wishes she could have been born to spend her teenage in the 70s—just so she could have lived through the best English music of all times.

I have always wished I was born in the late 50s or in once noted about the hits of today – they are all sad the 60s. Just so that I would have been a teenager in (literally, yes, but often metaphorically too), and the 70s. In the US; no actually better still, the UK. they are mostly about breakups. Adele’s song that You know, when it was ok to be a hippie, when trav- rocketed her to fame (err, in my definition, a song elling the world as a teenager was simply the cool- so popular that I happened to hear it) – ‘Someone est thing to do, when you’d only get half-weirded- like you’ – has a 21-year-old singing about a man a out stares if you were a flower child. But most of all, lady loved who happened to marry someone else. it was for the music. The best music the world has ever heard, unless something revolutionary happens to the ears of those who compose these days. The strict Rahman fan that I am, though, I will maintain this statement for English music only. International music contains to be as awesome as ever, if anything, getting more fans worldwide thanks to the

Internet. I must confess at the outset I cannot claim to know all about the songs of then or of the songs of now, but I do know enough to compare, and to say without doubt that songs of then are far more legend- ary, classic, and innovative than most of the hits of today. The song that I am currently addicted to – Gotye’s Come on, just sample the songs that become mas- ‘Somebody that I used to know’ – is about a man sive hits these days – if they are not about disturb- being grumpy about his girlfriend moving on. There ingly young children singing about their lame lives is no innovation about the lyrics. They are a bunch (‘Which seat do I take?’), these same children sing of everyday, meaningless words strung together and about their budding dating lives (‘Baby, baby, baby, put to a tune that rarely has any music in it. OH!’). There is one irritating trend that my friend Tuning In To Different Times

The other painful-to-the-ear trend is how the songs The songs of the 70s also had a lot of character. of today rely almost obsessively on Auto-Tune. And They spanned a lot more topics and were often hap- the beat, oh my god, the damning beat. The beat py and promising. A staggering large number of the and the software make you wonder if they even rec- top ones had something to do with drugs, but at orded the song at a studio or whether everything least this was masked in the name of discussing was simply gener- something else. They ated with a com- were about peace, ob- puter. session, love, revolu- Let’s dial back to tion, challenging atti- the songs of the tudes. Lyrics prodded 70s. The Beatles you to think – they were in their were poems, or they prime, making the were everyday words world go gaga. The that you’d had to put world of Rock was some effort into to un- at its best time ev- derstand, enjoy. Be it er, and here I’m The Stairway to Heav- only talking about en, Hotel California or the really known Baba O’Riley, they ones, the popular ones: Pink Floyd, The Rolling leave it to you to interpret it. The music has a Stones, The Who, Led Zeppelin, Queen, Simon & haunting touch – be it Kashmir’s scintillating guitar Garfunkel. If you are a fan of Rock, cross your heart riffs, the moods through which Baba O’Riley swings, and tell me you’ve heard consistently brilliant music Pink Floyd’s psychedelic sounds, or Bohemian Rhap- in any of the recent years (I’ll discount the 80s in sody’s mixture of operatic and rock elements – you general, they were a brilliant bunch of years too). see diversity, you see talent, and you see music that The Eagles were adding the American touch, The is not the result of a computer’s interference. Police (and Sting) had arrived. ABBA was still rock- The 80s were simply an awesome decade for music ing, Fleetwood Mac was being unique and hippie. U2 had been formed. Eric Clapton was stringing too, with music videos coming in to make a song magic together on the guitar. You had your Bruce memorable. The 90s were fun too. Just what hap- Springsteen, Rod Stewart, Van Halen, David Bowie pened after 2000? The boy bands left, Rock also be- and others sprucing up the music of the decade. came sad (literally and metaphorically ;)), Pop just And how can I forget, there was Michael Jackson, became a euphemism for lesser clothes and raun- who, thankfully, survived another couple of decades chy dance moves. Hip-Hop became an excuse for before falling to ruin. The names of the bands ring singing to eventually dwindle to mere talking and in innovation. They spell something that’s worth later supplemented by Auto-Tune. I don’t dispute being heard. Today? Between the baby boy’s whose the fact that many singers do have brilliant voices – voice is just breaking to a lady gifted with a power- be it Lady Gaga or Rihanna or Katy Perry – but so ful voice but annoys you with her crude personality, often their voices are drowned by instruments and I don’t know whom to pick. by Vani Viswanathan Tuning In To Different Times

In beats that most often sound the same – or per- Viswanathan Vani by haps it’s my untrained ears that cannot distinguish all of this. There is one thing just so wonderful about music today, though – the Internet. For a late entrant into the music of the 70s like me, there is nothing like YouTube when it comes to discovering ‘newer’ old music, finding the videos of the time, listening to con- cert versions or the occasional rare videos of the stars discussing their songs – for someone who so wished to have lived her teenage/20s in the 1970s, these videos provide some vicarious pleasure.

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The Ton of Joy

Parth Pandya’s piece is a fitting tribute and a quiet celebration of the achievement beyond compare of a master batsman. Sachin Tendulkar, we are proud of you and inspired too!

Imagine being good at something. Imagine that you In a match deemed inconsequential in the recent were so good you thought you could make a career past against an opposition deemed unfit by arm- out of it. Add to it the fact that you are lucky to chair critics, that diminutive man nudged a single have been born in India, the country with no short- on the leg side to add to his legend in an improba- age of others to compete with. But you are persis- ble way. Sachin constructed Mt. Tendulkar, by tent. You’ll make your mark, you believe. You may hitting his 100th international century. It was his be the best in your suburb, your city even. But wait, 49th in one day internationals, to add to the 51 he did I tell you that you would only be 16 when you has notched up in test matches. It was coincidental- had to prove you are this good? In fact, did I tell ly, his first one day international century against the you that not only do you have to be the best in your minnows Bangladesh—but not without receiving city, you need to be among the best in the country? flak for it—so much for getting a ton against a weak Actually, make it the world. And note that you opposition. Of his 100 tons, 20, yes, 20 have come won’t have much chance to fail. You are being against the best team in the world in the two dec- watched, every step of the way. By everyone. Every ades that he has played – Australia. You get the day that you represent your country in what is gen- magnitude of the achievement when you realise erously described as a cauldron, you’ll be expected that when Tendulkar nudged the ball to the leg side to walk on water, lift a nation sinking under the bur- to get that momentous single, he confirmed the den of its own reality. You can lose your privacy, existence of a statistic in cricket that did not even but not your mind. You can be praised and damned, exist before – so improbable was it thought to be. but your dignity can’t be compromised. You are the The wait for the 100th century has been its own face of your profession, a God in flesh, a reason long saga. From the time that he got his 99th ton why people switch off their lives and switch on the against South Africa in the World Cup, it was as- television. You balk at the prospect? Welcome to sumed that it was a matter of time. A century in the the life of Sachin Tendulkar. final of the World Cup at Wankhede would have by Parth Pandya Slice of Life The Ton of Joy made it a dream achievement, but it was not to be. with 99 centuries could simply not conjure up one England followed, then West Indies and then Aus- century more. But he accepted the situation with tralia – match after match, the century kept being the humility that he has shown in his career and played up. Advertisers were waiting for it to hap- decided to grind his way to this century. For a man pen, commemorative plaques were built and kept who has been asked to retire relentlessly by his and news articles with clever headlines were al- critics in the past year, the century just gave him a ready thought of. But it didn’t happen. Time and reason not to. again, he crept up on the three figure number just When Tendulkar first burst onto the cricketing sce- to fall short, often losing the battle in his mind. The ne as a prodigy, his entry brought with it the limit- pressure kept building, especially as India got less set of expectations – after all, why expect any- whipped in all their overseas games. Tendulkar’s thing less from a talent that promises so much? But hundred became a national obsession – a country’s the chances of a prodigy delivering on his ample breath was literally held and it was being choked gifts are fraught with the fragility of a tender flower in an unrelenting grip. Tendulkar’s critics, some of in a strong breeze. For it to survive, it must have whom are cricketers with much lesser pedigree, strength of character to go with the innate beauty and others whose qualifications involve sitting in that it possesses. Tendulkar’s career is that flower the luxury of their armchairs and haven’t yet and that has survived and blossomed. Those who un- never will score one run in international cricket, derstand it have unlocked the keys to understand- brought their daggers out. All of this got to the ing the value of this Mount Tendulkar. Bradman’s great man, who was suddenly made to look human. imperfection may have been poetic. But Tendul- This is what makes this ton so special – that a man kar’s journey is, without any doubt, a pure epic.

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