Who Moved Your Cheese?

By Ananya Mukherjee
Singapore

Change is the only constant, the wise men say. Frankly speaking, I don’t care whether they are three nor if they come from the east, as long as I find relevance in their adage. Interestingly, juggling between bouts of intellectual enlightenment, sifting facts from fiction and self assumed indications of progress, I have begun to observe that even change follows a pattern. It is not as unpredictable as we accuse it to be, and interestingly, often fairer than most challenges.

To the fearful, it is threatening, laced with uncertainties and panic of the unknown; to the optimist, it is encouraging; to the confident it is inspiring. But then, any transition that would change your definition of self will not only require consistent modifications in the ordinary business of life, but a complete metamorphosis of your philosophies and actions. Sounds confusing? Let me make it simpler.

When I look back at the things and people that have changed over the years, including my own conscience, I don’t think any of us “changed” as we grew older. Learning through the experiments and experiences that helped us win what we desired and took away what we could not preserve, we clearly became more of ourselves. Through that transition, we started following the pattern that worked best for us. Do you not agree?


People change behaviours that correspond best to their existing philosophies. Inanimate objects wither, wilt and rot to start again. It is strange that we take pride in being “unchanged” through the years. Have we not learnt anything from our mistakes or did no one ever inspire us to be different from following a pattern?


Take a step back and revisit the moments of time that have redefined your life today. In the words of Nelson Mandela, “There is nothing like returning to a place that remains unchanged to find the ways in which you yourself have altered.”


Who knows you may be thankful to the person who moved your cheese!

Pause

By Prodipto Roy & Ananya Mukherjee

My Little Magazine

Tick tock tick tock tick...pulsating mechanical beats that rhyme with the throbbing of my heart and soul. Time, my ephemeral friend doesn’t change its rhythm when I want to live a happy moment a little longer; it doesn’t heed to my pleadings to supercede the lull of tough times.

For God’s sake, hold back your speed and let me LIVE...

Taking the Time

By Pritha Lal
Springville, Utah, USA

In my 39 years, I cannot recall sharing secrets with my dad or telling him all about my day. As a child, I recall him reading stories and then buying books and other beautiful stuff from every country he visited on his trips. During my teenage years, he was the ever protective father figure, who said more with silence than speech. As I left home to pursue studies, his wariness about my well being, security etc. continued, much to my irritation. Boys and boy friends were never a topic of discussion with him.

However, he did pay me my biggest compliment when I introduced him to Neel in person , the day before our wedding his exact words were.. "I am not sure I would have been able to find such a wonderful man for you..."
Never forgot those words. The day I left home formally as a bride amidst a quiet wedding and a looming fear of an upcoming bypass operation on dad in the following 2 weeks, I recall he said.."whatever you do, know we are here, and you will make us proud..." I have been married for 12 years but that moment gets me by the gut each time.

Through all this time, I could never relate to my friends who were their "father's daughter" , confided in their fathers about everything, shared all their stories.. for me it was always mom. There was this wall between my father an I that could be attributed to very different ways of thinking and probably generational nuances and differences.

This year, I got a slightly differently glimpse of my relationship with my dad when he visited us in March for his San Antonio Conference. A dear friend asked me to "talk to" him , really talk, take the time to spend time... and not lose this time I would have with him. I heeded his advice and I am not sure what exactly transpired because there was nothing new we shared, or talked about and yet when he left for India, I missed him in a way I had never done in my life.

It is strange how you sometimes rediscover relationships that you often take for granted or don't give much thought to, just coz they exist. Also it is amazing how the impermanence of one's tangible relationship with one's father and the permanence of a spiritual one with him, bring newer perspectives to life.

I claim no direct knowledge of such a hard experience, but with a couple of my dearest friends losing their father in a physical sense but realizing their presence in a way that pushes them further, is what I am most inspired about on this Father's Day. I have never written a note about my dad.. today I wanted to, and send him my heartfelt gratitude and regards that I have the fortune of being his daughter.

To all of you reading this post, who are in my shoes, or in the shoes of some of my friends who have gone through some tough times with their father's health or other issues, or are brilliant fathers yourself...

Kudos to you... Congratulations....
You make every daughter want to be "daddy's little girl" and every son call you.."my hero..."
God bless...

From An Old Man's Diary

By Anindita Baidya
Anand, Gujarat, India

The lamp in the night dims out....only to usher the sunlight of the dawn.  And if God wills, we behold the sunlight, if we do not see the light anymore, it is God’s will, anyway.....

I am Poritosh Banerjee, a retired high official from the Indian railways.  All my life I have earned wealth more than I could have imagined and I have earned it the honest way.  I have earned fame more than my wealth.  I have earned the affection of my friends more than the fame.

And I retired as a proud man. 

I have spent most of my wealth and energy in raising my only child; a son.  After he was born, we were very clear that we did not want a second child.  We wanted to provide the best of schooling and materialistic comforts and undivided attention to him.  Dhruv, my wife named our son.

During my job, I was transferred throughout the length and breadth of India.  So, my parents never stayed with us.  They were confined to the small sleepy village in Bardhaman in West Bengal.

Throughout my job-life, my rewards brought pride to my family.  Added to this family pride were the trophies my child earned for academics, sports, extra-curricular activities.  He was a brilliant student and a winner all through.

Before we knew it, Dhruv grew up and we sent him to London for his further career pursuits.  All that I had earned belonged to him.  He was my only child, after all.

Dhruv never came back to stay in India.   He and Meghan, his wife settled forever in London and now they have a daughter, whom I have not yet seen!

He would visit us once a year.  Dhruv was busy, very busy.  He would often have to go for some official commitments in India even during his visit to us.

My wife, Mitali, the quintessential ‘Ma’, never had any complain against her son.  She instead would try day and night to make Meghan’s stay comfortable at our house while Dhruv was away.

Mitali passed away four years back.  Though I had secretly wished to migrate to London, Dhruv was not very keen.  Meghan was not keen either.  Their child did not know who I was!

For me, the last four years passed as if I lived through four long lives.  Life never seemed so long and unwelcome!  My credentials and Dhruv’s trophies gathered dust day after day now that I had no more energy to clean them.  The big bungalow I had built screamed in silence.  Many a times I had thought of returning to Bardhaman but my parents are no more, so there is no one to receive me or even want me!

I lost the eyesight in my right eye after a stroke last year.  Dhruv did not know this.  Mitali had ordered me that we should never bother our child and never come in way of his career pursuits.

I have more than enough money.  I have a bungalow built for housing ten people!  I have the kitchen set up for feeding a dozen people at a time.  Such magnanimous was Mital’s heart and intentions but now I stay here alone.  I don’t need more than a cot and an arm chair.  My diet is reduced to some insipid monotonous food which my hired cook makes.

If I could see God, I would enquire, how long do I have to live?

But last month, I met Tapan, a young lad from Katihar with dreams in his eyes and hole in the pocket!  I rented out a room to him, not for money but in search of some companion.

He is here to earn some living, he says.  He works for a small Government health project.

I had no idea that my life would change after meeting young Tapan.  Over the last month Tapan and I have schemed out a wonderful proposition.

I was almost ready to spend most of my wealth to buy a place for me in the ‘Nirvana-House for the aged’.  They demanded some 10 lacs for a two room space for me and other facilities which the aged need.

I talked it over with Tapan and some of my aged and frail friends whom I meet every evening in the park.

But now I have this brilliant idea in my mind, courtesy Tapan.   I am not spending my wealth in paying to an old age home but I am actually turning my villa to a home for the aged!!! 

Tapan will spend some time for managing the home, he says.  He will infact live with all of us, for the time being.  We have also got Dr. Vashisht, our neighbour to offer his voluntary service to us.  In one month, five people have already contacted me.  There is no dearth of money for any one of them, they have all earned wealth and fame but that is a forgotten era. They all have their children but they are busy, as I was or as Dhruv is.  All they look for is a companion.  All they want is not to sleep in an empty house.  All they want is that if suddenly one morning, any one of them does not wake up anymore, somebody else is there to take charge of the final rites and to send a casual message to the children.

So, I know, I will be not alone anymore.  I will turn my haunted house into a home.  I will have friends living with me.

It is a new beginning.  Even if the end is near, the path does not have to be dark.... I deserve moonlight till the last hours of the night!

Orchid For You

By Ankita Chatterjee
Singapore

On that winter night, when your purple orchid lay breathless on our bed,

I imprisoned a shadow on my windowsill.

What innate that figure was, how I longed to touch him

I saw him struggle on the thin plank,

We were miles above civilization.

A dash of snow welted his shoulders, a mark I found on me,

A splash of tears drowned clarity, whose I couldn’t see.

The shadow grew darker, as it fell a million storeys 

I wilted at the sight,

Your orchid was still at rest.

I knew he wouldn’t return, the orchid he left behind,

I stood to see no one around,

For heaven was a world far too divine.

That night when you were away on unavoidable purpose,

A gust of wind drilled my heart apart.

I knew I counted my last,

I wailed to have you near and hug you tight

For you would remain shadows for me hereon.

I went miles above you

I left your purple orchid on the bed,

For you are to return in some days and not seeing me might pain.

There are words, there are frames, there are little complaints,

Till we meet again, let the orchid breathe in our lane.

Hey Ram!

By Ananya Mukherjee
Singapore

It’s been long since I have written a film review, even longer than the time when I counted myself as one of the first-day-first- show “paisa wasool” crowds! Perhaps, it is my irregularity of being a bollywood masala flick audience, the impatience of watching nonsensical visuals for three hours, or simply the worthlessness of the effort, but Mani Ratnam’s Ravaan was a letdown. And that is just a very polished understatement! It was a disaster: a complete waste of talent, a brilliant story and a great director.

The metaphorical semblance of this modern age Ramayana was obvious to the point of being idiot proof. And neither Aishwarya Rai Bachchan’s good looks, nor sonny Bachchan’s brand, coupled with scores by A R Rahman and cinematography by Santos Sivan could add any value to the loose and confused script. There are some great frames captured on camera albeit, but I would rather credit it to the natural beauty of location than the technical handiwork of the eyes behind the camera. No frames tell a story beyond the apparent.
The romance fails, the melodrama reeks with Bollywoodish stereotypical nuances, the dialogues have little intensity and you are often forced to mistake the good for the evil and vice versa. Whether, establishing this sense of grey between the Black Ravaan and the White Ram was Mani Ratnam’s deliberate intent or not is debatable, for if that were the case, Seeta maiiya aka Aishwarya would have little or no doubts of shifting loyalties.
In the end, you are left wondering how a great storyline with a good cast, a remarkable director, good music and inspiring photography can end up being a visual torture just because of a loose script and disconcerted blend of modernism with the great epic. Even Govinda’s comic timing as Hanuman doesn’t spice up the bland platter.
In short, Raavan is a great story badly told and disastrously presented.
Moral of the story? If you can't make gods out of actors, leave them alone for the worldly tales!

The Four Letter Word

By Amitava Nag
Kolkata, India

I

Lata gasps her breath. She sees him enter. The dance floor bursts. Ravi is a macho. He is dashing, handsome. Lata is cute, small. It’s party time now. They completed a year. The college feels cozy. Old friends have withered. New acquaintances blossomed radiant. Lata loves Ravi, madly. He started returning favours. This is the event.

- Hi sweetie, been long?
- Nope. Waiting for you
Ravi grabs Lata’s waist. Draws her even close. She smells after shave. She feels so intoxicated. Ravi knows to handle. Girls, liquor and money. The music is deafening. Mosaic lights throw shadows. And the two dance. She matches her man. He tires his prey.
The lights go off. It’s late and over. Lata doesn’t stop crying. Ravi gets bored increasingly. He just dumps girls. But Lata is different. He sensed her urge. To satisfy her man. She is petite wild. Lata trembles in despair. She is in love. Deeper than virginal woes.
- Lets leave now sweetie

- Please don’t leave me

- What nonsense you speak

- I can’t stay alone
- Don’t be a fool
- I love you Ravi
- I love you too
- Will you marry me?
Ravi is not sure. It’s too much commitment. He is quite young. His family is rich. Lata will be misfit. Lata clasps his hands. She can’t waive now. Her mother and sisters. Their hope on her. A family of women. She falters, and cries.
Ravi feels irritated now. He needs a bath. To wash off memories.

II

Old rivalry breeds hatred. Jai knows pretty well. Dimple is the bimbo. Jai’s hunger is insatiable. Dimple ignores him always. She is after Ravi. Ravi is too strong. His father has influences. That frustrates even more. Jai spoke with Dimple. Tried to convince her. But she is adamant. Girls are fools, always. Jai is pretty sure.
The party was bore. Dimple had a fracture. She was not there. Bad luck to losers. Ravi was with Lata. This makes Jai angry. How easily they change. Like changing clothes daily. Jai feels like fighting. He then restrains himself. There is no use.
The mobile camera blinks. The couple is intimate. Jai is taken aback. His idea is wrong. Lata isn’t that innocent. Few pegs of vodka. Jai goes overboard instantly. Justice has denied him. Streaks of revenge resurface.

The pics are beads. They stitch up stories. Jai is so happy. He strikes a plan.

The mail server shivers. MMS clips fly off. Dimple can’t believe this. She was so blind. She calls it quits.

No one knows the details. None wants to even. They relish the contents.

III

Vibgyor is her favourite. Their town paints rainbows. Will she ever return? The shame is manifold. She can’t think anymore. Ravi has behaved awkward. How can he escape? She is discussed everywhere. Inside college, even outside. She can’t stand this.

Then she remembers colours. She loved to draw. Rain drops and lillies. Ages she didn’t draw. Till Ravi’s birthday card. She can see colours. Everywhere, even in death. What is death’s colour? To her it’s white. White is always sacred. Death is freedom too. Her father committed suicide. He couldn’t feed them. Her father wore white.
The night grows still. Only the dogs bark. The lampposts stare alone. She gets up. The white pad glares. She will deflower it. Who will be responsible? She pens her name. Her own name – Lata.

Outside, the night sleeps. Inside the turmoil heightens. She holds back breath. The fragrance of life. Gone in one week? Is life so cheap? So full of threats? So dull yet arrogant? She feels like quitting.
She calls up Ravi. Ravi is also shaken. His veneer has fallen. He looks mortal, weak. She does feel sorry.

- Ravi I am leaving

Her voice starts trembling. She grasps her dress. To be still, calm.

- Where are you going?
- I will be gone
- Are you mad sweetie
 This is better dear.
She hangs up hurriedly. She fears becoming weak. Its not easy leaving. She thinks of ma. She thinks herself selfish. But no other choice. The knot is silky. Vibgyor dopatta touches neck. Like a warm hug. She closes her eyes.
Ravi can’t sleep anymore. Lata’s call is disturbing. Hard days taught him. He is in love. Ravi dials Lata’s number. Will he call police? The consequences frighten him. He calls up Jai. The humbug switched off. He will thrash him. Restless, he calls police.

IV

Early mornings are cool. HE always strolls now. This is HIS duty. HE reaches in time. HE stays with them. Even before the time. This morning is fresh. The rainbow is perfect. HE loves pictures as well. HE pans HIS frames. The boy is restless. He pants and puffs. He loves a girl. HE looks at her. She looks so radiant. Emotions recollected in peace. HE can’t squander love. HE remembers HIS girl. HE took her away. That sin pegged HIM. When can HE stop? HE doesn’t know yet. But HE leaves her. The boy comes in. Welcome HE says him. Then lifts and leaves.