Painting by Joseph Mallord William Turner (1775-1851); From Public Domain
I’ve performed upon many stages of the World
Have donned many masks,
Am today like a ship whose sails furled
Floats listlessly upon the horizonless seas of uncertainty.
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Passed are those days of fury and adventure,
Of desert crossings, mountain passes and oceanic swells ;
The hour has come to lie down and venture
Forth towards a novel existence of tolling kneels.
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All has become pensive, still and Silent
Amidst the glorious illumination of nightly bidding ;
Where vivid Dreams and Tales invent
An irrevocable identity, so unexpected, yet so fitting.
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Paul Mirabile is a retired professor of philology now living in France. He has published mostly academic works centred on philology, history, pedagogy and religion. He has also published stories of his travels throughout Asia, where he spent thirty years.
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Title: Ayurveda, Nation and Society: United Provinces, c. 1890–1950
Author: Saurav Kumar Rai
Publisher: Orient Blackswan
The ayurvedic revivalist movement significantly influenced medical nationalism in the United Provinces[1] during the late 19th and early 20th centuries. This period saw a concerted effort to re-establish ayurveda as a legitimate and valuable medical system in the face of colonial dominance and the growing influence of Western medicine
The revival of ayurveda was intertwined with the broader nationalist movement in India. Proponents of this school sought to assert an indigenous identity, positioning ayurveda as a symbol of cultural pride and resistance against colonial rule. This was particularly important as the demand for swaraj (self-rule) intensified, necessitating a projection of India as a modern and scientifically progressive nation.
The formation of groups like the All India Ayurvedic Congress in 1907 created an opportunity for the practitioners to come together, exchange insights, and push for the acknowledgment of their stream in the broader national conversation. These meetings encouraged dialogue on blending ayurvedic and wHindu
estern medical approaches, positioning the indigenous school as a legitimate alternative to the colonial healthcare systems.
In a way, the proliferation of ayurvedic literature in various languages during this period helped democratise access to its content. This literature aimed to transform ayurveda from a specialised knowledge system into a shared cultural heritage, reinforcing its relevance in contemporary society. The revivalist discourse often emphasised the scientific basis of ayurveda, thereby aligning it with modernity and progress.
Fascinatingly, the ayurvedic revivalists critiqued colonial medical practices, often blaming external factors, particularly the ‘Other’, for health crises affecting the Hindu population. This narrative not only served to unify the community around ayurveda but also reinforced a sense of collective identity against colonial narratives that marginalised indigenous practices.
Also, the movement led to the commercialisation of ayurvedic medicine, with an increase in its products and practitioners. This economic aspect played a crucial role in embedding ayurveda within the social fabric of the United Provinces, making it a part of everyday life and health practices
It is in this backdrop that this book holds significance. Ayurveda, Nation and Society: United Provinces, c. 1890–195o by Saurav Kumar Rai explores the historical and socio-political dimensions of ayurveda during a transformative period in India. It is part of the New Perspectives in South Asian History series by Orient Blackswan. Saurav Kumar Rai is Research Officer, at Gandhi Smriti and Darshan Samiti, New Delhi.
Says the blurb: “Ayurveda enjoys a growing global appeal, and is often touted as ‘true’ and ‘time-tested’ by contemporary political actors, governments, social groups, practitioners and NGOs in India. With ‘indigenous’ healing systems enjoying increasing state support today, an examination of the socio-political aspects of medicine, in particular Ayurveda, and its role in nation-building is critically important. Ayurveda, Nation and Society, the latest in Orient Blackswan’s ‘New Perspectives in South Asian History’ series, captures the late nineteenth and early twentieth century growth of ‘medical nationalism’ through the Ayurvedic revivalist movement in the United Provinces, and observes the ensuing change and continuity in the attitude towards ‘indigenous’ medicine in independent India.”
This study investigates the emergence of medical nationalism as reflected in the ayurvedic revivalist movement within the United Provinces, focusing on its role in the nation-building process. It offers a critique of the social dynamics of the era, drawing attention to the caste, communal, class, and gender biases that permeated ayurvedic discussions. The author contends that advocates of ayurveda played a significant role in the reconstruction of both tradition and society, frequently attributing health crises affecting the Hindu male demographic to external ‘Others.’
The book contextualises ayurveda as an indigenous medical system, delving into its complexities during the late 19th and early 20th centuries. It examines the involvement of the Indian National Congress in the ayurvedic movement, illustrating how political groups harnessed this school of medicine to foster national identity. The author further explores the influence of print media and organisational initiatives in shaping ayurvedic discourse and rallying societal support. Additionally, the commercialisation of ayurveda is analysed through its print and pharmaceutical markets, investigating the impact of economic factors on health practices. The narrative also encompasses the period surrounding India’s independence, evaluating the evolution of ayurvedic practices during this pivotal transition.
This book stands out as an important resource for those looking to deepen their knowledge of health and medicine during colonial India, attracting both scholars and general readers who are curious about the development of ayurveda and its relevance today.
[1] Present day Uttar Pradesh and Uttarakhand in India was called United Province during this period
Bhaskar Parichha is a journalist and author of Unbiased, No Strings Attached: Writings on Odisha and Biju Patnaik – A Political Biography. He lives in Bhubaneswar and writes bilingually. Besides writing for newspapers, he also reviews books on various media platforms.
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Nazrul’s lyrics transcreated by Professor Fakrul Alam
Roomu Jhoomu Roomu Jhoomu
Roomo Jhoomo Roomo Jhoomo—anklet bells sound. Addicted to dancing, bangles jingle jangle to that beat. The dresses’ borders keep swaying in the restless wind. Who could be moving with such wantonly dancing feet? Stranger though she is and so close to the riverbank I think I know this dancer on the move. Her movements Fill this heart of mine. Her swan or peacock-like steps Cast a spell, like a mirage in a desert will. With her smile She even enchants the forest deer. Her big eyes dance, Making the sea waves lilt. Forests in the high hills sway, Sway away to the beat and music of her dancing feet.
Born in united Bengal, long before the Partition, Kazi Nazrul Islam(1899-1976) was known as the Bidrohi Kobi, or “rebel poet”. Nazrul is now regarded as the national poet of Bangladesh though he continues a revered name in the Indian subcontinent. In addition to his prose and poetry, Nazrul wrote about 4000 songs.
It is a relief that young women have not called me Uncleji yet – despite the visible signs of greying hair and beard. While they may not consider me fit for a romantic fling, they feel somewhat restrained to deprive me of the right to be called eligible. Thanks to the growing acceptance of premature greying, women seem to appreciate the strength and honesty of men who flaunt their salt-and-pepper combination even though they have the option of applying hair dye. While my peers use hair colour and suggest a similar makeover to avoid negative comments, I prefer to look real and face everything that comes my way.
Barring a few occasions marred by toxic jealousy, grey hair has never dismantled my confidence. In case greying is a cause for concern, blame a weak liver or genes and proudly declare that you have celebrated your grey hair throughout your youthful days and consider it a sign of wisdom that other people have to wait to acquire. However, in a changing world, with a thrust on balance and equality, where young women do not shy away from entering into wedlock with men with grey hair, the acceptance of young women with streaks of grey as a suitable life partner remains an unrealised dream, leading to another kind of gender inequality that should be rooted out.
Bumping into a former girlfriend, who still overlooks my grey hair but continues to chuckle at the unending struggles of a creative life, I discovered she drew the simplistic conclusion that nothing seems to have changed in my life despite the passing of two decades. Before I chose to contest her view by drawing up a detailed comparative analysis chart that could prove her wrong on several counts, I allowed her assessment to soothe me inside as she maintained the status quo, mentioning quite a miraculous achievement that the tide of time had failed to wreak havoc. Blessed with skin that refuses to show signs of ageing, I still drink municipal tap water instead of worrying about how and where to purchase pristine litres from glaciers to rejuvenate myself. When she raised queries about facials, night creams, and oil massages to tone up the sagging skin and get rid of wrinkles, I had a simple advice to offer: purity inside shows up outside. And this includes thoughts and a positive mindset.
She introduced me to her daughter in a video chat as a classmate who missed the chance of hitching up. The young girl spoke of her interest which fluttered at the threshold of pursuing a creative life full of adventure. I was curious to know why she wanted to pursue this path, even though nobody in her family had ever tread on it. This was answered best by her ambitious mother who had perhaps nurtured the idea of giving birth to a creative child even though she had rejected spending her life with a creative person. This was a bold question but she admitted the fact that she had always wanted her child to become creative even though she did not wish for a career in this domain. The girl now had the clarity to make a quick decision as my plight strengthened her resolve to join her father’s accountancy firm after completing her graduation.
The attitude of men seems to have changed towards me over time as I end up being called Uncle by those who view my grey hair as a conclusive sign of old age. Men belonging to the same age bracket also call me Uncle just because they have dyed their hair to sport a young, dapper look while I prefer being myself. The other day, a gentleman from the neighbourhood came seeking donations for a noble cause and chose to address me as Uncle. This was not said with the intent to prick or provoke, but a cautious attempt to remind me of my age. He had seen me moving around with young women and he must have secretly envied me my companions. He seized the opportunity to send an apt reminder that I should behave and act my age, and my knee-jerk reaction was to deny him what he sought. Men older than me have also called me Uncle – from drivers to fruit vendors – and derived a sense of satisfaction but I do not deny them this pleasure by showing my anger. Even if the entire tribe of men orchestrates a similar sentiment, it should not trigger a negative response as I have grown immune to such expressions.
Recently, a gentleman near the market stopped me to say that my daughter had left behind a tote bag last week. It set me thinking as I tried hard to remember when she had come with me to the shop. He added that we sat in a café and ordered French fries with cappuccino. I recalled the episode with this prompt and clarified that she was a young female companion of mine and not my daughter. He looked stunned to hear that I was privileged enough to enjoy the company of young female friends. I took the bag, thanked him and left.
Devraj Singh Kalsiworks as a senior copywriter in Kolkata. His short stories and essays have been published in Deccan Herald, Tehelka, Kitaab, Earthen Lamp Journal, Assam Tribune, and The Statesman. Pal Motors is his first novel.
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The world has changed, so the people claim. Knowledge and wisdom have reached great heights. Yet my unyielding heart remains ever the same.
Dawns and dusks often ask of me, When will the sun glide upon the sea? When will, like the moon, the rainbow Cast upon the earth its colourful glow? When will stars adorn the earth's lap, Descending from heavenly height?
When will the wind chant like a cooing dove? When will elegies transform into songs of love? When will lizards and moths soar like birds? And mountains soften to cotton flakes?
Your smiles and giggles, unfurl in my songs, When will fire rise from beneath the water? Lightning leap from eyes, the scorching winds Blow across as gentle as gentle breeze? When will fig blooms scatter, a feast for all to see, When will Man regress from the heights of grace? When will he grasp his true essence? When will this world birth a new dawn's light?
When will life witness such glories? With fervent urge, I plead.
The world has changed, or so the people claim. Yet my unyielding heart remains ever the same. I ponder, will change ever find its way?
Mubarak Qazi(1955-2023), is one of the most prolific and popular of modern Balochi poets. He is credited with making poetry a vocation for the masses in a lucid vocabulary. In other words, Qazi is like the conscience of the people — one who addresses them in a language they can easily comprehend and decipher. Instead of maintaining a subtle or vague approach, he conveyed his sentiments in simple and unembellished language. He has published ten anthologies of poetry.
Fazal Baloch is a Balochi writer and translator. He has translated many Balochi poems and short stories into English. His translations have been featured in Pakistani Literature published by Pakistan Academy of Letters and in the form of books and anthologies.
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Long, long ago, Zeus descended to the place where two trees are wrapped in a loving embrace: an oak and a linden tree amid an undulating landscape, their entwined branches a testimony to undying love. ‘I have seen them with my very eyes’ is how the narrator begins the story about how the gods can decide our fate, which was recorded by Ovid in his Metamorphoses.
The story goes as follows: one day Zeus, king of the gods, disguised himself as a mortal and descended to Earth, accompanied by his son, Hermes. They knocked at every door they found in search of a place to rest, but none of the homes they visited welcomed them in. They finally reached the tumble-down cottage belonging to Baucis and Philemon, an old couple who, in spite of their poverty, were perfectly content with their lot, and welcomed the pair with open arms, generously providing them with all the fruit, nuts, figs and dates they had to hand. They were even prepared to kill their goose, but the bird escaped its fate and found safety between the two gods. Hermes and Zeus explained to the couple who they were and why they were going to destroy this godless part of the world: ‘Only the two of you will be allowed to escape this disaster’.
Leaning on their staffs, the old couple followed the gods to the top of a hill, from which they looked back to see all the land in the valley flooded and sinking into a muddy bog, apart from their own cottage, which had been turned into a glistening temple with marble floors and columns. Zeus granted the couple a wish, and they did not need too long to think about their reply: they wished to become priest and priestess of the new temple and, most beautifully of all, they both wanted to die at the same time at the end of their lives. Both wishes were granted.
One day, after a long and fortunate life, the pair stood at the bottom of the marble steps leading up to the temple. All of a sudden bark began to cover their bodies and legs and their arms began to sprout leaves. They shared one final word of farewell as the leafy canopy started to engulf their faces. In an act of tenderness, they stretched out their branches longingly towards one another, and to this day continue to whisper to each other through the rustle of the leaves.
Living on together in human form after death is another comforting solution in stories the world over. No surprise therefore that storytellers have always wondered how Adam and Eve, the first humans according to Judaism, Christianity and Islam, met their end. The holy books of these three religious traditions all begin with the pair living in Paradise, with the Bible even stating that Adam was 930 years old when he died, but the details of their deaths are conspicuous by their absence.
Eve’s widowhood is not dealt with at all in the Bible, yet oral traditions do discuss it, as storytellers tend to have free rein. In one early Christian story, on his deathbed Adam confronts Eve with the most wicked accusation; during that emotional moment, he forces her to once again explain to their children and grandchildren (and all of his progeny) that it is through her that death came into the world. No surprise therefore that, after Adam’s death, Eve wallows in the mud, grief-stricken and despondent, imploring God’s mercy for her unending guilt, until she dares to gaze upwards, where the most incredible spectacle unfolds before her eyes: angels float in the sky, obscuring the vaults of heaven with their swinging incense burners, as the body of Adam is brought to Heaven on a chariot of light drawn by four shining eagles.
Further details about the now widowed Eve are absent, but in one optimistic Islamic story from Yemen, upon their deaths the angel Gabriel comes to Earth to collect both Adam and Eve to take them back to the Garden of Eden. As they arrive, the gates of Heaven swing open, and they are greeted with ‘Peace be with you and welcome back’. These words are spoken by Ridwan, the same gatekeeper who at the start of their earthly lives had slammed the gates of heaven behind the pair as they left. Upon their return they must undergo a ritual purification: first they are handed a golden cup with water from the well of purity, followed by another golden cup filled with water from the fountain of eternal youth.3 Together till the end, from their expulsion from Paradise to their return.
One goes, the other remains
In the harsh reality of life, this narrative works slightly differently, the question being ‘which of the two of us will be the first to go?’ This pressing question inevitably arises among people who are in love and happy with one another. In fairy tales, couples live long and happy lives, and at weddings you will often hear a variant of the adage ‘may you live long and well’. At weddings in India’s eastern state of Assam, you will hear the words ‘may the kinowari (bindi) never disappear from your forehead’. This symbol of marital bliss is used to wish brides a marriage that lasts a lifetime, with those who become widows no longer being permitted to wear it.
‘May a God-blessed wife go with her husband to his grave’ is a popular Arabic wish for women, as what could be more beautiful than dying together on the same day?
(Extracted from Widows: A Global History by Mineke Schipper. Published by Speaking Tiger Books, 2024)
About the Book
Widows have always far outnumbered widowers (who quickly remarry, usually younger women). War, hunting and the uncertainties of long travel ensured that most husbands died before their wives did. Mineke Schipper’s cultural history of widows examines how these husband-less women have, throughout history and mythology, been portrayed as helpless damsels, easy pickings for men outside the family or clan, or as cunning witches who are suspected of murder. In every case, the motive has been to exclude them and control them. Schipper traverses the world, travelling across time, to collect and analyse stories about widows and their treatment—the loss of status they face after their husband’s death; the harsh rituals of mourning they are forced to perform; the often brutal controls on attire, mobility and sexuality that they must submit to. It is a global legacy of cruelty and shame—as also, occasionally, of resilience and defiance—that has rarely been studied as deeply and thoroughly as in this extraordinary work. Widows draws upon sources from Ancient Egypt and Greece, medieval India and modern-day Europe, Africa and the Americas—examining folk and real-life stories of communities in Fiji, Papua New Guinea, Ghana, China, France, and several other countries and regions, as also stories and images from comics and fashion magazines.
Impressively researched and entertainingly narrated, this book—its information made distinctive by Schipper’s sharp insight and her humour—is an important document that helps us understand our past and, through it, our present.
About the Author
Mineke Schipper is Emeritus Professor of Intercultural Literary Studies at the University of Leiden, The Netherlands, with visiting professorships in Nigeria, Kenya, Zimbabwe, Burkina Faso and China. She is the author of NeverMarry a Woman with Big Feet (Eureka Prize for Non-fiction), Naked or Covered and Hills of Paradise.
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I release you, moral underpinnings, you all have a journey in front of you. Some will leave quietly like summer winds, others will be packed in boxes and shipped, some I’m sure will go underground.
All will be in mourning of what was a wondrous coming together, spelled out in words that allowed for growing, held for centuries until they somehow could no longer be understood.
History will say you should have stayed and fought, not realising the struggle is not foreign or about winning, it is about the being, the empathy, caring for the lesser.
This is not a battle fought, or a flag flown. That war was already won. Fathers and grandfathers died to rid the planet of leaders and demagoguery that came to power on the rhetoric of hatred and fear,
and yes in my lifetime the mantra was, Never again in my lifetime.
My lifetime is almost over, and despite history, it’s back. I wish I could be travelling with you, instead of crying about your departure, but I am too old for such a journey…
Painting by Vincent Van Gogh (1853-1890)
Craig Kirchner thinks of poetry as hobo art, loves storytelling. He has had two poems nominated for the Pushcart, and has a book of poetry, Roomful of Navels.
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“Limitless and immortal, the waters are the beginning and end of all things on earth.” -- Heinrich Zimmer, German Indologist and linguist
Little Varshita has an inborn affinity for proximity to water bodies. A June-born Cancerian, she eagerly looks forward to short walks along the Marina Beach in Chennai – the second-largest urban beach in the world. Five-and-a-half years old now, she is a prodigy eagerly looking forward to starting school next year. Whether her genius owes itself to nature or nurture or both, is difficult to say. It can be mentioned here that both her parents are teachers. She also possesses a very high emotional intelligence for her age. Perhaps there is a connection here to the aforementioned affinity for proximity to water bodies. Perhaps not.
“We were there two days ago, Varshita. Can we go tomorrow instead?” Her father Ramesh who wants to watch a cricket match on television at home, smilingly attempts to dissuade her.
“Okay, no problem, Appa. Can I watch Animal Planet then this evening? If they show fish and crabs and whales and sharks and dolphins and orcas and octopuses and squids and seals and penguins….and….my-aunties?”
“Your aunties? Are Periyamma[2] and Aththai[3] going to be seen swimming, on Animal Planet?” Ramesh asks with a wink and a smile, eagerly expecting a response from Varshita.
“Noooo…M.A.N.A.T.E.E.S…” She hurls a pillow playfully at Ramesh, realising that he is pulling her leg.
“Ah, I see! Those creatures which are also called sea-cows.”
“Are they also called sea-cows, Appa? I did not know that. Now I do. But I knew sea-lions.” Ramesh is happy that he has invested in his daughter’s knowledge bank. Perhaps, his sister and sister-in-law are not going to be very happy if Varshita decides to share the joke with them. His sister especially does not have a sense of humour.
“Do not share this joke with your aunties, Varshita.”
“I promise, but in return you have to take me to the beach three times next week,” she says matter-of-factly.
“Done! Good girl!”
Varshita looks at Ramesh and knows that she has somehow gotten her way, tactfully. Little girls wiser than men; cleverer too, thinks Ramesh, recalling the Leo Tolstoy story about Akulya and Malasha[4], he had read in school in the ninth grade.
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The waters of the Bay of Bengal are calm. Waves, longing for contact with the littoral sands, swoosh against the shore. Even though there are many people there on the beach, they seem to be observing silence in deference to the Sea-God. Varshita tends to speak less when out on these walks. She watches Mother Nature intently, listens carefully to Her sounds, and once in a while her curiosity leads her to ask a carefully-thought-out question. Ramesh does his best to reply, and whenever he is not able to find an answer instantly, he makes it a point to put the question on the back-burner, give it serious thought, and get back to Varshita with the answer. At times, that is even a day or two later. Once in a while, there are unanswerable questions hurled at him. Being a senior lecturer at the Indian Institute of Technology, he is used to this practice. After all, his daughter is also his student – a special one at that.
“Appa, is it okay to throw a chocolate wrapper into the water?”
“No, Varshita. It is not. One must not pollute the environment.”
“But then why are there so many things lying around here? That is bad, right?”
“Yes, it is. Very much so. But maybe, people will learn not to do so, and when you are an adult, you will see that the beach is perfectly clean.”
She looks up, nods and smiles.
“Appa, when the waves come and take all these things into the sea, what happens to them?”
“ A good question, Varshita. Many things which you see lying here are harmful to the animals which live in the water. All the animals you like seeing in the Animal Planet.”
“I will not throw anything, Appa, when I come here with you to walk.”
Ramesh and Varshita do a high-five, and Ramesh tells her that he is very proud of her.
The blue sky starts turning grey and some clouds float in. Precisely at that moment, Varshita sees a little girl with a sack on her back, and a stick in her hand, bending down and picking up a plastic bottle.
“Appa, what is she doing?”
“She is doing a very good thing. People throw things, and this little girl is collecting them, so that they do not get dragged into the sea to cause harm to the animals living in it. There are many people like her in our city. They are poor, yes. But we have to be thankful to them for what they do for us.”
It starts drizzling, and Ramesh tells Varshita that they have to head home. She keeps looking sideways at the little girl with the sack, as they walk away from the sea. Unanswered questions, for sure, start piling up in that four-and-a-half-year-old brain of hers.
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Rains reign in Chennai for the next three days. Varshita knows that she cannot compel Ramesh to take her out to the beach for a walk. Ramesh however remembers the promise, and keeps checking the weather forecast every day. On Thursday, he tells Varshita that it is going to be sunny for four days at a stretch.
“So, can we go the beach tomorrow, the day after and the day after the day after?”
He chuckles, realising that his daughter remembers the promise in letter and spirit.
“Why are you laughing?”
“Because I am happy to go to the beach three evenings in a row with you. We must also ask Amma[5]to come along.” He winks, and they do a high-five.
“Yes, that will be fun. But Amma is afraid of the waves.”
“We will help her to get over her fear. But you must convince her to come with us.”
“Yes! I take on that challenge,” she says.
Ramesh’s wife Megha works as a school-teacher. She picks up Varshita daily from the kindergarten on her way back home from school. “Amma, are you interested in coming to the beach tomorrow evening with me and Appa?’
Megha looks at Varshita and studies the expression on her face. She realises that the last time she was out with Ramesh and her for a walk on Marina Beach, was over a month ago. She agrees.
“You do not seem really interested,” says Varshita.
Megha is taken aback. “How can you say that?”
“It is written all over your face,” Varshita says.
Megha bursts out laughing. “Well, whatever is written on my face, I will join you both tomorrow. That is a promise.”
“Yes!” Varshita does a V-sign this time.
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Friday evening happens to be just the perfect time to be out on Marina Beach. Yes, there are some stray clouds, but they do not seem to be in a mood to discharge their content in Chennai. Some other place is destined to receive rainfall from them.
Megha, Ramesh and Varshita buy three ice-creams, and walk down closer to the shore. Megha spreads a large plastic sheet, and they sit down on it. Varshita remembers the little girl with the sack on her back she had seen on the previous weekend and starts looking around. Call it intuition or what you will, she spots her about 50 metres away. The girl spots a big plastic bottle floating on the water, but is a bit wary of the waves advancing to the shore.
“Appa, can I go and help her to retrieve that plastic bottle? I like getting my feet wet in the water.”
Megha glares at Ramesh and nods her head from left to right, signalling to him that he must not give in to Varshita’s request. Ramesh winks at Megha. “I will go with her. Do not worry.”
The father-daughter duo walks towards the girl, and Ramesh tells Varshita to go and talk to her. She is as tall as Varshita is, and may perhaps be a little older than her. Not more than six years old, for sure.
“You want to get that bottle?”
“Yes, but I am afraid of the waves.”
“I will get it for you. Wait here.”
Varshita looks at Ramesh, who gives her the thumbs-up sign. The little girl notices that and smiles.
Varshita takes off her slippers, and leaves them beside her father. “Take care of them, Captain, till I come back.”
Courtesy: G Venkatesh
Laughing aloud, she wades two metres into the sea when the nearest incoming wave is still a few metres away. She retrieves the bottle, turns and walks up to the girl, and says, “Here. I managed to get it for you. It was easy. My name is Varshita. What is your name?”
The girl smiles gratefully, accepts the bottle, and drops it into her sack. “My name is Mary. You are not afraid of the waves, Varshita?”
“I used to be.” She points to Ramesh and continues, “Appa told me not to be. He said that we must be careful, not afraid. But you know what, Amma is still afraid.”
“You visit the beach daily, Varshita?”
“Appa and I like to walk here sometimes. I love the sea. How about you?”
Mary looks into the distance. “I do not know if I love the sea or not. I just come here to look for things like these.”
“What do you do with them? Appa says that we must be thankful to all of you who clean up the beaches. He says that you help to stop damage being done to the fish.”
Mary smiles weakly. “You see my Amma there,” she points to a woman with a bigger sack hunting for treasures, about 100 metres away. “I will give these to Amma. Then my Amma and Appa will sell these and get money. Then we buy food and eat.”
Varshita listens intently, as she always does. “You like ice-cream, Mary?”
“Yes, I ate an ice-cream long ago. On Christmas Day.”
“Wait here,” says Varshita. She runs to where Ramesh is guarding her slippers, puts them on, and runs to her mother. “Amma, can I give my ice-cream to Mary over there? I just helped her to get that plastic bottle.”
“I saw you doing that, dear. I am so proud of you. Yes, you can give her your ice-cream. It is melting away slowly. Ask her to eat it quickly.”
Varshita grabs the ice-cream cone and runs towards Mary with a cherubic smile of her face. “Here, Mary. Your second ice-cream.”
“Have you eaten?”
“I will eat Amma’s. She usually does not eat her ice-cream and ends up giving it to me.”
“Will you be coming tomorrow, Varshita?”
“Yes, that is the plan. And the day after tomorrow also.”
“At this time?”
“Yes, and you?”
“I am not sure. I go with Amma wherever she goes. If she chooses to come here, it will be at this time.”
“What is that you are wearing around your neck?” Varshita asks, pointing to the little crucifix.
“Oh, this one. This is Jesus. Our God. I got this on the same day I ate my first ice-cream.”
Mary’s mother is calling out to her from a distance. “I am so happy that you got me the bottle and then gave me your ice-cream. You are a good person. Can we be friends?”
Varshita smiles cutely, and extends her hand for a handshake. Mary reciprocates, puts her little sack on her right shoulder, holds the stick in the right hand and the ice-cream in the left, and hurriedly walks towards her mother.
“Eat the ice-cream quickly. It will melt away,” shouts Varshita.
“Yes, I will,” Mary shouts back.
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The next day, Mary’s mother decides to take her to a stretch of the beach further away. The day after that, Varshita feels a little unwell and the trip to the beach is called off. The two girls never meet each other again in Chennai.
But as we already know, God’s ways are mysterious. Many years pass, before they meet again in Bengaluru in a public school. One in her capacity as the mother of a girl named Sarah, and the other in her capacity as Sarah’s science teacher.
Jawbone of a deer along the trail, jagged incisors winged with little points, sheath of bone damask with clay and blood.
I heard coyotes arguing with dogs last night and thought about the senselessness that can’t be helped, the cunning and cupidity of hunger, the indiscriminate
meals we stop to take. This unnamed sandy stream babbles as it doglegs around itself. A muskrat carries an apricot into the earth. The resident
blue heron lights off when it hears my footfalls on the path. Its complaint is an asthmatic, dissonant sound. It throws its shadow
on the dead ash trees whose dehisced branches rise like antlers, like trophies rooted from their little skulls
Cal Freeman is the author of Fight Songs and Poolside at the Dearborn Inn. His chapbook, Yelping the Tegmine, has just been released.
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PLEASE NOTE: ARTICLES CAN ONLY BE REPRODUCED IN OTHER SITES WITH DUE ACKNOWLEDGEMENT TO BORDERLESS JOURNAL.
According to Australian author Frank Moorhouse, a short story is like a beautiful handmade toy — a specialised craft requiring talent, originality, creativity and skill. Not surprisingly, many of today’s successful writers have used this medium to launch their professional careers. And for good reason. Short stories have helped them hone their writing skills, develop the writing habit and inculcate a sense of discipline in their writing schedules.
Contrary to what some editors and publishers believe, there is a growing market for the short story. Modern technology has offered a tremendous boost to the short story genre. The short story today can be made accessible to readers in a much quicker time frame and at a much lower cost. With so many online magazines, it’s now cheaper to produce and distribute more short fiction than ever before. This flexibility makes it possible to download a short story on a website, on a mobile phone or on a tablet; and a short story can be read and enjoyed anywhere and anytime – during a lunch break, in a doctor’s waiting room, on a short journey or a commute, or even whilst waiting in a queue!
From the reader’s point of view there are several other advantages to a short story. One of the major strengths of the short story lies in its brevity and compactness, providing a punch that is so different from a novel. The theme of the story, the setting, the plot, the characters, the conflict, the turning point and the resolution are all contained in a short space. And it is precisely this compactness that makes this form of writing so appealing. A short story provides a quick and easy read from start to finish in a short period of time, and often in a single sitting. In the words of Neil Gaiman, “Short stories are journeys you can make to the far side of the universe and still be back in time for dinner.”
Apart from that, because of the media overload in today’s world, our attention spans are shrinking. This is why it is important to condense the message in a short and concise form that catches the attention of the reader and stimulates his curiosity. They could be a way towards inculcating the reading habit. They are great for reluctant readers, slow readers or anyone intimidated by books.
The lasting power of the short story is so well illustrated in the fact that many famous and successful films and television series were based on short stories. The Curious Case of Benjamin Button, for instance, was an award-winning film inspired by F Scott Fitzgerald short story of 1922 and released 86 years after the original story was written. Malgudi Days was made into a television serial of 54 episodes and four seasons and had become a household name in India. It was inspired by a series of 32 short stories written in 1943 by celebrated author, RK Narayan.
So if you are an aspiring young writer, the short story would be a good means of kick starting your writing career. We all have a story inside us waiting to be told. And who knows, that yet to be written masterpiece may well find its way to a block buster series on Netflix!
Saeed Ibrahim’s family saga, Twin Tales from Kutcch, and his book of short stories, The Missing Tile and Other Stories, have had successful runs both in India and overseas. He continues to write newspaper articles, travel essays and book reviews for various Indian and international publications.
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PLEASE NOTE: ARTICLES CAN ONLY BE REPRODUCED IN OTHER SITES WITH DUE ACKNOWLEDGEMENT TO BORDERLESS JOURNAL
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