Dec 2009
We are back with our second issue in the month of December.
December is the month when we recap the good and the great moments that left us by.TheBanyanTrees keeping in tradition has made “Reflection” the theme for this month.
Happy Reading! You can read the magazine by clicking on the issuu link below or by clicking on the article links that are listed .
Buy the print version from here
Short Stories
Some Salt,Some Lime, A Song and A Wedding.
What is a wedding without some innocent pranks? Sirpy Jayaprakasam weaves a funny story amidst the backdrop of a good old south Indian wedding
Downcast
The rains bring memories, and Asha walks home drenching in the rain ,carrying the rain drops that seem to grow heavier with each drop.
I watch
A short story by Dhivya Arasappan about the life of a woman as seen by the most unusual member in her life.
Upon Reflection
A short story by filarial about a student, his teacher and his dangerous quest to find the ultimate truth!
Series
Draupadi
“Manasa starts episode 1 of her running series Draupadi. She leaves you gasping for more,yearning to know the secret that Draupadi learns on her death bed.”
Sports
Twenty…on to thirty
Karthik Krishna reminisces about God’s incarnation in the cricket field, Sachin Tendulkar, on his twentieth year in International Cricket.
Poetry
Yet Another Monsoon Rain
Anuradha Chandrasekaran looks back at the wonderful memories she created during the monsoons through this poem
A day that approaches…
Raghuram Godavarthi in this poem ponders about the inevitable
Travel
A Path to Heaven
Prajakta Bhasale describes her trip to the beautiful, serene and unblemished northeastern states of India
Columns
Dude! Where is my coffee?
It is all about finding your prince/swan among the sea of frogs and ducks. Dreamvendor talks about wading
through dozens of frogs and ducks before you find your prize catch in his column
Entertainment
Pearls Among Swine
Aditya Srikrishna evaluates the 5 movies that have been the most underrated in bollywood in 2009
Book Review
Divya Ramachandran reviews the book “The case of the missing servant by Vish Puri”.
Science
Scientifically Literate
Dhivya Arasappan talks about the 5 most intriguing discoveries of this year in the world of science
Refreshing Rendezvous
Students recounting their once in a lifetime meeting with India’s former president. Dr.A.P.J Abdul Khalam
To check out our photography section, check out the web version by clicking on the magazine link above.
A day that approaches… approaches the past
Indeed I was a youngster then, indeed am no wiser now
Sure, you were the smart one, no doubt, the more adapted
But perhaps I understood you then, and not so much now
or perhaps it is the other way around
either way, the lion will never catch it’s tail
the circle will never cease at a certain point
the unfortunate misunderstandings of Friendship’s past
will perhaps come back to the limelight
as a future content to share nothing but what was
The years between us were an unshakeable truth
the memories between us oases in a desert
the space between us, the emptiness between the stars
sooner ignored, safer forgotten, best unremembered
and yet there were these far-flung innuendoes
the embers of a fire that burnt itself
and it that burning, consumed universes
fragments of these now lurk in distant minds
occasionally do they meet, upon the cross roads of time
the same paths that we never chose to walk on
now, angered (cross), offer us no room to pass
A day approaches, and brings another floating charcoal piece
the companion of which was flung upon me post-haste, early
that vanguard sleeps for a momentary eternity, safely defeated
yet the unuttered noises of the coming fleet crowd my mind
they refuse to offer a fight, nor do they volunteer to walk swiftly past
they shall be the guests of the winter perhaps, hibernating, snoring
until the freshness of an as-yet-unsprung spring time leaf shall sweep them away
and going forward, forward, forward… they shall once more approach the past
Picture Credit :
I watch
I watch.
There is a glint of mischief in her eyes as she begins applying generous amounts of shaving cream on her face. She looks to make sure no is around and slowly runs her father’s razor over her cheek. Her tiny hands, slippery with shaving cream, are not adept enough to perform the task. The razor slips and she nicks herself. She bleeds; she runs into her mother’s room, crying. She is 7.
I watch.
She looks nervous. She brushes her long black hair and ties it back in a taut ponytail. But something doesn’t look quite right- she pulls off the rubber band and starts again. A thick layer of makeup covers her face and shiny lip gloss coats her lips. They don’t do her justice; they only steal attention away from her warm brown eyes. She checks her watch and frowns; she’s late for the movie. She hates to make him wait. She is 18.
I watch.
She sits, twirling the loose end of her braid. A breeze blows through the window, making her red sari dance to its tunes. Slits of sunlight slip in through the curtain and fall on her face, giving her an almost heavenly glow. She adds an emerald necklace to her already richly adorned neck. Behind her, aunts and cousins gather; they fuss over her sari and her jewelry; they tell her how beautiful she looks. She seems contemplative, maybe a little frightened. She prepares for a new chapter in life. She is 24.
I watch.
She’s in a hurry. She doesn’t want to be late for work again. Her 10 minute morning routine gets reduced to 5. She looks distracted, like she has lots on her mind. Draping her dupatta* messily about her, she rushes off. She is 25.
I watch.
She sits, immersed in her thoughts, in her daydreams. Suddenly, as if yanked abruptly from her imaginary world, she gets up and walks toward the bed. She picks up a pillow and stuffs it under her kameez*. She admires the bump that the pillow forms in her figure; she strokes it gently and laughs at herself. She is 28.
I watch.
Armed with a large hairbrush and a bottle of coconut oil, she attempts to tame her daughter’s thick head of hair. She seats her daughter on a stool in front of her and starts attacking the tangles. She begins retelling one of their favorite stories. It is not a school day; she has plenty of time. She is 35.
I watch.
She sits, lost in her memories. Her once beautiful black hair is now almost completely white. Wrinkles line her face – remnants of her every smile, her every frown, her every emotion. She sits, reminiscing. She sits, waiting. Her daughter promised to visit this weekend. She is 68.
And I still watch. I still reflect. Perched on a mahogany dresser, I watch and I reflect, as a mirror should. My reflections – they tell her story.
Dhivya Arasappan
