by Padmini Krishnan

 

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I felt an intense pain at the pit of my stomach as if someone had stabbed me. It moved up my intestine, making me giddy and incoherent. I struggled to keep my hands on the handle-bar, trying to get past St. Paul’s boys’ hostel. However, I staggered and my scooter toppled over. I fell but was able to collect myself almost immediately.

I dragged myself to the neem tree and stood in the shades, trying to catch my breath.

The tree branches cast their shadow on the streets and so did the bridge above. Why did the bridge look old? Had it not been built recently? I felt incoherent thoughts surfacing once again and sat down under the tree.

How did I recall the appearance of the newly-built bridge? You see, I am new to the city. I had just joined St. Mary’s college a couple of days ago. To reach my college, I had to pass St. Paul’s College. There were no shortcuts. I shared a service apartment with three girls, a few kilometres away. I had been cocooned as a child and this was the first time I was away from home. My mom did not want me to leave my hometown, but dad and I persisted. After all, St. Mary’s was one of the few institutions offering the Shell Borne Scholarships.

By now, I was feeling better. I stood up and my leg bumped into something solid. It was a black box. I examined it and found out that it was a camera, a very old one. The kind of camera I had seen in movies made 20-25 years ago. I did not know what made me do it, but I put it in my bag and drove to college, now feeling fine.

I sat nervously at the photo studio while the photographer developed the film. He looked at me strangely when I showed him the camera. I knew that I should have turned in the old camera or left it where it was. But, it was connected to me. I was sure it was.

I did not open the photos until I reached home. There was nobody home and I was glad. The first photo showed four men in their graduation robes.

I felt giddy, the pain in my stomach back.

 

I was the one in the corner. The one next to me was Sid, my roommate and best friend, the one who had stabbed me fatally. It had happened after our graduation ceremony. I was on a high; he was down and depressed. I remember feeling scornful as I made fun of his misfortune.

Now, I fell down with pain as I remembered him stabbing me multiple times.

Step Up

 

Title: Step Up: Women’s Journey to Identity, Success and Power

Author: Sailaja Manacha

Publisher: SAGE India (SAGE Response), 2019

Links: Sage 

 

 

 

Our humaneness is the sensitive side of business and often the hidden side too.

We forget about what is happening inside ourselves—our bodies and our minds. We forget that we have to understand ourselves, look within, so that we can begin to change in order to lead ourselves.

Paying attention to our way of ‘being’ allows us to better understand our external behaviours and inner drives. Way of ‘being’ can be understood as our ‘inner self’ and this shapes our ‘outer self’ or our behaviours.

Our Personal History Shapes Us

What is the meaning of this experience for this leader I shared about? Every time he stood in front of a large group, suddenly his personal history appeared along with the memory of feeling stuck and frozen on stage. It was all happening unconsciously. It showed up in ways that choked him, blocked him and he would lose his voice each time. In that moment he would forget the successful leader that he is because he was in a different place and time, inside himself.

Jayesh Parekh in conversation with Prerna Pant
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What Shall We Do With All This Money? by debut author Jayesh Parekh was launched in Singapore’s National Library on 29 January 2020. The book offers perspectives on wealth gleaned from interviews with more than 50 achievers from different walks of life, ranging from Ratan Tata to Shekhar Kapoor. In this video, author Jayesh Parekh is in conversation with entrepreneur Prerna Pant. At the end of the interaction, he takes questions from the audience.

By Mitali Chakravarty

Shweta Taneja’s story named as pre-finalist in French Grand Prix de l’Imaginaire

The Best Asian Speculative Fiction (2018) is like a rebellious shout to change the world with its threat of futuristic dark stories. Many award-winning and well-known writers like Kiran Manral, Vrinda Baliga, Rochelle Potkar, Park- Chan Soon, Tunku Halim and Eldar Sattarov, have contributed to the anthology. The stories have covered different areas of the genre called speculative which the editor, Rajat Chaudhuri, an established voice in this field, calls, “our adorable, shape-shifting, slippery creature”. 

Zafar Anjum, the series editor of the Best Asian series and publisher, explained how the Speculative fiction anthology  came about and the editor was chosen: “It was an idea suggested by one of our authors, Anuradha Kumar, and when we got in touch with Rajat to work on an anthology of speculative fiction, he readily agreed. Rajat had done reviews for us before and we always admired his writing, so it was a natural choice.”

Chaudhuri picked Shweta Taneja’s story, ‘The Daughter That Bleeds’, for the Editor’s Choice Award. And now, it has been picked as a pre-finalist in the prestigious French Grand Prix de l’Imaginaire. This French award was first given in 1974 for science fiction and later stretched to the emerging genre of speculative. Winners include Ursula Le Guin (2008), Ken Liu (2016) and Carolyn Ives Gilman (2019). The French Ambassador to India, Emmanuel Lenain, has tweeted about this, tagging Kitaab and Chaudhuri.

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Grand Prix De L'Imaginare

Chaudhuri has remarked that Taneja’s story fits into Margaret Atwood’s formulation of this genre. In his introduction he tells us, “Atwood’s test for the speculative is on the touchstone of possibility … Marking a clear break from some of the improbabilities of science fiction, her formulation stresses on this aspect of possibility as the sine qua non of the speculative.” Shweta’s story is “about a market for fertile women who have become rare in a post-apocalyptic India”. 

by Tanima Das

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I wake up with a jolt as the bulky jeep screeches to a stop. Bhuto gestures at me to wait while he hurries out, slamming the door shut. I yawn, and try to stretch out my arms, but grimace to grab my shoulder instead. A sharp shooting pain is knotting up in my neck. Cursing Bhuto for choosing the bumpiest of all roads, I try to massage out the discomfort.

Bhuto is back soon with hot tea in a clay pot accompanied by toasted bread and questionable butter on a steel plate. He smiles at me revealing his stained buck-teeth. A stench from his unwashed mouth fills the air inside the jeep. I pass him a gum and proceed to get out.

“It’s not safe, babu,” protests Bhuto and extends his hands to block my way.

“Shut up,” I say and slap away his arms.

I sit down on a tree stub to have my breakfast while Bhuto, with his huge frame, tries to block me from view. Two men are visible at the eatery across the street but their worried faces seem to be enveloped by whatever issues fate has chosen to hurl at them. But Bhuto imagines that they might want to keep an eye on me.

The food would have tasted good actually, had it not been for the scratchy, fake moustache that Bhuto has pasted onto my upper lip. I look angrily at Bhuto. He looks back at me with devotion.

By Sobia Ali

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Everyday,  I  wait  till  your  father  has  gone  out  to  work, before  I  come  into  your  room  to  wake  you  up. He  does  not  like  my  attention  being  diverted  when  he  is  at  home. I  think  he  is  a  little  jealous  of  you. Or  perhaps  of  me, that  I  am  going  to  be  with  you  all  day  when  he  has  to  be  away. You  know  otherwise  he  is  absolutely  devoted  to   you, and  won’t  ever  like  to  part  from  you.

I  open  the  door  slowly, lest  I  startle  you. You  lay  there  on  the  dainty  curtained  bed, quite lost  under  the  flurry  pink  bed  sheets  and  blankets. For  a  moment I  panic  that  you  are  not  there. That  they  were  right, those  women  in  white  uniforms. Then  a  soft  pink  little  hand  peeps  out, a  small  plump  foot  jumps  out  of  all  that  velvety  pile. And  I  almost  laugh  out  loud  when  I  see  you  hacking  away  at  coverlet  in  anger  to  remove  it  from  your  face. I  remove  it  for  you, suddenly  impatient  to  see  your  milky, moon  face, haloed  in  curly  shiny  black  hair.

I  give  my  finger  to  you  to  hold  and  take  to  your  mouth. You  suck  and  bite  it  with  small  uneven  gummy  gums. I  tickle  your  belly, kiss  your  hands  and  feet, then  lift  you  unto  my  lap. I  giggle  as  your  thin  lips  curl  around  my  nipple  and  your  red  busy  tongue  lap  up  the  milk, gulping, slurping. How  I  love  to  suckle  you, baby.

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Finding humour in tense anxious situations has been the forte of award-winning and acclaimed author of A Case of Exploding Mangoes, Mohammed Hanif. While he has been under flak in his own country, Pakistan, after the aforesaid book was translated to Urdu, he had been invited to Hong Kong to give the PEN ( Poets, Essayists, Novelists) Hong Kong Literature & Human Rights lecture at Hong Kong University.

In a report published this year based on an interview at that time, we are told he had a tough time making it across the violence to the talk which needed to be rescheduled. Said a frazzled Hanif: “I’d rather have running water and safe streets, I’d rather have boring normality. If that means dull litera­ture, I’ll happily make that bargain.”

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Magical Language of Others by award-winning poet, EJ Koh, is a Memoir of an abandoned Korean child — not abandoned in the sense of thrown out but abandoned by parents who put their career before child rearing.

An article in Asian Review says, “It isn’t uncommon for immigrants to return to their countries of birth for better employment opportunities, but in this case Koh and her brother would be staying behind.

In her new memoir, The Magical Language of Others, Koh shows the damage that ensues when leaving one’s children during their teenage years for no reason but selfishness.”

Eun ji Koh and her brother were left behind in California to struggle it out on their own by parents who returned to Seoul for nearly a decade in quest of better prospects.

Koh did come out of it with the help of poetry, and her writing. In an interview in Wildness, she said: “When I was a girl, I had terrible nightmares every night. My mother told me there was a curse upon the women of our family (for no reason I know). We could afford neither peace nor ignorance of our dreaming lives. At twelve or so, I figured out that if I wrote down the dream each morning, it wouldn’t haunt me the rest of the day.” And that is how started her journey as an award winning poet and writer.

The Life of Z_Jpeg

 

Title: The Life of Z: Understanding the Digital Pre-teen and Adolescent Generation

Author: Debashish Sengupta

Publisher: SAGE India (SAGE Select), 2020

Links: Sage Publishers 

 

 

A radio buzzing in a corner, the transmission is unclear, the signal seems to be wavering. I adjust the antennae that we have fixed near the roof of the room. The voice on the side becomes better. By this time, I had repeated this ritual several times. However, the crackling commentary of the cricket match on the other side made up for all the hard work and irritation. Both me and my younger brother are stuck with the radio for the whole day. Our parents are not at home. My mother wanted to call our grandma and therefore she went to the post office to book a trunk call. It would take few hours of waiting before her turn comes and she can speak over the government run public land phone, before returning home. We had the whole day to ourselves. It took longer than expected for our parents to come back home. They could not find a taxi near the post office and had to walk for nearly a kilometer before they found a transport. Poor mom, she had to cook the dinner after a long day. Meanwhile, India had lost the match. We spent the whole evening helping our mom in the kitchen. Another uneventful day had come to an end. But we had some excitement coming-up. Sunday was just a day away when we will catch another episode of ‘Star Trek’ and by that time we should also be getting letter from my cousin brother who was sharing our secret encryption code, as he had promised in his last letter. This was to prevent elders from finding out the contents of our letter. And yes, he was also sending some photos from his recent vacation.

When I tell this childhood story of mine to my son, after listening to me with rapt attention, he tells me that there are technical flaws in my story. What? Technical flaws… I find his expression amusing, he finds it even more. He asks me – ‘Why were you listening to the radio and not streaming live cricket over internet?; Why did your parents go to the post office to make a call and not use their mobile to make a video call?; Why did your parents not call an Uber instead of walking a long distance?; Why didn’t you order food over an app instead of letting your tired mom cook the dinner?; Why did you wait for Sunday to watch your favourite show and not stream it over Netflix?; And why were you waiting for days for a letter instead of using WhatsApp or Instagram?’