Click of the mouse {Revathi Raj Iyer)

It was somewhere in the late nineties that internet and emails had started to excite people in India. Although a snail paced start with dial up connects to the internet, there was a childlike thrill to see a page on the web unfold and then several of them, one after the other, as we kept on clicking our mouse. This invariably caused a choke up and the connection would be disrupted leaving us to reboot all over again. There were times when the dial up will simply refuse to connect. No matter what, we had oodles of tolerance because we were too eager to adapt, hence happy to wait, click and again wait for the information to populate, for that eureka moment – the yahoo page. At that time this was the only search engine. The first ‘test check email’ that was sent to all those who had the luxury to access the net never failed to the greeting, “welcome to the wired world.”

Thus began a new era, a major breakthrough in information technology and since then there has been no looking back. Writing letters and that weekly drive to the post office started fading from most people’s agenda. All it took was a mere click of the mouse, then why go through the rigours of letter writing?

A decade thereafter the human race got even more excited with the splendour of the social media which had slowly started surfacing with Orkut, Bebo and Hi5, until Facebook outstripped all these and totally captivated us, not to mention twitter alongside, enabling those short and sweet tweets. All this further enthralled us. We got connected to our long lost friends, colleagues relatives and so on….and merrily got onto the bandwagon.

The giant leap that further changed the entire scene was the spectrum and mobile revolution. Smart phones are now our life line and our loyalty to the social network has grown rock solid. Sms is considered old fashioned and tedious, with the influx of newer applications like what's app, face time, viber etc that too free of cost. Sharing daily happenings has become the order of the day. 

The world has actually shrunk giving birth to newer friendships with our electronic way of life. We rely on emoticons to convey our momentary expressions and feelings and then move on with our lives. Unwittingly, this may have made many of us less sensitive to actual emotions.

I am one of the victims of this hijack by the social media, but occasionally do make an effort to pick up the phone and talk to a friend. But sooner or later, we fall into the same trap and go back to the app mode and once again the phone stops ringing, except for the online shopping delivery boys or couriers asking for directions to the house.

The next generation is pretty clear headed, indeed. They love the social media and have learnt to maximize it to their advantage, both professionally and personally by factoring in this distraction with their time management skills. Fair share of credit needs to be given to those parents, as well, who ensured that internet was prudently used by their children. Sure! There are aids and filters but tactful supervision without upsetting the children is an added parental responsibility. Remember they were also discovering the internet along with their children.

The older generation, our parents, uncles and aunts were very curious to know and understand all about internet and social media; however they never stopped bonding with neighbours, friends and relatives on a regular basis. They loved their old ways. By and large, they have accepted the change in so far as to keep in touch with their children and grandchildren via emails and skype chats. They want to go no further and have defined their boundaries, made their choice.

We, the sandwich generation, have been fortunate to witness the best of both worlds. We want to own and learn about every new toy that hits the market, in our eagerness to move on with the changing times. This is not about being right or wrong, it is our choice. Well! Generation gap is not something we wish to hear.

Sometimes, I do wonder if the time has come for us to re-define our boundaries, breakaway from this overwhelming social media rigmarole and get really social in the true sense of the term. Are we losing something here? I would love to hear the voice of my readers to this poser.

But there is one thing I must acknowledge; as the world waits to see what the next revolution is going to be, I have to make a hard choice-“to be part of it or not to be.”

Serendipitous Moment {Revathi Raj Iyer}

 

Preeti is delirious. Blurry faces, fading voices, dim light, blinding flash and then a sudden calm sweeps over her. Silence! as if she is suspended in outer space.

Santhanam and Parvati are by the ICU watching helplessly, waiting for the doctors to come out and inform them that their dear girl was going to be alright. Fear and anxiety had taken hold of their senses. Nothing mattered now at this moment. Their dreams, hopes and aspirations surrounding their only child had come to a sudden standstill. They are devastated. Frightening thoughts kept reeling in their minds. They wished all this was a dream they could wake up to. Reality had dealt a wicked blow that they were struggling to come to terms with.

******

“Ma, have you finished packing your bags? We have to be up early tomorrow. Why is appa still at work today?”

Preeti desperately wanted her father to be home early that night and get into the vacation mood. She did not like any last minute surprises. For a brief moment she even worried. “What if appa cancelled the trip due to some unexpected work commitment? After all, he was in a senior position with a pharmaceutical company in Chennai.”

Just like most little girls Preeti adored her father and admired him when he told her that he worked with a company which made medicines to help cure sick people. She wanted to be a doctor then.

“A little girl’s dream keeps changing all the time,” her father would remark encouragingly.

Preeti had meticulously packed her bags the night before. She reached out for Sophie’s World which she was reading for the third time and kept it besides her bag. She loved the book as it taught her a lot about ancient philosophers and made her think. Sometimes she would pretend to be Sophie Amundsen and quote funny things from the book to her mother who would be awestruck and say,

“Preeti, you are certainly getting wiser by the day, my dear girl.”

She would bask in that remark. Her mother always called her “my dear girl” when she was happy.She loved it when her mother was in a cheerful mood, as she could get away with her indulgences without much argument.

She was very excited about the road trip that her father had been planning for quite some time as a gift for her academic excellence in high school. The much coveted ‘Student of the Year’ trophy stood tall amidst the other sports trophies she had won. This month long trip was a bonus she earned from her parents for winning that prestigious award. 

She ticked off her checklist satisfied. Preeti took great pride in being organised. Her room was very neat. Her mother never had to ask her to tidy up her stuff. Sometimes she would help her mother organise her wardrobe. But after a few days, the saris would be in disarray and Preeti would whine in dismay.

“Did I ask you to tidy up my stuff?” Her mother reprimanded her one day when confronted by her daughter. Preeti huffed and walked away muttering to never interfere.

“What a waste of time, I could as well be doing something else.”

Preeti did not get carried away by peer pressure and chose to stay with her parents and continue with undergraduate studies. She was not ambitious yet and did not want to leave home unlike her class mates who had already started applying for overseas universities. Deep down she also knew that her father may not be able to afford it. She was happy with her life and everything around her. She loved this ancestral home which reminded her of the time she spent with her grandparents. It was modest but very cosy, a typical Tamilian home with no frills and fancies, just too practical. Preeti would buy charming bits and pieces and place it in corners around the house to give it a fuller feel.

“Why all this junk?” her father quipped uninterestedly.

“Adults never understand,” she retorted crossly and buried herself in little Sophie’s world.

“Are you in bed, my dear girl,” looks like your father is going to be late again; her mother’s voice wafted from the kitchen.

“Almost ma,” Preeti replied and smiled to herself. “My dear girl,” how she loved that! She noticed with satisfaction that her mother was in a permanent state of happiness ever since appa said that he was planning to take one whole month off from work and take them on a road trip.

Preeti checks to see if her father had packed his bags, by any chance. Alas! He had not even started. She places a checklist on his bedside table and leaves a good night note. She then hastens to the kitchen, hugs her mother tightly and reminds her to set the alarm.

“Goodnight ma,” she says and goes to her room. In no time she is in deep slumber blissfully unaware as to when her father got home. Parvati finishes her chores and settles down with the newspaper waiting for her husband. She is used to his late hours. But today she had been expecting him to come earlier.

At 11 pm, as Parvati was almost dozing off she hears the door latch click and her husband lets himself in.

“Is Preeti asleep?” Santhanam asks as he enters the house.

“Yes, she is,” says Parvati. Santhanam takes a quick shower and starts stuffing his bag.

“If there is something left out we can always buy it on the way,” he says. Parvati merely smiles. She is used to this “talking to self” style of her husband.

He continued without waiting for a response from his wife. “The most important thing is my wallet and the car has to be in good condition, both of which have been taken care of. Fuel tank is full, tyre pressure checked. The hotel bookings have also been sorted. The road map is in the car. Anything else, he asks?” Parvati is quiet.

As he settles down in the bed besides his wife, he looks at the note that Preeti had left for him. “She is atrociously meticulous, who has she taken after?” Now he looks at his wife for an answer.

“The milk man, paper boy and maid have been paid off,” she says and closes her eyes. Satisfied with this Santhanam falls asleep.

******

"Cockadoodle doo……," The alarm goes off at 5.30 am. Preeti springs out of her bed, quickly folds her sheets and hurries to her parents’ room. Much to her dismay they are fast asleep. She is relieved to find her father’s bags neatly packed.

“Good morning!” she chirps excitedly and hops on to the bed in between the two of them. “Hurry up you two. It is now time to wake up,” she chirps excitedly. Just then Parvati’s alarm goes off. Preeti turns it off. We have a long way to go, “Kanyakumari to Kashmir bottoms up!”

In the next one hour, the house comes to life with morning chores and merriment to mark the start of their much awaited vacation. The birds come to life and street dogs bark ferociously. Santhanam checks everything carefully and locks the door. He hands over the keys to his wife. Preeti lugs the boxes and loads them in the boot of the car, followed by Parvati who arranges them. Santhanam starts the ignition and presses the accelerator. The engine roars with a deafening sound and calms down as the car sets into motion.

******

The vehicle lazily passes through the narrow streets of their neighbourhood until they reach the main road and then picks up speed. There is hardly any traffic at this hour to the point where the familiar roads seem unfamiliar. As the car touches the highway, Santhanam accelerates and checks his speedometer. Music fills the air and Parvati is gazing at the treeline of palm and coconut trees. Preeti props up a cushion and comfortably settles in the back seat, listening to her favourite Bollywood music. Santhanam usually is quiet when he is driving, but today he is relaxed and a bit more talkative.

An hour into this; in a matter of few seconds their whole life was about to change for reasons beyond their control. Serendipity struck like a thunderbolt.

A car crash... Some irresponsible driver on the cell phone loses control. The truck twirls on the opposite lane, jumps off the divider as it screeches to a halt after crashing against the lamp post. The wind screen is blown into smithereens.

At that serendipitous moment, Parvati’s eyes open wide and she lets out a blood chilling scream. Santhanam flinches involuntarily and applies the brakes sharply in a desperate bid to avoid the collusion.

Preeti sees the accident on the opposite lane. Her father is within the speed limit of 60 km per hour. He has always been a safe and defensive driver. But there is no way he could avoid the crash. His last shot at safety fails on that fateful day. She closes her eyes and slips into her Sophie’s World.

                                              **********************************

{ Published in Woman's Era - March 2015 2nd fortnightly. Thank You! }

 

 

Book Review

Revathi Raj Iyer: Zorami: A Redemption Song  

Malsawmi Jacob
Zorami: A Redemption Song
Fiction
Morph Books | Primalogue. 2015
ISBN/EAN: 978-93-82759-10-2
Pages 263 | Rs 399

A tale inspired by the Mizo struggle

Malsawmi Jacob's debut fiction novel Zorami: A Redemption Song is an appealing story of conflict, love, war and suffering during the 1960's when Mizoram, an erstwhile district of Assam, was fraught with political unrest and famine that caused death, starvation and devastation. The story delves into the lives of the Mizos who resented India, albeit being a part of it, because India was not taking proactive steps to alleviate their misery. This resulted in the formation of the Mizoram National Front and warfare with the Indian National Army in an attempt to extricate itself from the mainland. Interwoven in this backdrop is the endearing life story of the protagonist, Zorami, which literally means 'flower of Mizoram.'

The title of this novel is as engaging as the book. The fastidiousness with which Malsawmi Jacob has chosen such an intriguing title is praiseworthy. 'Zorami' when rearranged, phonetically sounds as Mizoram. The spirit of her story is implicit in this catchy title. The author has also added a euphemistic touch to the sub-title, 'A redemption song.' I loved this analogy to the much acclaimed redemption song about freedom and liberation, by the legendary Bob Marley of the 1980's, whose verses might still linger in the hearts of many. The conflict and struggle of the Mizo people, their dream to be liberated and have their own Government, is the redemption that Malsawmi Jacob has, strikingly, brought about in this novel.

The story is interspersed with songs and poems, which the author has tuned with immense sensitivity, together with demonstrating a fine skill for prose; be it to describe the beauty of the nature or the horrors of war, the personality of her characters or the minutest details of seating in the Church.

The book starts with a lovely prologue which brings to life the people of Aizawl town scuttling towards the Church on a Sunday morning, talking amongst themselves about the rains, harvest, political situation; which sets the "everybody knows everybody" tone amongst the locals. Walking quietly are the newly wedded couple, Zorampari and her husband Lalliansanga, who were married in the same church, just that week and this was their first Sunday together at the Church, yet they were seated apart (pun unintended).

The opening chapter portrays a lonely Zorami on her birthday, anxiously waiting for that call from her husband who is away on a business trip accompanied by the pretty, young Julie, a cashier in the same bank. Zorami is unable to trust Sanga and she looks back at her failing and fading relationship over the last 25 years, and on this special day is all the more sad. Even her younger brother Matea, who lived in a distant town, Lunglei, has not wished her. Her sombre mood quickly brightens by the effervescent tinkle of her childhood friend Kimi, who chides her for falling prey to local gossip and being suspicious about her husband; but Zorami is still not convinced.

In the initial stages, although the author introduces traces of fun by Mizo lore and grandma tales that are sometimes contrived much to the chagrin of Matea and the mirth of Zorami; the story quickly moves on to serious issues of the Mizo people, faced with famine, rats eating away their supplies to the point that they find rat droppings in their food, the apathy of the Indian Government and the growing resentment against the Indians.

Although the book gives a perspective about certain historic facts, one has to bear in mind that this is a book of fiction and not to get particularly attached to specific instances, as the anti-Indian sentiments expressed could be overstated. There are a couple of characters like Thanchchunga, Zorami's father who believes in a unified nation or Pu Lalrinmawia, editor of a daily and few of the Mizos themselves, who are against war because it brings no good, but their voices go unheard. The author has empathised more from the perspective of the people of Mizoram, but there are always two sides to a coin. A discerning reader should be able to understand and not get swayed or become too judgemental, remembering the fact that this is a book of fiction, wherein most of the struggle could be the author's imagination and certain liberties may have been taken with historic facts.

As the story unfolds, the author introduces the vile character Ralkapa, disliked by everybody, and particularly Zorami, who hates him for reasons of her own. Those were the times when the MNF was recruiting volunteers and Ralkapa was one of the many that joined, in good faith, but ultimately turns traitor and backstabs the Mizo people. How all this comes about is a very interesting read about trust and betrayal. It is appalling to find this distorted character still surviving amongst the Mizos, much to the angst of Zorami. Ralkapa is also the mischief maker who knocks Zorami's door on her birthday, under the pretext of enquiring about his loan application to the bank where Sanga worked and leaves feeding off the gossip about Sanga and Julie.

The reader's attention is drawn to the vision of an independent Mizoram as seen by Nikhuma, the Patriot who was beckoned to Aizawl by the MNF leaders and what follows is the deed of Declaration of Independence and the representation to the Government of India seeking freedom and the story gets deeper into the plots of the MNF vs the Indian Army. The retaliation by the Indian Army is also fast and ruthless and it is quite touching to read – I quote "O, if only they had given a quick response like this when we cried for help during the famine! … They wouldn't help us when the rats ravaged our land and we were starving. As soon as we decided to do without them, just when we don't need them anymore, they come after us to kill us." It is a rare, but historic, fact that Indian Air Force had, indeed, carried out air raids in Aizawl, its own territory.

The war makes the people of Aizawl come closer, and amidst fear they also share a few laughs. A song that depicts the plight of the regrouped villagers is worthy of mention –

Of all our bad times, Khaw Khawm is the darkest;
All our Zoram has faded like worn out clothes;
Men, women and children, gathered from all hills
Go hungry and homeless like the riakmaw bird…
Our village streets and the house of our dear God,
Where beloved families and friends sang joyful songs
Are cold, silent, abandoned, now have become
The dwelling of lonesome, sad, motherless birds

The story then takes us back to that ugly vai looking Zorami in her teens, how she is bullied on her first day at school, how she is taught to be shy and how the ghost never leaves her. As the story progresses, it portrays the cruelty of the Indian Army as they retaliate to quell the rebellion and spread terror, not to spare even schools where the science teacher from Kerala is, mercilessly, killed in front of the children. In spite of the collateral damage of civilian lives, the warfare continues with more people joining the MNF. Songs of the departed ones who live in happiness yonder bear elements of good writing.

Half way through, myriad of characters are introduced with their stand-alone stories, perhaps to give credibility to the war happenings, but it just gets a bit tangential and hard to keep up with; and a strange monotony sets in along with a melancholy. However, the part where Mary, who is away from the war zone finds her father's inability to save their home and press, is quite touching, but then again a new character crops up. Similarly, there are a few more characters along the way and somewhere Zorami fades away, only to reappear towards the last few chapters. The story rolls back to Ralkapa revealing a fresh truth. The novel goes on till the Peace Treaty is signed and then finishes not as mystifying as one would expect.

The book has a literary appeal with liberal doses of metaphors and similes in prose and poems not to miss oxymorons such as "horrified fascination" and the like. Malsawmi Jacob has maintained a consistent mix of controlled and elegant style throughout her book. Overall, a well- researched and nicely articulated book that should not hurt to add to your collection.

 

                                                                  Published in Muse India September/October, 2015

                                                                Thank you Atreya Sarma - Editor (fiction & reviews)

Message:)

Dear all,

Writing is a priceless gift that helps us to showcase our innermost thoughts, ideas, desires and dreams be it in the form of poetry, fiction, non-fiction or an article ; and reach out to a host of readers, far and beyond, in an attempt to capture their attention and kindle their literary buds.

I have often heard people say “anybody can write.” This is true but I would go on to add that those with passion and perseverance tend to write better. It is really important to keep honing this skill and discover the hidden talent and our inner voice.

Some of us may have had that vague scribbling habit and lost it to the cacophony of humdrum life. But we can always rediscover and reinvent ourselves, as I have, and try to write and most importantly, keep at it.

Make a start and never ever give up, is the tip I imbibed from my writer friend.

I wish to pass on this message to you all, especially those who have been making the effort to read my blog titled “Expression of Pearls” on chirminey.blogspot.com and feel inspired.

Thank You!

 

Book review

    Revathi Raj Iyer: Hrishikesh Joshi’s Checkmate      

Hrishikesh Joshi
Checkmate
Fiction
Mumbai: Frog Books/Leadstart. 2015
ISBN: 978-93-81836-94-1
Pages 158 | Rs 150 | US$ 6

A bold novella with violence, passion and wildness

When I read the author's background, it made me wonder as to what sort of thriller a 21 year old "reluctant engineering student" could come up with. A few pages into it, I realised that this boy is a good story-teller with a well-hatched plot. He seems to have drawn inspiration from certain true-life events. The story also reflects the cult of terrorism in the present period, under the guise of Islam and holy war, which in reality may not end in an optimistic manner as depicted in this novella, though one would wish it does. Even then an ugly head may cast its shadow to continue the terror, as rightly pointed by Hrishikesh Joshi.

After a fairly tepid introduction of Muhammad Zia Ul Afridi, the most dangerous man on the planet after erstwhile Osama Bin Laden, I quite liked the portrayal of Justice Ramkrishna Shastry. He is a person with high ethical standards and held in high esteem as a Judge, although his character is not flawless. The Judge has a clandestine affair, realises his folly halfway through, is guilt-ridden and then becomes a loyal husband, which is not really relevant to the context of the story, but conjectured to make the character more realistic and suited to present times, perhaps?

This character kick-starts the whole plot. The author has well-thought of minute details including the judge's prosthetics, which is critical, as he is used to circumvent airport security. The story begins with the Judge and his dilemma, why and how he is being blackmailed into hijacking the plane with innocent passengers.

I could not help but notice a sardonic touch by the author of the jihadis or fidayeens – and quote, "They were Allah's favourite sons and would continue the great work and build a world which shall one day say namaaz five times a day and live under the sharia law, no matter how many lives may have been sacrificed."

Hrishikesh Joshi has touched upon real life happenings and fitted them as a backdrop to take the story further. This also serves as a refresher for things we may have forgotten over time.

As the hostage situation intensifies with the usual demand to release the terrorists from our jails, the intervention of the Prime Minister becomes necessary. It is hilarious to read the introduction of this character, "turban-clad Oxford veteran, who given a choice would gladly retire from politics and spend the rest of his life with his family, quietly and contently away from the public eye."

The writer has shown a knack for introducing characters who seem real life like, be it Vikram Roy, the stud agent of RAW, a la Bond style, or his girlfriend Romila or Abhishek, his deputy in command. At the same time, he has attempted some intelligent writing on the Research and Analysis Wing (RAW) and its functions, the line of demarcation between Intelligence Bureau (IB) and RAW and so on.

There are moments in the novella when your own imagination kicks in as you start to think if the Judge's wife Sudha's voice was recorded or was she still alive and speaking? This amply shows the author's deftness as a story teller.

As the plot thickens the violence increases and so does the raucousness, be it the love making of Vikram and his girlfriend Romila, or the sickening reminiscences of the gangster Asif Khan whilst interrogation or the ruthless torture of the stewardess whereupon the story takes an unexpected twist. The author has described the barbarism and horrors of the underworld vividly.

In a lighter vein, Hrishikesh Joshi does not forget to include lines to the effect that, "they bought condoms along the way."

Soon after the action packed scene, a chapter opens up with a spine chilling dream of Afridi and a passing reference to Genghis Khan, the founder of the Mongol Empire in the 12^th century, "who poured molten silver down the throats and eyes of the Generals of the defeated army."

The author has inserted flashbacks in a manner easy to understand which is extremely important; else it can have the reader confused.

Hrishikesh Joshi's penchant for the Himalayan treks is evident, particularly whilst describing agent Vikram's initial posting in the Himalayas or when Romila narrates her life story.

As the truth unravels, this short book is indeed a page turner that keeps building the pace of the story and captures the reader's interest with a dramatic sequence of unexpected twists and turns till the finish.

I must not reveal anything more about this novella except that it has been a good attempt by Hrishikesh Joshi, a promising writer; a few brush strokes on editing would have served well.
                                                                 Published in Muse India July/August, 2015                                                                               Thank You Atreya Sarma - Editor (fiction & reviews)                                                            
 

The Silent Voice {Revathi Raj Iyer}

She watched the clouds yonder;
and let her thoughts wander;
her lips part in wonder;
he stood there to bewilder.

She was desperate to chatter;
her mind filled with natter;
but she failed to gather;
her mind and body together.

Who was he she knew not;
she closed her eyes and thought not.

She gazed at the clouds in surrender;
the painful memories that torture;
not wanting to be tortured;
but he stood there to bewilder.

Who was he she knew not;
she closed her eyes and thought not.

She lay still in her cot;
waiting to bid farewell;
never return to a world;
where truth is damned;
and traitors flourish.

The child was gone;
and now it was her turn;
to return to her destiny;
in a world yonder…

• Published in yourstoryclub on 27th May, 2014. Thanks:-)

http://yourstoryclub.com/poetry-and-poem/poem-bewitched-silent-voice/
 

Timeless Friendship {Revathi Raj Iyer}

He and She, joyful and so full of life…
Destiny took a walk in their lives.

Friendship turned to love, they knew not when;
Love lit up a desire with a yearning to be together, they knew why then;
One starry night in each other’s arms, they unite, mind, body and soul;
Passion bore fruit and not before long, they brought to life lovely girl twins;
He and She, joyful and so full of life….
Destiny took a walk in their lives.

The call of the siren! War had just begun!
Brave men like hers just had to go, for they could never say no;
“Who is my papa?”
“I am,” she said.
“But you are my momma!
“Yes,” she said.
Her beloved girls were bewildered;
She bit her lip to the taste of her own blood;
Destiny took a walk in their lives.

The war seemed endless, he never came back or wrote;
He hated to kill and bury, but he had to do so;
Love, hatred and fear, he had seen it all;
Lost a limb and paralysed, yet he survived;
He knew he could never be the same;
The man that he once was;
A heart filled with desire, love and warmth.

Time flew, seasons changed;
Destiny took a walk in their lives.

Two wrinkled faces lit up like stars;
As their eyes met within the walls of an asylum;
Tears of joy and sorrow mingled;
Words choked up within the depths of their past;
A timeless friendship comes alive albeit in a world of silence.

Destiny stopped dead in its tracks!
He and She, joyful and so full of life ………….

• Published in The Hans India Daily on Sunday, the 14th June, 2015. Thanks to Atreya Sarma for presenting my poem. This was also appreciated by Estrade e-zine's writers' club at British Council Library. Thanks to you all for the kind words:-)