I remember when I was eight or nine, dad bundled us children into the Morris Minor 1000 and drove us to Port Klang. We were sending back a distant relative — an uncle with white hair — to Sri Lanka, an uncle my mother never liked hosting. She cursed him under her breath for being a kanjan, a word which even I knew back then meant stingy.
But we kids were excited to see the M.V. Chidambaram, an ocean liner, the size of which, we were told, was “several football fields” in length.
We were in good spirits, trying to pronounce the multisyllabic Chi-dam-bar-am with fake Indian accents and exaggerated headshakes, giggling excitedly like schoolboys did when the ice-cream man showed up outside the school gate; despite knowing that two adults and five children in a car no larger than an oven on wheels — and just as hot without air-conditioning — would stifle us to near-death even before we reached our destination. Unlike the Titanic, I thought, there would be no iceberg to end the suffocating mugginess of being squished like proverbial sardines in a tin can with the added ambiguity of a crowing cockerel on it. Perhaps it too was signalling to be freed from its labelling, as if to say: “No chickens in here, just us sweaty fish!”
(Ironically, the ship Chidambaram, which boasted of air-conditioning, was decommissioned a decade or two later after a fire broke out onboard fatally killing some crew and passengers before limping into a port in India)
The journey to Port Klang was uneventful — maybe we stopped for a fresh coconut respite — but what was memorable was turning the corner and gasping at the sheer size of the ship when it first came into view as dad parked the car. We tumbled out in awe.
By size, it was the closest thing to the Titanic, albeit less grand, but colossal by any measure, even bigger than the Seaview submarine in “Voyage to the Bottom of the Sea, a show on our tiny black-and-white TV back then. I wondered, deep within its bowels, if the ship might still contain a Flying Sub that could pop-out and fly, like its name implied, out of the sea and into the sky with the oh-so-cool David Hedison as Captain Crane in the helm.
David Hedison as Commander Crane
I remember my paper-folding skills were quite advanced back then and I could make a flying sub, apart from cranes and sampans, from watching Origami With Robert Harbin every Sunday.
Unfortunately, I was not allowed on board, to find the flying sub, although we did get up the gangplank, like pirates off to a raid, only to be shooed away for being too small, or maybe, not fulfilling some height requirement — as while boarding a Ferris wheel at a funfair.
Or, maybe, there were just too many of us and the captain was worried we would cut ourselves with our cutlasses — and fall overboard.
We were reduced to just waving from afar portside to our departing relative — just like at the Subang Airport in the 1970s — but with one exception. I was introduced to the odd tradition of holding onto a roll of toilet paper. Yes, people on board were flinging toilet paper at us, while they held on to one end of the roll, by the ship’s rails.
I was allowed, tentatively by my older siblings, to hold on to a rapidly uncoiling roll as the ship pulled away, making sure it rolled off uniformly — like fishing lines tied to the end of a kite that picks up in the wind — although much more fragile. The slightest tug and it would snap. I held on gingerly until it sped up and reached the roll’s end and, with a final sad tug, did snap. And I watched as other rolls around us snapped, one by one, the ends curling in the wind in almost slow-motion waves signifying the metaphorical link that bound those on land and those on sea were now temporarily cut. With a turn, the giant ship, its foghorn bellowing like a hoarse whale, was gone. We then gathered the remnants of the paper, as I recall, half of it already in the waters, and discarded it at a nearby bin. Or maybe, we were delinquent and just left it. Environmental concerns were not top priority those days.
I was reminded of that tenuous, unfurling link of paper, as we viral-vulnerable humans on spaceship Earth today, hold onto the threads of this unfolding drama before us. Like the ship of those days, Life is floating away, severing our ties to the past and snapping us into a New Norm. Our carefully paper-parcelled lives up to this point, which was always anchored to some reality, even though we indulged in escapist divergences or substance-fuelled partying, are now losing its moorings as days float into weeks and weeks submerge into uncertain months. We are now unravelling like so much toilet paper, untethered from somewhat stable ground, into a surreal journey to unknown ports. Even the onboard entertainment has started to repeat, and the binge-fest of “free” entertainment has lost its novelty.
There is a quiet panic in the pandemic and I-told-you-so environmentalists are tut-tutting like lizards on the ceiling of our caged abodes, as if to say we are now paying for the sins of decades of single-use waste for all those portside farewells.
Hoarding toilet paper is now shamed online and deemed criminal. Even paper money has been dethroned so much so all delivery must be served “contactless” — as if that were even possible. And we must stand a reasonable six feet away from each other, or two meters if you prefer, the 17.12 additional centimetres making all the difference, or microdroplets will kill us.
We risk collapsing social distances through free Zoom-ing screens, even though we knew all along anything free — free lunch, free email, free wi-fi — always came with strings attached.
We connect relatives at new births, or funerals, through Facetime, changing the paradigm from womb-to-tomb to cradle-to-iPhone-to-iPhone-to-grave.
But when you cry, you still cry alone.
All “meetings” are oxymorons, even though the same persons keep showing up. But at least they aren’t breathing the same oxy-gen. In fact, they never did.
Some of us are on the verge of snapping, for real, and yearn for an avenging glove to restore our old masks. We harbour hopes — outdated pre-snap, pre-pandemic, even pre-pubescent beliefs — like nostalgic fools hanging onto false memories, that things would somehow return to the way it was.
But this ship has left the pier. The ground below us has shifted. The shore has permanently changed.
We look to the stars for navigation but they have faded and lost their lustre. Even the moon has paled and gazes at us and sighs. We can never, ever go back in time to fix the broken promises to ourselves — our fragile humanity — and to Mother Earth who hosts us.
Like that distant relative, we are overstaying guests who have lost our welcome.
We can only move forward by paying it forward.
Nature calls, and yes, we’re out of paper.
Julian Matthews is a former journalist and trainer currently exploring expressing himself in poetry, fiction and essay forms. He is based in Malaysia.
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Chaitali Sengupta is a published writer, translator, journalist from the Netherlands. She is involved in various literary & journalistic writing & translation projects for Dutch media houses, online platforms & various social organizations in the Netherlands and in India. Her recently published translated work “Quiet Whispers of our Heart” received rare reviews and popular acclaim.
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Scene from the Tempest: Miranda, Prospero and Caliban
By Sakshi Srivastava
Dear Father,
For a full conscious life, I saw no Man but you,
I remembered not one creature of my kind,
What beauty is, was what you told me,
and all possible folly took the shape of the Other.
When at the beginning of a new womanly life,
I wandered on the friendly shores of my secluded home
In awe I saw another man fitting in your plan,
An overwhelmed earthly bud seeing some heavenly light,
And before I knew, you had your eyes for the match,
I sat there as a gift, a deal, or a bountiful catch
My maidenhood, preserved from the subdued monster,
Was ‘purchased’ by a stranger of a far off land,
I do not complain, I cannot,
for Father, you always had the right,
Perhaps like the rest of the island, your magic sufficed.
And My new found Love! The contract sealed with my virgin knot,
Will be evidence of your prized and celebrated Manhood.
In some-just-alternate universe, I wish I could
Tell all how I was fair and virtuous and beautiful,
Because I didn’t fall for any Caliban, some Other,
someone different, but a Prince,
Yes, Son of a traitor, but never mind.
I do not complain, for Father, my Voice does not count,
it never did, among other significant things,
I only wished to see another piece of land with more faces,
Only to feel the tempestuous wind on my very skin,
Only to perceive on my own,
not on standards Your world created, conjured and conformed to.
To breathe air, unadulterated by your Word,
Sitting at the centre, puppeteering my existence.
Only to see A real New World, through my own eyes.
Love, Miranda.
Sakshi Srivastava is a Research Scholar at the Department of English, Banaras Hindu University. She has been working on Critical Medical Humanities and writes regularly, but privately. Hailing from Ayodhya, her poems often have an underlying autobiographical motive and she likes conversations about music, books, food and movies.
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adi or Adithya Patil is a student based in Bangalore, India. He was a recipient of the Times Scholars Programme 2019. His poems have appeared or are forthcoming in different journals including Scarlett Leaf Review, The Drabble and Literary Yard.
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fuelled by our whims, aided by liberal market winds.
.
Now, the old squat house, built on a shoestring,
has been gobbled up by a sleek building
and a cosmetic patch of periwinkle flowers —
graveyard flowers — as father would say,
is the only product of the soil.
The beauty, that we had barely acknowledged
now appears in streaks of memories.
We are gentler, when we breathe free.
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Homecoming
What have you done to the room?
A row of silver and another of golden lights
glittering through a wooden panel,
in manic eagerness to welcome me,
shelves filled with a display of a fleet of ships,
as if to jolt my memory to the spells of sea-sickness.
Where are my plants by the window,
my low chair and the filigree silver peacock?
.
So many things I love,
have been swept into a mound of dust
and with it go my carefully crafted thoughts
of putting aside, the quarrels of the past.
Nothing has really changed,
it has only disintegrated into a bigger mess.
.
And then suddenly, springs the fragrance of white lilies,
stuck hurriedly in a vase, looking thoroughly sheepish.
.
There is promise in the morning air,
as I sit down to drown my thoughts
in calming breaths, when you come up
attempting to mask your boss -of –the- house stride
and as your first compromise,
to the worthy goal of joint-decision-making
ask helplessly- ‘This bottle of medicine is empty,
shall I throw it out?’
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Geetha Ravichandranis a bureaucrat, presently posted in Mumbai. It is writing, that she most enjoys doing. She has written contemplative articles for Direct Path and middles for DeccanHerald. Her recent poems have appeared in Reading Hour and Mountain Path. One of her poems has been included in the recent anthology, Hibiscus published by Hawakal publishers.
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The navel chuckles, “Don’t ask the colon’s opinion.”
Throughout this chatter
the brain has remained complacent.
“Have fun without me,” it sings
as it flits out an ear.
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Penny Wilkes, MFA served as a science editor, travel and nature writer and columnist. Along with short stories, her features on humour and animal behaviour have appeared in a variety of publications. An award-winning writer and poet, she has published a collection of short stories, Seven Smooth Stones. Her published poetry collections include: Whispers from the Land, In Spite of War, and FlyingLessons. Her Blog on TheWrite Life features life skills, creativity, and writing: http://penjaminswriteway.blogspot.com/
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Teenager Shivam Periwal from Kolkata writes about the recent protests and why there is a lesson for all of us.
Many years ago, the world saw mass bloodshed unravel in the form of world wars. Many people died fighting with other countries for equality, but they were oblivious to the morbid reality of their own country which saw an uproar in mercenaries killing the civilians.
The thing that they didn’t take into account was the harm that would fall upon their own country. It could cause deaths and unlimited sacrifices. The rich would get richer and the poor would become poorer.
Years before that, the world saw an increase in slavery as African Americans were oppressed and forced into becoming slaves for the rich, in order to prevent their children from sleeping on a hungry stomach.
There came a day when the African Americans had had enough and began their journey to freedom. People who were victims of racism wanted just one thing, justice. Everybody was scared and there was nothing one could do. You could either take part in the protest or stay inside your house under the bed or in some sort of bunker. Stores were broken into and small businesses were affected greatly.
One day all that vanished, when the innocent people who didn’t want war, took a stand. The merciless war ended and unity started to grow. There was harmony and brotherhood and now people started to think about others. People of all color, caste and creed were treated as equals.
Now again, the issue has come up due with the recent case of George Floyd who was killed brutally in the US by the police, because of his colour.
As a teenager it makes me sad to see the unjust killings in every nook and corner of the world.
The worst affected would be the children learning about racism and its disadvantages. They would feel sorry for this world. And deep down in their hearts they would get the feeling that someday at any given point of time, they might suffer because of racism too.
Instead of having conversations about happy memories, parents have to tell their kids how to protect themselves if they are targeted because of their colour. This can discourage the children and make them feel scared and insecure within themselves.
I write about it today because this is a world issue, not just an American one.
It is relevant to India too because after all we are a diverse country and despite our differences, of colour, religion, language and caste, we all have to live together and in harmony at the end of the day.
We have to stay united and beat racism to its deepest core or else it would change the future of this world.
We are on our fourth edition of Sara’s Selections. Ms Sara has again brought us a wealth of young writers, writing from all over the world on multiple issues. Sometimes it is amazing to see how they think… and also give us a fresh perspective… And now let me hand over the collection to Ms Sara.
Poetry
Hi there friends, Sara here. Fifteen year old Varisha Rehman from Delhi, giving us the just the right dose of it in this message to a girl.
This is for the girl
This is for the girl Who only wanted to be loved, Shone like a pearl And moved like a dove.
This is for the girl Who was like a queen, She ruled her world with everything.
This is for the girl Who wrote words no one heard, A pen was her sword A paper was her shield.
Here is a message to this girl Life has a funny way to teach us, Live your life without a grudge Live the life, you love. Just be yourself. Because… Life is too short to be someone else.
Nine-year-old Diya Sheth from Ahmedabad brings us some furry love in this adorable poem.
My Pet
One day I thought how pets love us a lot, So I told my parents to bring me a dog.
Father said we can bring two birds, Mommy said we can bring a turtle.
But still I argued for a dog, My parents refused so I cried a lot.
On my 10th birthday my parents told me, This time you will get a gift, You wanted from the age of three.
I wondered what it will be. I was so excited for it, My father gave a bow, My mother brought a puppy.
I thanked my mother and father, The dog’s name was Jimmy.
Now I play with him every day, He protects me in every way. We go on walk everyday, I still thank my parents for my 10th birthday.
Nine-year-old Rohan Santhosh from Bangalore shares this adorable poem for his best friend.
My Best Friend
You are smart and kind
You can almost read my mind
You’re the first to notice when I’m blue
You have a 6th sense, it’s true.
You’re so intelligent and strong
You always tell me when I’m wrong.
Always alert and aware
When I need you, you are there.
I still remember the day at school,
So scared of the teachers looks,
I almost dropped all my books.
You noticed the slightest frown
You picked me up when I was down.
When I’m confused you help me decide,
Thanks for being by my side.
I always wished I had a brother,
But now I see, you are one…
Just from another mother!
Stories
Eight-year-old Navoneer Bhattacharyya from Kolkata writes of the most amazing conversation with Lord Ganesha.
When Lord Ganesha cancelled his birthday party…
And we were off to bed. But neither I nor my elder brother could sleep as we were a bit upset. Next day was Ganesh Chaturthi, the celebration of the elephant headed god’s rebirth, but due to COVID we could not go for pandal ( temporary structures set up to jubilate the festive occasion) hopping.
Nearly half-an-hour had passed when we heard a mouse squeak. We looked out and to our greatest surprise, what did we see there?
Ganesha & mouse
Lord Ganesha on his mouse was standing right outside our house!
“Lord Ganesha,” squeaked the mouse, “You said some kids are sad in this house so we have come here!”
“Yes you are right, we have come to meet them.”
My elder brother suggested that we should invite them to come in. So I opened the door and said humbly, “Oh Lord Ganesha, we would be honoured if you could step in our house and spend some time with us.”
modak
Laddu
He agreed and came in. We offered them some of his favourite sweets, modak and laddu. After having that he asked us, “Now tell me why all of you are so sad?”
I said,”Lord Ganesha, the Coronavirus is like the demon, Mahishashura. It is spreading death and sadness all over the world.”
“See here in Mumbai too, we cannot go for pandal hopping on our favourite festival, Ganesh Chaturthi.” said my elder brother.
Again I said, “Dear Lord, we all are terrified. Our life has come to standstill, we cannot have guests in our house. We cannot go anywhere; we cannot play with our friends; we cannot even go to school.”
Lord Ganesha listened to us very attentively and then he nodded his head and said, “My dear friends, I can understand your pain. But tell me one thing — is there no light of hope? I know doctors, scientists and lot of others are working day and night to protect the human race from this killer. But to defeat this deadly virus is not so easy. We Gods are also supporting these great warriors and patiently waiting for something positive to come out.”
He paused, took a deep breath and then again he said, “Us Gods are cancelling the celebration of our birthdays on earth just to protect mankind. Please, try to understand. If you want to overcome this hardship and again happily want to celebrate my birthday in future, then this year you need to sacrifice your festival enjoyment and be a little patient till my next birthday comes.”
I said, “Lord Ganesha, I know how it feels when birthday celebrations are cancelled as mine got cancelled this year too. But yes, you are right. We should be patient.”
Lord Ganesha smiled and said, “Hope you understood that it is time for Gods and humans to team up against the deadly virus and throw it out. Now all of you give me a big smile and a big hug.”
Then he left with his carrier and we bid them goodbye.
We all found that suddenly our sadness had gone and our minds had become light.
We looked into the sky and said, “Thank you Lord Ganesha. We love you a lot. Happy Birthday.”
This haunting piece by Aashvi Rajani from Ahmedabad is a beautiful example of what thirteen-year-olds can do. While most of us are fussing over missing our birthdayday parties and gifts, here is a story to showcase reality of a different kind.
An Unforgettable Birthday
Raheema’s typical day would begin with mopping their home in Kabul and end with her burying herself under heaps of assignments. But today was not a regular day, Raheema Jan would be thirteen today. It was a significant day. Under no circumstances could her parents afford an enormous celebration, but Raheema didn’t mind this, as long as Baba would be with her. Baba would be her shadow, against all odds.
“Are you ready Raheema Jan?” Baba questioned in a silvery tone, standing beside the flimsy door.
“In a minute!” She replied as she sprinted to pick up her book.
Raheema had picked up the skill of reading since she was five, yet hearing her father narrate a story was one of the most congenial things to her. He cleared his throat dramatically, and began, “I became…”
Baba’s eloquent storytelling came to a halt when Raheema spotted a figure hurtling towards them.
“What happened?” Baba’s hazel eyes narrowed as he saw Khalil gasping for breath.
“They are looking for you Agha, it’s urgent.”
His eyes laid on Raheema, she flashed a priceless smile that made him feel sorry for her. He crouched down and asked in a whisper, “Shall I go?”
She reluctantly nodded.
When Baba departed, Raheema locked herself in the washroom and unwillingly broke into sobs. Soon she was shuddering. Mâmâm interrupted her by banging the door. “Come out, Mariam is here to wish you!”
Carefully, she wiped her tears and prepared to be just the buoyant girl she was expected to be. “Happy Birthday!” Mariam beamed. Enthusiastically, she dragged Raheema out and began babbling. Baba kept crawling back to Raheema’s mind, despite her attempts to pay attention. Were they harassing him?
Mâmâm barged in to inform Raheema that she had to pay a visit to Akmal Agha’s mansion, and Raheema should return home. Obediently, the girl nodded.
“What’s going on Raheema? Is everything okay?” Mariam questioned. Initially, Raheema decided against revealing anything, but it was too much for her. And so, she confessed it all. She narrated how Baba was responsible for Akmal Agha’s residence, how the gangsters had an eye on it, how Baba had refused to sacrifice his integrity for them, how they had been receiving appalling threats.
Mariam gently embraced Raheema, who was now weeping. “Don’t—”
The air shattered and they heard a roaring crack, then, absolute stillness. Raheema darted to the street like a whirlwind, oblivion to all the eyes gaping at her. She was terrified to the thought of what happened. No, Baba wouldn’t leave her. She was his Shāhdaught, his princess.
What she saw at the end of the street was something she will never forget. Baba on his knees, soil smeared on his kameez. Alive. His hands were folded, tears rolling down his cheeks. A man in front flashed a lopsided grin and said, “You are fortunate because I will let you go this time.” His hoarse voice sounded like a melody to Raheema at the time. To her surprise, she was weeping as Baba dashed towards her.
Never did Baba’s embrace console her more. That was when she found herself detached from everyone but her Pādīshāh, Baba.
How can you play a good host to wild animals in your house? What a scenario to think of! Here is a very unique and empathetic story by nine-year-old Eric Johan from Chennai. Welcome to his world of creativity!
My Wild Home
One fine morning, I woke up and saw my bedroom full of wild animals.
I was surprised on seeing all the animals talking. A lion stood before me and said, “Do you have any animals to eat?”
I replied, “I don’t have any.” I saw the lion roared in great hunger and went away.
Then a big crocodile of twenty feet length came near me and asked, “Do you have any meat to eat?” I replied saying, “No.” Then the big crocodile went away.
Next a tall giraffe looked at me and asked, “Do you have any grass to eat?”
I answered, “Yes, you can find grass behind my house, in the garden.” The giraffe and his friends went joyfully to have the grass in my garden, but the lion and his friends were sad.
Suddenly my dad rushed into the room with some delicious breakfast. It had my favourite roasted chicken. The lion and his friends saw it and asked me, “How many plates of meat do you have?”
I said, “ We have twelve plates”.
The lion asked, “Can I have nine of them?” I said, “Yes, of course, you can.”
Finally, the lion and his friends enjoyed the meat and went away happily. It was the most amazing morning ever.
Essays
Ten year old Shashwathi V from Bangalore would like us to think beyond one day and beyond a few popular names to understand better the meaning of independence.
Here is a much needed write up on the courageous queen and freedom fighter from Karnataka, Kittur Rani Chennamma.
Shashwathi V is a student of CMS NPR, Bangalore.
Kittur Rani Chennamma: Remembering one of the first female freedom fighters
On 15th August, our 74th Independence Day, my school asked us students to dress up as freedom fighters. I dressed up like “Kittur Rani Chennamma” for my class celebration online.
She is one of our greatest freedom fighters but to my surprise some of my friends did not know about her. So I thought I should write about her for my friends who do not know about her.
Kittur Rani Chennamma was born on 23 October 1778, in Kakati, a small village in the present Belagavi District of Karnataka, India. She learnt to ride horses, sword fighting and archery in her childhood. At the age of fourteen, she got married to Raja Mallasarja. She became the queen of Kittur. After her husband and only son died, she took over the kingdom and adopted a son but the British refused to accept her son.
The British tried to take over her kingdom thinking she would easily give up but she fought them in a war in which she won. The British, angered by the defeat, fought more wars in which despite her bravery she lost and was put in jail where she died.
Like Jhansi Rani, who came several years later, she made a mark on the country for her courage.
She was one of the first female freedom fighters to resist British colonization. She is a national heroine, well known in Karnataka and a symbol of the independence movement in India.
Here is one of the inspiring lines she said in response to the British demanding high-taxes, that people remember her best by:
“Why should I pay you tax (Nimageke kodabeku kappa)? Are you my brother, sister, relative or a friend?”
This moving piece by eleven-year-old Mehr Kapoor from Kolkata is for everyone who ever left behind their house, and a piece of their life in it. How there is an urge to capture every little moment spent there!
Walk down the memory lane
We walked through the garden one last time, knowing we’d never return to this house again. My family and I were moving to a better house this very day and while we took a stroll for the last time in this beautiful garden it brought up a lot of emotions.
I thought about the day I was running around the garden playing games with my friends, knowing I would never be able to do that again. I think the most difficult part of moving is giving up the garden because almost everything in a house could be packed up however a garden is the one thing that one cannot take with them. I looked at the cherry plant which I had grown on my own. I remember I was very proud that day because it was the first time I had ever planted something on my own. As I walked away, I thought about whether the next family that would stay here would even want a garden? Maybe they will build something in place of that, the thought disheartened me. I moved away from the garden and went inside the house.
I went inside and to my room for the very last time. I tried to absorb everything around me because I knew I would never see it again.
I went around every room in the house this way, for the last time.
Whatever the new family would change about this house, I shall never forget it and the eleven special years I spent in this house will be memories that I will cherish forever.
We live in a world flooded with endless images, spending so much time and effort spent in clicking, editing and publishing them. But is this how it always was and is this how it should be? Ten year old Hridi Talati from Vadodara raises and answers some of these important questions in her wonderful essay.
Photographs are Memories on Paper
And click! 5 years ago your mother just clicked a memorable photo of you in the summer. Now you are skimming across your mother’s pictures when a bright picture catches your eye, you click on it and go down a little trip in your memory lane and flashback to what happened 5 summers ago…
Clicking a photograph means that you want to preserve a moment till the end of time, and when you look at that old photograph again you feel exactly the way you did that day.
Each picture holds a powerful feeling, whether it is sadness or happiness, anger or relaxation, nostalgia or forgetfulness. A picture doesn’t have to be perfect to be memorable, it just has to be heart-felt.
I am personally not a fan of editing a picture to make it look like it is done by a professional. Why would you want to spoil a perfectly good and truephotograph by adding false make- overs to it? It makes the photograph look a little too overdone, unless, of course, it needs the editing to make it look better.
A good memory is the most popular kind of picture because seeing it makes you feel pleased and happy. And so ,“When you think good thoughts, they will shine out of your face like sunbeams and you will always look lovely.”- Roald Dahl.
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Borderless 