The countdown to the New Year begins...

Jingle bells, jingle bells, all the way they – jingle, jingle, jingle
As the grand pa clock chimes - ding dong, ding dong, ding dong
The countdown begins - tick tock, tick tock, tick tock
We will soon bid good bye to 2016 to wake up to another new year
With renewed faith, dreams, desires and hope
It is time to gift wrap 2016 with all the memories - good, bad and ugly
It is not too long for the New Year to unwrap and give us all a chance
To express - love, warmth and tenderness 
Reunite - with the ones we have lost ties with
Build more memories – good, better, best
Let us feel happy and cherish the kindness of time
Let us spread cheer and warmth
Jingle bells, jingle bells, all the way they – jingle, jingle, jingle
As the grand pa clock chimes - ding dong, ding dong, ding dong
The countdown begins - tick tock, tick tock, tick tock

#christmas #newyear #2017 #santa #whitewinter #carols 

FLAT OUT TALI - A 'Cool' initiative by Ms Tal Eyal of Auckland, New Zealand

Friends,

"Flat Out Tali" by Ms Tal Eyal is a modern solution for women who have survived the trauma of breast cancer and mastectomy and have made a choice to not have their breasts reconstructed, for personal reasons. Having had to face the surgery with a brave face and filled with joy and gratitude that life has given them a second chance, another challenge tiptoes into their lives. 

Yes! It can be extremely shocking to come to terms with 'not being able to' dress up, as before. Although statistically there may be fewer cases, however the fact remains that even young girls have had to go through this trauma of breast cancer. 

All these young, old and renewed women with a zest for life, are trying to build up a whole new wardrobe. Here is where "Flat Out Tali" comes to their rescue. 

I was intrigued and touched when I first read about this initiative by Ms Tal Eyal who lives in Auckland, New Zealand and is a cancer survivor. She opted to 'go flat'. This enterprising and optimistic lady is related to me remotely, my daughter's sister-in-law's mom :) and has struck the chord not only in my heart but millions of women out there.

This is what she has to say:

FLAT OUT TALI was conceived in February of 2016. It came to life following my sudden experience with breast cancer, bilateral mastectomy, and my choice to “go flat.”

Soon after, I encountered a problem which I hadn’t anticipated - how difficult it would be to find feminine, stylish women’s tops to wear after the surgery. It was summer in New Zealand, and after a frustrating and upsetting trek through almost all the shops at several malls, I ended up buying some Men’s T-shirts, which, no surprise, were better suited to my new shape.

In a culture that so often associates femininity with sizable breasts, I could see a need for some happy alternatives. So . . . FLAT OUT TALI has been created to transcend that norm and offer a contemporary and chic collection of stylish tops, dresses, and accessories for women with flatter physiques (as a result of mastectomy like myself, or those who were simply smaller breasted).

As important as it is for women to look good, I especially want FLAT OUT TALI to empower women to feel good about themselves — and truly love and appreciate all the wonderful qualities they possess — whatever their physique. For many years, I worked with women as a counselor and group facilitator; today, FLAT OUT TALI enables me to proactively combine my creativity and fashion sense with my core values and beliefs and share them with others in a way that will benefit us all.

FLAT OUT TALI’s designs for flatter women offer superior quality, classically fashionable, New Zealand-made, smart-casual garments using luscious fabrics, intriguing patterns, and higher necklines. Our accessory range includes long, versatile scarves and unique jewellery along with our fashion tips for flattering a flatter physique — and much more. 

FLAT OUT TALI is located in Auckland, New Zealand and our collection can also be viewed and purchased online at www.flatouttali.com

#breastcancer #mastectomy #empowerwomen #fashion #lovelife #livelife #flatouttali #goingflat #breastcancerawareness #breastcancersurvivors #expressionofpearls

My musing as a book reviewer

When the editor of Muse India, a Hyderabad based online literary journal, invited me to join their panel of book reviewers, I was delighted. This meant a lot to me as I was and still am on the cusp of entering this expansive world of writing.

I have been a die-hard book lover with my favourite titles and authors, just like most people who love to read. But this was different. Here, I was getting a chance to read books with a critical eye, huge responsibility! An obligation to express my opinion on the works of writers who have spent vast amount of time on research, conjuring up plots, creating and giving life to characters in order to whip up a good story or a brilliant prose.

The journey of hope, despair, faith, patience, prayer, dose of good luck and what not, in having the manuscript accepted by a publishing house, could have been a struggle for aspiring writers. And for the fairly established writers, the level playing would have been different. They are morally committed to not disappoint their readers and the pressure starts mounting. The moment they attain the celebrity writer status, everything reaches a crescendo.

Writers feel pressured to the core by media, publicity, fans and their own drive to excel that in order to preserve their sanity and creativity; they disappear in safe houses and retreats until they have finished their book at peace. This is where some writers also fail. There are several writers who have been consistently good and their books sell stupendously. They must have mastered the art of coping up under any circumstances, I reckon.

Reviewing works of an author, aspiring or established, is by no means an easy job. It requires objectivity and an astute sense of attention to details.

I take my role very seriously. I typically read a book as any other reader first. Then when I read it the second time and the third time, I start making margin notes. If it is a non-fiction I do my own research even before starting my first read of the book, to understand the subject matter better so that I can review it with adequate prior knowledge. My legal training has taught me this.

Let me share a few books that I have reviewed:

1. #Checkmate - by Hrishikesh Joshi, published by Frog Books, an imprint of Lead Start Publishing is a bold novella with violence, passion and wildness.

2. #Zorami (a redemption song) - by Malsawmi Jacob, published by Morph books, an imprint of Primalogue Publishing Media Private Ltd is a tale inspired by the struggle for independence by the people of Mizoram.

3. #New songs of the survivors {the exodus of Indians from Burma} - by Yvonne Vaz Ezdani, published by Speaking Tiger Publishing Private Ltd pieces together the reminiscences of courage, faith, hope and human endurance by the refugees and the Forgotten Long March coined by historian Hugh Tinker.

4. #Anusual {memoir of a girl who came back from the dead} - by Anu Aggarwal, published by Harper Collins is a true life saga of a supermodel and Bollywood diva who fought destiny and re-emerged from near death.

5. #The Spectacular Miss - by Sonia Bahl, published by Fingerprint is a chick-lit that is touted to be made into a Bollywood movie.

Book review of Sonia Bahl's 'The Spectacular Miss' by Revathi Raj Iyer

Sonia Bahl
The Spectacular Miss
Fiction
New Delhi: Fingerprint. 2016.
ISBN: 978-81-7599-341-9
Pages: 234. Price: Rs 250.

A ‘not so spectacular’ chick-lit with an overdose of humour

Sonia Bahl’s debut fiction novel, “The Spectacular Miss” loaded with chutzpah and wit fails to impress although it exhibits a skilful portrayal of characters. I am not quite sure if the author intended to whip up a chick-lit or it turned out to be so, but I believe that just as all other fiction, this genre requires copious imagination and style to make it a page turner, more so because it targets a selective audience. Humour is a pleasant ingredient which the author has sprinkled too generously, a bit cheesy at times; but that alone cannot compensate the lack of surprise or build-up in the story line itself.

Sonia Bahl who resides in Singapore, describes herself as one who stumbled through school, forgot to attend college and ended up in the best place in the world, writing ads for an advertising agency. Born and brought up in Calcutta, she has lived and worked in Jakarta, Miami, Johannesburg and Brussels. She quit her job as Executive Creative Director and started a rejection filled screen writing sojourn in the US. She has also written screenplays, magazine columns and movies all of which partly raise one’s expectations as she ventures into the literary field. Needless to say, it may take a few trial and errors to dominate this popular genre; and from that perspective the author’s first attempt is acceptable albeit with a pinch of salt.

“The Spectacular Miss” revolves around Nira, an eight-year-old girl, who is obsessed with being a boy for no compelling reason except being unable to pee standing up or having the liberty to pee in circles. I liked the ingenuity with which the author has coined a name for the protagonist Nira, being the first two letters of her brothers Rahil and Nikhil. Till the age of five she is at the mercy of her mother who dresses her up like a baby-doll. The rebel in her starts at six when she messes up her hair with scissors on hand. This marks the beginning of her tryst with boyhood.

A tomboyish Nira is part of a bro club, deft at karate chops, perpetually bruised and smeared with Mercurochrome that she even mistakes her first period for that orange liquid left unflushed in the toilet. Her adventures or misadventures, truancy and boy fights fill up the pages interspersed with few distasteful extremities such as when her mom-stitched knicker gives way precariously hanging between her knees when she is sprinting in a school race or when she is faced with a dilemma and disgust of having touched Josie’s thing. The analogy that the author comes up with the body part resembling a sausage, just for laughs, might shake up hot dog lovers. I wish the author had diverted her imagery in the mid parts where tedium and predictability starts to creep in.

The friendship between Nira and Bir Narayan, a buddy of Rahil, his utter disbelief that this eight year old is actually a girl, his appreciation at her first whistle, his naming her Nero, the way he steps in to help Nira overcome the knicker episode, sneaking her in as jockey at the races all of which seal a long lasting bonding between the two. Enter the vivacious Dipika Sen, a la Bo Derek, in Bir’s life resulting in sudden holy matrimony. Nira’s inability to cope up with her own hormones, Nick’s jabs and to Bir’s infrequent visit to her place reach a crescendo that drives her to make an impulse decision to become a doctor and off she goes to the UK. Bir still keeps zipping back and forth to keep the friendship alive and intact, loyal to his wife all the same. Somewhere along the line, Nick gets married and so does Rahil. Omer enters Nira’s life and as one would expect turns out to be gay perhaps to not stir the emotions of Nira, who is going through the rigours of becoming a doctor. Omer fills up the times when Nira is in need of a friend and craves for home cooked food. Her whimsical nature is not a passing thing but seems to hang on to her personality even when she transforms as a young adult and into womanhood.

The mid parts of the book are quite predictable and flagging in its ability to sustain interest. Humour is a continuous vein throughout the book to the point where it stops to tickle and makes one wish for something more. The story stretches and screams for a twist and turn. At that juncture, the author has thankfully risen with an unexpected twist, not quite befitting the character and shaping up of Nira, and thereafter the story picks up to a touching yet predictable finish. Let me not give away more as the readers might want to grab this book to form their own judgement. The buzz is that this book is being considered for a Bollywood movie. It is quite possible that a failed book could turn out to be a movie worth a watch, under good direction if made racy and interesting from start to finish.

{Published in Muse India - Sep/Oct, 2016}

http://www.museindia.com/regularcontent.asp?issid=69&id=6842#

Circle of Life - short story by Revathi Raj Iyer

The shimmering moonlight cast a sliver on my bed through the timber blinds and fell upon the face of my infant. Her wrinkles, supple and soft as shea butter, her tiny mouth as it stifled a yawn, eyes closed as if never wanting to wake from slumber-land, both hands curled into a tight fist that had to be cajoled to be released only to curl back tight against my little finger, as if never wanting to let go of me. She looked angelic, and as if reading my thoughts, smiled and nestled against me. I could hear her breathe softly and evenly. As I looked fondly at my new born, drawing her closer to my chest, I felt like a life giver.

“This is the best gift that you have given me,” said Samar as he put his arms around and kissed me on the forehead. We both looked fondly at our little princess, wrinkly and yet so very beautiful. That moment sparked a new emotion within us; the proverbial “parental instinct” bundled with abundant joy and an overwhelming sense of protection as we both tried to fathom the huge responsibility cast on us by our infant’s unconditional trust.

Samar and I sent a silent prayer to the Universe and saved that glorious moment in our memory box never to forget!

*****

Going back in times…..

“Grandma, your hands are so wrinkled and rough,” I said examining my grandma’s hands.

“Yes they are; years of hard work and age has added up,” she answered with a smile that made her lips curve upside down to me as my head was on her lap.

“How old are you?” I asked drawing her hands to my cheek. They were coarse.

“All of eighty-four,” she replied.

“How ancient is that?” I asked. To me anybody beyond twenty was old. Well, that’s how we all felt when we were in our teens, right?

“Just seventy years older than you. I was your age when I married your grandfather, you see!”

“Whaaaaaat?” I asked in disbelief. She pointed at the wall and I looked intently at the ‘black and white’ wedding photo. My grandpa was in a dhoti kurta, his arms around my grandma who was in a nine yard Kancheevaram sari. Both were wearing rose garlands and staring at the camera. The smile was inevitably forgotten as the shutter bug clicked.

“I cannot see much of your hands as they are hidden under that sari of yours.”

Grandma laughed.

“Did grandpa love you?” I asked.

She was quiet. I didn’t say anything and kept examining her hands and wrinkles with subdued fascination.

“Your grandpa perhaps did not want to see my wrinkles. So he left me as a young widow. But blessed I am with his children and now you, my dear grandchild,” she said.

There was sadness in her tone and I hated myself for having stirred up her emotions. I had never seen Grandpa and whatever I knew about him was a hand me down from my mother or grandmother.

“But one day your hands will also look wrinkled,” she added suddenly cheering up and breaking the melancholy that threatened to rise within me.

“Oh Grandma, I love your wrinkles,” I said fondly and kissed her hands. She gave me a tight hug and started stroking my hair as I resumed reading. A glorious moment saved in my memory box never to forget!

*****

A few years later….

“You have to listen to one of these,” I said eagerly pointing at the booklet of limericks that I had been writing for a while.

“Not now, can we postpone it for later?” Samar asked frantically searching for the TV remote. The night dose of daily sports was something he could never live without.

“Never mind then,” I retorted explicitly showing my disappointment.

“Okay, okay, I am sorry. Let’s hear them all,” said Samar as he settled down on the couch besides me.

Sa re ga ma pa da ni,

I began and then paused to see my husband’s reaction. Samar was clearly intrigued. I felt encouraged and continued.

Sa re ga ma pa da ni,
What is it that I see on your knee?
Everyone looked at one another
Without looking at her brother
So tiny was he that he sat like a speck on her knee!

“When did you start writing these? After all these years, it appears that I hardly know you,” he joked. I continued to read another one.

There lived a tiny sparrow who knew not how to chirp
She made strange noises that sounded like a burp
She flew in fright
In dark and night
Trying to figure out what made the mother sparrow chirp like a twerp!


Samar burst out laughing and I realised that it had been a very long time since we shared moments like these.

Just then the shrill tone of the telephone broke the spell. I knew that this had to be Ankita. Our infant was a big girl now and she never failed to call, every single night, just to hear our voices and mumble a good night, although she was in a different time zone and was about to start her day.

That night I was thrown off balance by her concern.

“Ma, are you using the creams and lotions that I bought from Paris?” she asked.

She came straight to the point and skipped the ‘how are you’ part; the assumption being what could possibly go wrong since the previous night that we talked.

“Oh dear, yes but I do keep forgetting sometimes,” I replied with a nagging thought.

“Why don’t you set a reminder on your cell phone,” she insisted and mumbled good night, as usual.

But her words lingered. I hadn’t thought much about ageing and had taken my youth for granted. That night I examined my face closely.

“Oh my dear sweet God, can you see that?” I asked Samar who had followed me to the bedroom.

“See what?” he cupped my face. My lips parted.

“Stop distracting me. Don’t you see the fine lines on my face? Look at my hands and my neck; there is no mistaking the fact that I have started looking old and tired,” I whined.

“I see nothing except the pretty girl that I married,” said Samar consolingly and softly added, “learn to love your wrinkles, darling,” as he handed the photo of us with our little infant, wrinkly, yet so beautiful.

******

I reminisced…..

Few years from now Ankita and Ron will be holding their little one and feel exactly the same way as Samar and I did, when we first held our bundle of joy, the wrinkles on her face, hands and body, yet as supple and soft as shea butter. The circle of life will be complete sooner or later. I smiled to myself and as I put the jar of creams away, I saw flashes of my grandma and ma. Wrinkles create memories and that is all that matters!

{Published in Muse India - Sep/Oct, 2016}

http://www.museindia.com/regularcontent.asp?issid=69&id=6851

Elixir (a flash fiction by Revathi Raj Iyer)

          {Photo credit - Firewords, UK}

This illustration belongs to and was published in Firewords, UK in the second quarterly issue, 2016 as part of their flash fiction challenge of not more than 400 words.

Based on their illustration, here is my story titled - “Elixir”

The moon had disappeared beneath the sheath of clouds and the night hung heavily like a pall of gloom. It was the darkest night ever in the history of mankind. There was pin drop silence. The earth was barren and there were no signs of life on the planet. The air was musty with an awful stench that could make a person puke to death. Planet earth was nearing her end, but, for that last hope.

The silence of the night was shattered by a sudden deafening sound of an unfathomable energy, followed by a weak squeak, a tweak and a mild thud.

“Save me, please. Can somebody help? I see nothing around. Don’t let me die. Please somebody help,” pleaded the branch as it lay helplessly with one last leaf that held the elixir of life.

“I am bleeding. Please somebody help me,” cried out the branch. A sharp pain shot through its veins. In spite of the gusty wind that blew mercilessly, it held on to that leaf with all its might.

“Please help me!” The shrill voice resonated.

Laila literally fell off the couch as she saw her mother stand right in front of her, pressing a tissue over her left thumb. She was momentarily befuddled and it took her a few seconds to gather herself. All of a sudden she realized that the call for help from the dying branch, had in fact, coincided with the ones that came from the kitchen.

“I have been screaming for help for God knows how long. Show some concern,” said her mother angrily and turned off the television.

Laila was horrified to see traces of blood all over her mother’s apron. She ran upstairs to get the first aid kit.

“How did this happen?” asked Laila, as she dressed up her mother’s wound. Thankfully, the blood had stopped oozing by then.

“I was chopping this humongous pumpkin to make your favourite soup,” said her mother softening up.

“By the way, what in God’s name were you watching?” she asked.

As Laila narrated about the dying branch with one green leaf that held the elixir of life, her mother listened in rapt attention.

“What happened to the leaf?” she asked eagerly.

“Well mother, if only you had hurt your thumb a few minutes later,” Laila answered with an impish grin.

******

Although Elixir did not emerge a winner in the flash fiction contest of Firewords, UK, their feedback was quite gratifying:) Here is what they wrote:

“The Firewords team really enjoyed reading your submission. The convergence of the two stories was jarring and shocking; a very powerful aspect to the flash. Both stories worked well individually but we did like the relationship between the mother and the elixir. This subtlety was the important link between the two worlds.”

Friendship day!

Gone are the days of friendship bands
Gone are the days of mindless chats
As we lean onto our smart phones
And seek comfort in words and emojis
To bond in these changed times
Here's to all my dear friends
As I remember the good old days:)
Happy Friendship Day!

#warmth #memories #naughty #silly
#friends

Rizzu

Here is a touching poem by Ahmedabad-based writer Revathi Raj Iyer, presented by Atreya Sarma in The Hans India (Sunday Hans, Aug 7, 2016)…  http://epaper.thehansindia.com/898862/SUNDAY-HANS/SUNDAY-HANS#page/16/2

“The little boy is playful, so happy and innocent
Rizzu is a seven year old, should he not be so?”

An infant trashed in a litterbin, one fateful day
Amidst cries of anguish and despair
Gloom befalls the city as terror and carnage
Cast its ugly shadow as mobs blind with fury
Trample with no mercy
Ravage the city that once stood tall
But changed Rizzu’s destiny 

“The little boy is playful, so happy and innocent
Rizzu is a seven year old, should he not be so?”

He knows not of his morbid past
Lucky to be alive, safe in his abode 
As serendipity struck in the form of a kind passer by
He loves the pudgy woman, whom he troubles to no end
Loves her to bits and calls her “Ma”...

“The little boy is playful, so happy and innocent
Rizzu is a seven year old, should he not be so?”

Rizzu survived to awaken us to the truth
There are still kind hearts to vanquish their sorrows
Adorable are children, meant to be cherished
Never to be left, alone to be buried

“The little boy is playful, so happy and innocent
Rizzu is a seven year old, should he not be so?”

Pap smear - for your dear ones {Revathi Raj Iyer}

During my routine health check up at the Apollo Hospitals, Ahmedabad with the Obstetrician-Gynaecologist, I came to know that most women, including the educated ones, do not have a Pap smear check-up done. The general awareness levels seem to be very low. Pap smear is a simple test to check if your cervix is healthy and can detect early signs of cervical cancer. A simple test can find abnormal cells before cancer develops. How wonderful is that? Why shouldn’t we make us of this test to make sure we are okay, for our own good and family? All women between the ages of 18 and 70, who have been sexually active (albeit with a single partner), should have Pap smear test once in every 3 years. Women above 40 years of age are urged to have this test done at least once for detection because the risk of cervical cancer increases with age. “I have been through menopause. Do I still need Pap smear?”  “Oh, yes! You do.” “Is there a vaccine for this virus that causes cervical cancer?” “Yes, it is available for young girls below the age of 27 years. Dear ladies and girls - please take a moment from your busy routine and think: When did you last have Pap smear test? When did you urge any of your family members to have this done? Do you know that most cancer of the cervix can be prevented if each woman had a Pap smear check once every 3 years? It is not painful at all, maybe bit of a discomfort momentarily, that’s all. Do you know that there is a Vaccine available that can help prevent cervical cancer? If you are in the age group of 12 to 26 years or have a daughter in that age bracket, it will be wise to talk to your doctor about this Vaccine, to have a better understanding. ******* Courtesy: Apollo Hospitals, Ahmedabad; with inputs from Dr. Usha Bohra- MS (Obs-Gyn), FRCOG (UK), MRCP (Dublin) Director (Dept of Obs & Gyn), Gynaec Cancer & Laproscopic Surgeon

The shepherd girl (Revathi Raj Iyer)

There was a shepherd girl
who found a rare pearl

Not knowing what to do
She sang toodle-doo

And named it a magic pearl after her father who was a good old Earl

Book review of Anu Aggarwal's "Anusual" (by Revathi Raj Iyer)

Anu Aggarwal

Anusual:
Memoir of a Girl Who Came Back from the Dead

HarperCollins. 2015

P-ISBN: 978-93-5029-739-1

E-ISBN: 978-93-5029-740-7

Pages 184 | Rs 299

An illuminating and profoundly poignant true life saga of a super model and Bollywood diva who fought destiny and re-emerged from near death

“Truth is stranger than fiction” is a much clichéd expression but nonetheless a remarkable catchphrase to describe this book titled Anusual by Anu Aggarwal, who is still remembered as the Aashiqui girl. In this short autobiography, the author has described the journey of her life in an eloquent style with literary appeal and poetic flair. An unflinching attempt has been made to share the details of her life without inhibitions, with a strong message that there is more to life than success, stardom and riches; and true happiness lies in total surrender and living in the moment. Anu Aggarwal has learnt this the hard way, after having faced the extremities of a tragedy and trauma that ripped her body apart, leaving her in coma for nearly twenty-nine days, but miraculously has come back from near death, to tell us her life story. This memoir reminisces each and every phase of evolution of her life from a student to a celebrity and above all, as a human being.

“Anusual” was her nickname coined by journalist Suma Varghese in the early 1990’s, acknowledging her status as a style icon, which the author has used as the title of her memoir to blend with her befitting personality.

Anu Aggarwal, a young, dusky lass from Delhi, and a student of the School of Social Work, who had assisted a Pakistani NGO for uplift of Muslim women and also crafted programmes for the repatriation of Afghan refugees with the UNHCR came to Bombay upon a friend’s invite with Rs 800/-, remnants from a Government scholarship, and a return train ticket back to Delhi to start her job with a German NGO. But she never went back. Spotted randomly by a talent scout in the crowded Churchgate station, Anu Aggarwal’s tryst with the advertising world began with Godrej Marvel soap which sparked a lot of attention. She became the most sought after and highly paid model and India’s supermodel, in an era where there was no social or sensational media to trumpet the accomplishments of a public figure. Within six months, Anu Aggarwal had become famous, a style icon seen on hoardings, calendars, magazine cover pages, everywhere. Fashion photographers made a beeline and in no time, her stunning looks and maverick attitude exposed her to the catwalk and she wasted no time in sashaying on the international ramp, as well.

A year and half later, Bollywood beckoned her and she was persuaded by filmmaker Mahesh Bhatt to play the part of a homeless, orphan girl in quest of love in the movie titled “Aashiqui.” This was a runaway success, a major breakthrough in her career as a performing artist, alongside her overseas modelling assignments. The author portrays her various roles in movies including Mani Ratnam’s “Thiruda Thiruda” where she won accolades for her performance as Chandralekha. She was also nominated for a Filmfare award for her negative role in “Khalnaika,” an adaptation from “The hand that rocks the cradle.” Although the movie didn’t make a mark, the actress did. This led to her foray into MTV and VJ-ing when the channel was exploring to gain foothold in India. Bollywood fame took her to yet another level of popularity, when she also started endorsing brands such as Tata Tea and the controversial condom ad made by Lintas for an astronomical figure. A trilogy titled “Erotica” was her next milestone where she played the role of an Indian princess who spoke to the parrot about her erotic desires. With this, the Bollywood diva walked the red carpet at Cannes film festival where the movie “Cloud Door” was screened.

The author states that from time to time, she was drawn into spirituality to recoup. A year after Aashiqui when she was flooded with stage shows overseas; she got drawn to Vipassana and went through with it. Her quest for self-discovery was ceaseless.

She was on the cusp of taking a break from the razzmatazz, when Hollywood was opening doors for her. That became a turning point, says the author, when it dawned upon her that no more fame and money was going to quench her thirst for self-discovery. She bid adieu to tinsel town to find solace in yoga and started living in a yogashram in the Himalayas.

The book takes a sweeping turn as she writes about her varied experiences at the ashram; in a vivid and explicit manner. The chapters cover what she goes through at the ashram, coping with her own emotions, jealousies of some ashramites, life as a Karmayogi, her deepening of Yoga Nidra, understanding Tantra, experience on an astral plane, mutual attraction to the Swami; all of which make an interesting read and revelation. One fine day, as if waiting for the right opportunity, she gets kicked out of the ashram, when the spiritual leader was on a tour, and she returns to Bombay. As you read further, it appears as though she came to answer her destiny’s calling.

This is where comes the heart wrenching part of her story, where the author writes about the most traumatic and transformational phase of her life, the ferocious near fatal car crash. Owing to her Karma perhaps, miraculously she comes back to life only to further battle with the process of recovery involving excruciating pain and suffering. Her survival instinct and utmost determination to live on account of her own realisation through yoga and spirituality may have augmented her getting back to where she is today. Her narration of what she went through will touch every reader’s heart, as it has touched mine. Interestingly enough, Anu Aggarwal goes back to the ashram to embrace Sanyas and passes the acid test of endurance. The author has expressed all this with remarkable clarity and ethos and with a positive overtone.

The book is not bereft of a touch of humour, for instance when the author attributes appropriate adjectives for the Swami and Sannyasin, viz. Swamibitteryogi, Swamiglee, Swamiflusteryogi and Charlie Chocolatoga not wishing to reveal their true identities.

In short, this book is all about a simple girl from a humble background, who scaled the heights of super success and stardom in a short span of time, disappeared to become a yogini, encountered near death and spiralled on an astral plane, embraced Sanyas and has returned to Bombay to teach yoga. “Anusual,” a well-articulated and touching memoir straight from her heart, makes a very interesting read. In her new avatar, as a writer, Anu Aggarwal rocks!

{First published in Muse India - July/August Issue}

http://museindia.com/regularcontent.asp?issid=68&id=6670

Linnet - by Revathi Raj Iyer

"Oceans are dark, mountains are majestic," wrote the poet
"Why is that?" asked the confused linnet

He broke into a song
And stroke his beard, white and long

But failed to convince the linnet the essence of his sonnet

Sa re ga ma pa da ni - by Revathi Raj Iyer

Sa re ga ma pa da ni
What is it that I see on your knee?

Everyone looked at one another
Without looking at her brother

So tiny was he that he sat like a speck on her knee

Sparrow - by Revathi Raj Iyer

There lived a sparrow, who knew not how to chirp
She made strange noises that sounded like a burp

She flew in fright
In dark and night

Trying to figure out what made the mother sparrow chirp like a twerp!

Grasshopper - by Revathi Raj Iyer

Once upon a time there was a silly grasshopper
that prayed day and night to be endowed with a chopper

Lazy to fly
Mean and sly

It learnt to fly the chopper, but alas! nobody called it a showstopper :)

Cat - a limerick by Revathi Raj Iyer

In a non-descript town lived dear old Matt
who had a mad cat that never chased a rat

She was a lazy bone
and waited for her scone

I believe that she wanted one which smelt like a rat

Limerick - International Yoga Day (Revathi Raj iyer)

I had nothing to do on a Sunday

I decided to sleep in till midday

“Rise and shine,” said my momma

“Meditate and rejuvenate,” said the Lama

I fell off the bed when everybody screamed, “hey today is the World Yoga day.”

My first limerick (Revathi Raj Iyer)

I started thinking limericks when I was in a cradle
I started writing these as I grew young and able

I read them aloud
To the sun, moon and cloud

For nobody listened to my verses because I think it made them unstable :)

Knock Knock - Was it a case of mistaken identity? A short fiction by Revathi Raj Iyer, published in Woman's Era - May issue

Woman's Era - May First , 2016

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The End

Was it a case of mistaken identity? Knock knock - a short story by Revathi Raj Iyer

Thank You Woman's Era for publishing my short fiction :)

Destiny's child {a flash fiction}

“I haven’t told you but I noticed the forlorn look on your face each time we went to the gynaecologist. I simply don’t understand as to why you are so close minded to treatments.”

Sumi looks at her husband and does not say a word as she gets into the car.
 

“What is the matter with you, Sumi? You have to understand that I too feel disappointed. Can we not consider options?” Kumar is unable to control his irritation.
 

“Treatments are very expensive and there is no guarantee that they will work. It could take a few years and we are not growing any younger, says Sumi nonchalantly, staring at the young couple happily making their way towards the car park.
 

“Okay then. Are you close minded to adoption, too?”
 

Sumi looks at her husband. This is music to her ears.
 

“Are you sure?” She asks, her face lighting up instantly.
 

“Yes of course! If that will make you the Sumi I courted, fell in love with and got married against my parents’ wishes, then why not?” Kumar grins as he starts the ignition.
 

Sumi is unable to control her emotions. She sobs quietly. How else would she be able to bring her little daughter, Maria, home?

Swara Rangawali - a musical presentation by The Temple of Fine Arts at Esplanade, Singapore

Singapore, 27 Mar 2016:

“Swara Rangawali,” an outstanding musical rendition composed & directed by Didi Kalyani Puranik, daughter of Pandit Balakrishnabuwa Kapileshwari maestro of the Kirana Gharana and performed by the students of The Temple of Fine Arts (TFA), was held on Sunday, the 27^th March, 2016 at the Esplanade Concourse, Singapore, as part of Esplanade’s “Holi - Colours of Spring” programme, to commemorate this popular Indian festival of colours and gaiety.

Inspired by HH Swami Shantanand Saraswathi, The Temple of Fine Arts blossomed in 1981, in the South East Asian region, with modest beginnings in 1982 at Singapore. It was established as a unique endeavour to enrich mankind through the arts, not in a religious sense as the name suggests, but rather as a place where art is nourished and revered as divine. To this objective, TFA is relentless in its efforts to promote art and culture not only in Singapore but all over the world through its centres located at Kuala Lumpur, Penang, Johor Bahru, Malacca, Perth, Colombo, Coimbatore, Chennai and New Jersey.

TFA has been hosting public performances to cover a wide genre encapsulating classical, semi-classical, folk and contemporary dance forms and music in leading art venues in Singapore. Adapting non-Indian themes in performances has also enabled TFA to reach out to the vast majority of the cosmopolitan Singapore public, whist reinforcing and nurturing strong foundations in Indian culture of music and dance.

The gala event to celebrate Holi is performed by the students of TFA, every year with renewed vigour, under the able guidance of Didi Kalyani Puranik, who has devoted her entire life for promoting and teaching music. True to the guiding spirit and motto of TFA – Art, Just for the love of it – this event is open to the public at no charge.

Holi, being one of the most popular festivals in the northern parts of India, is typically celebrated with unabashed smearing of colours on one another, songs and dances. In places associated with the birth and childhood of Lord Krishna such as Mathura, Vrindavan, Barsana and Nandgaon, one never fails to hear the beat of pakhavaj, a traditional percussion instrument, in street corners amidst merriment of music, dance, colours and delicacies. This infectious fervour has passed on over generations and has caught up amongst the Indian diaspora throughout the world.

“Swara Rangawali,” brilliantly captured the essence of Holi by this musical extravaganza wherein the Swars, Taal and Raag were finely combined and sprayed on the enthralled audience, in the traditional styles of Hori, Tumri, Phaag, Tappa/Dhamaal, Chaiti and Rasiya along with Rabindra Sangeeth from Bengal and folk music from Maharashtra, Gujarat and Rajasthan. A delightful Sufi rendition of Ghulam Mustafa Qadri sung by the great artist, Abida Parveen was also performed by the students. The percussionists added their wonderful touch to the show.

The musical medley comprising a portion of Madhurashtakam in Raag Des after the invocation of Lord Ganesha, and the various Raagas such as Sohni, Basant, Jhinjhoti, Khamaaj, Kaafi, Kirwani, Miya Malhar, Bhairav and the unique Pancham se Gara reflects the amazing talent of the students and the intense training provided by the faculty of TFA.

It was an enchanting performance that inspired several people to walk in and enjoy the melodies, as the evening progressed.

Report by: Revathi Raj Iyer, chirminey@gmail.com, with inputs from the Temple of Fine Arts, Singapore: http://www.tfasg.org
Published in Muse India on 4th April, 2016

An appeal from Women Center, Christchurch NZ

Dear past and present supporters

 

The Women Centre needs your help.  We have been supporting the women of Christchurch for the past 30 years but our vital work is in jeopardy as we struggle to secure sustainable funding.   With only 4 months of funding left we are reaching out to as many people as we can.  As either current or former supporters of the Centre – whether as volunteers or paid staff – we humbly ask you to consider giving a little and/or sharing on this link to our Givealittle page to your networks - https://givealittle.co.nz/org/womensc

 

Together we can keep the Centre alive and thriving.

 

 

 

Kind Regards

Ariane Hollis-Locke

Centre Co-ordinator

 

 

Book review of Yvonne Vaz Ezdani's "New Songs of the Survivors" {Revathi Raj Iyer}

Yvonne Vaz Ezdani

The Exodus of Indians from Burma:
New Songs of the Survivors
Non Fiction
New Delhi: Speaking Tiger. 2015
ISBN: 978-93-85755-18-7
eISBN: 978-93-85755-20-0
Pages 219 | Rs 350

Reminiscences of courage, faith, hope and human endurance by the refugees of Burma during World War II

The book The Exodus of Indians from Burma: New Songs of the Survivors is a sequel to Songs of the Survivors and depicts the travails of refugees, predominantly Goans, who had to flee Burma during the period 1941-42 when the Japanese mercilessly bombarded the nation to overthrow the British regime. Yvonne Vaz Ezdani has painstakingly and patiently reached out to various sources and assimilated information from across the globe, in order to bring out her first book Songs of the Survivors (Dec 2007) and now this revised second edition New Songs of the Survivors gives credence and visibility to the remnants of oral history which is fading away with time and passing on of the older generations.

The trauma, maladies and tragedies that prosperous and well entrenched Indians living in Burma endured when Japan bombed the nation, compounded by the growing resentment and fear of being attacked by locals as well as the Japanese, forced a vast majority of Indians to depart via the most arduous route in history coined as “A Forgotten Long March,” by historian Hugh Tinker. This forms the subject matter of the book.

Yvonne Vaz Ezdani grew up in Burma, graduated from Rangoon University, got married and had two daughters there. Her grandparents and uncles lived through the entire war period and have actually borne the brunt of it all and rebuilt their lives from scratch after the war. They have seen the sufferings of their friends, relatives and the dire situation that compelled people to resort to the last option of “probable survival amidst all odds,” the unchartered route across the mountains to reach the Indian borders. Yvonne Vaz Ezdani’s grandparents and uncles returned to India only in the 1960’s and her own family repatriated to Goa in the early 1980’s having lived through good and bad times. There couldn’t have been a better reason for Yvonne to collate, edit and bring to light stories of the Burma refugees. Of course, memoirs do have limited memory, especially since the older generations have not been maintaining a written record and most of the narrations are oral citations. Therefore, to some extent there could be a slight distortion of facts or events, but that does not in any way undermine what the refugees went through or the contents of this book.

The book also gives a cursory account of the Burmese history with a view to putting in proper perspective, the increasing racial resentment between Burmese and the Indians. The period from 1824 to 1886 witnessed three Anglo-Burmese wars and a steady flow of Indians into Burma for various key jobs. This influx continued in full force when Burma became an Indian province in 1886 thereby sowing seeds of hostility between Burmese and the working class Indian community. This racial animosity reached a crescendo during the dock strike in the 1930’s. The ensuing anti-Indian riots and the inability of the British to quell the rebellion resulted in bloodshed. This was perhaps the start point that led to the departure of a large number of Indians from Rangoon.

The exodus further escalated during the Japanese attack in 1941-42. The British did not expect Japan to invade Asian territory and hence their preparation for the war was seemingly inadequate. The terror stricken people were forced to leave the country practically leaving behind or losing their wealth, property, lifetime savings and near and dear ones. Apparently the “white route” which was relatively shorter and easier was earmarked for the Europeans and Anglo-Indians. Indians had to take the much tougher “black route”. There was an acute failure on the part of the Government to evacuate people who had adopted Burma as their homeland.

Many families who went back to Burma after the war to re-establish themselves had to finally come back in the 1960’s through the 1980’s due to restrictive migration policies of the Government and issue of citizenship. It is praiseworthy that India welcomed back the refugees, at all stages and allowed them to freely settle down in different parts of the country like Belgaum, Nagpur, Goa and Chennai, to name a few.

The vivid description of the walk where several people died of disease, exhaustion and starvation, lack of medical aid, relief camps and so on is appalling to digest. Almost every person who reached India was in skins and bones and immediately hospitalised. They are the survivors whose stories have reached us.

In order to complete the picture, Yvonne has also included excerpts and bravo stories of other communities which truly capture one’s hearts. I would like to mention one such excerpt titled “White Butterflies” by Colin McPhedran where he narrates his family saga about his long trek to India. His account of the bombing of Myitkyina airport where people scrambled into the last flight hoping that it would take them to safety, but which instead goes up in flames, shows the sheer urgency and desperation to escape. It is horrifying to imagine the plight of not only those who were in that plane that exploded but also those who saw the charred bodies thrown out of the aircraft.

As a whole, this book speaks volumes about mixed emotions that war brings with it – utmost devastation, hatred, fear, looting, merciless killings, camaraderie, optimism, pessimism, hope, courage and above all fortitude and spirit to embark on the journey to safety.

Amitav Ghosh has aptly summarised the book in the Foreword as: “It is, so far as I know, the first attempt to write an oral history of the ‘Forgotten Long March’ drawing on the recollections of survivors and their descendants. Indeed the book is much more than an oral history: the manner of its telling is such as to allow the reader to witness the events as they unfold, giving the narrative the vividness and momentum of a novel.”

Yvonne has very nicely and carefully edited and placed each and every true life story in such a way that makes this book an interesting read from the start to the finish and touches one’s heart. A well thought out development from the “Songs of the Survivors.” This book is to be appreciated as it has given space to the voices of the refugees and a chance to reach out to their progenies. Yvonne’s efforts in this direction are laudable. I recommend that this book be understood in its true spirit – whatever history books do not teach us for want of recorded details is best learnt from oral tradition.

{Published in Muse India - March/April issue}
http://museindia.com/regularcontent.asp?issid=66&id=6452