July Issue
For this month’s issue we have tried to unravel the various facets of the number Seven. We asked people what they can create with the number “seven” and this issue holds the answer.
The number seven has such colorful facts surrounding it that you cannot disregard it. The seven continents and the seven seas, the seven wonders of the world, the seven virtues and the seven deadly sins, the seven heavens and the seven fires in hell, why even the seven horcruxes of Lord Voldemort!
We hope you have fun unraveling this magical number as you flip through these pages.
Happy reading!
7 Reasons to Love the Boy Wizard – Aditya Srikrishna
If you haven’t read Harry Potter, I am sorry for you. Even worse, if you’re a Twilight fan absolutely ignorant of the phenomenon called Harry Potter, I would probably despise you. The last film in the series, the seventh one, is due for release this year and is going to be in two parts. The first one in November 2010 and the second in the summer of 2011. The first official trailer of Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows was released about ten days ago along with the latest Twilight movie. And guess what happened? On the eve of a Twilight release, Deathly Hallows was trending on Twitter. If you are not yet part of the cult (which I would be very surprised about) then, here are seven reasons to sign up ASAP:
1. J.K. Rowling:
The creator herself. Why? Because she is that darn good. J.K.Rowling brought non-believers into believing in magic as much as she made non-readers pick up a book and read. It’s not just her imagination that runs wild and carefree, but it’s also the way she writes. The quality of her writing, the choice of words, the way she makes the characters speak to the reader. The writing transports you into that fantasy in ways that no 3D movie ever can. You feel within as you look around on all four sides to watch Harry and friends grow up, board platform nine and three quarters and come of age.
2. Characters:
In a make believe world with enough artistic licenses, the characters are the most believable aspect. They speak and behave like we do, and feel the emotions that any of us would. Not a single character is wasted and neither is he/she denied a deserving introduction and end. The characters are sketched with a sleight of hand and always have a voice of reason that befits a player in a fantasy world. Harry is independent because he’s been like that right from his birth. He values people, their friendship because he knows their worth. Ron has those insecurities that anyone with his upbringing would have. As you grow up with them, you develop a subconscious that cares for them.
3. The Yarn:
If there is one thing that you can’t take away from J.K. Rowling, it’s her ability to spin one exciting story. The intriguingly gradual build up of the plot from Book 1 to Book 7 wouldn’t be as enjoyable without the jigsaw puzzle way of storytelling of Rowling. The whole insanity behind “raising Harry like a pig for slaughter” wouldn’t have made sense without the incredible yarn. The little nuggets in every book that tells you how the tiny pieces were all in there even before the first book came out are part of the intrigue (sometimes these come to light only in second or third readings. Or if you read editorials on a fan site!). Ultimately, it harks back to Rowling for creating a world that would stand on its own in a galaxy far far away, the neighbors of which could well be Middle Earth and Tatooine.
4. Life Lessons:
In this age, where you are boring if you are preachy, the Harry Potter series was a revelation. Move over Aesop’s Fables for children. And move over the excessively preachy Paulo Coelhos of the world. Here is a series that lays out some of the most important life lessons without pushing it down your throat. Not only are the good and evil clearly etched out, but the gray is too, that develops in you a moral dilemma as to whom to root for. As you figure that out, you learn a great deal of things. Value of people, friends, trust, choices, togetherness and the eventual triumph of good over evil – these thoughts linger as silent undertones throughout the series, never lifting their heads to affect the pace and suspense of the storyline.
5. Reading Pleasure:
It’s easy on the eyes and harder on the mind. But altogether immensely enjoyable. In the late 90s, adults read Harry Potter on their shuttle to work behind newspapers. Not only do the characters grow with each book, but the level of maturity increases with each and in the end it’s a handsomely rewarding experience. Purists may argue about Rowling’s love(or weakness?) for adverbs and some such nitpicks, but so what? She is a great storyteller, probably the best from the last few decades.
6. All You Need is Love:
Some might think that JKR takes the easy route at the most critical of situations. New spells are discovered and used all the time. Professor Snape himself says how Harry benefits a lot by sheer luck and by being around people much more talented than Harry could ever aspire to be. But when love comes to the rescue in the form of exquisite prose of JKR, manifested by the mother, the friend, the teacher, the mentor and the godfather, you sit back to appreciate one of the most soothing manipulations.
7. Magic:
What’s fantasy without all the magic and wizardry? Almost every new entity is introduced with a dazzling flourish and imagination. Diagon Alley, The Leaky Cauldron, Gringgots, Ministry of Magic, Hogsmeade, Godric’s Hollow, Chamber of Secrets, Spinner’s End, 12 Grimmauld Place, Azkaban etc. And how can magic be without the spells? Accio, Descendo, Stupefy, Sectumsempra, Reducto, Obliviate, Imperio, Finite Incantantem, Expectro Patronum, Reparo, Lumos. The beauty of Harry Potter lies partly in this physical magic universe and partly within the metaphysical magic that encloses the characters, their actions, the writing and the magnanimity of it all. As we get ready one last time to witness the spectacle on celluloid (admittedly, much less rewarding), we give ourselves one more chance to thank J.K. Rowling for this unforgettable journey.
Creative Writing Workshop
The Creative Workshop
The thought sparked into life when we as representatives of The Banyan Trees wanted to give something back to the society in terms of literature. The end result was the plan to find educational institutions and conduct creative workshops. To this end, when I was in India I visited “Jawahar Vidyalaya Sr Sec School” located in Ashok Nagar, Chennai. The school is my alma matter as well as Nivi’s. I have studied for nearly 12 years in this school and it’s almost been my second home. I was really excited to go back and be able to motivate and encourage the children to write.
The objective of this assignment, for all of us involved with the magazine, was mainly to give the children a platform to express themselves and hopefully we have taken a step towards that.. I’m really happy and thankful to the principal of the school and the language teachers who were absolutely supportive about this venture. The children ofcourse were curious, inquisitive and excited all at the same time. They had questions about the vision of the magazine, its purpose, the kind of audience it caters to and even about its goals for the future.
I gave them a topic to write about and told them that prizes would be distributed to the best ones. The topic given was “If you were to become one of these characters which one would you be and why?
1. Harry Potter
2.Neo from Matrix
3.Avatar
4.Batman
5. Rancho from 3 Idiots
The school principal Mrs.Elizabeth Thomas addressing the students
The children were very enthusiastic to write. Of course most of the write-ups did say that they wanted to be “Harry Potter”. I guess it’s triggered by the innate interest that human beings have with regard to “magic”. Most write-ups further substantiated their claim by saying that “every problem in the world can be solved by MAGIC”. What amazed me was the maturity I found in certain essays in talking about global as well as national issues and figuring out a way to solve them. It almost made me feel that they did not need a superhero; they had such innovative ideas all hidden in themselves.
On the whole, I’m really glad I got this opportunity through this magazine to interact with the future superheroes of the country 
Look out for the prize winning entries from this workshop in our next edition!!
Memorable Women in Books
Anna Karenina and Madame Bovary.
Both these women gave primacy to the self than society. They had the courage to be, to throw caution to winds and burn like a candle –from both ends.
These women are possessed by their feelings for their lovers. They don’t pause a while to ascertain what their lovers feel for them. They want to embalm love in youth.
They have a literal fall in love for they fail to understand the transience of feelings. These characters assert that the woman can scale the walls of institutions, if she desires. It is patriarchal to call her such acts sin.
—Raja Jaikrishan
Who is the most selfish, egoistic and manipulative fictional character you have read about? At the same time, who can command respect and has sheer determination to alleviate any dire circumstance without losing an ounce of pride? If no one comes to your mind, it is time you read “Gone with the Wind”. I have known few people to not like the vivacious and audacious Scarlett O’Hara, the protagonist of Margaret Mitchel’s classic. She is portrayed as the atypical Southerner who indulged in herself immensely. Any good that she might have done would have been to appease herself and her survival than for the greater mankind. Yet, the intensity with which she hated and loved, her “never say die” attitude and shrewd mind highlights her dynamic personality. I have never ceased to hate this vain, self conceited lady while harboring perpetual admiration for her. She who taught me “After all, tomorrow is another day.” continues to inspire me to this day.
In stark comparison comes Jane Marple, the old spinster who teaches us to respect experience and age. Behind her simple demeanor and clumsy actions, is an astute mind which probably runs the best pattern matching algorithm. She challenges popular beliefs of the boredom of village life and draws interesting analogies from mundane instances and stereotypical people adding value to the lives of everyone in St. Mary Mead. Miss Marple’s logical breakdown of complex crimes like the ones in “The Body in the Library” and “4:50 in Paddington” reinforces the simplicity of quintessential human emotions and motives. Is it hard to guess why I have always dreamed about being a detective now?
— Archana Kannan
Elizabeth Bennet, Pride and Prejudice
Her ideals were way above the aristocratic ideals of the typical English in that period. She was witty, intelligent, idealistic and at that the same time, judgmental and adamant. This combination, I think, is irresistible.
–Prathap
Sara – The Little Princess
Doing the right thing is hard enough for adults, but for a 11 year old girl to ‘act like a lady’ in the truest sense of the world was inspiring and humbling.
-Suchitra:
Sophy Stanton-Lacy (The Grand Sophy by Georgette Heyer)
When someone says “There’s nothing to be done though”, i particularly like her response “That is what people always say when they are too lazy, or too timorous, to make a push to be helpful!!”
–Janani
Mariam from Thousand Splendid Suns
Maybe its because of the poignancy of the character.It is a pity that her whole life is shrouded by grief. Just like a mirage in desert, all male characters offer her hope, just to fail in time The briefest possible moments of hope are ones with children of Laila which we savor along with her. And her braveness in face of death. Or tears while facing it, leave you with a lump in your throat.
– Harish Narayanan
Jo March – Little Women
Jo March, the protaganist of Little Women, is a character who has touched many hearts. In a time when women mostly dreamed about marrying well and settling down, Jo was different- she dreamed of becoming a writer and she went out and made sure her dream came true. She was passionate, fiercely independent, and blatantly honest. She was a tom boy who dared to ‘run in a dress’. While most of the other female characters in the book embodied an ideal woman of that time, Jo had her imperfections… and that just made us love her even more.
-Dhivya Arasappan
Sally Hope (Malory Towers)
Growing up , Malory towers was my favorite series. It probably still ranks very high up on my lsit of favorite books. Though Darrel Rivers is the protagonist , Its the level headed ever trust worthy Sally hope that stole my heart. Its the amazing calmness in which Sally hope handles situations that makes her awesome. Being quiet and patient is a hard trait especially for a teenager. Though there are many more favorite heroines of mine, Sally Hope was my first favorite.
– Nivethitha Kumar
Florentyna Rosnovski
The title character of Jeffrey Archer’s The Prodigal Daughter. Her character illustrated the dynamics of a strong and independent woman’s explosive relationships with her dogmatic father (Abel of Kane & Abel) and enterprising husband (son of Abel’s arched rival Kane). With all this going, she managed to hold her ground to become a powerful businesswoman and later, the President of United States. Could it be more inspiring?
-Divya Kumar
Bellatrix Lestrange (Harry Potter)
In the world of fantasy, seldom has anyone created a character that is not only intriguing but at the same time an important one in the larger scheme of things. And evil women? J.K. Rowling had the courage to do it. Bellatrix is synonymous with evil, misery and all things violent. Not only is it absolutely impossible to like Bellatrix but it won’t be a shocker if someone flinches at the mere mention of the name. A name feared the world over, the real and magic, second only to the Dark Lord himself. She can be a favorite for her character arc, but never liked.
-Aditya Srikrishna
An Ode to Eve
by Sirpy Jayaprakasam
Half the audience were in tears. Not in laughter, but in plain emotion. Though either were equally probable.
10 months before the play:
My brother wanted to shift school after his 10th standard. He insisted that the reasons were purely academic and that it had nothing to do with the fact that the school he was joining was a co-ed school. I tried messing around with my parents, using my half-baked, medieval notions of distraction and hormonal overtones but they conveniently trashed it. I brooded for some time but my brother swore on his 10th standard books, which he had pored over for so much that they carried imprints of his drool, that he would introduce me to at least two females. I agreed and let go. He didn’t. And we sold the 10th standard books at floor rates in the second-hand market.
Anyway, my parents in their euphoria over my brother’s marks decided to go for it. It was a bad trade, let me tell you. My brother told me I was just being jealous.
Finally, my brother entered paradise; a paradise he had been denied for the lousier part of his 15 years of life. Ten days and he had the whole female population of his class calling him on various doubts. My mom was proud, my dad was cynical and I was rather pissed. I played the fox and forced myself to believe that either the other guys were too dumb or the females looked like ogres. Neither made me feel any better.
Days weathered into hours, hours into minutes, minutes into seconds and seconds into something insanely smaller. My brother had started going steady with a girl named Shruthi. At least he liked to think so. He started telling me his fantasies which were quite lucid and completely boring. Imagine teenage one-sided love fetishes – they would deteriorate the entire foundation on which Harlequin manages to sell its books.
My brother was not exactly the kind of hero who is described in a Mills & Boon project – on the contrary he was the direct opposite. He was short, not exactly dark, wears spectacles thrice his muscle power and walks like a girl. He has to get evolved at least twenty five generations before his nose even, faintly resembles Patrick Dempsey. But he had the heart and the determination of a buffalo, eating sugarcane in addition to an excellent memory.
That was what made it worse. But I knew my time would come and it did. Quite appropriately.
7 days before the play:
The Annual Day was nearing and rhetorically, there was a play. After much useless deliberation, the English professor decided on ‘Romeo and Juliet’. My brother was so excited when he told me this that I thought he was going to go Archimedes. I barely managed to prevent him from doing anything drastic. He sat up all night, ingesting lines and lines of ridiculously verbose dialogues. He told me that Shruthi would be his inspiration when was going in for the audition. I wrinkled my nose in disgust and went about muttering to myself about the youngsters of this generation. I felt old.
The next evening our hero came back home. Dejection was writ largely on his face. I nonchalantly enquired what happened. He told me in two sentences. “I did not get the part. Shruthi got Juliet’s part” and then proceeded to weep on my shoulder. Let me tell you, I am not completely devoid of brotherly love even though I might have grinned inwardly. I consoled him as best as I could. Bad move. The Coovum embankment broke.
An hour or so later, I was able to infer from all the testosterone/oestrogen induced gabble-gooble that something like this happened. Apparently, they rejected him outright because he was a teeny bit too short and a weeny bit too fair, to play the tall, dark, handsome Romeo. The role went to his arch nemesis – Rakesh. Shruthi obviously got the part of Juliet. It all does sound a bit too reminiscent of many a Tamil movie plot, but my brother insists that’s what happened.
I felt a plan materialising. I sat him up and rubbed away his tears, quite dramatically. I stood up, struck the pose of an army general and started, “Listen, my stupid brother. There ain’t no such thing as an unexplained enigma or hickey. Don’t ask me now, what that means. You simply cannot let the mother of your children and my sister-in-law, be somebody else’s… err… mother or sister-in-law. Rakesh and Shruthi will spend time; rehearsing portions, portions that are sneaky, clever and fiendishly plotted. DO NOT LET THEM BE ALONE. Even for a moment. Follow her, memorize her dialogues; act as if helping her. Be the jealous lover that you are. Are you? (paused for more dramatic effect, he looked at me appallingly) You must be. Now go. And get the girl!”
He stood up and saluted. Actually he did not. He simply said “Ok,” and went inside the house. I felt stupid but I was elated. My plan was in place. Soon Shruthi was going to detest him.
2 days before the play:
I was sitting outside the house, ostentatiously solving complex differential problems when my brother came back from school. He just said, “Shruthi is sick”. He went into the house without a word. His behaviour was puzzling but I was too lazy and disinterested to know what was troubling him. One tear-snot stained shirt is enough for one week.
12 hours before the play:
My Mom reminded me that I had to come back early today as we were attending the Annual Day function. I walked to my bike thinking about all the gorgeous girls would be falling head-over-tennis shoes in love with me. I made a mental note to wear my Ray Ban and then decided against it. It would be rather imbecilic to sit inside a closed auditorium wearing shades.
In the evening, we reached the place much before the allotted time; I made sure we did. It was swarming with parents and teachers. To my chagrin, all the 11th and 12th standard students were behind the stage, getting it ready for the function.
The function started off a devotional song. Soon after the death of a few crows from multiple auditory haemorrhages, the principal gave a rather boring lecture on the importance of education, probably lifted off from Scribd. The chief guest encored the performance. Finally, it was time for the play. My brother was nowhere to be seen. I could see Shruthi, sitting two rows from the stage with her parents. Curiously, she did not look that ill. Thunderous music played to thunderous applause as the screen opened to reveal the backdrop. The applause rose a notch as Romeo/Rakesh walked in and started his monologue. Seconds later, Juliet walked in. My parents gasped. The audience stopped clapping, gasped and started laughing. I could barely control my laughter.
It was my brother.
The reasoning was quite straightforward. After Shruthi hit pyrexia, there was no one who knew the dialogues that well. There was unfortunately no time either. So there he was, standing in front of the guffawing crowd, me included. He gingerly started his monologue. Everybody stopped instantly. It was miraculous. My kid brother literally rode the play like an Arabian horse, absorbing the character and almost becoming one with it. Every aspect, every instance, every move that a woman could possibly attribute to possessing the copyright, he showcased. At the end of it, the audience gave a 2-minute long, standing ovation. My parents were damned proud as my dad punched me in the arm and told me to be more like him. I smiled nauseatingly.
As the cast bowed to rousing applause, I realised something poignant and deep that second. The audience were not enraptured by my squeaky brother. They were just taken up by the role – the role of a woman. My brother was just the medium who made us understand that there is a woman hidden in all of us. The complete inner meaning encapsulating the calm, cool exterior of how she bears the pain and suffering in everyday life is just there to realise, empathise and respect. I was sure every man sitting there got that in good measure. It was wonderful.
5 minutes after the play:
I walked to the green room to congratulate my brother. Shruthi was not in her place. As I was about to enter the room, the door flung open and my brother came running out, clad in a sweat-soaked vest screaming, “I passed the test!! She kissed me!!” and hugged me. My “Eh??!” got itself brainstuck as he ran away somewhere into the parking lot still screaming with all his marbles lost.
It took me ten whole minutes to translate the whole situation. It was so simple and oh so clever. Shruthi did not fall sick involuntarily. She fell sick on purpose. She made sure the guy she selected to be with, had the temerity to overcome his fears, made a fool out of a whole audience and invariably rubbed my plan in my face with charcoal and cow dung. All in one go.
Women are not poignant and deep. They are diabolique. That is why there is just one day dedicated to them and the rest to men. They do not want to attract too much attention, but just enough to make sure we understand who the boss is.
I turned to see my Mom who smiled.
Respect.
Picture Credit:http://www.flickr.com/photos/shadowgate/
Full Circle
Ajay Ramachandran
It was on one of those dull Saturday afternoons when there is no sports on TV and you can’t go outside as it is freezing (and your wife is at her mother’s) that he decided to take the plunge. But before that, the stage had to be set up. He picked up his glistening i-Pod and poured a mouthful of Glenfiddich on the rocks before he officially undertook the task. She had prepared the batter from scratch.
“Give me three dollars and I can get you better batter” she had said to his pre-marital bought-in-the-store-dosa-mix days. They were getting to know each other during that time. He owned not to have as much stepped into the kitchen more than half-a-dozen times thanks to his roommate, a compulsive cook who looked at you as if you had crashed his Bimmer on to a fig tree whenever someone came inside his comfort zone, aka, the kitchen.
“You know Bhima was an awesome cook” he had told her, leaning against the wall when she was making crisp, geometrically circular dosas.
“So your assertion that men can’t cook is inaccurate. And even the cook at our wedding was a man. The only thing your dad did a good job on.”
She threatened him with the hot handle and stopped. The dosa’s dorsal face was blackening. If there was something which he detested, it was the sight of a perfectly cooked dosa going to waste. He had always been a dosa man. You see, there are dosa folks and there are idli folks. Both came from the same parent, but had chiefly different characteristics. The dosa types were flamboyant, confident and earthy while the idli people were simple yet effective and smart. And nine times out of ten, you can tell what sort of person one is by asking this simplest of questions, “Do you like idli or dosa?”
He gave in.
“I think you know me well now that whatever I say must not be taken with a grain of salt, but with a ton of it.”
He had thus eked out every time there was a threat. And today was the day he chose to tick off one of his to-do things before he turned thirty. There were still others left like learning how to whistle and trying to eat with chopsticks, but it is always best to take one step at a time.Did she already put salt? Let’s test it out. The pan was engaged in foreplay and he waited for it to get on to the act. Assured of the temperature, he poured the white frothy stuff on the pan. He spread the mixture to a circle but already there appeared some cracks.
Huh, first time, he shrugged, poured oil and tried to turn the thing over. He was halfway through the turning over process when it broke out. It did not look like the dosas he knew. In a sense. In essence. He had to take it out. The amorphous thing tasted okay and he cleaned the surface with determination before he poured the next one. Three minutes passed and the result was far worse. It was a yeasty jelly that was unpalatable. Shall I call her? But he imagined her teasing and that hardened his resolve. Shall I google it or use YouTube? NO. Go for broke. All in. I won’t cower down. The show will go on.
The show went on and curses flew like the unruly winds outside. He did some disaster management. His aim now was re-set to making an edible thing out of the thick flour. Size didn’t matter. Shape didn’t matter. And hey, I created a new thing. So that’s a good thing. So it was eaten such, kinda mashed, much like upma. A passing thought cried to him, “You could have made idli and still had a good meal”. You know, simple yet effective. Hmmm. No. His gastric juices hadn’t yet the mental strength to accept such a compromise. There’s always the next time. His life would become a circle then through his dosas.
Warming up to Winter Olympics
–Saurabh Ganeriwal
Unless you are trying to imitate the life of a person on the season ending reality show of “Lost”, it must have been tough to not hear about Winter Olympics over the last few weeks. For me personally, this was the first time I warmed up to winter olympics. Firstly, winter Olympics have always been the neglected step child of Olympics or to be politically correct summer olympics. They never had that aura of pride, glamor and awe around them like the summer olympics. It does not help that India never had a medal in these olympics. I can also bet that not even 1000 Indians among 1 billion even know that we have a contingent in winter olympics; in fact the Indian Luger is considered as top 10 in the world. Perhaps, our most meaningful contribution came this year when the medal winning US team decided to groove on some bollywood numbers as part of their skating program.
My second gripe with winter olympics has been to do with its events. How can someone take this seriously as a sporting event, when one of the most intriguing event of Olympics is called “ice dancing”. It took me some time (and embarrassing moments at the ice ring in Walnut Creek downtown) to adjust to the fact that ice skating is a unique blend of art and athleticism. But then there is curling. With due respect to curlers in this world……Hmm, actually I have to take that back. I have absolutely no respect for them. As an avid squash player, it pains me deeply to see them getting a chance at olympic gold, when my fellow squashers have to wait for yet another 12 years to see their beloved sport in olympics.
I think the biggest turnaround for me has been the Olympics coverage of NBC. Yes, you read it right. NBC had its problems with late night programming debacle, lagging ratings, etc. but this time they aced it. Or at least, this format works for me. First, events are not shown live in pacific time zone. We get to see the delayed recordings, which starts at the most convenient time of 8:00pm. It is a little bit ironical as the Olympics themselves are happening at Vancouver in pacific time zone. So in case you are like me, who is not scavenging though facebook, twitter, news, etc. for results, this will work for you. Second, NBC takes into account the average winter Olympics quotient of the audiences. Each event is preceded by a short program detailing the rules and history of the sport. This provides you enough information to enjoy the events unfolding on the screen. I could actually make sense of terms like quad, double axel and giant slalom. I even now know the rules of curling! Commercial breaks are supplemented with a small feature on the key participants that allows you to enjoy the drama and the tension. I can also very well imagine the frustrations of a few people because of this very format. Imagine NBC showing delayed Wimbledon final between Federer and Nadal and then in between the games explaining the history of tennis and their rivalry. That would be a nightmare for me! As luck would have it, a lot of Americans do agree with me and TV ratings for these Olympics have been at an all time high.
Just like any other big event, these winter olympics had several intriguing storylines. It started with the tragic death of the German Luger during practices. We saw the rise and downfall of two most celebrated American skiers – Miller and Vonn within the span of two weeks. Both of them started big with winning multiple medals in the first week, but then failed to even complete any events in the second week. Their was trash-talking, although unexpectedly from the members of the same American women sking team. Then came the feel good victory of Chinese figure skating pair – Shen Xue and Zhao Hongbo, who successfully came out of retirement to get a shot at Olympic Gold. This was followed by the usual winning, corrupt judge accusations and a little fall for grace from the great Russian figure skating champion Yevgeny Plushenko when he lost to the American Evan Lysacek. The whole Canada went into mourning when their beloved hockey team lost to US in the group stages. Very few get the opportunity of avenging their defeat in the same tournament and Canadian hockey team made the best use of theirs by defeating the US team in the final. The darling pair of Canda, Virtue Tessa and Moir Scott created the most beautiful moments on the ice skating ring on their way to gold. Apolo Anton Ohno became the most celebrated US winter olympian by taking his total tally to eight olympic medals. Women ice skating saw the queen of South Korea, Kim Yu-Na showcasing her magical talent at the biggest stage and a cindrella story unfold for the Canadian Rochette, for whom these winter olympics would mark both as the utmost personal achievement (winning bronze) and tragedy (loss of her mother and her biggest fan just 2 days before the event). Final medal tally puts Americans on the top with the record number of medals. Canadians can take pride in setting the record for the gold count and especially winning the gold in both men’s and women’s hockey. You also have to admire Norway who stand fourth, but given how small the country is, they lead the per capita medal count by several magnitudes. Russians lost most of the ground, but will be hoping to turn the tables in 2014 when the show moves over to Sochi, Russia.
These winter olympics also saw the introduction of a new event, Skicross. Its in the same realm of X games such as halfpipe, the one which is literally owned by Shawn White. I personally loved it; just watching it gave me a total adrenaline rush. The most fun I had was while watching speed skating especially the relay. The poise, calm and the coordination needed is just fascinating. If you have not already, try to catch it on youtube. You will simply love it! Overall, hats off to Canada for organizing the spectacle on ice in the most grand manner possible. And now begins the grueling wait of 4 years to the next winter Olympics. Definitely worth the wait my friends.
Draupadi
By Manasa
It took me a while to realize that the voice I heard was mine.
I had cried out involuntarily and now it was too late to swallow my words. My brother looked at me, with a dull, heavy expression on his face. He had not expected me to speak out thus.Karna still held the bow aloft, while Duryodhana’s eyes flashed in anger. I was not sure what to say, but my voice completed it for me. I was amazed by its coolness.
“I will not marry a man who has no roots. Isn’t it true that this man was adopted and he knows nothing about his parentage?”
Years later, I would understand a fundamental truth about all people, and about myself. Every person has a weak spot, a kind of soft cartilage; their deepest insecurity that they, at all costs, try to protect. They do this instinctively, because they know it is their weakest spot. All of the rest of their personality – the bluster and the blemishes, are to hide this one crucial fact. And if someone found this secret and hurt him there, it meant terrible things. Vulnerability, and power and sway over a person.
I had a special talent, something of a curse even. I knew instinctively what a man’s weak spot was.
Yudhistra’s was lack of order in the world. He was a dreamer, preferring to live in a world where everything was right and orderly. To jostle him, you just had to open his eyes to the filth and muck of the world around him for a fleeting second.Arjuna’s was a fundamental insecurity in the point of his abilities. Once, he told me that every time he strung an arrow to a bow, that one crucial second before pulling the string, he would not be sure where to aim or how to aim or why he should aim shafts of wood and metal at random things. “Archery is pointless,” he said with a wearied philosophical look. “I do it only because I can’t do anything else and it gets me stuff. No other reason.” My father’s was his lameness. He walked the same as everybody else, with specially made artificial feet, and always wore long robes to cover it. But he could never mount a chariot, he could never straddle a horse.
Karna’s was simple. He did not know his mother. He did not know his father. He craved an affectionate heart. That was all. And, I had spoken, in the middle of the fighting ground where all the princes and kings known and unknown were assembled. I had taken his secret and exposed it to the world. Men started murmuring. After all, they knew about his extraordinary ability. He was sure to win me if he was only allowed to shoot. Angry bickering broke out in some parts. Duryodhana’s face was as black as thunder. Karna was looking at me, hatred written all over his face. At least he did not have that superior expression of confidence anymore.
My father finally decided. “My daughter’s right. Karna, you must have to go.”His decision was swayed by the fact that Drona lived with Duryodhana’s family. He could not attack the royal teacher of his son-in-law’s people, had I married Karna. Karna contemptuously threw the bow down, and walked back to the pavilion, not breaking eye contact with me. I scowled back. What a jerk!
I could see Duryodhana and Karna talk among themselves, throwing dark looks at me. I averted my gaze. Now I was feeling slightly sorry, because I saw the bow where Karna had flung it down. He had actually managed to lift it!
Now there were other princes coming forward who tried their might to move the bow, let alone lift it. As morning became high noon and the sun sank lower on the western sky and the garlands in the tray next to me started wilting, I thought that at this rate maybe I would never get married. Where was Arjuna? Was he really dead? Because there was no one else around who seemed equal t the task. Why did my father want to get me married anyway? What was with Kanhaa, always hanging around here, telling me stories of Arjuna.Arjuna this, Arjuna that, when that good man would probably not bother to even show up.
As the sun started to set slowly, bringing the easterly winds with in, Duryodhana stood up to exclaim, “So it looks like none of your fine bred princes could lift the bow. And here’s an able man that your good princess rejected for the want of family.” At that moment, a knot of men in a corner, an anonymous invisible group among a group of Brahmans, quietly spoke. “Kind Drupad, if you will allow it, could my brother try? It is not like we lack family.”
A knot of five tall and quiet men, with patience and valor writ side by side on their faces. Of course. How could I have not known.My father nodded. He seemed to have realized the same fact too. Duryodhana said, “Ah, yes. You would let a Brahman participate, but not my dearest friend. No better man would you find for you daughter, believe me.”
Karna, meanwhile, put a hand on Duryodhan’s shoulder trying to calm him down. I was so interested in this little drama that I did not notice the goings-on in the field. A huge roar from the crowd brought me to earth, and I saw the fish on the ground, an arrow in its eye, and a man holding a bow standing next to it.
Arjuna, of course! Who else could it be?
My brother escorted me to the man with the bow and put my hand into his. I placed the slightly withered garland around his gaunt neck, my knuckles lightly brushing his cheek.Around us, there was a commotion. Duryodhana’s friends questioning the validity of the match. This man – my husband’s friends answering back. There were small fights erupting all around us. The man in front of me stood dazed, looking at me, not like a hero, but like a knight pledged to service.
“Arjuna,” I said his name.
He smiled back at me, and grasped my wrist. “Come. It’s not safe here. We should go.”
And I, who had never left my father’s palace in all my years of existence, was running along madly with a gaunt man with flying hair, still clutching a bow in one hand.
It was a short ride. Arjuna, and his brother, the big, beefy, good natured Bhima were on the chariot. Bhim directed good natured insults at Arjun and grinned at me as he held the reins of one sickly horse. We burst into laughter over nothing from time to time; Arjun, spurred on by his marvelous feat, I, because I was free from my father and brother now and had Arjun by my side, and Bhima, because he was Bhima. It was an orange tinged sky and the night closed on us as the open chariot slowly made its way to where the boys lived with their mother. You may have heard of the Pandavas as brave warriors, so it is easy to imagine them as full grown men, with curling mustaches and rippling muscles. When I married Arjuna, I was sixteen, and Arjuna was twenty.
Bhima was a year older, twenty-one, and the twins were only a year older than I. We were adolescents. The boys could fight like barbarians, but they were boys all the same.Bhima and Arjuna were animatedly discussing Arjuna’s feat.
“You buckled once, just one,” said Bhima.
“Yes, I was balancing the bow on my forearm. I had to propel the weight to my shoulder. Once it got there – twang! It was simple.”(It was not. Later, Arjuna told me that he had thought he could not do the task. That was why he had hesitated so long before trying out.)
I was content to listen to their chatter and look out at the countryside, feeling my veil blow in the wind. “I hope your brothers are OK,” I told Arjuna.
“Yeah, they’ll be fine. They don’t need our help now that you are not there. Yud, Nakul and Dev are smooth talkers. I noticed that your father was fine with me carrying you away like this. Krishna must have told him.”
“Told him what?”
“That we would be there in disguise. I’m sure Duryodhana guessed. We are in hiding, did you know that?”
“Oh my god. Are you in danger now?”
Bhima chipped in. “We have probably been in danger since we were born. Our cousins and their father don’t like us, you see. They tried to burn us alive.”
And Bhima told me the whole story – of the wicked plan to burn them in a guest house and how they had escaped by digging a hole in the ground and burrowing their way out. The five boys and their mother had journeyed through forests alone, making sure they were not caught by Duryodhana’s spies. Bhima recounted their adventures, and what tales they were! I listened in rapt attention.
“Bhima even managed to find himself a wife,” interjected Arjuna at one point.
“Really?” I turned to Bhima and smiled at him. Truth be told, I was not aware of this piece of information. I thought I was the first daughter-in-law of this house. Also, if you had asked me to pick out one man amongst the five who would be likely to be married before the others, I would have naturally picked Arjun. Bhima seemed too much happy-go-lucky for the binding ties of marriage.
“Who is she? How does she look? Can I meet her? What’s her name?”
For some strange reason, Bhima averted his eyes. I decided not to question any further, but Bhima spoke, with more dignity than I had seen from him so far.
“Her name is Hidimbi. She is a forest woman, a wild tribal girl. We fell in love while I was in the forest and I married her. We must even have a son by now. Unfortunately, we had to move from that spot, and mother advised me to leave her there. Taking a forest woman along with us would attract attention. I suppose she was right. She can fend for herself in the forest better, I guess.”
To marry a woman, give her a child and leave her destitute in the forest! This man cared for her, it was obvious. But circumstances had forced him to abandon her, or that’s what he said. I was not sure who to feel sorry for – the poor girl, all alone in the forest with child, or this boy, muscled and tanned, with strength enough to crush mountains but not enough to rout the circumstances and his mother’s will.
At that point, I did not stop to think whether what Bhima had done was right or wrong. I only felt his loss keenly. Spontaneously, reaching a hand out, I stroked his riotous curls.
Bhima looked at me, like a calf looks at its mother. Arjuna smiled at us and patted his brother on the back, a brotherly gesture of affection. Silently, with a hundred questions running through my mind, we went ahead to meet the matriarch. Mother Kunti.
(To be continued ….)
Picture Credit : http://www.flickr.com/photos/vaticanus/
Masks
Countless meetings and calls later, Nina got back to her office to handle the daily vagaries of her ever important job. It wasn’t easy, handling the pressures of work and a family.
Minutes masqueraded as hours and hours as days.
She looked up to the picture at her desk and wondered how her heart still skipped a beat when she saw his smile.
The girl in her knew why.
-Nivethitha Kumar
Picture Credit: http://www.flickr.com/photos/pagedooley/
Dude Where is My Coffee?
25 Cents
It was one of those beautiful summer days in Manhattan. I stepped out of work on a not-so-hectic Friday to grab lunch and to take a walk down the Fifth avenue. I began to walk down Madison avenue towards 52nd street with my ear plugs on and my ipod shuffling songs accentuating the mood for a perfect walk. One could easily be distracted by so many things around when you walk down these avenues in Midtown. I decided to grab my pizza, people-watch at Fifth avenue and head back to work, which, of course, was lot better than a siesta for me. Even on a regular working day, the city painted a picture of a carnival -tourists, working people, street performers, homeless people, NYPD, street vendors, food carts, florists, and me. It was a perfect day.
As I was approaching 52nd street, I saw an old lady in the distance. She wore red boots, a black dress, and a very pretty hat. She must have been in her late 60s. I usually don’t look at people in their eyes in a strange land, but in New York, nobody would really care, because most of them didn’t have the time to look back at you in your eyes. I had a feeling that the old lady in red was looking at me as I was approaching the street. It was a strange feeling. As I got closer, her smile widened. It was as if she had been waiting for me. The feeling got eerie as I approached her. Her makeup was just perfect, nothing flashy nothing less. It was just right. Her lips glistened in the summer sun. Dark red lipstick did the trick. The wrinkles on her face and hand would just mean one thing – a lady who carried a lot of stories.
Strangers smile at you in this city but nobody stops to talk to you. Keeping up with the city’s strange demeanor, I returned my smile but did not stop. As I was about to walk past her, I knew she said something but I couldn’t hear as the music had kept me oblivious to the city’s commotion. I pulled out the ear plug from my left ear and said, “What is that?”.
“Son, do you have a quarter?” I wasn’t expecting that and I stood there dumbfounded. “Err.. I’m sorry, I have to rush,” I said and started walking away. “No problem, have a nice day,” I heard her say as those words fell into my ears before I put my left ear plug on.
I thought about the lady all evening. She was a well-dressed woman and she had a very pleasing and kind face. She was in the streets, homeless and begging for quarters. I have seen so many homeless people in the city and my idea of them had always been stereotypical. I remember this man with a huge beard, who always sat outside the AMC theater at Times square. He always held a placard which read “Buy me a beer!”. I haven’t seen any one buy him beer ever, but his hat had quarters and dollars. I had forgotten about the old lady in red boots after that day.
The week after that, I walked down the same street to the same pizza shop. I was surprised to see her again. This time she was dressed in blue but her makeup was still prominent. She flashed the same smile at me as I was approaching her. She, of course did not recognize me. As I got closer she was distracted by someone calling at her. A car stopped by and the old man rolled down his window to give the lady some change. She stepped down the pavement and got the change from him. As I walked past her place I looked at the things around her and I was convinced that she was homeless and that could have been her abode. I saw a shopping cart filled with clothes and a blanket. There were other things bundled in plastic bags and wrapped in clothes. I walked further observing all those around her. I walked back towards her. She was searching something in her cart and looked up at me. She did not smile this time but her face had a defensive look.
“I just wanted to give you this,” I said and gave her a dollar bill. She got it from me, but did not smile. She continued searching her cart. I did not wait, although I wanted to see her smile. I did not put my ear plug on, hoping she would say something. She didn’t and I walked away not looking behind. Couple of weeks later I walked down the same avenue and street, this time not to get my pizza, but to see the old lady and give her a dollar. She wasn’t there and her things were gone. Maybe she had moved to a different location. Maybe she found a place for herself. Maybe I was just dreaming. I missed that smile on a bright summer day. It has been more than 6 months since I saw that old lady and the image of her still haunts me. Every time I look at a shabby homeless person, I’m reminded of the old lady, who looked like a diva but still begged for quarters. That was something that I never understood. I will go back there time and again, whenever I can and maybe one day I will see her again in the same place. Maybe I will give her more money or buy her a meal and I will sure ask her – if she can be my muse for a story. I’m sure her cart and bags are full of them. Maybe an immigrant rant. Maybe an old age betrayal. Maybe it was something else. But I want to know. The story of the old lady in red boots.
_DreamVendor
