The Mind Creative NOV-Dec 2016
A magazine by Avijit Sarkar
A magazine by Avijit Sarkar
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<strong>The</strong><strong>Mind</strong><strong>Creative</strong><br />
Nov-<strong>Dec</strong> <strong>2016</strong><br />
1
E<br />
Autodidacts have been<br />
a source of inspiration and<br />
awe for many. <strong>The</strong>ir<br />
ability to learn and apply<br />
themselves to complex<br />
subjects to a point of<br />
perfection is indeed<br />
admirable.<br />
One such person was Wilson Alwyn<br />
Bentley - a farmer from Vermont. He<br />
gave gems of knowledge to the world of<br />
photography and science and yet<br />
remained in relative anonymity<br />
throughout his life. I have enclosed an<br />
essay about this amazing man and his<br />
extraordinary achievements in the<br />
Photographer’s Corner.<br />
It gives me great pleasure to enclose<br />
the works of internationally known<br />
painter Artur Bordalo (aka Bordalo II)<br />
in the Artist’s Corner. His works go<br />
beyond art; they create expressions to<br />
underline the fact that it is possible to<br />
create impeccable works of art and visual<br />
beauty with the help of discarded and<br />
reusable material. Creativity, in every<br />
form, has a wide appeal across age, sex<br />
and social structures and I think that<br />
each ‘creative’ should try and use their<br />
art forms to heighten social awareness<br />
about things that might make the world<br />
a better place in the future.<br />
<strong>The</strong> role of the music conductor in an<br />
orchestra has always mystified viewers.<br />
When the conductor waves the baton and<br />
controls the dynamics and the nuances<br />
N<br />
ditors’s ote<br />
of a musical score, one cannot but<br />
shake one’s head in wonder. What<br />
most of us are unaware of are the<br />
technical and aesthetic norms that<br />
form the foundation for the music<br />
conductor. <strong>The</strong> article in the<br />
Musician’s Corner might be quite<br />
enlightening for curious music lovers.<br />
Lopa Banerjee and Santosh Bakaya<br />
- both wonderful writers - have been<br />
contributing to this e-zine for a long<br />
time. It gives me great pleasure to<br />
publish a review of their recent works<br />
in the Reviewer’s Corner.<br />
Cartooning is arguably the best<br />
‘weapon’ for those fighting against<br />
recognised establishments including<br />
governments and the church. If you<br />
are one with a similar bent of mind or<br />
even remotely curious about such<br />
works that often have destabilised<br />
establishments, then head over to the<br />
Cartoonist’s Corner.<br />
<strong>The</strong> cover story is about an art that<br />
has somehow been often overlooked<br />
but one that requires a closer look of<br />
appreciation. I have dedicated the<br />
cover story to this veritable art -<br />
Ventriloquism.<br />
And, by the way, this issue is a<br />
combined bumper issue for November<br />
and <strong>Dec</strong>ember!<br />
Happy reading!!<br />
2
In This Issue<br />
7 <strong>The</strong> Art and the Craft of<br />
Ventriloquism<br />
23 <strong>The</strong> Cartoonist’s<br />
Corner<br />
Old-Time Anti-Church<br />
Cartoons<br />
46 <strong>The</strong> Fiction Writer’s<br />
Corner<br />
<strong>The</strong> Fragrance of<br />
Frangipani<br />
By Rhiti Chatterjee Bose<br />
67 <strong>The</strong> Musician’s<br />
Corner<br />
Conducting Music<br />
82 <strong>The</strong> Poet’s Corner<br />
Poems by Santosh<br />
Bakaya<br />
95 <strong>The</strong> Humorist’s<br />
Corner<br />
With Robert Benchley<br />
110 <strong>The</strong> Reviewer’s<br />
Corner<br />
14 <strong>The</strong> Artist’s Corner<br />
Paintings by Bordalo II<br />
32 <strong>The</strong> Essayist’s Corner<br />
<strong>The</strong> Wretched Lives of<br />
Domestic Servants<br />
by Razi Azmi<br />
Bat and the Baton<br />
By Kersi Meher-Homji<br />
57 <strong>The</strong> Playwright’s Corner<br />
Enigma<br />
By Floyd Dell<br />
75 <strong>The</strong> Photographer’s<br />
Corner<br />
<strong>The</strong> Snowflake Man of<br />
Vermont<br />
87 <strong>The</strong> Scientist’s<br />
Corner<br />
Factual Legends<br />
102 <strong>The</strong> Traveller’s<br />
Corner<br />
Reviews by<br />
Reena Prasad and<br />
Rhiti Chatterjee Bose<br />
3
Contributors<br />
Kersi Meher-Homji is a journalist, author and<br />
biographer. He writes regularly for Inside Cricket, the<br />
Sydney Morning Herald and other publications. He is<br />
the author of many books and his most notable<br />
biography is <strong>The</strong> Waugh Twins, about cricketing<br />
legends Steve and Mark Waugh.<br />
Reena Prasad is a poet from India, currently<br />
living in Sharjah (United Arab Emirates). Her poems<br />
have been published in several anthologies and<br />
journals. She is also the Destiny Poets UK’s, Poet of<br />
the year for 2014 and one of the editors of <strong>The</strong><br />
Significant Anthology released in July 2015. More<br />
recently, her poem was adjudged second in the World<br />
Union Of Poet’s poetry competition, <strong>2016</strong>.<br />
Rhiti Chatterjee Bose is based in Bhubaneswar<br />
and is a mother to two adorable trouble makers. She<br />
is a writer and editor, with several online and print<br />
publications. She is also the founder of Incredible<br />
Women of India, an e-zine, documenting real life<br />
inspirational stories of Indian women. When not<br />
writing, she morphs into an obsessive cake and<br />
cookies baker, a self-proclaimed Madhubani artist<br />
and a compulsive reader.<br />
Email: rhitibose@gmail.com<br />
Artur Bordalo is the grandson of famous lisbon<br />
painter, REAL BORDALO, aka BORDALO II has been<br />
decorating the streets of Lisbon with his own<br />
colourful artwork for years. He is most notoriously<br />
known for his blending of trash and other objects into<br />
his paintings by turning burnt aluminium cans, old<br />
tires, scrap wood and neglected appliances into<br />
colourful animals. This is his way of recycling and<br />
critiquing the world on its need for nice things that<br />
are based on junk.<br />
4
SANTOSH BAKAYA says that she has ‘almost<br />
an insane passion for writing on any topic under the<br />
sun, having penned eight books - three of them<br />
mystery novels for young adults, a couple of quiz<br />
books, and my Ph. D thesis on Robert Nozick.’ She<br />
has also published a collection of essays - Flights<br />
from my Terrace about the extraordinary<br />
ordinariness of everyday existence. Her poetic<br />
biography of Mahatma Gandhi, Ballad of Bapu, was<br />
published by a couple of months back, and is being<br />
critically acclaimed. Her poems have figured many<br />
times in the highly commended category of the U.<br />
K based poetry website, Destiny Poets. She has<br />
won the International Reuel award for writing and<br />
literature 2014 for my long poem Oh Hark!<br />
Recently, she also won the Incredible Woman of<br />
India 2014-15 award.<br />
Floyd James Dell (June 28, 1887 – July 23,<br />
1969) was an American newspaper and magazine<br />
editor, literary critic, novelist, playwright,<br />
and poet. Dell has been called "one of the most<br />
flamboyant, versatile and influential American Men<br />
of Letters of the first third of the 20th Century." A<br />
lifelong poet, he was also a best-selling author, as<br />
well as a playwright whose hit Broadway comedy,<br />
Little Accident (1928), was made into a Hollywood<br />
movie.<br />
Razi Azmi is a former academic with a Ph.D in<br />
history and a passion for travelling. He has been<br />
a regular columnist in the Daily Times (published<br />
from Lahore) and has his own BLOG at<br />
www.raziazmi.com where he publishes his<br />
travelogues and articles about contemporary<br />
political and social issues. He can be reached at<br />
raziazmi@hotmail.com<br />
5
Robert Charles Benchley (1889 – 1945) was<br />
an American humorist best known for his work as<br />
a newspaper columnist and film actor. From his<br />
beginnings at the Harvard Lampoon while<br />
attending Harvard University, through his many<br />
years writing essays and articles for Vanity<br />
Fair and <strong>The</strong> New Yorker and his acclaimed short<br />
films, Benchley's style of humour brought him<br />
respect and success during his life, from New York<br />
City and his peers at the Algonquin Round Table to<br />
contemporaries in the burgeoning film industry.<br />
6
7
Ventriloquism (according to the Merriam-Webster dictionary)<br />
is “the production of the voice in such a way that the sound<br />
seems to come from a source other than the vocal organs of<br />
the speaker”. This art is more often a ‘stagecraft’ wherein the<br />
ventriloquist uses a puppet so that the ventriloquist’s voice<br />
seems to come from the puppet.<br />
History<br />
<strong>The</strong> word’s origin can be traced back to the Latin phrase “to<br />
speak from the stomach”. Strangely enough, ventriloquism was a<br />
religious practice wherein the<br />
noises produced by the<br />
stomach were thought to be<br />
the voices of the dead, who<br />
took up residence in the<br />
stomach of the ventriloquist.<br />
<strong>The</strong> ventriloquist would then<br />
interpret the sounds, as they<br />
were thought to be able to<br />
speak to the dead, as well as<br />
foretell the future! <strong>The</strong><br />
Greeks referred to this artform<br />
as Gastromancy and<br />
one of the most successful<br />
early gastromancers was<br />
Eurykles, a prophet at<br />
Athens.<br />
In the ‘Middle Ages’,<br />
ventriloquism was akin to<br />
witchcraft. As spiritualism<br />
developed into stage<br />
magic and escapology,<br />
ventriloquism became more of a performance art (starting around<br />
the 18th century) and then slowly dropped its mystical trappings.<br />
8
Ventriloquism as an ‘art’ form<br />
<strong>The</strong> earliest example of a ventriloquist dates back to 1753 in<br />
England, where Sir John Parnell is depicted in an engraving<br />
of William Hogarth as speaking via his hand. In 1757, the<br />
Austrian Baron de Mengen is known to have implemented a small<br />
doll into his performance. During the late 18th century,<br />
ventriloquists were very well established as entertainers in<br />
England. However during those early years, ventriloquists used<br />
this art to project voices so that they seem to come from far away<br />
(unlike modern ventriloquists). A well-known ventriloquist during<br />
this period - Joseph Askins - who performed at the Sadler's Wells<br />
<strong>The</strong>atre in London in the 1790's, used this art as a dialogue<br />
between himself and his invisible friend “Little Tommy". During<br />
these years, other performers started using dolls or puppets into<br />
their performance.<br />
<strong>The</strong> Sadler’s Wells <strong>The</strong>ater<br />
This art form established itself firmly in the world of<br />
entertainment during the era of the ‘music hall’ in the UK and the<br />
‘vaudeville’ in the US. Fred Russell (often acknowledged as the<br />
father of modern ventriloquism) accepted a permanent act at the<br />
Palace <strong>The</strong>atre in London, where he used he used a dummy called<br />
“Coster Joe” in his act – a cheeky boy who would sit on his lap<br />
and then engage in an entertaining ‘conversation’ with the<br />
ventriloquist. This form has since been the most common one<br />
used by ventriloquists down the decades.<br />
9
Ventriloquism in India<br />
In India, the art of ventriloquism was made popular by Y. K.<br />
Padhye and M. M. Roy, who are believed to be the pioneers of this<br />
field in India. Padhye's son Ramdas Padhye followed in his father’s<br />
footsteps and made the art popular amongst the masses through<br />
his performance on television. Ramdas Padhye's son Satyajit<br />
Padhye is now a 3 rd generation ventriloquist in India. Also, in<br />
recent times, Indusree a gifted female ventriloquist from<br />
Bangalore has performed with with 3 dummies simultaneously.<br />
10
<strong>The</strong> popularity of ventriloquism<br />
Satyajit Padhye<br />
Ventriloquism's popularity waned<br />
for a while, probably because of<br />
modern media's electronic ability to<br />
convey the illusion of voice. In the U.K.<br />
in the 2000s there were only 15 fulltime<br />
professional ventriloquists, down<br />
from around 400 in the 50s and<br />
60s. However, in recent times, a<br />
number of modern ventriloquists have<br />
developed a following, following a<br />
growth in the live comedy shows. In<br />
2001, Angelique Monét performed<br />
on <strong>The</strong>atre Row her one-woman off-<br />
Broadway show Multiple Me (written by<br />
Edgar Chisholm) where she portrayed<br />
several personalities using multiple<br />
dummies to display the shifts. In<br />
2007, Zillah & Totte won the first<br />
season<br />
Zillah and Totte<br />
11
Technical details<br />
One of the difficulties that ventriloquists have to tackle, is to<br />
produce all the sounds that they make with lips slightly separated<br />
and in fact, nearly closed. This gets harder for certain<br />
‘labial’ sounds like f, v, b, p, and m and sometimes the only choice<br />
is to replace them with others. A widely parodied example of this<br />
difficulty is the use of the phrase "gottle o' gear" used by less<br />
skilled ventriloquists instead of "bottle of beer". Some<br />
ventriloquists also take advantage of the fact that the sounds<br />
th, d, t, and n when spoken quickly allow them to use words that<br />
can be difficult for listeners to differentiate.<br />
<strong>The</strong> ventriloquist's dummy<br />
and neoprene.<br />
Modern ventriloquists utilise a<br />
variety of different types of<br />
puppets in their presentations,<br />
ranging from soft cloth or foam<br />
puppets, flexible latex puppets<br />
and the traditional and familiar<br />
hard-headed knee figure. <strong>The</strong><br />
classic dummies used by<br />
ventriloquists vary in size<br />
anywhere from twelve inches tall<br />
to human-size and larger, with<br />
the height usually falling between<br />
thirty-four and forty-two inches.<br />
Traditionally, this type of puppet<br />
has been made from papiermâché<br />
or wood. In modern times,<br />
other materials are often<br />
employed, including fibreglassreinforced<br />
resins, latex,<br />
12
IMAGES:<br />
http://ventriloquistcentralblog.com/<br />
http://www.axtell.com/<br />
https://www.flickr.com/photos/bob07024/1380349185<br />
http://animatedventriloquistdummies.yolasite.com/<br />
http://www.puppetsandprops.com/<br />
http://www.theatrestrust.org.uk/<br />
http://www.suruchigupta.in/<br />
13
Mathew Brady<br />
14
Artur Bordalo aka Bordalo II, was born in<br />
Lisbon and grew up watching his grandfather Real<br />
Bordalo painting in the city of Lisbon. In fact, he has<br />
derived his name Bordalo II after his grandfather<br />
whom he considers to be Bordalo I! A true ‘creative’<br />
often finds form and inspiration in things that others<br />
might discard and even overlook in life. <strong>The</strong> works of<br />
Bordalo II are shining examples and he has been<br />
creating extraordinary works of art from ‘trash’ and<br />
garbage. <strong>The</strong> vivacity in his art is proof of an<br />
amazingly imaginative mind. His works also<br />
underline the fact that in this consumer’s world, we<br />
often forget the value of things and often even forget<br />
that beautiful can be created from things that we<br />
have learnt to ‘throw away’.<br />
On his web-page http://www.bordaloii.com/, the<br />
artist has this to say about himself:<br />
I belong to a generation that is extremely<br />
consumerist, materialist and greedy. With the<br />
production of things at its highest, the production of<br />
"waste" and unused objects is also at its highest.<br />
"Waste" is quoted because of its abstract definition:<br />
"one man's trash is another man's treasure". I<br />
create, recreate, assemble and develop ideas with<br />
end-of-life material and try to relate it to<br />
sustainability, ecological and social awareness.<br />
<strong>The</strong> works in this section is a testament to Bordalo<br />
II’s imagination, dexterity and creative skills.<br />
15
<strong>The</strong>se works are from “Big Trash Animals”.<br />
In the artist’s own words - “this is a series of<br />
artworks that aims to draw attention to a current<br />
problem that is likely to be forgotten, become<br />
trivial or a necessary evil. <strong>The</strong> problem involves<br />
waste production, materials that are not reused,<br />
pollution and its effect on the planet. <strong>The</strong> idea is<br />
to depict nature itself, in this case animals, out<br />
of materials that are responsible for its<br />
destruction. <strong>The</strong>se works are built with end-oflife<br />
materials: the majority found in wastelands,<br />
abandoned factories or randomly and some are<br />
obtained from companies that are going through<br />
a recycling process.<br />
Damaged bumpers, burnt garbage cans, tires<br />
and appliances are just some of the objects that<br />
can be identified when you go into detail. <strong>The</strong>y<br />
are camouflaging the result of our habits with<br />
little ecological and social awareness.<br />
16
17
18<br />
By Andrey Atuchin
19
20
21
22
23
Over the centuries, artists and,<br />
specifically, cartoonists have been<br />
fighting and creating anti-establishment<br />
cartoons and caricartures against the<br />
catholic church.<strong>The</strong> church, in recent<br />
times, has been severely criticised for<br />
its beliefs, cover-ups and undue power.<br />
However, according to the cartoons in<br />
the ensuing pages, there has been a<br />
grudge against the church since<br />
centuries. <strong>The</strong>se ‘old-time’ American<br />
cartoons depict varying degrees of<br />
detestment and suspicions towards the<br />
catholic church.<br />
Sources:<br />
Public Domain, Wikimedia Commons<br />
Harper’s Weekly, 1875 / Public Domain, Wikipedia<br />
Pillar of Fire Church, 1928 / Public Domain, Wikipedia<br />
via dzehnle.blogspot.com<br />
via catholicleague.org<br />
1925 / Public Domain, Wikimedia Commons<br />
Pillar of Fire Church, 1925 / Public Domain, Wikimedia Commons<br />
Klansmen: Guardians of Liberty, 1926 / Public Domain, Wikimedia Commons<br />
via patheos.com/blogs/mcnamarasblog<br />
Punch, 1850 / via corjesusacratissimum.org<br />
via lancemannion.typepad.com<br />
24
25
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27
28
29
30
31
32
<strong>The</strong> Wretched Lives<br />
Of Domestic Servants<br />
By Razi Azmi<br />
IMAGES<br />
https://www.linkedin.com/pulse<br />
https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/<br />
http://www.mazdoorbigul.net/<br />
33
In one episode of the incessant Israeli-Arab conflict, about a<br />
decade ago newspapers published pictures of Israeli children<br />
cheerfully writing messages on bombs and artillery shells ready<br />
to be fired on villages in south Lebanon. Political parties and<br />
movements often put children at the forefront of rallies and<br />
demonstrations to push their own demands, to which the<br />
children can barely relate, if at all.<br />
States brainwash children to be “loyal” citizens, whatever<br />
that means. We definitely know what it means in North Korea,<br />
where malnourished children sing in praise of the “dear leader”.<br />
Mao Zedong organized teenagers into his dreaded “Red Guards”<br />
who ripped the fabric of Chinese society.<br />
But these are the mental forms of the exploitation of<br />
children. <strong>The</strong>re is also the crude physical and sexual abuse of<br />
poor children, rampant in the Third World.<br />
In the mid-1990s the sexual abuse of domestic servants in<br />
the Gulf countries made headlines when Sarah Balabagan, a<br />
15-year Philippine girl, was jailed in the UAE for stabbing to<br />
death her Arab master who had raped her. <strong>The</strong> international,<br />
cultural and judicial aspects of the affair generated huge<br />
publicity, but the ill treatment of domestic servants from poorer<br />
countries in relatively rich countries and within their own<br />
countries is widespread and quite well-known.<br />
In the late 1990s, there was the case of Shokina, a runaway<br />
Bangladeshi maid in Kuwait, one of the few that get reported.<br />
When interviewed by a journalist in the Bangladeshi embassy in<br />
Kuwait, her face was covered in bruises, her arms had long<br />
claw-like scars down to her wrists and burns from cigarette butts<br />
dotted the back of her hands. She had been kicked in the back,<br />
punched in the head, scratched on the face, pinched, pulled and<br />
spat on by her mistress.<br />
In a welcome move, the Indian government has just<br />
announced a ban on children under 14 working as domestic<br />
servants. <strong>The</strong> new law also bans children from teashops,<br />
restaurants, hotels, motels, resorts, spas or other recreational<br />
centres.<br />
34
To what extent will the ban be enforced in practice is highly<br />
questionable. Many parents of the children the law is aimed to<br />
help will be concerned with the consequences of the loss of<br />
employment, however harsh the conditions. For many children it<br />
may mean sliding into full starvation from a state of deprivation,<br />
oppression and semi-starvation.<br />
35<br />
Crippling poverty<br />
forces parents to send<br />
their children, sometimes<br />
as young as five or six, to<br />
work in other people’s<br />
homes or in factories,<br />
sweatshops, workshops,<br />
hotels, restaurants,<br />
roadside eateries and<br />
tea-stalls.<br />
Children who should be going to school and enjoying sports<br />
and other recreational activities are instead condemned to a life<br />
of servitude where their labour is exploited for up to 18 hours a<br />
day, seven days a week, for a pittance. In addition, they are the<br />
victims of beatings and insults almost on a daily basis and, not<br />
infrequently, also of sexual abuse.<br />
According to research in the nineties, child labour is most<br />
concentrated in Asia and Africa, which together account for more<br />
than 90 percent of total child employment. Though there are<br />
more child workers in Asia than anywhere else, a higher percentage<br />
of African children participate in the labour force.<br />
Asia is led by India which has 44 million child labourers, giving<br />
it the largest child workforce in the world. In Pakistan, 10 percent<br />
of all workers are between the ages of 10 and 14 years. Nigeria<br />
has 12 million child workers. Child labour is also common in South<br />
America. For example, there are 7 million children working in<br />
Brazil.<br />
Last year, researchers in Indonesia interviewed 44 girls in<br />
seven cities, more than half of whom complained of physical or
sexual abuse. <strong>The</strong>y received wages ranging from nothing to $50<br />
a month. Many complained of not getting enough to eat, sleeping<br />
in store rooms, working 14 to 18 hours a day and never having a<br />
day off except during the Muslim festival of Eid ul-Fitr.<br />
Despite the evidence of mistreatment, the report said few of<br />
the 19 government officials interviewed were prepared to admit<br />
there was a problem or a need to have regulation in the area. It<br />
quoted an official from the National Ministry of Manpower as<br />
saying that if maids were given a day off “they would not know<br />
what to do and would not know where to go”.<br />
<strong>The</strong> Indonesian Minister for People’s Welfare, Alwi Shihab, said<br />
the practice of wealthier families taking care of children from poor<br />
families had long been the basis for the system of maids in<br />
Indonesia and did not need regulating. “You Westerners don’t<br />
understand – it’s a cultural issue,” he said, adding that maids “can<br />
run away if something is wrong”. An official from the Ministry of<br />
Women’s Empowerment went further, saying that girls should not<br />
be viewed as domestic workers as “they are regarded by<br />
employers as their own children”.<br />
Nevertheless, Jakarta complains about the treatment of<br />
Indonesian domestic servants in neighbouring Malaysia and<br />
Singapore. A couple of<br />
years ago, the then<br />
president, Megawati<br />
Soekarnoputri, met the<br />
mother of Nirmala<br />
Bonat after Malaysian<br />
papers published<br />
pictures of the<br />
Indonesian maid whose<br />
employer repeatedly<br />
burnt her with an iron.<br />
Nirmala’s mistress<br />
tortured her for over five months, before she was spotted by<br />
someone wearing bloodstained clothes, rescued from her<br />
tormentor and taken to the authorities.<br />
36
authorities.<br />
According to a newspaper report in Bangladesh, a woman<br />
had attacked her female servant with a red-hot iron and nearly<br />
blinded her out of jealousy, as the little girl was attracting the<br />
sexual attention of her husband.<br />
I personally knew of a senior, divorced Bangladeshi diplomat<br />
in Morocco whose maid-servant, whom he had imported from<br />
back home, was a virtual slave, confined to the four walls of his<br />
flat, not allowed to see or talk to anybody. After many years of<br />
faithful service, with not a day off, she was flown back to<br />
Bangladesh on a one-day notice, and paid just about $500 as<br />
wages for years of toil and deprivation after her arrival.<br />
While those like her live lives of virtual slavery, in some<br />
Saharan countries, such as Mali, Niger and Mauritania, real<br />
slavery is still practiced. According to Romana Cacchioli, Africa<br />
program officer for the campaign group Anti-Slavery International,<br />
“the slave women attend to all the domestic duties, making<br />
sure the masters don’t even lift a cup. Water is brought for the<br />
masters, food is brought for them. <strong>The</strong>ir clothing is washed and<br />
their children looked after”.<br />
Anyone familiar with the duties of domestic servants in<br />
countless homes in India, Bangladesh, Pakistan, Singapore,<br />
Malaysia, Indonesia and the Middle East, would think that Romana<br />
Cacchioli is describing their plight, rather than those of slaves<br />
in north Africa.<br />
<strong>The</strong> Indian government’s initiative in this matter is a welcome<br />
move. It is a shame that governments have done precious<br />
little to enact legislation to prevent the exploitation and abuse of<br />
domestic servants and virtually nothing to enforce the laws and<br />
regulations that exist. <strong>The</strong> miserable condition of domestic<br />
servants in the Third World is one of the saddest untold stories<br />
of our times, for many are those who are complicit in this crime<br />
and, therefore, have a vested interest in keeping silent about it.<br />
37
Bat and the Baton<br />
By Kersi Meher-Homji<br />
38
Music and cricket make an odd couple. Add movies dealing<br />
with both and you have an eternal triangle of bliss and harmony.<br />
How many musicians play cricket and how many cricketers<br />
sing professionally?<br />
Australia’s former Test fast bowler Brett Lee has mastered<br />
Indian film music and sings duets with Asha Bhonsle in Hindi. Also<br />
he plays the piano. With brothers Shane and Grant he formed a<br />
popular band Six and Out in 1990s. Along with other former<br />
cricketers Richard Chee Quee, Gavin Robertson and Brad McNamara,<br />
Brett and Shane Lee released a song Can’t Bowl, Can’t<br />
Throw which was about the infamous Scott Muller-incident of<br />
1999. This song made the Top 100 in the ARIA chart.<br />
Did you know that India's mystery<br />
spinner BS Chandrasekhar hummed<br />
songs of legendary Indian singers<br />
K.L. Saigal and Mukesh when bowling<br />
in 1970s and 80s?<br />
Shane Warne the Musical was<br />
staged in front of packed audiences in<br />
Australia in 2008. To my knowledge<br />
there is no Sachin Tendulkar the<br />
Mehfil.<br />
However, this September was released<br />
a movie (biopic) MS Dhoni, the<br />
Untold Story on India’s former Test<br />
captain and wicket-keeper. It grossed<br />
Rs 66 crores (£7.79m) in first three<br />
days. <strong>The</strong> Dhoni movie is on worldwide release so will likely wind<br />
up as one of the highest grossing sports flicks in history. It has<br />
the hit song Har galli mein Dhoni hai.<br />
Another Indian movie on cricket theme, Azhar, was released<br />
recently. <strong>The</strong> story is inspired by the life of former Indian captain<br />
Mohammad Azharuddin who was incriminated as a match-fixer in<br />
39
late 1990s. A box-office flop, Azhar, includes songs Bol do na<br />
zara, Itni si baat hai and Oye, oye.<br />
<strong>The</strong> famous Indian Test off-spinner Harbhajan Singh has<br />
brought out a musical album as a tribute to his mother titled Meri<br />
Maa. My friend Anindya Dutta, a cricket writer, has sent me this<br />
link: http://youtu.be/KsxyWMgvICU<br />
Also the West Indies all-rounder<br />
Dwayne Bravo launched a Hindi musical<br />
album recently called Chalo<br />
Chalo. Here is the<br />
link https://m.youtube.com/watch?<br />
v=cW-WWs3voIL8<br />
How many of us know that the legendary Australian batsman<br />
Sir Donald Bradman played piano with panache? <strong>The</strong> snappy Fox<br />
Trot Our Don Bradman was a best selling 78 rpm record in 1930.<br />
Even today it is sung with nostalgia.<br />
During the visit of the West Indies team to Australia in<br />
1930-31 Bradman was present at the Grand Opera House to hear<br />
his song ‘Every Day is a Rainbow Day for Me’. It was composed<br />
by Bradman himself to words by Jack Lumsdaine and sung by<br />
Elsie Hosking.<br />
Bradman did not believe in visiting pubs after play. Once after<br />
making a big score in a match in England in 1930, he was found<br />
40
missing. Everyone rushed round the hotel, page boys darted here<br />
and there calling his name. Someone suggested that he had been<br />
kidnapped.<br />
Just then the soft sound of piano permeated from the music<br />
room. And there was Don quietly playing on piano a tune he had<br />
heard at a show two nights previously! After all, what’s the<br />
difference between cricket and music? Both need scores.<br />
Music was in Bradman’s family. As he grew up in Bowral in<br />
New South Wales, he had heard his father George play the violin<br />
and his mother Emily the piano and the accordion by ear. Don’s<br />
sister, Lilian, who later became a professional music teacher,<br />
taught him to play the piano and discovered that he had a natural<br />
ear. Don’s uncle Dick and cousin Hector were violinists.<br />
Don’s granddaughter Greta Bradman, now 37, is a famous<br />
opera singer. She has sung at the finest concert halls in the world.<br />
<strong>The</strong> internationally acclaimed soprano has also performed at the<br />
home of cricket, Lord’s in London.<br />
In 2014 the Adelaide Symphony Orchestra performed a concert<br />
“Our Don” at the Adelaide Town Hall, music by Natalie<br />
Williams, a monologue by actor Gary Sweet with archival footage<br />
of the cricket icon and Greta Bradman humming in the background.<br />
41
<strong>The</strong> former New Zealand cricketer Jeremy Coney could play<br />
guitar, double bass and the piano. He said that music was pivotal<br />
to his family; “Mum sang, Dad played the piano and we kids<br />
danced.”<br />
<strong>The</strong> great Australian cricket all-rounder Keith Miller was a lover<br />
of Western classical music. When I had interviewed him in 1996<br />
for my cricket book Six Appeal, he had replied, “Don’t ask me<br />
about cricket. Ask me about horse racing or classical music.”<br />
England’s Sir Neville Cardus (1889-1975) is still considered as<br />
the greatest cricket writer and music critic. He wrote as eloquently<br />
on Ranji and Bradman as he did on musicians Sir Edward Elgar,<br />
Frederick Delius, Sir Thomas Beecham and Henry Purcell.<br />
How’s this for a tongue-in-cheek muso-cricket name coincidence?<br />
Cardus would have loved to commentate on the Birmingham<br />
cricket Test of July 2004. In that match, England’s opening<br />
batsman Andrew Strauss played off-Key [Robert] as the West<br />
Indies bowler Dwayne Bravo applauded by taking a couple of<br />
wickets. New Zealand fast-medium bowler Neil Wagner came on<br />
the scene a decade later.<br />
<strong>The</strong> celebrated tenor Luciano<br />
Pavaroti was both a football and a<br />
cricket fan and actually played cricket<br />
in 1960s. A story circulates that<br />
when bowling in a social match, the<br />
umpire gave a batsman not out.<br />
Pavaroti was so outraged that he<br />
appealed<br />
opera<br />
style “Howzattttttt” so loud and for<br />
so long that the umpire had to<br />
change his decision!<br />
Australian rock band Sherbet's album Howzatt topped the<br />
charts for many years in 1970s and 1980s.<br />
42
Zubin Mehta, the famous music director and conductor of<br />
Israel Philharmonic Orchestra, is a cricket fanatic. A proud Indian,<br />
he was “in mourning” when the Indian cricket team lost to Sri<br />
Lanka during his concert tour of Australia in July 2008. When we<br />
meet we discuss only Indian cricket!<br />
Another Zubin is on his way up in music, Sydney-born Dr<br />
Zubin Kanga. In his 30s, he has won many international awards<br />
as a contemporary pianist. Recipient of the prestigious 2012 Art<br />
Music Award, he was the winner of the Best Newcomer Award at<br />
the 2010 ABC Limelight Scholarship.<br />
<strong>The</strong> Kanga family is renowned for its exploits in cricket. Zubin<br />
Kanga’s great grand uncles PD, MD, DD and HD Kanga were<br />
well-known cricketers in India from 1888 to 1903. Zubin’s grand<br />
uncle Homi Kanga was the first Indian to score a double century<br />
in first-class cricket.<br />
<strong>The</strong>re are hit songs involving cricket: <strong>The</strong> Baggy Green by<br />
John Williamson, Shane Warne by Paul Kelly, Here come the<br />
Aussies by the 1972 Australian cricket team, among many others.<br />
And of course that Come on Aussies come on, come on jingle<br />
during the Kerry Packer Cricket World Series days in 1970s and<br />
80s is still chanted with energy during Test matches around<br />
Australia.<br />
Not to forget the Caribbean calypso We don’t like cricket;<br />
we love cricket. Tall and fiery West Indian bowler Curtly Ambrose<br />
formed a band along with his captain Richie Richardson called <strong>The</strong><br />
Big Bad Dread and the Bald Head. While Ambrose plays the<br />
bass guitar, Richardson takes on the rhythm guitar.<br />
According to H. Natarajan and Nishad Pai Vaidya in Cricket<br />
Country, famous Indian Test cricketer Sanjay Manjrekar released<br />
an album called Rest Day. He also sang in a Bengali movie. “I<br />
used to worship Kishore Kumar”, he once said.<br />
Sunil Gavaskar, considered an all-time great opening batsman,<br />
released a Marathi song Ye jeevan mhanje cricket [My life<br />
43
means cricket]. Another Test cricketer S. Sreesanth brought out<br />
an album Jaago India. One-day cricket specialist Suresh Raina<br />
sang Tu mili, Sab mila for a Hindi movie Meeruthiya<br />
Gangsters last year.<br />
When English cricketer Ben Hollioake passed away aged 24<br />
after a car accident in 2002, his Surrey teammate Mark Butcher<br />
sang You’re Never Gone at his funeral. Cricket writer Anindya<br />
Dutta informs me that this song was written by Butcher himself,<br />
who plays the guitar to back his singing skills. Mark now has<br />
a Mark Butcher Band, with four others. <strong>The</strong>y released an<br />
album Songs of the Sun<br />
Horse.<br />
<strong>The</strong> 2009 multi Academy<br />
Award winning Indian<br />
movie<br />
Slumdog<br />
Millionaire features cricket as<br />
one of its major themes. <strong>The</strong><br />
magic moment comes when<br />
Jamal Malik from the Mumbai<br />
slums wins big money on Who wants to be a millionaire? by<br />
correctly naming the batsman scoring the most number of centuries<br />
in first-class cricket. <strong>The</strong>re are references to cricket legends<br />
Jack Hobbs, Sachin Tendulkar (of course!), Ricky Ponting and the<br />
quirky umpire Billy Bowden, among others in this movie. <strong>The</strong><br />
song Jai ho is the highlight of the movie!<br />
Australian music guru ‘Molly’ Meldrum once famously said, “If<br />
I have my time again, I won't be coming back as a rock’n’roller,<br />
video buff or a TV presenter... I'll be a cricketer and loving it.”<br />
Just as music can be classical, popular or rock, cricket is<br />
diversified as Test, first-class, one-dayer and Twenty20 tamasha.<br />
Have your pick. Give me “Test stars” Saigal, Pankaj, Hemant,<br />
Talat, Manna Dey, Suraiya, Lata, Asha, Geeta, Guru Dutt, Mukesh,<br />
Rafi, Kishore … anytime against the current Bollywood moremiss-than-hit<br />
noise.<br />
44
My suggestion to Swami Army, the group which follows Indian<br />
cricketers around the world: Give up the stereotype jingles<br />
like India jitega, jitega and start crooning Saaré jahhan sé achha,<br />
Hindustan hamaara during the next cricket World Cup.<br />
Encore, do-baara, Jai ho!<br />
IMAGES:<br />
http://shermanwoodturning.com/<br />
http://www.thomasschoolwear.co.uk/<br />
http://www.abc.net.au/news/2015-07-27/don-bradman-playing-piano/6647740<br />
http://www.india-forums.com/<br />
https://plus.google.com/112120842577715642033<br />
http://www.india.com/showbiz<br />
www.wastatickets.com<br />
http://www.cricketcountry.com/<br />
45
46
<strong>The</strong> Fragrance of<br />
Frangipani<br />
IMAGES:<br />
http://howto-garden.com.au/<br />
www.pinterest.com/explore/sad-girl-drawing/<br />
images.indianexpress.com<br />
http://www.stockz.co.uk/<br />
http://www.informationng.com/<br />
http://hanswisbrun.nl/2013/03/26/einsteins-formules-en-een-fles-scotch/<br />
47
It was the first thought that came to her as she woke up. He<br />
was gone. And, soon, this bedroom, the house in whose eastern<br />
corner it sat, and the tiny garden outside with its gnarled old red<br />
hibiscus and the half-grown mango tree they had planted together,<br />
all those would be gone as well. It was the strangest feeling<br />
ever.<br />
It has been the same since the last month; every morning<br />
came with this heavy feeling of nothingness that engulfed her<br />
thoughts; a strange kind of absence within, for being present in<br />
the real world.<br />
Her world, which she knew, was about to be taken away. Well<br />
it has been slipping away for a while now anyway.<br />
*****<br />
Rimu was only four when they had moved into this house; this<br />
is where she grew up. This is where she became who she was<br />
today. Defiant tears welled up in her eyes and she pushed them<br />
back. She lay in bed, staring at the ceiling. Was that damp patch<br />
always there? She had not noticed it before. She had not noticed<br />
a lot of things before. How could she be such a fool? She closed<br />
her eyes for a while, maybe all of it was a mistake, maybe it was<br />
a nightmare or a hallucination, and maybe she was imagining it<br />
all.<br />
Her father had always told her she had an over-imaginative<br />
brain, maybe it was one of the stories she had written, which had<br />
slipped out of the pages of the book and taken the shape of a<br />
nightmare… was it? Could stories come alive from the pages and<br />
spread themselves over the writer’s life?<br />
Rimu laughed out loudly; twenty-three years’ worth of memories<br />
in this place and now she would have to leave it all behind.<br />
Life does throw some really bad jokes down the neck. With her<br />
laughter, a fresh bunch of tears rolled over. She cried and she<br />
laughed, at the same time.<br />
Snippets of her childhood flashed through her eyes<br />
48
Rimu is seven; she is on the terrace, it’s pouring down. She<br />
is dancing in the rain and out of nowhere her mother comes and<br />
wraps her up in a towel and drags her in, laughing at her<br />
playfulness.<br />
And then a few other incidents….<br />
Rimu is fifteen; she had just lit her first cigarette as her<br />
parents return home unexpectedly from a party, where they<br />
should have stayed much longer. <strong>The</strong>ir faces, horror-stricken, still<br />
made Rimu laugh.<br />
She is nineteen; that was the first time she told her parent’s<br />
she wanted to quit medical school and become a writer. <strong>The</strong> hurt<br />
in their eyes, the disbelief, as if Rimu was taking away a dream<br />
from them, this particular memory still haunted her.<br />
Her parents were both doctors<br />
and this news had devastated their<br />
hopes. Rimu had snatched their<br />
most precious dream right from their<br />
eyes.<br />
Her mother had understood her<br />
better and had accepted the news,<br />
although her heart was shattered.<br />
But her father had looked at her<br />
mother and exclaimed, ‘Has she<br />
gone mad?!’<br />
Rimu always knew that he was<br />
dissimilar from her. He wouldn’t understand.<br />
He never did.<br />
How Rimu wished that she could tell her father that all writers<br />
were kind of mad and that without insanity they would be<br />
nothing. She wished she could tell him so much more; there were<br />
so many words unspoken, unshared. Ah! <strong>The</strong> irony of bring a<br />
writer. She could share all her thoughts with her readers but not<br />
49
her father.<br />
Not just these, so many more, uncountable, unfathomable,<br />
unforgettable memories. Good ones, funny ones, some sad ones,<br />
memories nonetheless clouded her mind.<br />
Her phone started beeping; she looked at the caller’s name<br />
and ignored the call. A call from the editor could wait. She was<br />
not in the mood.<br />
She got up from her bed, and walked towards her window.<br />
<strong>The</strong> tiny garden was in her view. She looked around her room,<br />
and wondered if memories have their own aroma. If they did<br />
then it would be the fragrance of frangipani for her. <strong>The</strong> frangipani<br />
tree was always there, even before the times they had moved in.<br />
It was one of the reasons why her father wanted this house. He<br />
was a quiet man, and he preferred living in this secluded suburbs<br />
away from the suffocating concrete jungle of Kolkata. And over<br />
the years this place had become a part of Rimu, her creations,<br />
her stories. This tiny garden was her father’s pride and joy and<br />
on Sundays he would spend hours tending to the plants and<br />
trees. It twitched her heart knowing that she would never see<br />
that darling man bent over a rose shrub in the cold January<br />
mornings… she would never ever see that again, ever.<br />
Rimu wished, she had spent more time with her father, trying<br />
to know what went on inside his quiet mind. She had always been<br />
closer to her mother, taking her side, sharing her life with her.<br />
Although she was poles apart from her father, she still loved him<br />
dearly. A nameless pain twitched in her heart, a dull numb agony;<br />
it felt as if someone had put twenty kilos worth of hurt on her<br />
shoulders.<br />
<strong>The</strong> tree was in full bloom this year after the showers, as if<br />
mocking the dry, parched pain within her.<br />
She looked at her desk, filled with papers, notebooks and<br />
discarded pieces of writing and a space in the middle where her<br />
laptop sat. She had not written a single line in the last month. As<br />
if the incident had sucked out the power from her to create.<br />
50
She felt as if she was a character<br />
within a story now; that she<br />
was not the story teller anymore.<br />
Rimu looked around her room,<br />
once more. She had thought of<br />
moving out of this house, so many<br />
times and getting a place for herself.<br />
She was, after all, a best-selling<br />
author now; she could afford to<br />
do so. But the comfort of home,<br />
the secluded solace of the place<br />
had always pulled her back.<br />
But probably she needed this void, this loss in her life, to<br />
make her move, to take the next step out in the real world.<br />
Rimashree Sen Verma… she read her name written in bold<br />
letters on the books that she had written, copies of which were<br />
stacked on the table by the window. Rimu had converted the walls<br />
of her room into a mini library; it was stacked in shelves from<br />
floor to ceiling with books. This was probably her most favourite<br />
place in the entire world. She had created magic right in this room<br />
with her work.<br />
All these meant so much to her, yet right now it was rendered<br />
meaningless.<br />
A new story, a new beginning was due.<br />
<strong>The</strong> old grandfather clock downstairs struck eight. Rimu jolted<br />
up from her reverie, eight already! <strong>The</strong> packers and movers<br />
would be here by nine. <strong>The</strong>y were to vacate the house today.<br />
In ten minutes she was downstairs, showered and ready for<br />
the task ahead. She saw her mother sitting in the dining room<br />
chair, her back towards her, nursing a cup of tea in her hand.<br />
<strong>The</strong> image of her mother like that, pierced a hole through her<br />
heart, she would not see her sitting like this ever, this was the last<br />
time, in this home.<br />
51
This vision of her mother, a woman who has lost her man, her<br />
companion, would stay with Rimu forever. In every crease of her<br />
mother’s body was a sign that she had given up, she didn’t care,<br />
not any more. Dr. Mitali Sen, her mother, the best gynaecologist<br />
in town, was now a broken soul.<br />
She inhaled deeply and went and hugged her mother from<br />
behind. Mitali gently patted her daughter’s head. ‘Tea?’ she<br />
whispered.<br />
‘You sit; I’ll make my own tea.’ Rimu replied, squeezing her<br />
mother’s shoulders<br />
‘Make some more for me too.’<br />
’<br />
‘Sure’ Rimu replied, ‘So when are you joining back work Ma?<br />
‘Never.’<br />
Rimu stopped in her tracks, ‘Never’ she repeated, ‘but why?’<br />
‘I can’t, I simply can’t continue Rimu, not without him.<br />
Without your dad, I… I… just can’t.’<br />
Rimu came back to the table, ‘Ma, it has been over a month<br />
now; I know you are hurting, I am hurting too. But you must get<br />
back to work. It will help you to ease the pain.’<br />
‘Ease the pain…’ Mitali whispered the words… ‘Ease the pain…’<br />
‘Ma, please, you have to move on from this loss.’<br />
‘Loss…’ Mitali looked blankly at her; her eyes were losing focus.<br />
Rimu suddenly felt that this person was someone else, not her<br />
mother. First she lost her dad and now her mother is slipping<br />
away too.<br />
‘Ma, Ma…’ she shook her, ‘the packers and movers will be here.<br />
Do you understand? We have to leave this place today.’<br />
52
‘Today,’ she repeated.<br />
‘Yes, ma, today, we have to move, today. <strong>The</strong>re is no other<br />
choice. Tomorrow’s the last date mentioned in the papers.’<br />
Mitali was slowly gaining back composure. ‘Okay,’ she<br />
breathed, ‘Okay, today, yes today.’<br />
Rimu poured the tea into two mugs, ‘Your tea Ma…’ She<br />
stopped midway; Mitali had gone back upstairs while she was<br />
making tea. Rimu put one of the steaming mugs on the counter<br />
and took her tea out into the garden.<br />
<strong>The</strong> fragrance from the maddening bloom of frangipani was<br />
overwhelming, but in a good way. <strong>The</strong> heady scent comforted her<br />
inner being. It was obviously harder for her mother to accept<br />
after being married for over thirty two years.<br />
Rimu felt that it had to be a hallucination,<br />
this couldn’t be real. <strong>The</strong> numbing<br />
pain, the ever rebelling tears, the unwillingness<br />
to accept, she has created them<br />
over papers over and over. She has typed<br />
out this feelings, edited them, marked<br />
them, proofread them, these feelings were<br />
too strong to be real, it had to be a story.<br />
Was she losing it too? Like her mother?<br />
Were the stories getting to her?<br />
She placed her empty mug on the<br />
grass and sat down cross-legged. <strong>The</strong><br />
garden was small but there was a sign of love through all the<br />
branches, leaves and blooms. Her mother had never been too<br />
fond of the garden; it was only her father’s sanctuary. Rimu used<br />
to join him occasionally in the garden, share awkward fatherdaughter<br />
moments while planting trees or weeding.<br />
She wished she had told him, once, even with all the empty<br />
space dividing the two of them, she still loved him. He was still<br />
her dear Baba.<br />
53
She lay down on the bed of fallen flowers and leaves and<br />
scooped up some dried frangipani from the ground and smelled<br />
them deep. She lay there hugging the ground, as if afraid to let go.<br />
Someone honked from outside the gate. Rimu got up slowly<br />
and brushed off the frangipani flowers from her hair. <strong>The</strong> movers<br />
have arrived.<br />
As the last piece of item was taken out of the house, Rimu felt<br />
light. This burden of memories was too heavy to carry on forward<br />
with.<br />
Rimu looked at her mother; she seemed to have gained some<br />
composure since morning. She was silently closing the open windows.<br />
Mitali walked out in the garden, as the truck went away<br />
towards their new flat. <strong>The</strong> women looked at their beloved house<br />
one more time. Rimu had her hands wrapped around her mother’s<br />
shoulders.<br />
This was a deeper loss than death for her.<br />
‘Sometimes I feel I was alone all these years anyway,’ Mitali<br />
suddenly said, stroking her daughter’s hair, ‘He was there with me<br />
professionally, but deep down, somewhere, within, he was alone<br />
too! I never noticed he needed more from me, from us, than what<br />
I gave him.’<br />
‘I never noticed it too Ma, I wished we both had given him<br />
some more time. But it still doesn’t justify what he did. He broke<br />
our home.’<br />
‘He did.’<br />
Rimu fought back tears. It was hard for her to live without her<br />
father, but it must be a million times harder for her mother whose<br />
husband had cheated on her after thirty two years of companionship.<br />
*****<br />
54
Dr. Nilesh Verma had fallen in love.<br />
An affair, which had been on for almost over a year, had torn<br />
the world Rimu knew for so long. He had left them, for a woman<br />
only six years older than Rimu. That was three months ago.<br />
Two months ago a notice arrived from court to vacate the<br />
house together with the divorce papers.<br />
That was the final nail.<br />
And then that night came, when Nilesh came by to see his<br />
daughter. He knew for sure his wife was out of town. Rimu was<br />
hardly able to conceal her anger. Nilesh had tried to reason, show<br />
her the signs of an already broken relationship. He had tried to<br />
justify why he had done, what he had done. But Rimu had been<br />
like a child, demanding her peace back.<br />
Defeated Nilesh had risen from the sofa to leave.<br />
55<br />
Rimu had said, ‘I won’t<br />
let you go Baba, I won’t.<br />
You can’t do this to us, not<br />
after so many years. You<br />
can’t take away my home.’<br />
‘I can’t be your keeper<br />
of sanity forever Rimu, you<br />
are old enough and you need to get out from your stories and face<br />
the real world. You must. <strong>The</strong>re’s too much of imagination inside<br />
that head, way too much insanity.’ Nilesh had turned his back on<br />
her.<br />
That was his final mistake.<br />
One strong hard blow on his head from behind with a metal<br />
vase had knocked him unconscious. All Rimu knew at that<br />
moment was that she couldn’t let him go. Later, on that moonless<br />
night, in the infinite dark hour of madness, she had dug a deep<br />
grave just next to the Frangipani tree. She had buried her own<br />
father. She didn’t let him go.
<strong>The</strong> last one month had devoured Rimu from inside; her life had<br />
turned into a horror story, a saga of disgust and decay.<br />
She couldn’t tell her mother either.<br />
Dr. Nilesh Verma was reported as ‘missing’ a month ago; at<br />
least that’s what the newspapers said. People claimed that he was<br />
probably murdered and disposed by his mistress. He had already<br />
given the house to his mistress and that made the case even<br />
stronger. A scandal that had been brewing<br />
for months in their small town had turned<br />
into a potboiler.<br />
It had, of course, thrown Mitali down<br />
into further depths of depression. Rimu had<br />
watched in despair. <strong>The</strong>re was no way she<br />
could go back on her life, and edit or<br />
correct or rewrite what she had already done.<br />
Her story would remain unedited for an eternity.<br />
*****<br />
‘Chalo, time for a new home.’ Rimu squeezed her mother’s<br />
hand. ‘Just you and me.’<br />
‘Yes, it is.’ Mitali smiled through her eyes.<br />
As mother and daughter left hand in hand through the gate,<br />
Rimu looked back; the frangipani was still spreading fragrance.<br />
Memories, the good ones, they hardly ever fade, do they? You<br />
kind of carry them along where ever you go. And for the bad ones,<br />
they remain buried next to the frangipani tree.<br />
Maybe some stories of loss are better left untold.<br />
IMAGES:<br />
http://howto-garden.com.au/<br />
www.pinterest.com/explore/sad-girl-drawing/<br />
images.indianexpress.com<br />
http://www.stockz.co.uk/<br />
http://www.informationng.com/<br />
http://hanswisbrun.nl/2013/03/26/einsteins-formules-en-een-fles-scotch/<br />
56
<strong>The</strong><br />
Playwright’s<br />
Corner<br />
57
Enigma<br />
By Floyd Dell<br />
<strong>The</strong> following one-act play is reprinted from King Arthur's Socks and Other<br />
Village Plays. Floyd Dell. New York: Alfred A. Knopf, 1922. It is now in<br />
the public domain and may therefore be performed without royalties.<br />
58
Characters: He and She<br />
[A man and woman are sitting at a table, talking in bitter tones.]<br />
SHE: So that is what you think.<br />
HE: Yes. For us to live together any longer would be an obscene<br />
joke. Let's end it while we still have some sanity and decency left.<br />
SHE: Is that the best you can do in the way of sanity and<br />
decency--to talk like that?<br />
HE: You'd like to cover it up with pretty words, wouldn't you?<br />
Well, we've had enough of that. I feel as though my face were<br />
covered with spider webs. I want to brush them off and get clean<br />
again.<br />
SHE: It's not my fault you've got weak nerves. Why don't you try<br />
to behave like a gentleman, instead of a hysterical minor poet?<br />
HE: A gentleman, Helen, would have strangled you years ago. It<br />
takes a man with crazy notions of freedom and generosity to be<br />
the fool that I've been.<br />
SHE: I suppose you blame me for your ideas!<br />
HE: I'm past blaming anybody, even myself. Helen, don't you<br />
realize that this has got to stop? We are cutting each other to<br />
pieces with knives.<br />
SHE: You want me to go. . . .<br />
HE: Or I'll go--it makes no difference. Only we've got to<br />
separate, definitely and for ever.<br />
SHE: You really think there is no possibility--of our finding<br />
some way?... We might be able--to find some way.<br />
HE: We found some way, Helen--twice before. And this is what it<br />
comes to. . . . <strong>The</strong>re are limits to my capacity for self-delusion.<br />
This is the end.<br />
SHE: Yes. Only--<br />
HE: Only what?<br />
59
SHE: It--it seems . . . such a pity. . . .<br />
HE: Pity! <strong>The</strong> pity is this--that we should sit here and haggle<br />
about our hatred. That's all there's left between us.<br />
SHE: (standing up) I won't haggle, Paul. If you think we<br />
should part, we shall this very night. But I don't want to part this<br />
way, Paul. I know I've hurt you. I want to be forgiven before I go.<br />
HE: (standing up to face her) Can't we finish without<br />
another sentimental lie? I'm in no mood to act out a pretty scene<br />
with you.<br />
SHE: That was unjust, Paul. You know I don't mean that. What I<br />
want is to make you understand, so you won't hate me.<br />
HE: More explanations. I thought we had both got tired of them.<br />
I used to think it possible to heal a wound by words. But we ought<br />
to know better. <strong>The</strong>y're like acid in it.<br />
SHE: Please don't, Paul--This is the last time we shall ever hurt<br />
each other. Won't you listen to me?<br />
HE: Go on.<br />
[He sits down wearily.]<br />
SHE: I know you hate me. You have a right to. Not just because<br />
I was faithless--but because I was cruel. I don't want to excuse<br />
myself--but I didn't know what I was doing. I didn't realize I was<br />
hurting you.<br />
HE: We've gone over that a thousand times.<br />
SHE: Yes. I've said that before. And you've answered me that<br />
that excuse might hold for the first time, but not for the second<br />
and the third. You've convicted me of deliberate cruelty on<br />
that. And I've never had anything to say. I couldn't say anything,<br />
because the truth was ... too preposterous. It wasn't any use<br />
telling it before. But now I want you to know the real reason.<br />
HE: A new reason, eh?<br />
SHE: Something I've never confessed to you. Yes. It is true that<br />
I was cruel to you--deliberately. I did want to hurt you. And do<br />
you know why? I wanted to shatter that Olympian serenity of<br />
60
yours. You were too strong, too self-confident. You had the air of<br />
a being that nothing could hurt. You were like a god.<br />
HE: That was a long time ago. Was I ever Olympian? I had<br />
forgotten it. You succeeded very well--you shattered it in me.<br />
SHE: You are still Olympian. And I still hate you for it. I wish<br />
I could make you suffer now. But I have lost my power to do that.<br />
HE: Aren't you contented with what you have done? It seems to<br />
me that I have suffered enough recently to satisfy even your<br />
ambitions.<br />
SHE: No--or you couldn't talk like that. You sit there--making<br />
phrases. Oh, I have hurt you a little; but you will recover. You<br />
always recovered quickly. You are not human. If you were human,<br />
you would remember that we once were happy, and be a little<br />
sorry that all that is over. But you can't be sorry. You have made<br />
up your mind, and can think of nothing but that.<br />
HE: That's an interesting--and novel--explanation.<br />
SHE: I wonder if I can't make you understand. Paul--do you<br />
remember when we fell in love?<br />
HE: Something of that sort must have happened to us.<br />
SHE: No--it happened to me. It didn't happen to you. You made<br />
up your mind and walked in, with the air of a god on a holiday. It<br />
was I who fell--headlong, dizzy, blind. I didn't want to love you.<br />
It was a force too strong for me. It swept me into your arms. I<br />
prayed against it. I had to give myself to you, even though I knew<br />
you hardly cared. I had to--for my heart was no longer in my own<br />
breast. It was in your hands, to do what you liked with. You could<br />
have thrown it in the dust.<br />
HE: This is all very romantic and exciting, but tell me--did I throw<br />
it in the dust?<br />
SHE: It pleased you not to. You put it in your pocket. But don't<br />
you realize what it is to feel that another person has absolute<br />
power over you? No, for you have never felt that way. You have<br />
never been utterly dependent on another person for happiness. I<br />
was utterly dependent on you. It humiliated me, angered me. I<br />
61
ebelled against it, but it was no use. You see, my dear, I was in<br />
love with you. And you were free, and your heart was your own,<br />
and nobody could hurt you.<br />
HE: Very fine--only it wasn't true, as you soon found out.<br />
SHE: When I found it out, I could hardly believe it. It<br />
wasn't possible. Why, you had said a thousand times that you<br />
would not be jealous if I were in love with some one else, too. It<br />
was you who put the idea in my head. It seemed a part of your<br />
super-humanness.<br />
HE: I did talk that way. But I wasn't a superman. I was only a<br />
damned fool.<br />
SHE: And Paul, when I first realized that it might be hurting<br />
you--that you were human after all--I stopped. You know I<br />
stopped.<br />
HE: Yes--that time.<br />
SHE: Can't you understand?<br />
I stopped because I<br />
thought you were a person<br />
like myself, suffering like<br />
myself. It wasn't easy to<br />
stop. It tore me to pieces.<br />
But I suffered rather than<br />
let you suffer. But when I<br />
saw you recover your serenity<br />
in a day while the love that I had struck down in my heart<br />
for your sake cried out in a death agony for months, I felt again<br />
that you were superior, inhuman--and I hated you for it.<br />
HE: Did I deceive you so well as that?<br />
SHE: And when the next time came, I wanted to see if it was real,<br />
this godlike serenity of yours. I wanted to tear off the mask. I<br />
wanted to see you suffer as I had suffered. And that is why I was<br />
cruel to you the second time.<br />
HE: And the third time--what about that?<br />
[She bursts into tears, and sinks to the floor, with her head on the<br />
62
chair, sheltered by her arms. <strong>The</strong>n she looks up.]<br />
SHE: Oh, I can't talk about that--I can't. It's too near.<br />
HE: I beg your pardon. I don't wish to show an unseemly<br />
curiosity about your private affairs.<br />
SHE: If you were human, you would know that there is a<br />
difference between one's last love and all that have gone before.<br />
I can talk about the others--but this one still hurts.<br />
HE: I see. Should we chance to meet next year, you will tell me<br />
about it then. <strong>The</strong> joys of new love will have healed the pains of<br />
the old.<br />
SHE: <strong>The</strong>re will be no more joy or pain of love for me. You do<br />
not believe that. But that part of me which loves is dead. Do you<br />
think I have come through all this unhurt? No. I cannot hope any<br />
more, I cannot believe. <strong>The</strong>re is nothing left for me. All I have left<br />
is regret for the happiness that you and I have spoiled between<br />
us. . . . Oh, Paul, why did you ever teach me your Olympian<br />
philosophy? Why did you make me think that we were gods and<br />
could do whatever we chose? If we had realized that we were only<br />
weak human beings, we might have saved our happiness!<br />
HE: (shaken) We tried to reckon with facts--I cannot blame<br />
myself for that. <strong>The</strong> facts of human nature: people do have love<br />
affairs within love affairs. I was not faithful to you. . . .<br />
SHE: (rising to her feet) But you had the decency to be<br />
dishonest about it. You did not tell me the truth, in spite of all<br />
your theories. I might never have found out. You knew better<br />
than to shake my belief in our love. But I trusted your philosophy,<br />
and flaunted my lovers before you. I never realized–<br />
HE: Be careful, my dear. You are contradicting yourself!<br />
SHE: I know I am. I don't care. I no longer know what the truth<br />
is. I only know that I am filled with remorse for what has<br />
happened. Why did it happen? Why did we let it happen? Why<br />
didn't you stop me? . . . I want it back!<br />
HE: But, Helen!<br />
SHE: Yes--our old happiness.... Don't you remember, Paul, how<br />
63
eautiful everything was--? (She covers her face with her hands,<br />
and then looks up again.) Give it back to me, Paul!<br />
HE: (torn with conflicting wishes) Do you really believe, Helen...?<br />
SHE: I know we can be happy again. It was all ours, and we<br />
must have it once more, just as it was. (She holds out her<br />
hands.) Paul! Paul!<br />
HE: (desperately) Let me think!<br />
SHE: (scornfully) Oh, your thinking! I know! Think, then--think<br />
of all the times I've been cruel to you. Think of my wantonness-<br />
-my wickedness--not of my poor, tormented attempts at<br />
happiness. My lovers, yes! Think hard, and save yourself from<br />
any more discomfort. . . . But no--you're in no danger. . . .<br />
HE: What do you mean?<br />
SHE: (laughing hysterically) You haven't believed what I've<br />
been saying all this while, have you?<br />
HE: Almost.<br />
SHE: <strong>The</strong>n don't. I've been lying.<br />
HE: Again?<br />
SHE: Again, yes.<br />
HE: I suspected it.<br />
SHE: (mockingly) Wise man!<br />
HE: You don't love me, then?<br />
SHE: Why should I? Do you want me to?<br />
HE: I make no demands upon you. You know that.<br />
SHE: You can get along without me?<br />
HE: (coldly) Why not?<br />
SHE: Good. <strong>The</strong>n I'll tell you the truth!<br />
HE: That would be interesting!<br />
64
SHE: I was afraid you did want me! And--I was sorry for<br />
you, Paul--I thought if you did, I would try to make things up to<br />
you, by starting over again--if you wanted to.<br />
HE: So that was it. . . .<br />
SHE: Yes, that was it. And so–<br />
HE: (harshly) You needn't say any more. Will you go, or shall I?<br />
SHE: (lightly) I'm going, Paul. But I think--since we may<br />
not meet this time next year--that I'd better tell you the secret of<br />
that third time. When you asked me a while ago, I cried, and said<br />
I couldn't talk about it. But I can now.<br />
HE: You mean--<br />
SHE: Yes. My last cruelty. I had a special reason for being cruel<br />
to you. Shan't I tell you?<br />
HE: Just as you please.<br />
SHE: My reason was this: I had learned what it is to love--and I<br />
knew that I had never loved you--never. I wanted to hurt you so<br />
much that you would leave me. I wanted to hurt you in such a<br />
way as to keep you from ever coming near me again. I was afraid<br />
that if you did forgive me and take me in your arms, you would<br />
feel me shudder, and see the terror and loathing in my eyes. I<br />
wanted--for even then I cared for you a little--to spare you that.<br />
HE: (speaking with difficulty) Are you going?<br />
SHE: (lifting from the table a desk calendar, and tearing a leaf<br />
from it, which she holds in front of him. Her voice is tender with<br />
an inexplicable regret.) Did you notice the date? It is the eighth<br />
of June. Do you remember what day that is? We used to celebrate<br />
it once ayear. It is the day--(the leaf flutters to the table in front<br />
of him)--the day of our first kiss. . . .<br />
[He sits looking at her. For a moment it seems clear to him that<br />
they still love each other, and that a single word from him, a mere<br />
gesture, the holding out of his arms to her, will reunite them. And<br />
then he doubts. . . . She is watching him; she turns at last toward<br />
the door, hesitates, and then walks slowly out. When she has<br />
65
gone he takes up the torn leaf from the calendar, and holds it in<br />
his hands, looking at it with the air of a man confronted by an<br />
unsolvable enigma.]<br />
CURTAIN<br />
IMAGES<br />
https://pixabay.com<br />
http://www.newdmagazine.com/<br />
66
67
68
Conducting is the act of directing a musical performance by<br />
way of visible gestures. Orchestras, choirs, concert bands, and<br />
other musical ensembles often have conductors. Beyond the<br />
gestural aspect of the art form, other significant aspects of<br />
conducting include scholarship, score reading ability, and having<br />
a trained musical ear. A strong foundation in composing, music<br />
theory, and orchestration is particularly important. <strong>The</strong><br />
conductor's task is, simply put, to bring a sense of unity to a<br />
given piece of music.<br />
Through the use of gestures (baton technique) the conductor<br />
provides the tempo (tactus) and a beat (ictus) that allow the<br />
members of the ensemble to establish the proper timing to<br />
present a given composition. <strong>The</strong> conductor is also the final<br />
arbiter of issues such as phrasing, dynamics (loud or soft), and<br />
articulation—components that contribute to creating a unified<br />
realization of the music being performed.<br />
Nomenclature<br />
<strong>The</strong> principal conductor of an orchestra or opera company is<br />
sometimes referred to as a music director or chief conductor, or<br />
by the German word, Kapellmeister. Conductors of choirs are<br />
sometimes referred to as choral director, chorus<br />
master, or choirmaster, particularly for choirs associated with an<br />
orchestra. Conductors of military bands and other bands may<br />
hold the title of bandmaster. Respected senior conductors are<br />
sometimes referred to by the Italian word, maestro ("master").<br />
History of conducting<br />
An early form of conducting is<br />
cheironomy that uses hand<br />
gestures to indicate melodic<br />
shape. This has been practiced at<br />
least as far back as the Middle<br />
Ages. In the Christian church, the<br />
person giving these symbols held<br />
a staff to signify his role, and it<br />
seems that as music became<br />
69
more rhythmically involved, the staff was moved up and down to<br />
indicate the beat, acting as an early form of baton.<br />
In instrumental music of the Baroque era, a member of the<br />
ensemble usually acted as the conductor by providing a<br />
discernible beat. This was sometimes the principal violinist, who<br />
could use his bow as a baton, or a lutenist who would move the<br />
neck of his instrument in time with the beat. In opera<br />
performances, there were sometimes two conductors: the<br />
keyboard player was in charge of the singers, and the principal<br />
violinist was in charge of the orchestra.<br />
By the early<br />
nineteenth century, it<br />
became the norm to<br />
have a dedicated<br />
conductor, who did<br />
not also play an<br />
instrument during the<br />
performance. <strong>The</strong> size<br />
of the usual orchestra<br />
expanded during this<br />
period, and the use of<br />
a baton became more<br />
common, as it was<br />
easier to see than bare hands or rolled-up paper. This practice<br />
provided a silent way to indicate tempo and beat.<br />
70
<strong>The</strong> first conductors to utilize a baton can be traced back as<br />
early as 1794. However there were many prominent conductors<br />
who did not or do not use a baton. Richard Wagner was largely<br />
responsible for reshaping the conductor's role as one who<br />
imposes his own view of a piece onto the performance rather than<br />
one who is simply responsible for ensuring entries are made at<br />
the right time and that there is a unified beat.<br />
Wagner's <strong>The</strong>ories<br />
Wagner wrote extensively about the art of conducting and<br />
established the conductor as a supreme figure whose wisdom and<br />
musical prowess were unquestioned. For Wagner, the<br />
modification of tempo (speed) as it relates to phrasing was of<br />
supreme importance. Prior to Wagner, the conductor's task was<br />
primarily to beat and adhere strictly to the metronomic<br />
designations in a given score. This produced a conducting style<br />
that lacked flexibility or a more nuanced expressiveness. Wagner<br />
emphasized the idea of melos (or song), in which tempos could<br />
be adjusted, faster or slower, to give a different contour to a<br />
particular phrase for expressive effect.<br />
Gestures<br />
In the late twentieth century, a New York composer Walter<br />
Thompson created a live composing sign language known as<br />
“sound-painting” to be used in the medium of structured<br />
improvisation. At present the language includes over 750<br />
gestures used as communication tools by the<br />
composer/conductor to indicate the type of improvisation desired<br />
of the performers.<br />
Technique<br />
Conducting is a means of communicating artistic directions to<br />
performers during a performance. <strong>The</strong>re are no absolute rules on<br />
how to conduct correctly, and a wide variety of different<br />
conducting styles exist. <strong>The</strong> primary responsibilities of the<br />
conductor are to set the tempo, execute clear preparations and<br />
beats, and to listen critically and shape the sound of the ensemble.<br />
An understanding of the basic elements of musical expression<br />
(tempo, dynamics, articulation) and the ability to communicate<br />
71
them effectively to an ensemble is necessary in order to conduct.<br />
In fact, conducting gestures are often choreographed beforehand<br />
by the conductor while studying the score, or may be spontaneous.<br />
<strong>The</strong> grip of the baton varies from conductor to conductor. Despite<br />
a wide variety of styles, a number of standard conventions have<br />
developed.<br />
Beat and tempo<br />
<strong>The</strong> beat of the music is typically indicated with the conductor's<br />
right hand, with or without a baton. <strong>The</strong> hand traces a shape in the<br />
air in every bar (measure) depending on the time signature (type<br />
of rhythm), indicating each beat with a change from downward to<br />
upward motion. <strong>The</strong> images below show some of the most<br />
common beat patterns, as seen from the conductor's point of view.<br />
2/4, 2/2, or fast 6/8 time 3/4 or 3/8 time<br />
4/4 time slow 6/8 time<br />
Dynamics<br />
Dynamics are indicated in various ways. <strong>The</strong> dynamic may be<br />
communicated by the size of the conducting movements, larger<br />
shapes representing louder sounds. Changes in dynamics may be<br />
72
signaled with the hand that is not being used to indicate the beat:<br />
an upward motion (usually palm-up) indicates a crescendo (going<br />
from soft to loud); a downward motion<br />
indicates a diminuendo (going from<br />
loud to soft). In order to adjust the<br />
overall balance of the various<br />
instruments or voices, these signals can<br />
be combined or directed towards a<br />
particular section or performer.<br />
Cueing<br />
<strong>The</strong> indication of entries, when a performer or section should<br />
begin playing (perhaps after a long period of silence), is called<br />
"cueing." A cue must forecast with<br />
certainty the exact moment of entry so<br />
that all the players or singers affected by<br />
the cue can begin playing<br />
simultaneously. Mere eye contact or a<br />
look in the general direction of the<br />
players may be sufficient in many<br />
instances, as when more than one<br />
section of the ensemble enters at the same time. Larger musical<br />
events may warrant the use of a larger or more emphatic cue<br />
designed to encourage emotion and energy. An inhalation, which<br />
may or may not be a semi-audible "sniff" from the conductor, is<br />
a common element in the cueing technique of many conductors.<br />
Other musical elements<br />
Articulation may be indicated by the character of the ictus,<br />
ranging from short and sharp for staccato, to long and fluid for<br />
legato. Many conductors change the tension of the hands:<br />
strained muscles and rigid movements may correspond<br />
to marcato, while relaxed hands and soft movements may<br />
correspond to legato or espressivo.<br />
Phrasing may be indicated by wide overhead arcs or by a<br />
smooth hand motion either forwards or side-to-side.<br />
73
A held note is often indicated by a hand held flat with palm up.<br />
<strong>The</strong> end of a note, called a "cutoff" or "release," may be indicated<br />
by a circular motion, the closing of the palm, or the pinching of<br />
finger and thumb. A release is usually preceded by a preparation<br />
and concluded with a complete stillness.<br />
Conductors aim to maintain eye contact with the ensemble as<br />
much as possible, encouraging eye contact in return and thus<br />
increasing the dialog between players/singers and conductor. Facial<br />
expressions may also be important to demonstrate the character of<br />
the music or to encourage the players.<br />
SOURCE and IMAGES<br />
https://www.pinterest.com/pin/560557484852851643/<br />
http://listtoday.org/classical-music-18-cool-wallpaper.html<br />
http://chickwithastick.net/<br />
http://www1.lehigh.edu/news/requiem-and-children<br />
http://imgur.com/r/classicalmusic/wBulPFl<br />
http://www.harrisonparrott.com/<br />
http://amarillosymphony.org/about/music-director/<br />
https://au.pinterest.com/pin/37365871880849829/<br />
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75
Extracts from the essay in <strong>The</strong> Public Domain review<br />
https://publicdomainreview.org<br />
76
In 1885, at the age of 20, Wilson Alwyn Bentley, a farmer<br />
who would live all his life in the small town of Jericho in Vermont,<br />
gave the world its first ever photograph of a snowflake. Throughout<br />
the following winters, until his death in 1931, Bentley would go on<br />
to capture over 5000 snowflakes, or more correctly, snow crystals,<br />
on film. Despite the fact that he rarely left Jericho, thousands of<br />
Americans knew him as <strong>The</strong> Snowflake Man or simply Snowflake<br />
Bentley. Our belief that “no two snowflakes are alike” stems from a<br />
line in a 1925 report in which he remarked: “Every crystal was a<br />
masterpiece of design and no one design was ever repeated. When<br />
a snowflake melted, that design was forever lost.”<br />
It started with a microscope his mother gave him at age of 15,<br />
which opened the world of the small to young Wilson. A lover of<br />
winter, he made plans to use his microscope to view snowflakes.<br />
His initial investigations proved both fascinating and frustrating as<br />
he tried to observe the short-lived flakes. So that he could share<br />
his discoveries, he began by sketching what he saw, accumulating<br />
several hundred sketches by his seventeenth birthday. When his<br />
father purchased a camera for his son, Wilson combined it with his<br />
microscope, and went on to make his first successful<br />
photomicrograph of a snow crystal on 15 January 1885.<br />
In addition to the development of the hardware, Bentley also<br />
had to devise a protocol to capture a snow crystal and transport it<br />
with minimal damage to the camera’s field of vision. What he found<br />
worked best was to capture the crystals on a cool velvet-covered<br />
tray. Taking care not to melt the crystal with his breathing, he<br />
identified a suitable subject and lifted it onto a pre-cooled slide with<br />
a thin wood splint from his mother’s broom and nudged it into place<br />
with a turkey feather. <strong>The</strong> slide was then carried into his<br />
photographic shed and placed under the microscope. <strong>The</strong> back-lit<br />
image was focused using a system of strings and pulleys he devised<br />
to accommodate his mittened hands. Once focused, the sensitised<br />
glass plate — the “film” — was exposed and stored for further<br />
processing, development and printing.<br />
Bentley also devised his own processing methods. In addition to<br />
developing the original image, he also created a post-development<br />
process to enhance it. Since each photograph was taken of a white<br />
snow crystal against a white background, Bentley was dissatisfied<br />
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with the initial photograph.<br />
He felt he could improve the<br />
contrast and enhance the<br />
detail if he presented the<br />
crystal against a dark<br />
background. To do this, he<br />
painstakingly scraped away<br />
the dark emulsion<br />
surrounding the snow crystal<br />
image from a duplicate of the<br />
original negative using a<br />
sharp penknife and steady<br />
hand. <strong>The</strong> altered image was<br />
then carefully placed upon a<br />
clear glass plate and then printed, giving it a dark background.<br />
Even after years of practice, this post-production process often<br />
took as long as four hours for a complex snow crystal.<br />
With 70-75 photographs per storm and notes on the<br />
conditions under which they were collected, Bentley accrued a<br />
considerable understanding of snow. In 1897, he became<br />
acquainted with Professor George Perkins, a professor of geology<br />
at the University of Vermont, and they prepared the first paper<br />
on snow crystals published in the May 1898 issue of Appleton’s<br />
Popular Scientific entitled “A Study of Snow Crystals.”<br />
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While photographing snowflakes was his passion, Bentley also<br />
turned his interest to examining and sizing raindrops for seven<br />
summers from 1898 to 1904. From that work, he gave us early<br />
insights into raindrops and their size distribution in storms. After<br />
some experimentation, he developed a simple yet effective<br />
apparatus for gathering raindrops: a shallow pan of wheat flour.<br />
At first, he simply photographed the imprints made by the falling<br />
rain in the flour. <strong>The</strong>n in 1998, he made a serendipitous finding.<br />
In his journal, he wrote: “In the bottom of each raindrop<br />
impression in the flour there could always be found a roundish<br />
granule of dough nearly exact size of raindrop. After<br />
experimenting with artificial raindrops I could measure [its]<br />
diameter before falling into the flour, and thus tell if the dough<br />
granule corresponded in size with the measured raindrop.”<br />
Over the tenure of his<br />
raindrop studies, he<br />
collected 344 sets of<br />
raindrop pellets from over<br />
70 distinct storms, including<br />
25 thunderstorms, to which<br />
he added meticulous<br />
weather data about the<br />
storm: date, time of day,<br />
temperature, wind, cloud<br />
type and estimated cloud<br />
height. He concluded that<br />
different storms produce<br />
different size raindrops and<br />
different size distributions.<br />
He concluded that the size of drops and snowflakes could tell a<br />
lot about the vertical structure of the storm.<br />
Unfortunately, Bentley was so far ahead of his time that he<br />
wasn’t fully appreciated by contemporary scientists. <strong>The</strong>y didn’t<br />
take this self-educated farmer seriously. It was 40 years later —<br />
the study of cloud physics and precipitation processes would not<br />
blossom until the 1940s — before his raindrop work was<br />
rediscovered and and corroborated.<br />
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Although he dropped his study of raindrops after a few years,<br />
he continued to photograph snow crystal and speculate on the<br />
nature of snow. From his large data archive, Bentley’s analysis<br />
convinced him that the form the ice crystal took (hexagonal plate,<br />
six-sided star, hexagonal column, needle, etc) was dependent on<br />
the air temperature in which the crystal formed and fell. Nearly<br />
three decades would pass before Ukichiro Nakaya in Japan would<br />
confirm this hypothesis.<br />
He also wanted to promote<br />
his work for its beauty, and thus<br />
submitted articles and delivered<br />
lectures that focused on his snow<br />
photography over the years. His<br />
lectures were popular, and from<br />
them he was dubbed <strong>The</strong><br />
Snowflake Man and Snowflake<br />
Bentley by the newspapers. Over<br />
one hundred articles were<br />
published in well-known<br />
newspapers and magazines. His<br />
best photographs were in<br />
demand from jewellers,<br />
engravers and textile makers<br />
who saw the beauty in his work.<br />
He continued to farm the<br />
acreage with his older brother for all his life. Though not an<br />
outgoing man, he loved to entertain by playing the piano or violin<br />
and singing popular songs. He also played the clarinet in a small<br />
brass band and could imitate the sounds of many animals.<br />
Bentley never married.<br />
In early-<strong>Dec</strong>ember 1931, Wilson Bentley walked six miles, illdressed,<br />
through a slushy snowstorm to reach his home. Not long<br />
thereafter, he contracted a cold, which grew into pneumonia.<br />
“Snowflake” Bentley died on 23 <strong>Dec</strong>ember at the age of 66. In<br />
March of that year, he had taken the last of his photomicrographs<br />
of snow, still using the same camera that took the first one.<br />
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<strong>The</strong> Burlington Free Press wrote in a Christmas Eve obituary for<br />
Bentley:<br />
“Longfellow said that genius is infinite painstaking. John Ruskin<br />
declared that genius is only a superior power of seeing. Wilson<br />
Bentley was a living example of this type of genius. He saw<br />
something in the snowflakes which other men failed to see, not<br />
because they could not see, but because they had not the patience<br />
and the understanding to look.”<br />
On the morning he was laid to rest in the Jericho Center<br />
cemetery, it began to snow, leaving a dusting over the burial<br />
ground.<br />
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IMAGES: http://www.allwallpaper.in/<br />
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MY SOLITUDE<br />
<strong>The</strong> moon sobs, I head towards the window<br />
Bedimmed and grim, alas, it has lost its glow.<br />
<strong>The</strong> silence is at an ear-callousing crescendo<br />
Why is the moon sad, I am desperate to know.<br />
<strong>The</strong> blustering wind outside makes the trees dance.<br />
Ears pricked, senses alert, I watch, as if in a trance.<br />
This dancing finesse draws a roaring applause<br />
From the clouds, as in my ruminations, I pause.<br />
With malevolence, the clouds rumble and grumble<br />
With my chaotic feelings, in the solitude I fumble.<br />
In the cacophony, trying to hear my heart beats<br />
And remembering long forgotten words of Keats.<br />
Alas, the 'sweet converse of an innocent mind'<br />
Has fallen to the inexorable sweep of time unkind.<br />
<strong>The</strong> moon sighs at the shenanigans of mortals<br />
When lost innocence suddenly lisps and chortles.<br />
And with baby steps, into the present tumbles<br />
Looking for mother's lap, it stumbles and fumbles<br />
And one ominous cloud after another, grumbles<br />
In the distance, a lullaby a fond mother mumbles.<br />
Lo and behold, in the corrosive darkness all around<br />
Something flutters and, magically ,fireflies abound<br />
Bright with hope and promise and shimmering light<br />
Trying to cock a snook at the dark, intimidating night.<br />
<strong>The</strong>y flicker, pregnant with fire, bloated and steady<br />
Wrapped in the fragrance of the jasmines heady<br />
Tick, tick goes the ancient and grotesque wall clock<br />
As, with my heart, I have a heart to heart talk.<br />
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Solitude no longer daunting, is like mother's hug<br />
Warm, welcoming and snug, like a bug in a rug.<br />
In this winsome bondage, memories riotously rage<br />
Fluttering merrily in the compassionate cage.<br />
Replete with mother's caresses, so loving and soft<br />
Thus fortified by the touch, I hold myself aloft<br />
Lit by the spark of the fireflies in the dark.<br />
My heart now, begins to sing happily like a lark.<br />
My confused path now lit by the feisty fireflies<br />
No longer in ambush lie the dormant sighs<br />
On a new journey of companionship I embark<br />
My solitude no more sullen, but a joyous spark.<br />
85
KNOCK, KNOCK<br />
<strong>The</strong> lovely, dark and deep woods talk in a weird whisper<br />
As the nocturnal breeze becomes crisper.<br />
<strong>The</strong> leaves gurgle and lisp<br />
Fervently embracing like rhymes interlocked.<br />
Strange sounds assail the ears, trying to shock.<br />
A frog croaks, perched on a hard-hearted rock.<br />
Knock, knock, knock!<br />
Is a woodpecker knocking at a tree trunk?<br />
Someone sobbing, or close to tears?<br />
Ah soft, a lover’s gentle touch, dulcet tones assailing<br />
Trailing, Sailing,<br />
Paling Into oblivion<br />
Dark.<br />
Is some hoary horseman giving his harness bell a shake?<br />
Galloping away at a canter, desperate to arrest a heart-break?<br />
<strong>The</strong> trees stand erect, taut and indignant at the world’s wrongs.<br />
<strong>The</strong> cicadas go mad, cajoling one to hearken to their unsung songs.<br />
Under an ancient tree woebegone<br />
Stands a lost spirit mouthing a monologue Incoherent and Ill –<br />
crafted.<br />
Glazed eyes riveted on a figure silhouetted<br />
On a termite – infested log.<br />
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87
Factual<br />
Legends<br />
88
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Crater Lake<br />
<strong>The</strong> Native American Klamath tribe has a tale in its folklore<br />
that the Crater Lake in Oregon was once a very tall mountain<br />
called Mazama that was inhabited by their pagan underworld god<br />
llao. When llao engaged in a fierce battle with the sky god Skell,<br />
the sky was awash with fire and brimstone. When Llao was<br />
defeated and escaped to his underworld, Skell made the entire<br />
mountain collapse on Llao. In the process llao was then trapped<br />
forever. Skell then created a beautiful lake over the collapsed<br />
mountain.<br />
Scientific research<br />
has shown that this<br />
mythical story is<br />
probably based on a<br />
7,700 year old<br />
volcanic eruption<br />
which was probably<br />
40 times the size of<br />
the famous May 1980<br />
cataclysm at Mount<br />
St. Helens. During this<br />
ancient event, a huge<br />
reservoir of magma<br />
ruptured the crust, blew a hole in the landscape, and left a<br />
massive crater to be filled in with rainwater.<br />
Sri Lanka and <strong>The</strong> Ape Men Army<br />
<strong>The</strong> great Indian Sanskrit epic “Ramayana”, features an<br />
incident wherein Sita, the wife of the god Rama, is stolen by the<br />
demon king Ravana and taken to his demon kingdom on the<br />
island of Lanka. Following this, an army of ape-like men, along<br />
with Rama’s brother Lakshman, built a floating bridge (known as<br />
Rama’s Bridge) between India and Lanka, from which they<br />
crossed over and successfully vanquished Ravana, the demon<br />
king.<br />
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Strangely enough, the bridge itself actually exists. Aerial<br />
surveys clearly show a 48-kilometre-long submerged stretch of<br />
limestone shoals and sand<br />
stretching between the<br />
two landmasses - India<br />
and Sri Lanka. This bridge<br />
– which is only a few<br />
meters below the water’s<br />
surface in some parts – is<br />
likely the inspiration for<br />
the ancient Hindu legend.<br />
It was reportedly<br />
above the water until a<br />
15th-century cyclone<br />
brought a huge storm<br />
surge into the channel<br />
and sunk it beneath the<br />
waves.<br />
<strong>The</strong> Guest Star<br />
<strong>The</strong> Persian scholar and<br />
astronomer Sina wrote a detailed<br />
description (in 1006) about a special<br />
star spotted by many astronomers<br />
across the world. This particular star<br />
was named as the “guest star”. In<br />
his book Kitaf Al-Shifa, Sina<br />
described that this star, which was<br />
present in the sky for a few months,<br />
kept changing colours and then<br />
finally faded away, leaving behind a stream of sparks.<br />
We now know that this star that Sina described was not a<br />
comet, but a supernova. This event took place over 7000 years<br />
ago and its light only reached Earth at the turn of the first<br />
millennium. Its visible wavelengths have since dissipated from<br />
view but the high-energy remnants of SN 1006 can still be seen<br />
thanks to NASA’s Chandra X-ray Observatory. <strong>The</strong> colour change<br />
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can be scientifically attributed to the merger of two white dwarfs,<br />
which would create a particularly energetic supernova, bursting<br />
with colour.<br />
<strong>The</strong> Lost City of Atlantis<br />
<strong>The</strong> fable of Atlantis, described by the Greek philosopher<br />
Plato, is probably one of the most well-known legends. He wrote<br />
a tale of a highly developed civilisation sinking under the waves<br />
of the ocean and lost forever. <strong>The</strong>re have been many arguments<br />
about this story and many modern-day archaeologists believe<br />
that this is based on the collapse of the Minoan empire. A massive<br />
volcanic eruption rocked the region of Santorini (referred to as<br />
<strong>The</strong>ra in ancient texts). This caused an immense earthquake that<br />
made the center of the island collapse. <strong>The</strong> resulting tsunami tore<br />
across to Crete bring in tidal water from the Aegean Sea. As part<br />
of this destructive nature’s force, the Minoan civilisation sunk<br />
beneath the waves and was never heard from again.<br />
Thunderbird<br />
This is an interesting one.<br />
One Native American folklore<br />
describes a beneficent<br />
superhero by the name of<br />
Thunderbird who swooped<br />
down into the dark depths of<br />
the ocean to seize and drag out<br />
an evil whale that was depriving<br />
tribes of resources. <strong>The</strong> tale<br />
also describes the powerful<br />
waves that were created as a<br />
result of this epic fight and of<br />
the deaths of countless people in the chaos. <strong>The</strong> war apparently<br />
ended with Thunderbird pulling the whale out of the water and<br />
dropping it dead on land.<br />
Interestingly, in the 1980's, geologists came across evidence<br />
92
suggesting that a powerful earthquake hit the pacific Northwest<br />
in the 1700’s. This enormous quake created a tsunami that not<br />
only hit the American coast where this tribe lived but also reached<br />
the shores of Japan!<br />
Scientists also think that a massive carnivorous bird (called<br />
Aiornis) might have existed during that period in North America<br />
and the settlers who might have seen this huge bird (of wingspan<br />
up to 16 feet) could have been inspired to create Thunderbird.<br />
<strong>The</strong> Great Flood<br />
Most readers would be very familiar with the great Biblical<br />
flood and the story of Noah and his Ark. <strong>The</strong>re is a belief among<br />
researchers that the story used in the Bible might have been<br />
influenced by another ancient text that predates the Bible.<br />
This ancient text, from the Mesopotamian era dating back to<br />
7 th century BCE, talks about gods conspiring to create a massive<br />
flood to destroy the world. One of the gods, Ea, however asked a<br />
man named Utu-Napishtim to make a boat and escape with his<br />
family and a large collection of animals. This, obviously, sounds<br />
quite similar to the story of Noah’s Ark described in the Bible.<br />
<strong>The</strong> question is whether there was actually a huge flood. Well,<br />
geological records show that at the end of the last glacial<br />
maximum (around 11,500 years ago), the Black Sea - north of<br />
Turkey - ran dry of its glacier meltwater (since the glacier melted<br />
93
into the North Sea instead. Around this time, the Mediterranean<br />
Basin was getting filled up with the saltwater from the Atlantic<br />
Ocean. Ultimately, the Mediterranean Sea overflowed into the<br />
Black Sea in a very dramatic manner. Scientists think that it<br />
would have swallowed up any land in between and would possibly<br />
have created a waterfall that would be at least 200 times the size<br />
of Niagara Falls! This might have been the inspiration for the<br />
Biblical story.<br />
However, there is more mystical recent discovery. This<br />
particular study has now confirmed that the worst flood of the last<br />
10 millennia took place along the Yellow River at the exact date<br />
referenced in ancient texts! <strong>The</strong> archaeological evidence<br />
uncovered at the source also hints that the mythical first line of<br />
monarchs in China – the Xia dynasty – may have actually existed!<br />
SOURCE: http://www.iflscience.com/<br />
IMAGES:<br />
http://www.evacation.org/<br />
http://www.rense.com/general30/nasa.htm<br />
https://au.pinterest.com/pin/421297740117525456/<br />
http://www.disclose.tv/<br />
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Images:<br />
http://counterterror.typepad.com/my-blog/2014/09<br />
http://yorruloaded.com/<strong>2016</strong>/02/06/ways-to-cure-hiccups/<br />
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Anyone will be glad to admit that he knows nothing about<br />
beagling, or the Chinese stock market, or ballistics, but there is<br />
not a man or woman alive who does not claim to know how to<br />
cure hiccoughs. <strong>The</strong> funny thing is that the hiccoughs are never<br />
cured until they get darned good and ready.<br />
<strong>The</strong> most modest and unassuming man in the world becomes<br />
an arrogant know-it-all in the presence of hiccoughs—in<br />
somebody else.<br />
"Don't be silly," he says, patronizingly. "Just put your head<br />
under your arm, hold a glass of water against the back of your<br />
neck, and count to five hundred by fives without taking a breath.<br />
It never fails."<br />
* * * * *<br />
<strong>The</strong>n, when it has failed, he blames you. "It's absolutely surefire<br />
if you only follow my directions," he says. He also implies<br />
darkly that what is ailing you is not just merely hiccoughs. "My<br />
method can't be expected to cure drunkenness, you know," he<br />
says.<br />
To date, I have been advised to perform the following feats to<br />
cure hiccoughs:<br />
Bend the body backward until the head touches the floor, and<br />
whistle in reverse.<br />
Place the head in a pail of water and inhale twelve times deeply.<br />
Drink a glass of milk from the right hand with the right arm<br />
twisted around the neck until the milk enters the mouth from the<br />
left side.<br />
Hop, with the feet together, up and down a flight of steps ten<br />
times, screaming loudly at each hop.<br />
Roll down a long, inclined lawn, snatching a mouthful of grass<br />
up each time the face is downward.<br />
I have tried them all, with resultant torn ligaments, incipient<br />
drowning, lockjaw and arsenic poisoning, but, each time, at the<br />
finish of the act, and a few seconds of waiting while my mentor<br />
says, triumphantly: "See! What did I tell you?" that one, big<br />
hiccough always breaks the tension, indicating that the whole<br />
performance has been a ghastly flop.<br />
* * * * *<br />
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My latest fiasco came as the result of reading the prescription<br />
of a Boston doctor, and almost resulted in my being put away as<br />
an irresponsible person. "All that the sufferer has to do," wrote<br />
the doctor, "is to blow up an ordinary paper bag, as if to explode<br />
it and then hold it over the mouth and nose tightly, breathing in<br />
and out of the bag instead of in and out of the open air."<br />
This, according to the doctor, creates an excess of carbon<br />
monoxide gas in the bag, which is breathed over and over again,<br />
acting on a nervous center of the brain and curing the hiccoughs.<br />
Being alone in the room at the time, I blew the bag up and held<br />
in tightly over my face, including not only my mouth and nose,<br />
but my eyes as well, like a gas-mask. I subjected myself to this<br />
treatment for possibly three minutes, walking around the room at<br />
the same time to keep from getting bored.<br />
* * * * *<br />
When I removed the bag I<br />
found myself the object of the<br />
silent but terrified scrutiny of<br />
my wife, who had entered the<br />
room without my knowing it,<br />
and who had already motioned<br />
for corroborating witnesses<br />
from the next room,<br />
two of whom were standing in<br />
the doorway, transfixed.<br />
My explanation that I was<br />
curing hiccoughs did not go very big, as what I had obviously<br />
been doing was walking around the room alone with a paper bag<br />
over my head. This is not a good sign.<br />
Incidentally, I still have my hiccoughs.<br />
98
Do<br />
We<br />
Sleep<br />
Enough?<br />
Images:<br />
www.designtrends.com/graphic-web/wallpapers<br />
https://byronsheroes.wordpress.com/2015/08/13/to-sleep-perchance-to-dream/<br />
www.askideas.com<br />
99
Does the average man get enough sleep? What is enough<br />
sleep? What is the average man? What is "does"?<br />
It is said that Napoleon was able to go for days without sleep<br />
and then make up for it with a sleep of twenty-four hours'<br />
duration. <strong>The</strong> temptation is to say "And look at Napoleon now!"<br />
but that would be not only an old fashioned crack<br />
but an irrelevant one. Napoleon happens to be<br />
doing all right now, in a bigger tomb than any of<br />
us sleepy-heads will ever get.<br />
Some people claim that they can do with four<br />
hours' sleep, without explaining what they mean<br />
by "do with." Do what with? I can do all kinds of<br />
things with fifteen minutes' sleep, including<br />
gagging, snorting and getting my head caught<br />
between the couch and the wall, but don't boast<br />
about it.<br />
Napoleon is said to have ... Sorry*<br />
* * * *<br />
A man who goes to bed, let us say, at seven in the evening, or<br />
even seven-fifteen, can get his eight hours' sleep and still have<br />
from three a. m. (or 3:15 a. m.) on to do what he wants in. He<br />
can milk cows, cut ice, or, if he happens to live in New York, go<br />
up to Harlem for the early show. <strong>The</strong>n there are always long walks<br />
in the country.<br />
But even eight hours' sleep do not do any good if they are spent<br />
wondering what it is that is lying across the foot of the bed just<br />
over your ankles. Unfortunately I am without a dog at present, so<br />
there is no way for me to explain to myself what it is that lies<br />
across my ankles just after I get to sleep. All that I can do is hope<br />
that it is someone that I know.<br />
* * * * *<br />
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<strong>The</strong>re are several different schools in the question of what<br />
position is the most restful during sleep. Some claim that one arm<br />
should be wrapped around the head (to keep curiosity-seekers<br />
from discovering who is in the bed) and the other extended<br />
backward so that the hand clutches the electric-light switch, in<br />
case screamers or chain-rattlers get into the room. This leaves<br />
the feet to be arranged at the pleasure of the sleeper.<br />
Others are convinced that a really recuperative night can be<br />
spent only by sitting bolt upright in bed, with the eyes open and<br />
a large blunderbuss across the knees. In this proposition it is best<br />
to keep the lights on, as clicking them on and off constantly<br />
makes quite a racket which is likely to disturb the sleeper.<br />
I, personally, like to sleep with my<br />
head out the window and my feet in a<br />
tepid foot-bath (72 degrees). Thus I am<br />
able to watch up and down the street<br />
and, at the same time, draw the circulation<br />
away from my head, where it is so<br />
unhappy.<br />
* * * * *<br />
Infants need the most sleep, and, what is more, get it. Stunning<br />
them with a soft, padded hammer is the best way to insure their<br />
getting it at the right times.<br />
As a person gets older he needs less and less sleep, until by the<br />
time he is ninety-five or a hundred it doesn't make any difference<br />
whether he gets any sleep at all. This scientific fact accounts for<br />
the number of nonagenarians one sees on the street at three and<br />
four in the morning. Or maybe it is just that they look like<br />
nonagenarians.<br />
<strong>The</strong> best way to induce sleep is to take off all the clothes, get<br />
into some comfortable sleeping garment and lie down in bed. You<br />
can then always get up, put on some comfortable hunting togs<br />
and go out and run down a fox.<br />
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<strong>The</strong> photographs in the ensuing pages will take the<br />
reader to a different world - to the beauty of Naples, a<br />
hundred years in the past. <strong>The</strong>se are actually ‘inked’<br />
photographs taken by travellers to Naples in the early<br />
1900’s. <strong>The</strong>se type of photographs (created using a<br />
technique called<br />
) were widely used<br />
in those days and the inked photographs were given<br />
or sold as souvenirs.<br />
<strong>The</strong> photographs show the bustling life and the<br />
growth of the city during that era. Modern day<br />
travellers to Naples are, of course, witness a very<br />
different kind of city. <strong>The</strong> grandeur of the past is still<br />
visible through the veils of contemporary<br />
development and changes to the environment, as is<br />
always the case with most ancient cities.<br />
SOURCE: http://mymodernmet.com/naples-1900-photos<br />
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Reena Prasad’s<br />
Review<br />
of<br />
By Dr. Santosh Bakaya<br />
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Where Are <strong>The</strong> Lilacs?<br />
By Santosh Bakaya. New Delhi<br />
Published by: Authorspress (<strong>2016</strong>) 200 pp.<br />
Rs.395/$ 20 (paperback)<br />
ISBN : 978-93-5207-332-0<br />
Having read Santosh Bakaya’s Where are the Lilacs in one go<br />
at first, I found it disconcertingly unforgettable but oddly enough,<br />
therapeutic too. It is a book that demands to be read and re-read<br />
not only for its theme, the elegant, eloquent appeal the poems<br />
make or the clear voice of humanity that emanates from the<br />
verses but also because there is no one who believes in the<br />
almost lost cause of compassion and love as agents of change as<br />
much as its author, Dr. Bakaya. She has a doctorate in political<br />
theory and a life membership vested in unearthing the underlying<br />
goodness of humankind.<br />
<strong>The</strong>re are 111 poems and each one takes you to places fraught<br />
with strife and lays bare the futility of a life spent on picking on<br />
the differences we find in our colour, countries, race, tongues and<br />
beliefs forgetting that the charm and longevity of a species lies in<br />
the harmonious coexistence of its differences. <strong>The</strong> first half of the<br />
book, refers aptly to <strong>The</strong> Peace of Wild Things and begins with a<br />
poem titled And the rain pours<br />
Ah, soft, the delectable petrichor<br />
Wafts from the rain-drenched earth<br />
In this birth is lost the stench of gore<br />
<strong>The</strong> poems that follow are wafts of that petrichor seeking to<br />
drown out the noise of battle and the stench of loss. Sparrows<br />
hop cheerfully on dead trees till they turn the limpid air into life<br />
breaths with their energy. This poetess loves birds with every<br />
fibre of her being. <strong>The</strong>re are ring necks, parrots, doves in hordes,<br />
finches, lovekeets, canaries and a host of other freedom-loving<br />
feathered beings singing and cooing wherever one thinks that all<br />
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the good things have come to an end. <strong>The</strong>y seem to symbolize<br />
the hope that springs eternal in human hearts. In another poem,<br />
<strong>The</strong> Air With a Bipolar Disorder, a rogue gust turns gentle<br />
Moving towards a tiny orphan sleeping under a tree<br />
Softly it caresses his tangled tresses<br />
It seems nature is tender towards the frail, the downtrodden<br />
and the homeless. Perhaps the callousness we humans have<br />
developed is a direct consequence of us having turned away from<br />
nature.<br />
Dr. Santosh’s poems take us to places we have forgotten, the<br />
banks of the Lidder, the shepherd’s shacks, a hoopoe promenading<br />
under a walnut tree, a peacock dancing under the neem while<br />
somewhere a girl in a boat catches raindrops on her face transporting<br />
us to an era when life was simple and joyful. We go drawn<br />
by the grace and melody in the verses, hoping to retain some of<br />
this pearly happiness to tide over the cares of a battle-worn world<br />
and realize that it is exactly what the poet is gearing us up for in<br />
the second part of her book where ‘Over the whole earth/Still it<br />
is Thor’s day’ (H.W.Longfellow)<br />
Here too she is direct and honest, nothing in her poetry is<br />
contrived and its sheer strength is based upon the fact that her<br />
poems have a timeless immediacy being drawn from a wide<br />
range of issues faced by common people caught in the quagmires<br />
of political and socio-economic threats to their fragile peace. One<br />
group of poems is particularly wrenching. Dr. Bakaya makes sure<br />
that the young victims of strife -Aylan, Gowhar, Burhan, Shaista,<br />
Danish Farooq and a lot more are not forgotten and dismissed as<br />
mere statistics. Even a scarecrow is not spared by shrapnel<br />
His sole marble eye<br />
Also bids goodbye<br />
To a world that has lost its marbles<br />
( <strong>The</strong> Scarecrow Sad)<br />
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Some other poems that strike us with their intensity of<br />
anguish and yet never falter from their rhyme are Howls where<br />
one can hear the wails of a family shattered by bombers. In<br />
Where Were You?, the poet seems compelled to ask :<br />
Where were you when the world was burning?…/Don’t you<br />
see, a little compassion will be awesome<br />
And in yet another poem she questions Why Should Our<br />
Battle-Cry Be Hate?<br />
Her poems are capable of turning the unwary into sobbing<br />
jelly-mass but the realization soon sets in that nothing in Dr<br />
Bakaya’s poems are begun without them reaching a shore by<br />
having a note of harmony at least by the end of a poem or in the<br />
next one.<br />
It enables the reader floundering in the anguish of loss and<br />
fear to get a grip on himself or herself and look just a bit too<br />
searchingly at the musical verses, and you can even spot the poet<br />
wiping her own tears while holding out a tissue to her reader.<br />
<strong>The</strong>se poems can become a road map to a journey to build in<br />
ourselves an invincible fortress of peace. We, the peace mongers<br />
as she calls us, the wounded readers, the despondent viewers<br />
and the cynical humans feel the need to understand that every<br />
war, though different, though fought with different intentions and<br />
words or weapons, leaves behind orphans whose lives can never<br />
be re-arranged back in harmony whatever treaties might come<br />
later. A war cannot be rectified but it can and must be prevented.<br />
Defence attorney and Harvard Law Professor, Alan Dershowitz<br />
in his 2005 book: <strong>The</strong> Case For peace, a book about resolving the<br />
Arab-Israeli conflict comes to the conclusion that “peace is both<br />
a radical and traditional solution.” Santosh Bakaya’s Where are<br />
the Lilacs? is a radical as well as courageous attempt to sow some<br />
much-needed seeds of peace in the killing fields where, as<br />
Pushcart poetry Prize nominee Dr. Koshy A.V. says in his blurb,”<br />
we hear the most wretched sound, that of doves crying, that of<br />
people tearing each other apart.” <strong>The</strong>rapy for every human.<br />
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Rhiti Chatterjee Bose’s<br />
Review<br />
of<br />
By Lopamudra Banerjee<br />
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Published originally in Rhiti’s blog, ‘My Scattered Thoughts’.<br />
Book Details<br />
<strong>The</strong> Broken Home: English Translation of Rabindranath<br />
Tagore’s Bengali novella ‘Nastanirh’<br />
Translator: Lopamudra Banerjee<br />
Published by: Finaldraft Editing and Publishing Services<br />
Number of pages: 92 pages<br />
Price: Rs. 200/- (Amazon India), $2.99 (Amazon.com)<br />
Publication year: May <strong>2016</strong><br />
Nashtanirh is a Bengali novella by Rabindranath Tagore set in<br />
19 th Century Bengal which was published in 1901. <strong>The</strong>re is a lot<br />
of speculation that the story is loosely based upon Tagore’s own<br />
relationship with Kadambari Devi, his sister –in-law (brother<br />
Jyotirindranath’s wife) who committed suicide four months after<br />
Tagore’s wedding to Mrinalini Devi.<br />
It is also the basis for the brilliant film ‘Charulata’ by Satyajit<br />
Ray which was released in 1964.<br />
<strong>The</strong> original version is beautifully written by Gurudev, it is a<br />
classic in Bengali literature. So when I discovered that Lopamudra<br />
Banerjee is translating this Magnum Opus I was elated beyond<br />
words can describe.<br />
<strong>The</strong> plot is about how the liberal thinking ‘Bhadrolok<br />
Bangali’ Bhupati is completely blind to his wife Charu’s loneliness<br />
and discontent. He fails to acknowledge her feelings and<br />
frustration. So when Amal, his cousin arrives, he incites<br />
passionate feelings in Charu, creating turmoil in the web of<br />
relationships between the three.<br />
Banerjee explores the emotions tenderly, her language is<br />
eloquent, and choice of vocabulary is fitting to the era. With any<br />
translation there remains a risk that the translator might not be<br />
able to evoke the sentiments which are portrayed in the original,<br />
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ut Banerjee very efficiently has managed to keep the unique<br />
soul of Nashtanirh alive in her version of <strong>The</strong> Broken Home.<br />
When you pick this version of Tagore’s Nashtanirh you will be<br />
taken on a journey through a time which is sepia toned. Banerjee’s<br />
translation of Gurudev’s masterpiece is something that will<br />
keep your thoughts lingering for a long time. Her use of lucid<br />
language, her perfect depiction of the characters, the ideal<br />
portrayal of the settings makes it an unputdownable read. Since<br />
I have read the original version in Bengali, I can say that it is a<br />
near perfect homage to the creation of Tagore.<br />
This will be a treasure for a lot of readers who are unable to<br />
read Bengali, Banerjee has just brought Tagore closer to such<br />
readers. I would love to read further works of translation from<br />
this amazing writer.<br />
You can buy the kindle version here:<br />
https://www.amazon.in/dp/B01FWMBGN0<br />
https://www.amazon.com/Broken-Home-Translation-<br />
Rabindranath-Nastanirhebook/dp/B01FWMBGN0/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=147347808<br />
4&sr=8-1&keywords=the+broken+home+lopamudra+banerjee<br />
Facebook Page:<br />
https://www.facebook.com/brokenhomeNastanirh/?fref=ts<br />
Lopamudra Banerjee’s author page on Facebook:<br />
https://www.facebook.com/lbanerjee.author/?fref=ts<br />
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<strong>The</strong> <strong>Mind</strong> <strong>Creative</strong><br />
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Cover Photograph: https://unsplash.com/<br />
All original works used in this magazine are for educational purposes<br />
and for viewing by readers. <strong>The</strong>se works are not, in any way, to be<br />
used for commercial reasons or for profit.<br />
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