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!
The Mystery Continues – June Issue
We were thrilled with the May issue of “Dial M for Mystery” . Apart from the alliteration, we were excited about the entries we got and published. What more, some of them were even two part stories. We are letting the excitement continue for June by continuing the Mystery series.
Keep the sleuthing cap on while another serving of Mystery comes right up!
A big shout out to Karthik , who volunteered to help us with the design of the magazine!
The June theme articles are :
Unravelling A Riddle - Adithya Shrikrishna
Nobody’s Murder - Nivethitha Kumar
Who Dunnit? The Science Of Solving a Mystery – Dhivya Arasappan
Two Beans in a Pod – Arul Sirpy
The Reel Thrill – Aruni Bhattacharya
Photography - Dharini Sundaram
the Other Son of Ganges – Part 2 Matangi Mawley
Creative Writing Workshop
So It Begins – Football Worldcup – Karthik Balasubramanian
Beauty,Beast and A Murder – Anuradha Chandrasekaran
The Other Son of Ganges – A series
1. Ganga, The Mother
—Matangi Mawley
It all began with water. Even back then, it had begun with water. No, he did not remember it. But he had heard them say so. It all began, with water…
He was wet. But so was the dog. But the difference was this. The dog had soon found a shelter in a broken piece of wooden box. But he was still out there. Beneath nothing. He was wet. He was sad- a castaway. A man, whose life ceased to exist for him to live, still, he was wet.
It all began with water…
His life started at an end. People who were witnesses, told him about it- later. On the banks of the Ganges, he lay on his father’s lap. Through the tiny bronze nozzle, the clear water from the Ganges, poured herself down on his forehead. He did not remember it. But he might have sensed it then, that a bond of a lifetime was being formed there, with that water-the Ganges. His father laid him on the stone grounds of the Ghat. Scattered petals from flowers, the bits of black sesame, here and there, stuck themselves on his tiny body. Soon, he would be washed. Washed with the water from Ganges. Wash him of the sins from his previous birth, which had taken the life of his mother.
His father went ahead, towards the Ganges, to bid farewell to his wife’s soul. He did not remember his father taking the water from the Ganges on his hands, and offering prayers to the forefathers. The smell of burning flesh from the Harishchandra Ghat, remained fresh in his memory, as he had felt it, back then. People told him, all about it, later. Ganges was, now- his mother.
He grew up there, where people only came when their journey through life was about to end- Kashi. The streets of Kashi, was his world. The only world that he knew about. Ghats, water, prayers, fire and pyre. This was all he had seen. People of Kashi, he had later thought, knew more about death, than about life. The dusty streets full of Rudraksh and idols of Gods and Goddesses. Flower garlands. For the living, dead and also for those whose existence was not proved, yet. The sweet vendors. The kadaai outside their stalls where the yellow milk, seasoned with saffron and malaai and almonds, boiled forever. The begging Sadhus whose blessings were for sale!
He’d see people, sometimes, all white in colour, taking photographs of the Ganges. Why were they so excited about the river? He would wonder! Had they never seen so much water before? There was once a white man, who took a picture of him too, standing beside his mother. That was the only picture he had, of him with his mother.
His father was a teacher. He taught the kids at the local school. Every child of his locality learnt their first word from his father. But for a long time, he was never able to say his first word! His father tried and tried. Every doctor and Vaid of Kashi was consulted. But his first word never came out for a long time. May be he was thinking what that word should be. He just couldn’t start his life by saying any words, could he? His first word should be special. May be…
It all began with water…
It happened one day, when he saw his neighbour’s son, pampered by his mother. He did not remember what he saw, but at that moment, he felt that he should be with his mother. He too, wanted a mother to love him, to pamper and spoil him! That was the moment he decided his first word too. People witnesses to this had told him, later. He jumped into the Ganges, shouting “MAA…” at the top of his voice! He just needed to be with his mother…
People kept coming home for the next few days after that incident. He remembered this. They called it some ‘miracle’ and that he had ‘divine’ gifts! His photograph was published in the local paper. He still had the paper- preserved! His father was not happy about it. He was of course happy about the first word- but not the divine part of it.
He somehow knew after this incident that, whatever position he might be in, she would be with him. Help him. Love him, unconditionally. His mother… Ganga…
(..To be continued., Part 2: “Let me go, Mother…”)
Picture Credit:http://www.flickr.com/photos/vathsav/4212675120/sizes/m/
January 2010 Issue
Hello There,
Here we are with a new issue on the new year. Our Jan issue is themed “Sibyl” and we are all set to take you on a journey in to 2010 and beyond. Filled with short stories, poems, book reviews, movie reviews and our usual columns, we are sure you will gobble this up.
Dont forget to tell us what you think. Leave a comment or email us at editor@thebanyantrees.com
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.
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
