Kallola

When they say age is a number, ask a mother's heart that waits upon each moment right from the start. Every turn, every coo, every kick that turns her blue, every twitch, every ache... a million times over she will take because those nine months were not numbers, they were worlds she cherished awake and sedate...dawn to late. And now, there are fights and senseless squabbles. There are those 'orders' and sporadic baubles. Each year that rolls on is a laurel on laurels - every one a victor, despite the foibles. And now I stand, the mist filling my eye. When I look up to you, I can't help but sigh. My not-so-little man, all of fifteen, I see it in your eyes, in your manner so keen that age was never just a number. Your years, Son, are an appraisal, of goals seen and unseen. It's my score-card of promise - my graph past the mean. My heart swells with pride, as I watch your unmistakable stride. Your life lies ahead, waiting, its winds, sere

He waits for the dark to engulf him. He finds that rather safe. The moonlight sways to tease his eye but gets lost in the alley’s haze.      She walks alone, her home in sight      of the city that’s asleep.      He makes his move. Under the street lamps high,      he bids to daunt her grace. She fends him off. "That daring bitch! How dare she stay out late! And then to say she’s not for takes ... what insolent craze!"      A city swells in loud lament,      its reputation at stake!      What’s changed so much? Why do evils rise now      from celebrations’ daze? "The winter’s winds are warmer", you say, "And the streets are rife with life!" What one would think as grand design is another’s watcher’s maze.      You blame the wind, the people new.      You blame the men in chair,      while all the while their clout returns      its misogynistic gaze. "Times have changed!" you beat your chest so someone sane

Mr Iyer Goes to War - Ryan Lobo A logic-defying, maverick, rollercoaster of a thriller 3D read. Popcorn, anyone?        “ When Gregor Samsa woke up one morning from unsettling dreams, he found himself changed in his bed into a monstrous vermin ”. Even in translation, even with the day’s twitter-size sensibilities, and even though very few find succour in the existentialist stronghold of Franz Kafka’s writing, his most unforgettable opening line of The Metamorphosis, haunts. This is not just because the writing is stark but because the imagery connects at a basic level of humanity’s absurd struggle for emotional wellbeing. Cut to Varanasi. Ryan Lobo’s debut protagonist, Mr Iyer, breaks free from the absurdity of his own existence and takes us on a fantastical rampage, all too real. The Ganges flows unperturbed, as two accomplished gentlemen lay on adjacent hospice beds, waiting to die, alone. While one fought for the country and has a gallantry medal honouri

. “Do you realise that you must wear a   sari ?!” a dear aunt gasped in mock earnestness, while heartily congratulating me on my looming wedding. It brings a smile to me even now, 15 years on, when I think back on the day, as I sit snug in my well-fitted denims, exactly as I did back then, caressing fine silk and contemplating between its many folds whether the colour would reflect the light, if it was too heavy to carry and if I should escape to the ease of a chiffon   kurta   and silk cigarette pants for a festive albeit traditional evening. That effortless elegance can come in lengthy fabrics of all kinds and has held our mothers securely every single day of their adult lives rendering them breathtakingly divine when the occasion so demands, is now a matter of deliberate consideration for ‘special wear’. It makes for serious thought. It is also time again for the cosmopolitan urban belle to revitalise the cultural context and rediscover the glory of the   Sari   – testame