A passage dry
Two wet floors.
Three clips alone left upon the string.
--All in a life of silence.
Till a sound like human hand appears!
May no such human hand appear!!
Words waiting in a cue for a mouth.
Four horizontal lines upon a white page.
And words becoming mouths!
May such mouths ever move in tears!
Till the words are well mouthed into fear!!
Friday, July 11, 2008
Pour
Potholes uniting people
A moving umbrella
One hand
Another.
The switches of light and fan
Positioned like a cross.
A tiny man holding up his umbrella
In a high interim to avoid pricks.
And such continuous sentence-like stretches of oddity,
Till I give up on a Period.
A moving umbrella
One hand
Another.
The switches of light and fan
Positioned like a cross.
A tiny man holding up his umbrella
In a high interim to avoid pricks.
And such continuous sentence-like stretches of oddity,
Till I give up on a Period.
Gilotin
Hands dipped in hot, boiling milk. Utpala. Even an un-man like me! When the second bullet had struck, I knew, this was to be the end. Still inched forward with the body on wet soil, holding all the pressure onto the elbows, crippling on as ever. In this bullet-hit hell of a body, for the first time, in the (w)hole of 32 years, I felt some sort of an instinct, boiling up to a considerable height. If home can be reached, I will put in one final effort, even if it is the last gasp. Neither eroticism nor exactly self-love, it was like a desperation to create a future to resistance, that had been clawing my blood-smeared hell-body! A man like me would do something to deserve a bullet sometime! Could Utpala ever imagine this in her wildest day-dreams?
Perplexed hands then, Utpala's, dipped in hot, boiling milk. Hands almost fully white, further whitening, Utpala's. Day in and day out, this dipping, this dripping! Some inexplicable comfort, as if, Utpala's! Each time, when she lifts her milked, whitened and further whitening hands from the bowl, a child gets designed (ah! only to be a figment!)amid her finger-lines. After that, a strange anger, Utpala's, which can kill and does kill as she strangulates the mis-imagined child, dipping it into the hot, boiling milk. Utpala can create as well as uncreate.
Had to stop in this bush. The body, nearing stagnation, could hardly move on. But, still enough understanding left to realize that I had had an erection. The thing had stiffened so much, that it was becoming exceedingly difficult to crawl forward. Could not even stay on my back. There were bullets in the shoulder and underneath. Tried to dig a hole with both hands. The soil was soft due to rain and went in comfortably. Then I opened my zip and entered the thing straight into the hole, I had dug. It went deep, out of visibility. The pain started to soften. My eyes were closing in ease.
Hands dipped in hot, boiling milk. Utpala. Almost the dead of night. Subimal arrives pretty late these days. Must be some secret meeting again! With a pain that had started to soften, Utpala lifted her hands from the milk. There was something in her hands. Utpala observed. A bullet. Bloodless. Utpala looked at the blank wall, which was in front of her. Then, she threw the bowl full of milk, towards it. Little columns of milk started to make their way down in the form of streams. The wall had become partially wet with milk. There was some heat too and perhaps the surface of the wall shook a little as there were little twig-like rings of smoke, making their room from it. By that time, Utpala had closed her eyes and got stuck into the bullet with her sharp, boiling teeth. Even the bullet had to be silenced, silence.
Arka Chattopadhyay
Perplexed hands then, Utpala's, dipped in hot, boiling milk. Hands almost fully white, further whitening, Utpala's. Day in and day out, this dipping, this dripping! Some inexplicable comfort, as if, Utpala's! Each time, when she lifts her milked, whitened and further whitening hands from the bowl, a child gets designed (ah! only to be a figment!)amid her finger-lines. After that, a strange anger, Utpala's, which can kill and does kill as she strangulates the mis-imagined child, dipping it into the hot, boiling milk. Utpala can create as well as uncreate.
Had to stop in this bush. The body, nearing stagnation, could hardly move on. But, still enough understanding left to realize that I had had an erection. The thing had stiffened so much, that it was becoming exceedingly difficult to crawl forward. Could not even stay on my back. There were bullets in the shoulder and underneath. Tried to dig a hole with both hands. The soil was soft due to rain and went in comfortably. Then I opened my zip and entered the thing straight into the hole, I had dug. It went deep, out of visibility. The pain started to soften. My eyes were closing in ease.
Hands dipped in hot, boiling milk. Utpala. Almost the dead of night. Subimal arrives pretty late these days. Must be some secret meeting again! With a pain that had started to soften, Utpala lifted her hands from the milk. There was something in her hands. Utpala observed. A bullet. Bloodless. Utpala looked at the blank wall, which was in front of her. Then, she threw the bowl full of milk, towards it. Little columns of milk started to make their way down in the form of streams. The wall had become partially wet with milk. There was some heat too and perhaps the surface of the wall shook a little as there were little twig-like rings of smoke, making their room from it. By that time, Utpala had closed her eyes and got stuck into the bullet with her sharp, boiling teeth. Even the bullet had to be silenced, silence.
Arka Chattopadhyay
Angularity
The thread was being moved through the surface of the grass. Perhaps, somebody had been flying a kite somewhere. As our feet came into its tangle and we got stuck, we looked down, only to see the thread being pulled away from us, across the vast stretch of the maidan. I was trying to kiss her, but the thread had got in the way of it. The kiss. The lips. The family. Like upturned shoe-soles in the sea-beaches. Cross-currents, there were in the quicksand. The thread had become a pointer. Trying to take us along--an anchor? There were little pockets in the grass. Little errors. The thread was strangling them one by one, striving to establish a pause in the two of us. We looked up. Not a single kite in the sky.
There had been one such thread, sometime back. Taking life. A pigeon's left wing had come under its power, impairing the ability that may have led to flight. Then, the dog's turn arrived. I could not do anything for the bird. The thread was the similarity between the two events, the lack of a kiss over there, the difference.
Now, I could see the thread, up in the air, going round and round like a web and linking the remaining tree-tops all across the maidan. It had started to emit a tremendous energy of darkness, blanketing the blueness of the afternoon-sky with a dusk-like madness, as if the whole sky was about to turn into a giant wingless kite. She had been mute all along. Not even a sound had come out of her. Could she peep into my thinking? I looked at her. She was looking up towards the sky. She finally broke her silence, of my thoughts and of her words---"Can we get married now?"
There had been one such thread, sometime back. Taking life. A pigeon's left wing had come under its power, impairing the ability that may have led to flight. Then, the dog's turn arrived. I could not do anything for the bird. The thread was the similarity between the two events, the lack of a kiss over there, the difference.
Now, I could see the thread, up in the air, going round and round like a web and linking the remaining tree-tops all across the maidan. It had started to emit a tremendous energy of darkness, blanketing the blueness of the afternoon-sky with a dusk-like madness, as if the whole sky was about to turn into a giant wingless kite. She had been mute all along. Not even a sound had come out of her. Could she peep into my thinking? I looked at her. She was looking up towards the sky. She finally broke her silence, of my thoughts and of her words---"Can we get married now?"
Yellow
It's this piece I wrote but conviniently forgot to bring to class!
I’ve often wondered what the colour of a scorching summer afternoon should be. Should it be white or should it be yellow? White, said a poet, but I decided yellow. Sure it looked yellow as the sun rays flirted with the tree tops, it was the exact shade of a fire cracker whirling about madly on some festive surface. The crazy buzz of a cracker, I noticed the other day, sounded exactly like the distant drone in a shopping mall that despite the music fought into my ears. You shouldn’t wear purple lipstick, I read in a beauty magazine, it makes your teeth look yellow. The girl’s lipstick was purple. Did her teeth look yellow? I didn’t notice but her dress reminded me of a woman I once saw on a local train. She had spent the entire length of the journey weaving a yellow thread onto plastic rings. The rings would embroider some dress whose owner no doubt would be oblivious of those nimble fingers and the face behind the hands. Meanwhile the current goes off again. The deep yellow of the street lamps give way for a single strand of pale flame that flickers on in my one- roomed apartment. It casts a yellow shadow on the legs my girl…she has fallen asleep.
I’ve often wondered what the colour of a scorching summer afternoon should be. Should it be white or should it be yellow? White, said a poet, but I decided yellow. Sure it looked yellow as the sun rays flirted with the tree tops, it was the exact shade of a fire cracker whirling about madly on some festive surface. The crazy buzz of a cracker, I noticed the other day, sounded exactly like the distant drone in a shopping mall that despite the music fought into my ears. You shouldn’t wear purple lipstick, I read in a beauty magazine, it makes your teeth look yellow. The girl’s lipstick was purple. Did her teeth look yellow? I didn’t notice but her dress reminded me of a woman I once saw on a local train. She had spent the entire length of the journey weaving a yellow thread onto plastic rings. The rings would embroider some dress whose owner no doubt would be oblivious of those nimble fingers and the face behind the hands. Meanwhile the current goes off again. The deep yellow of the street lamps give way for a single strand of pale flame that flickers on in my one- roomed apartment. It casts a yellow shadow on the legs my girl…she has fallen asleep.
Thursday, July 10, 2008
Song about the Wild Car Schizoprhenia
[Here's one of my prose poems, guys, although I am not aware if prose poems are allowed on this blog :-O ]
….the winter runs though your hair…the car moves through lairs of dreams and darkness…cuts the night in deathly cubes of ice…the dice spins upon her body…spinning infinite pieces of the city in your throat…the road reveals the laughter of hidden ghosts….and after the memory is shaken…after the panther is born…you suddenly feel alone…you are the only pulse in the sky….
And you throb among the skyline…your wings shine…a vampire slips into your mind…around you now is the forest…where guitars charm the graves…electric trees sink into the poem…and find the keys to the soul of winds…the car gathers speed….broken city offers its homes…its windows…its cold forgetfulness…
It is good to be forgotten…to be an ancient king’s sword in the museum…it is good to be forgotten at times.
And the smells of the day linger in her veins…and won’t let her die…
the car moves through the sleeping souls…a mole tunneling into the bones of lone women…who clasp the vampire’s teeth to their breasts…even the skyline is unaware of their secrets…the guitar stabs his muscles…his memory tussles between windscreens and the smell of panthers…
and may the city never wake again…never take its morning tea with friend and enemy…never mend its torn shoes…never remember whose hands were crushed by the machine…
and my enemies are dead now…I can see their ghosts dining in the old
And among the music…among the fragments of the dead sky…among the windows and the shadows of trees…the road unfolds like her skin…tonight her smells remind you of the meaning of time…of the soon-to-die forests in your blood…
But you choose the blade…and make a cut on your forehead…so the winter seeps in with its own stories…my enemies are dead.
Wednesday, July 09, 2008
A suggestion
Why don't we do the freeyourmind exercise with music too. We tried colours. That was fun. I find music conjuring imaginary landscapes as easily as pictures or colours. We could stretch it from a landscape description to a short story or something too.
Friday, November 16, 2007
Photo prompt fiction
Joe’s girlfriend Dina took a picture of Joe in her father’s library one day. He wasn’t sure why she wanted him to stand with his arms crossed in front of her father’s library. There were lots of Greek and Roman books. Joe had read excerpts from ‘The Odyssey’ in high school. He liked Orwell, Burroughs, Ballard, people like that. Dina insisted he not smile in the photograph. She wanted him to look serious. A literary sort of guy. She stuck her fingers through the lacing on the front of his shirt and also through his hair. Dina really liked his hair. She told him about Samson and Delilah. Joe already knew about Samson and Delilah because his mother had been a devout Christian woman who had read the Bible to her older son until her husband left her. Everything changed afterwards. Dina’s mother thought Joe was ‘sweet’. Dina’s mother was much more beautiful and well-dressed than Joe’s mother, and she had a flatter accent.
Dina stepped away from him and took his picture. Later he found the picture distressing. He looked like an American Idol reject in his stupid shirt with his stupid hair. The books rose behind and above him like a vaguely potent symbol of… something.
The last time he saw Dina was the day before she left for a trip to Florence with her parents. She met someone literary, foreign and less boring there. There were two brief and straightforward phone calls, and that was it.
Three weeks later Joe was in a different city. There he met a girl. She worked in the Starbucks opposite the record store he worked in. He knew this because she was wearing a Starbucks work uniform, not because he had coffee there. Coffee gave him indigestion, plus he was new in the neighbourhood. Green was a perfect colour on her, and she had a few violet streaks in her shoulder-length hair. Taylor, who owned the record store, looked up at her with pure hatred in his eyes. It was the Starbucks uniform that had set him off. Joe had tried to explain to him before that being rude to prospective customers would do nothing to keep his flagging business in competition. The Starbucks girl shoved her very tiny hands into her pockets and peered at the vinyl on display. A boy no older than fifteen was browsing them, muttering and shaking his head. The boy was a friend of Joe’s younger brother from school. ‘Hey, Bren,’ said the Starbucks girl, in an unexpectedly raspy voice. The boy almost dropped the LP he was holding. ‘Uh,’ he said. ‘Uh.’ The Starbucks girl smiled, her hands still in her pockets. ‘Well, nice to see you.’
A few days later Joe and the Starbucks girl went on a date.
They saw a Wes Anderson movie and ate ice cream by the river. Joe was feeling peaceful. He was well and truly over Dina by now. It turned out that the Starbucks girl’s name was Mina. Joe was troubled by this fact, but chose not to let it show. Mina was a classic rock fan. He watched her pout prettily while she went on an extended rant about how much modern rock bands fucking sucked. Joe found it appropriate to mention that he thought Led Zeppelin was the best classic rock band. He did not add that he was no longer a fan of Led Zeppelin and had already given his entire collection, poster and t-shirt included, to his brother on his thirteenth birthday, who had actually jumped on to the bed and held him close in his chicken arms. Mina stared at Joe for a few seconds. She had a smear of ice cream on the corner of her mouth that Joe considered licking off but decided not to because that would be kind of corny. ‘Oh my God,’ she said. ‘Oh my God, I knew it, I knew it from your hair. Robert Plant has amazing hair.’ Joe blinked and tried to decide if this was an insult or a compliment or both.
They had sex and it wasn’t very good. Mina messed his hair up so that it covered his eyes and shut her own eyes tight. Then she sat up and smoked five cigarettes, craning her neck to look out the window of his apartment. ‘So,’ she said, finally looking at Joe. Joe wrapped one of the sheets around his waist and padded to the bathroom, where he found a porcelain soap dish. Silently he presented this to Mina. She looked at him through her hair. The violet streaks could not be seen in this light.
The next week he was in the record store arranging CDs in chronological order like Taylor wanted. Mina walked in again, but this time she was accompanied by another man. The man had long blond hair with corkscrew curls. His face was very unpleasant and he had enormous bags under his eyes. Mina talked to him and ignored Joe.
Joe went home after work and tried to read random issues of Wired before going into the tiny kitchen. He retrieved a jar of peanut butter and a spoon. He dug the spoon into the jar with a satisfying splotch. Then he started eating.
There was a small radio next to the kitchen window. He turned it on and rummaged in the drawers for a big pair of scissors. He wondered if he should finish eating the peanut butter first or cut all his hair off first. Joe walked into the bathroom with his scissors. He looked in the bathroom mirror. His hair looked limp and stupid. He could not remember why he had ever kept it that long. He wasn’t even a hippie.
He walked back to the kitchen. The radio was playing Led Zeppelin. It was the sort of thing that happened in movies and novels, but really it was just that the first station that always came up when he turned the radio was the classic rock station. Suddenly Joe was fourteen and chubby, watching TV in his bedroom, safe from the world. Robert Plant walked on the stage, wrists languid and chest glistening with sweat. He flipped his hair. He was bathed in golden light, most of it emanating from his body rather than from above. He was a god! And he knew it.
Equally suddenly Joe was adult again, and Robert Plant was wailing, don’t you hear, don’t you hear them falling, and Joe felt them, right on cue. He thought of Dina and he thought of Mina.
Then he sat down on the nearest chair and ate the rest of the peanut butter.
--
(better v v late than never, i daresay. i will try to upload the prompt photo sometime.)
Isheeta Basu Mallik
Dina stepped away from him and took his picture. Later he found the picture distressing. He looked like an American Idol reject in his stupid shirt with his stupid hair. The books rose behind and above him like a vaguely potent symbol of… something.
The last time he saw Dina was the day before she left for a trip to Florence with her parents. She met someone literary, foreign and less boring there. There were two brief and straightforward phone calls, and that was it.
Three weeks later Joe was in a different city. There he met a girl. She worked in the Starbucks opposite the record store he worked in. He knew this because she was wearing a Starbucks work uniform, not because he had coffee there. Coffee gave him indigestion, plus he was new in the neighbourhood. Green was a perfect colour on her, and she had a few violet streaks in her shoulder-length hair. Taylor, who owned the record store, looked up at her with pure hatred in his eyes. It was the Starbucks uniform that had set him off. Joe had tried to explain to him before that being rude to prospective customers would do nothing to keep his flagging business in competition. The Starbucks girl shoved her very tiny hands into her pockets and peered at the vinyl on display. A boy no older than fifteen was browsing them, muttering and shaking his head. The boy was a friend of Joe’s younger brother from school. ‘Hey, Bren,’ said the Starbucks girl, in an unexpectedly raspy voice. The boy almost dropped the LP he was holding. ‘Uh,’ he said. ‘Uh.’ The Starbucks girl smiled, her hands still in her pockets. ‘Well, nice to see you.’
A few days later Joe and the Starbucks girl went on a date.
They saw a Wes Anderson movie and ate ice cream by the river. Joe was feeling peaceful. He was well and truly over Dina by now. It turned out that the Starbucks girl’s name was Mina. Joe was troubled by this fact, but chose not to let it show. Mina was a classic rock fan. He watched her pout prettily while she went on an extended rant about how much modern rock bands fucking sucked. Joe found it appropriate to mention that he thought Led Zeppelin was the best classic rock band. He did not add that he was no longer a fan of Led Zeppelin and had already given his entire collection, poster and t-shirt included, to his brother on his thirteenth birthday, who had actually jumped on to the bed and held him close in his chicken arms. Mina stared at Joe for a few seconds. She had a smear of ice cream on the corner of her mouth that Joe considered licking off but decided not to because that would be kind of corny. ‘Oh my God,’ she said. ‘Oh my God, I knew it, I knew it from your hair. Robert Plant has amazing hair.’ Joe blinked and tried to decide if this was an insult or a compliment or both.
They had sex and it wasn’t very good. Mina messed his hair up so that it covered his eyes and shut her own eyes tight. Then she sat up and smoked five cigarettes, craning her neck to look out the window of his apartment. ‘So,’ she said, finally looking at Joe. Joe wrapped one of the sheets around his waist and padded to the bathroom, where he found a porcelain soap dish. Silently he presented this to Mina. She looked at him through her hair. The violet streaks could not be seen in this light.
The next week he was in the record store arranging CDs in chronological order like Taylor wanted. Mina walked in again, but this time she was accompanied by another man. The man had long blond hair with corkscrew curls. His face was very unpleasant and he had enormous bags under his eyes. Mina talked to him and ignored Joe.
Joe went home after work and tried to read random issues of Wired before going into the tiny kitchen. He retrieved a jar of peanut butter and a spoon. He dug the spoon into the jar with a satisfying splotch. Then he started eating.
There was a small radio next to the kitchen window. He turned it on and rummaged in the drawers for a big pair of scissors. He wondered if he should finish eating the peanut butter first or cut all his hair off first. Joe walked into the bathroom with his scissors. He looked in the bathroom mirror. His hair looked limp and stupid. He could not remember why he had ever kept it that long. He wasn’t even a hippie.
He walked back to the kitchen. The radio was playing Led Zeppelin. It was the sort of thing that happened in movies and novels, but really it was just that the first station that always came up when he turned the radio was the classic rock station. Suddenly Joe was fourteen and chubby, watching TV in his bedroom, safe from the world. Robert Plant walked on the stage, wrists languid and chest glistening with sweat. He flipped his hair. He was bathed in golden light, most of it emanating from his body rather than from above. He was a god! And he knew it.
Equally suddenly Joe was adult again, and Robert Plant was wailing, don’t you hear, don’t you hear them falling, and Joe felt them, right on cue. He thought of Dina and he thought of Mina.
Then he sat down on the nearest chair and ate the rest of the peanut butter.
--
(better v v late than never, i daresay. i will try to upload the prompt photo sometime.)
Isheeta Basu Mallik
Monday, November 12, 2007
Let There Be Light.
Mukul Chakroborty stepped out of the cab and onto the sidewalk. It was unbearably hot. He turned the corner, fanning himself frantically with a newspaper and walked into Her. She was the stuff of dreams, nay, her beauty was beyond dreams even. This was who he had been waiting for all his life, this beautiful pilgrim of rarefied light. She was standing at the mouth of the Tunnel that led into the fish market and he had almost knocked into her.
Srinanda Ganguly.
A dialogue between a model and a proffessor, at a fishmarket.
Monday, November 05, 2007
Encounters
The moon grew old and fat and bald. The astronaut pretended to sleep. The nurse tied him up securely, into a contraption of leather and metal that was only five weeks old.
‘Would you like some water now,’ said the nurse. His hand smoothed a corner of the sheet. He was a little embarrassed.
‘I am not your father,’ said the astronaut. His eyes were tiny glimmers in the dark.
‘That’s not the right answer.’
‘I’m not your father.’
The nurse poured some water into a cup. It was two in the morning. There were two chairs, both of which were nailed to the floor.
‘Are you going to kill me?’ said the astronaut, clenching his fists at his sides. His veins were like thin gnarled roots.
‘That’s not the right question.’
‘Jesus. Jesus.’
The nurse drank the water from the cup. He sat down on one chair, dragged his buttocks across the seat, crossed his legs, uncrossed them, stood up.
‘I just had something to tell you,’ said the nurse, and began to remove his shirt. His shirt was a deep red. He removed it slowly, almost sensually. The astronaut saw in the milky light how hairy the nurse was. The astronaut had stared down the void. This was not a void.
‘Jesus,’ said the astronaut. He didn’t believe in God.
The nurse turned.
* * *
The nurse was the fifth person to speak up. He spoke in a measured tone devoid of surface emotion. He seemed to be reciting the contents of a work of fiction written in a rather mannered style. This inspired some unease in the circle. In his clean white clothing and greyish white canvas shoes the nurse was more disturbing than a doctor.
‘I work in an old people’s home. Last Tuesday one of my charges, a Mr Hewett, reached eighty-five years of age. He celebrated by smearing icing all over his shirt and crying by the window. There was something cinematic and nightmarish about the way the little party disintegrated into a parody of a funeral. The single baroque candle on the cake seemed like a cruel joke. Mrs Doherty, another of my charges, started rocking on her feet, letting out choked sobs. Lizzie, a fellow nurse, put her guitar down and went to comfort her. Mr Hewett curled up against the windowsill and refused to move. He has two sons and a daughter, all of whom are employed adults living in this country.’
The rest of the group froze unanimously to digest this. The nurse added as an afterthought, ‘I have violent urges sometimes.’
A woman swathed in a pink cashmere sweater reached out towards the nurse. The nurse’s arm was cool and hard under her soft palm. ‘Thank you, dear, for sharing that.’
The sixth person to speak up said, ‘I like to break into my neighbour’s beach house on summer evenings and lie naked on his roof under the stars. On such evenings I am an astronaut, suspended in the amniotic silence of space, connected by a fragile umbilical cord that technology birthed through the miracle of science.’
The nurse inspected the crescent spaces under his fingernails. The rest of the group failed to notice that they were dashed with blood and dirt.
‘So many of us wanted to be something, when we were children,’ said the woman in the pink sweater. I wanted to be a firefighter. My husband wanted to be the emperor. Of China.’ She laughed, quivering candyfloss and braces.
‘You don’t understand,’ said the sixth person. He was now looking at the nurse. The nurse was not looking at him. ‘You don’t understand at all. I am an astronaut.’
* * *
The nurse was walking back to his flat. He had had a hard day at work. He walked down what some would call a working-class neighbourhood.
Suddenly a spaceship landed. It was round, with many fiddly bits, and emitted lights that reminded the nurse of the lighting at a rave party when he had been seventeen. A neon girl had placed a pill on his tongue. She had been struck red by the lights. He, too, had been struck. And transformed.
The spaceship flicked open. A being came out that was probably not a human. The nurse thought that it was dressed like an astronaut. The nurse burrowed his hands into the pockets of his hoodie. If he actually stopped to think about it, the being was an astronaut.
The alien astronaut was short and had tentacles. It did something to the nurse’s brain and climbed back into the spaceship. The spaceship lifted off into the night. Soon it was no bigger than the full moon.
The nurse blinked. In his brain there was only one thought left.
He thought out loud.
Rosie Harding's cold cream jars full of family teeth.
--
(my dialogue assignment character picks were 'male nurse' and 'astronaut')
Isheeta Basu Mallik
‘Would you like some water now,’ said the nurse. His hand smoothed a corner of the sheet. He was a little embarrassed.
‘I am not your father,’ said the astronaut. His eyes were tiny glimmers in the dark.
‘That’s not the right answer.’
‘I’m not your father.’
The nurse poured some water into a cup. It was two in the morning. There were two chairs, both of which were nailed to the floor.
‘Are you going to kill me?’ said the astronaut, clenching his fists at his sides. His veins were like thin gnarled roots.
‘That’s not the right question.’
‘Jesus. Jesus.’
The nurse drank the water from the cup. He sat down on one chair, dragged his buttocks across the seat, crossed his legs, uncrossed them, stood up.
‘I just had something to tell you,’ said the nurse, and began to remove his shirt. His shirt was a deep red. He removed it slowly, almost sensually. The astronaut saw in the milky light how hairy the nurse was. The astronaut had stared down the void. This was not a void.
‘Jesus,’ said the astronaut. He didn’t believe in God.
The nurse turned.
* * *
The nurse was the fifth person to speak up. He spoke in a measured tone devoid of surface emotion. He seemed to be reciting the contents of a work of fiction written in a rather mannered style. This inspired some unease in the circle. In his clean white clothing and greyish white canvas shoes the nurse was more disturbing than a doctor.
‘I work in an old people’s home. Last Tuesday one of my charges, a Mr Hewett, reached eighty-five years of age. He celebrated by smearing icing all over his shirt and crying by the window. There was something cinematic and nightmarish about the way the little party disintegrated into a parody of a funeral. The single baroque candle on the cake seemed like a cruel joke. Mrs Doherty, another of my charges, started rocking on her feet, letting out choked sobs. Lizzie, a fellow nurse, put her guitar down and went to comfort her. Mr Hewett curled up against the windowsill and refused to move. He has two sons and a daughter, all of whom are employed adults living in this country.’
The rest of the group froze unanimously to digest this. The nurse added as an afterthought, ‘I have violent urges sometimes.’
A woman swathed in a pink cashmere sweater reached out towards the nurse. The nurse’s arm was cool and hard under her soft palm. ‘Thank you, dear, for sharing that.’
The sixth person to speak up said, ‘I like to break into my neighbour’s beach house on summer evenings and lie naked on his roof under the stars. On such evenings I am an astronaut, suspended in the amniotic silence of space, connected by a fragile umbilical cord that technology birthed through the miracle of science.’
The nurse inspected the crescent spaces under his fingernails. The rest of the group failed to notice that they were dashed with blood and dirt.
‘So many of us wanted to be something, when we were children,’ said the woman in the pink sweater. I wanted to be a firefighter. My husband wanted to be the emperor. Of China.’ She laughed, quivering candyfloss and braces.
‘You don’t understand,’ said the sixth person. He was now looking at the nurse. The nurse was not looking at him. ‘You don’t understand at all. I am an astronaut.’
* * *
The nurse was walking back to his flat. He had had a hard day at work. He walked down what some would call a working-class neighbourhood.
Suddenly a spaceship landed. It was round, with many fiddly bits, and emitted lights that reminded the nurse of the lighting at a rave party when he had been seventeen. A neon girl had placed a pill on his tongue. She had been struck red by the lights. He, too, had been struck. And transformed.
The spaceship flicked open. A being came out that was probably not a human. The nurse thought that it was dressed like an astronaut. The nurse burrowed his hands into the pockets of his hoodie. If he actually stopped to think about it, the being was an astronaut.
The alien astronaut was short and had tentacles. It did something to the nurse’s brain and climbed back into the spaceship. The spaceship lifted off into the night. Soon it was no bigger than the full moon.
The nurse blinked. In his brain there was only one thought left.
He thought out loud.
Rosie Harding's cold cream jars full of family teeth.
--
(my dialogue assignment character picks were 'male nurse' and 'astronaut')
Isheeta Basu Mallik
Tuesday, October 16, 2007
Photo Assignment, edited.
Pinkerton At Sea
Pinkerton stood silhouetted against the horizon his guitar held aloft as he waited for the sun to set. The sun set. A few miles along the beach couples sighed and hugged and walked back home. Pinkerton, he threw his guitar into the sea, far out as far as he could go and swam in after it. The water was cool and there was a rope between the two. Pinkerton and Lilley. Pinkerton swam through the breakers to the relatively calm sea beyond. Lilley towed along behind him. He waited for Lilley to catch up. Lilley was important, more important than it had ever been. Inside Lilley's hollow interior were a pair of waterproof shorts, a set of guitar strings wrapped in oilcloth, many packets of crackers and two cubes of cheese. Also, a periscope, a telescope, a stethescope and spectacles. Not to mention, a flute. With this happy cargo Pinkerton set off across the sea to go as far as he could or die trying. He was aiming for Burma but his geography was rather unsound. For all he knew he would land up in New Zealand or back in the Sunderbans.
Pinkerton swam on, breaking away into a float when his arms tired. Once in a while he saw lights out on the sea. He looked back and could'nt see the shore. Something hard nudged his shoulder and moved away. In the dark he saw a big bullet shaped head with a bullet shaped snout swimming along next to him. "Awrk?", said the thing. "You a dolphin? Orca?", said our man Pinkerton. "Awrk." said the orcaella brevirostris. "Awrk." replied Pinkerton. The dolphin re submerged and emerged some way off. Pinkerton decided to follow it. The dolphin wove through the water joined at intervals by another dolphin or two until the numbers swelled to a dozen or so all singing the high haunting song that pulled Pinkerton on and on until with the hot noonday sun he found himself waking on an alien beach being stared at by little brown children. He got up, pulled Lilley out of the water where it had been bobbing gently on the waves put on the waterproof shorts inaugurated a pack of crackers and gave the rest to the children. A song played in his ears, a high haunting song disjointed. A song that grew so loud that it drowned the chattering monkeys that crowded around him, the waves that broke at his feet. So Pinkerton pulled out his flute and played for the sea.
Pinkerton In The Desert
Pinkerton flopped down on the sand. Lilley wanted to rest. The damned chap was'nt cutting it anymore. He feared Lilley would have to fend for himself soon. Pinkerton had a new friend now. Her name was Cocoxatpetl and she was a multicoloured beach umbrella. Pinkerton sat and admired the sunlight as it filtered through her multicoloured panels. Lilley was jealous, Pinkerton was certain of that. He decided to give Lilley away to the next person who went by. Nobody came by but Pinkerton had to go his own way so he played a last song for Lilley and left with Coco and the flute. Lilley lay abandoned. Many centuries later a little boy will find Lilley and wonder what sort of a beast this was but that comes many centuries later. The vultures circled overhead, dizzied by the sudden splash of colour that wound around the sand dunes. Well, if it moved it had to be edible. A vulture came and rested on Coco's blue panel, it bobbed along with Coco and Pinkerton. He cawed to his mates up in the sky, this was fun. Another vulture came. Then another. Soon there were about fifteen vultures perched on Coco. Pinkerton felt the weight, the light also dimmed around him. There were patches on Coco, he missed Lilley. He threw Coco away and flung himself down on the sand. He lay there until the heat got too intense to bear then he decided to dig his way to China. He said goodbye to Coco and the flute and dove into the sand. He dug and dug and dug until he came to the moist earth beneath the sand, whereupon he sucked a handfull of earth dry of moisture and resumed digging. On his way he met many subterranean creatures. A minotaur called Larry, who he met as he tunnelled through part of a maze in Corfu, a large colony of fighter ants somewhere else, all friends he would remember fondly on winter evenings by the fireside. I dont know if he reached China or if in the time honoured tradition of Pinkerton he wandered off elsewhere but the last time I saw him was through the bottom of my glass bottomed boat as he dug his way out of the seabed in Malaysia. So long Pinkerton, I yelled out to him as he surfaced. He waved and he kept waving until we were just specks in the vast open sea.
Srinanda Ganguly.
Pinkerton stood silhouetted against the horizon his guitar held aloft as he waited for the sun to set. The sun set. A few miles along the beach couples sighed and hugged and walked back home. Pinkerton, he threw his guitar into the sea, far out as far as he could go and swam in after it. The water was cool and there was a rope between the two. Pinkerton and Lilley. Pinkerton swam through the breakers to the relatively calm sea beyond. Lilley towed along behind him. He waited for Lilley to catch up. Lilley was important, more important than it had ever been. Inside Lilley's hollow interior were a pair of waterproof shorts, a set of guitar strings wrapped in oilcloth, many packets of crackers and two cubes of cheese. Also, a periscope, a telescope, a stethescope and spectacles. Not to mention, a flute. With this happy cargo Pinkerton set off across the sea to go as far as he could or die trying. He was aiming for Burma but his geography was rather unsound. For all he knew he would land up in New Zealand or back in the Sunderbans.
Pinkerton swam on, breaking away into a float when his arms tired. Once in a while he saw lights out on the sea. He looked back and could'nt see the shore. Something hard nudged his shoulder and moved away. In the dark he saw a big bullet shaped head with a bullet shaped snout swimming along next to him. "Awrk?", said the thing. "You a dolphin? Orca?", said our man Pinkerton. "Awrk." said the orcaella brevirostris. "Awrk." replied Pinkerton. The dolphin re submerged and emerged some way off. Pinkerton decided to follow it. The dolphin wove through the water joined at intervals by another dolphin or two until the numbers swelled to a dozen or so all singing the high haunting song that pulled Pinkerton on and on until with the hot noonday sun he found himself waking on an alien beach being stared at by little brown children. He got up, pulled Lilley out of the water where it had been bobbing gently on the waves put on the waterproof shorts inaugurated a pack of crackers and gave the rest to the children. A song played in his ears, a high haunting song disjointed. A song that grew so loud that it drowned the chattering monkeys that crowded around him, the waves that broke at his feet. So Pinkerton pulled out his flute and played for the sea.
Pinkerton In The Desert
Pinkerton flopped down on the sand. Lilley wanted to rest. The damned chap was'nt cutting it anymore. He feared Lilley would have to fend for himself soon. Pinkerton had a new friend now. Her name was Cocoxatpetl and she was a multicoloured beach umbrella. Pinkerton sat and admired the sunlight as it filtered through her multicoloured panels. Lilley was jealous, Pinkerton was certain of that. He decided to give Lilley away to the next person who went by. Nobody came by but Pinkerton had to go his own way so he played a last song for Lilley and left with Coco and the flute. Lilley lay abandoned. Many centuries later a little boy will find Lilley and wonder what sort of a beast this was but that comes many centuries later. The vultures circled overhead, dizzied by the sudden splash of colour that wound around the sand dunes. Well, if it moved it had to be edible. A vulture came and rested on Coco's blue panel, it bobbed along with Coco and Pinkerton. He cawed to his mates up in the sky, this was fun. Another vulture came. Then another. Soon there were about fifteen vultures perched on Coco. Pinkerton felt the weight, the light also dimmed around him. There were patches on Coco, he missed Lilley. He threw Coco away and flung himself down on the sand. He lay there until the heat got too intense to bear then he decided to dig his way to China. He said goodbye to Coco and the flute and dove into the sand. He dug and dug and dug until he came to the moist earth beneath the sand, whereupon he sucked a handfull of earth dry of moisture and resumed digging. On his way he met many subterranean creatures. A minotaur called Larry, who he met as he tunnelled through part of a maze in Corfu, a large colony of fighter ants somewhere else, all friends he would remember fondly on winter evenings by the fireside. I dont know if he reached China or if in the time honoured tradition of Pinkerton he wandered off elsewhere but the last time I saw him was through the bottom of my glass bottomed boat as he dug his way out of the seabed in Malaysia. So long Pinkerton, I yelled out to him as he surfaced. He waved and he kept waving until we were just specks in the vast open sea.
Srinanda Ganguly.
Tuesday, October 02, 2007
the colour exercise...chocolate
It had been raining ever since she could remember. Leslie leaned over the sill of the curtainless window and watched the dismal drops drench the narrow alley she would eternally reign over. The ground was covered with the tantalisingly brown, gooey allure of mud--it looked so tempting, just like the molten chocolate which would be sold in that shop with those alarmingly large windows. She remembered the stinging coldness of the glass as she would press her snub little nose against the pane, staring inside with an eager earnestness which made her eyes and mouth water. How very cruel of them to pour a divine delight like that into such narrow, harsh glasses---did not the chocolate feel as numb as her nose felt? How she longed to warm it, to let it trickle through her lips, to tingle her tongue. Once she was caught licking the painfully clean glass windows, and the shop-owner made sure he put an end to her daily, (rather hourly) pilgrimages. Well, she said to herself-she wouldn't have to witness the restriction of her beloved chocolate anymore. Here her own alley was inundated with a munificent deluge of the stuff...oh, she pined to go out and taste it! But would it suit the dignity of a stately queen of the alley to do so? Not in HER dreams.
Wednesday, September 26, 2007
caferati Listings 12: Crossposted
Caferati Listings 12
1.
A
Delhi Press,
The magazine, Caravan, will be modelled after magazines like The New Republic and The New Yorker—a text-heavy magazine dedicated to high-caliber, long-form journalism. Caravan's primary focus will be on domestic and international politics and social issues, with secondary emphasis on topics such as arts and culture, travel, sports, science and technology, environment, education and business. Any story idea is on the table, provided it would be of interest and importance to to a socially-conscious, intellectually-curious Indian reader.
Caravan also has at least one opening for a fulltime editor.
For any questions or information, contact associate editor Ben Frumin at ben DOT frumin AT delhipress DOT in or bfrumin AT gmail DOT com.
2.
The Shakti Bhatt First Book Prize - an update
An update of the listing in Edition 10. The complete listing is:
The Shakti Bhatt First Book Prize is a cash award of one lakh rupees.
A 3-member panel of judges will shortlist entries. The 2008 panel of judges includes William Dalrymple and Kamila Shamsie.
We invite entries in the following genres: poetry, fiction, creative non-fiction (travel writing, autobiography, biography, and narrative journalism) and drama.
Open to first-time authors of all ages.
The book must be published between June 1, 2007 and June 30, 2008.
Only books published in
Publications must be in English or translated into English from an Indian language.
Vanity press publications are ineligible.
Deadline for entries is July 15, 2008.
Jeet Thayil will be happy to answer specific questions. Please email jeet DOT thayil AT gmail DOT com. Or leave a query, with your email address, here .
3.
Undercover Utopia invites submissions
From an email:
We have launched our imprint Undercover Utopia. The first book, November Rain, came out last month. The next one is due out next month.
As on 15th September we have opened our doors to new submissions. The website is undercoverpro.net. Look for the submission tab while browsing around, or head for sitemap. We are offering some of the best terms to writers in
Submitted by Abhigyan Jha of Undercover Utopia.
4.
Platform magazine wants a features writer.
Platform is looking for a Features Writer interested in the creative arts for feature-based columns. Those interested please contact us at info AT platform-mag DOT com and/or ssiganporia AT gmail DOT com.
Excerpted from an email
I am now compiling a database of real-life incidents in which Pariah/Pariah-mix dogs have proved to be good watchdogs. The data will be used by canine behaviour consultant Shirin Merchant, the WSD adoption programme and the Indian Pariah Dog Club. It will also be available online for public reference.
If you know of any street dogs/building compound dogs/pet Pariah/pet Pariah-mix dogs who have prevented burglaries and other crimes, please mail the story to wsdindia AT gmail DOT com with a copy to rajashree DOT khalap AT gmail.com. If you did not personally witness the event, the story must be from a reliable and named source. Please mention at least an appoximate date, the location where it occurred, and whatever information you have about the dog (age / gender / description / etc).
The Welfare Of Stray Dogs(WSD) Tel: +91 22 23733433. E:mail: wsd AT wsdindia DOT org or wsdindia AT gmail DOT com
Hat-tip: Priya Pathiyan.
A new English daily newspaper, State Times, is looking for part-time or full-time writers, news associates, investigative journalists, etcetera. Please write to editor DOT kumar AT gmail DOT com
Submitted by Ajay Kumar via the Caferati forum.
7.
Citizens For Peace wants submissions for its Peace Tree
2nd October is no longer just an important date on the Indian calendar. It is now the day on which people across the globe will observe the United Nations Day of Non-Violence.
On this special day, Citizens for Peace, in partnership with Times of India, is planning a Peace Mela - an evening dedicated to creative expressions of the striving for peace through music, song, poetry, dance, drama, films and more. The Peace Mela will be held in Mumbai (at the Horniman Circle/Asiatic Library space ) on the evening of 2nd October. It will be a five hour long gathering of well-known performing artists as well as unknown young talent.
You are invited to participate, with poems, prose pieces, posters, photographs etc., all on the theme of peace. The
Poems: Max 150 words
Prose pieces: Max 250 words
Photographs (prints): A3 or A4 sizes
Entries to be sent by either email or post.
By email to: meghann AT mdiworld DOT com.
By courier/post to: EMDI,
Please keep copies of whatever you send. Entries will not be returned.
The last date for sending in the entries is 28th Sept.
- The international music magazine we mentioned in Edition 11 is still open to pitches from writers
- Siyahi is still acepting submissions (Edition 11)
- The Times / Chicken House Children's Fiction deadline is 17th November (Edition 11)
- NaNoWriMo (Edition 11) sign-ups start 1st October and stay open until the end of the month
- If you have a book coming out up to 30th June next year, remember The Shakti Bhatt First Book Prize (Edition 10)
- Osians may still be looking for authors to represent (Edition 10).
- Pinstorm is still open to writer CVs (Edition 10)
- The TFA Creative Writing Awards (Edition 9) deadline is 20th October 2007.
- IFC-FT Essay Competition 2007 (Edition 8) deadline is close! 30th September 2007.
- Every Tuesday (Edition 8) is still open to story ideas.
- The Scian SciFi Short Story contest (Edition 6) deadline is around the corner! 30th September 2007.
Joy and jello,
Annie Zaidi, Manisha Lakhe, Peter Griffin
for Caferati
Saturday, September 15, 2007
Caferati Listings 11
Crossposted from Caferati Listings
A slightly longer gap this time. Apologies. We've been a bit tied up with work, deadlines and, not least, getting Caferati's First Annual Celebrating Shakti Bhatt Workshop going. (And if you're in Delhi on the 30th September, do join us. Details at the link.)
1.
Can you write about music?
An offer of a worldwide publishing contract with Chicken House, which shall be subject to negotiation and completion between Chicken House and the winner.
Entries must be by post (email submissions will be rejected) to The Times, 1 Pennington Street, London E98 1TT marked Chicken House Children's Fiction Competition.
Deadline: Saturday 17th November 2007
Complete Terms and conditions and Submission Guidelines here. Make sure to read them.
More about the contest here .
A slightly longer gap this time. Apologies. We've been a bit tied up with work, deadlines and, not least, getting Caferati's First Annual Celebrating Shakti Bhatt Workshop going. (And if you're in Delhi on the 30th September, do join us. Details at the link.)
1.
Can you write about music?
This came in via email: An international music magazine is looking for writers, contributors and photographers for its India/South Asia edition. Besides definitive, edgy, incisive writing on music and musicians, which forms the core, the magazine will also cover national affairs (features, profiles), technology, trends, fashion, books and movies. This is a heads-up for prospective writers/contributors in all metros and the Northeast. There will be a web edition as well, and this message is also a heads-up for that crew. If you're interested, please email sudeep dot chakravarti at gmail dot com with your interest and specs. Peace.
Submitted by Sudeep Chakravarti.
2.
The Times / Chicken House Children's Fiction Competition
An excerpt from the web page:
Have you a manuscript hidden at the back of the wardrobe? Have you been scribbling in a shed at the bottom of the garden? Have you been making up brilliant bedtime stories? Now's your chance to see your name on the cover of a book!
The Times and Chicken House are launching a competition to find a great undiscovered children's writer. Our judges will choose one winner, whose novel will be published by Chicken House.
Your submissions must be full-length manuscript in English, of no more than 80,000 words accompanied by a brief synopsis, plot-plan and a letter of submission explaining the book's appeal to children . No picture books and graphic novels.
Note the eligibility criteria:
You must not have published a book in any form, in any country, whether fiction or non-fiction. In this case a "book" refers to a printed work of which you are the author. If your work has only appeared in newspapers, magazines, story or essay collections, or in electronic format (ie online) then you are eligible to enter.The Prize
An offer of a worldwide publishing contract with Chicken House, which shall be subject to negotiation and completion between Chicken House and the winner.
Entries must be by post (email submissions will be rejected) to The Times, 1 Pennington Street, London E98 1TT marked Chicken House Children's Fiction Competition.
Deadline: Saturday 17th November 2007
Complete Terms and conditions and Submission Guidelines here. Make sure to read them.
More about the contest here .
Hat-tip, Christina Daniels.
3.
Siyahi wants authors, poets, researchers, translators
A note from Siyahi: Siyahi, a Literary Consultancy, is working for promoting and managing creativity and taking the Indian word, to the world. We are forum for authors, poets, researchers, translators and publishers to evolve and expand the scope for Indian literature. We bring to publishers, the talent they are looking for. We are working with all genres and with all languages, with publishers in India and abroad. For submissions please contact mitakapur at siyahi dot in.
Submitted by Mita Kapur, who is, among other things, a long-time Caferati member, co-coordinator of our Jaipur chapter , and good friend. Good luck with this, Mita.
4.
Translators wanted for an anthology of Dalit poetry.
Dr. K. Purushotham, Associate Professor of English, Kakatiya University, is bringing out an anthology of Dalit poetry. I am planning to bring out an anthology of Dalit Poetry in English translation from different languages of India. This task cannot be accomplished without the cooperation of the translators from other languages. Therefore, I have planned to bring out the proposed anthology by associating an editor for each of the languages. Those interested in translating and/or editing the Dalit poems from their languages to English are requested to associate with this project.
He is looking for people to translate from all the major Indian languages—except Telugu—into English. If you're interested, please write to Dr P at purushotham_ku at hotmail dot com.
Information from this post on blogbharti.
5.
Come November, it's NaNoWriMo
Hm. We don't know whether this quite fits into Caferati Listings, seeing as y'all are seriously talented, writers who sweat over their craft, and the NaNoWriMo web page says, "Let's write laughably awful yet lengthy prose together." But what the heck, if it gets you to take the finger out and start writing, it's a good thing.
NaNoWriMo (short for National Novel Writing Month) gets people to register, and then spend the month of November hammering out a 50,000 word novel. From 21 participants in 1999, NaNoWrMo has grown hugely popular; there were 79,000 participants last year, and nearly 13,000 of them actually finished their 50,000 words. To quote the site: "They started the month as auto mechanics, out-of-work actors, and middle school English teachers. They walked away novelists."
Please note that there is no prize or publishing contract offered. All who finish the 50k will be "added to our hallowed Winner's Page, and receive a handsome winner's certificate and web icon." And while it must be noted that their FAQ page lists 14 published novels that started out at NaNoWriMo, it is also pertinent that that number is out of some 35,000 winners over the years.
Sign-ups begin 1st October, 2007, and the writing begins November 1.
What it's all about here.
How it works here.
Frequently Asked Questions.
Hat-tip: Vineeta Malkani.
- If you have a book coming out up to 30th June next year, remember The Shakti Bhatt First Book Prize ( Edition 10)
- Osians may still be looking for authors to represent (Edition 10 ).
- Pinstorm is still open to writer CVs (Edition 10)
- The TFA Creative Writing Awards (Edition 9) deadline is 20th October 2007.
- IFC-FT Essay Competition 2007 (Edition 8 ) deadline is 30th September 2007.
- Every Tuesday (Edition 8 ) is still open to story ideas.
- The Scian SciFi Short Story contest (Edition 6 ) deadline is 30th September 2007.
Feedback welcome at caferati at gmail dot com. This newsletter depends hevily on your suggestions and submissions. Please do keep them coming in. Details are at http://groups.google.com/group /Caferati-Listings/web/FAQs
We'd especially like to know if you have applied for or entered any of the stuff that has appeared in Caferati Listings. And of course, if you have got a job, got published, won something or generally improved your life in some way, puhleeze tell us. Such knowledge helps us get through the long, lonely winter nights.
Luck, love, and lozenges to you,
Sunday, September 02, 2007
Caferati Announcements
Crossposted from Caferati Listings
1. A new book prize
2. A new literary agency
3. An internet marketing solutions company wants copywriters
4. A news portal wants an Associate Editor in
5. Reminders
1. The Shakti Bhatt First Book prize
The Shakti Bhatt Foundation and the British Council invite entries in the following genres for the inaugural prize: poetry, fiction, creative non-fiction (travel writing, autobiography and narrative journalism) and drama.
The Shakti Bhatt First Book Prize is a cash award of one lakh rupees. A 3-member panel of judges will shortlist 6 books published between 1 June 2007 and 30 June 2008. Only books published in
The Shakti Bhatt Foundation is a non-profit trust.
or more information please contact: alice.cicoliniATSIGNin.britishcounci
From Rwituja Mookherjee of the British Council
2. Osian's launches a literary agency
Osian's Literary Agency is always looking for high quality works of fiction and general non-fiction (biography/memoir, narrative travel writing, current affairs and contemporary issues), and represents authors for the sale of rights to their work in India and all major overseas markets, including the UK, US and Europe. The focus is on writers based in, originating from or writing about, the Indian subcontinent;
For more information on the agency, how to submit your work etc, email kavitaATSIGNosians.com, or log onto our website www.osians.com.
From Kavita Bhanot of Osian's Literary Agency
3. Pinstorm wants copywriters
From Pinstorm's Creative Director
Richard Clayderman, John Lord, Louis Banks, Ray Manzarek - Now if only their Keyboards generated Prose…
Adept in grammar, ability to develop interest in a wide range of products/services and communicate effusively about them, plenty of surfing experience, the yen to prove your marketplace effectiveness as a Copywriter by following the Response statistics, interest in drafting text messages within a tight format, the versatility to write landing-page copy which is persuasive without being formulaic, enthusiasm for creating tiny Flash-sequences that are catchy and promote a brand - perhaps all of this with a couple of years' experience as well.
We must either think this is our lucky day or that this place is
Spell-check your mail before sending it to briandATSIGNpinstorm.com
Contact: Brian D'souza, Human Resources, briand@pinstorm.com , 26480520 / 2648853More about Pinstorm at www.pinstorm.com
4. A news portal want an Associate Editor
Associate Editor based in
The interview will be conducted Sept. 7, 8 and 9 in Mumbai. Information courtesy Anita Vasudeva.
5. Reminders
1. The TFA Creative Writing Awards ( Caferati Listings Edition 9) deadline is 20 October 2007.
2. Submissions to Chicken Soup for the Indian Soul series ( Edition 9) close on 15th September.
3. IFC-FT Essay Competition 2007 ( Edition 8) deadline is September 30th.
4. Every Tuesday ( Edition 8) is still open to story ideas.
5. The Scian SciFi short story contest ( Edition 6) deadline is September 30th.
Caferati Blog, Forum
Our other newsletters and local newsgroups
Caferati Updates, Caferati-Contests
Active City Chapters: Ahmedabad, Bombay, Bangalore, Calcutta, Delhi , Dubai, Hyderabad, Jaipur, Kanpur, Lahore, Lucknow, Madras, Nagpur, Pune, Singapore.
Works in Progress: Boston , Goa, Indore, Jodhpur, London, San Francisco Bay Area.
Annie Zaidi, Manisha Lakhe, Peter Griffin
1. Creative writing awards - call for entries
2. "Chicken Soup" stories wanted
3. A few reminders from past Listings editions
1. Toto Funds the Arts Creative Writing Awards 2008 - Call for Entries
Toto Funds the Arts (TFA) invites entries for its third annual awards for young Indian writers in English. Two cash awards of Rs. 25,000 each will be given in January 2008.
BUT: If you are less than 18 and older than 30 on 1 January 2008, or live outside
ALSO: The spirit of the Toto Awards is to identify promise and encourage young talent. Therefore, do not submit an entry if you are already an established writer.
TFA is looking for entries in a variety of genres -- the novel, short stories, play scripts and poetry. The submissions should ideally be not more than 10,000 words. Pieces of short fiction; an extract from a novel or play script; or between five and ten poems are recommended norms. Sensible combinations of the above are acceptable within the word limit.
Deadline: 20 October 2007.
Entries should be sent in soft e-mail copy to totofundstheartsATSIGNyahoo.com as well as in hard copy form to:
Toto Funds the Arts (TFA)
H 301
8th Block, 47th Cross
Jayanagar
Phone: 080-26548139
The fine print
Entries must be accompanied by a signed statement confirming the applicant's date of birth, whether the applicant's work has been published in print (give details), and also affirming that the submitted work is original.
Submitted material will not be returned.
The decision of the TFA jury is final and cannot be contested in any forum.
Toto Funds the Arts (TFA) is a not-for-profit public trust set up in memory of Angirus 'Toto' Vellani, who was intensely passionate about music, literature and films.
Information courtesy Arundhati Ghosh
2. "Chicken Soup" stories wanted
You've heard of, if not read, the Chicken Soup for the Soul series. Well, there's now going to be a series for the Indian Soul. The following (edited) from an email:
Chicken Soup is essentially a compilation series of hundreds of heart-felt stories of real-life experiences about love, courage, awareness and awe that has touched the minds and souls of millions of readers.
I am currently compiling individual experiences for the 'Chicken Soup for the Indian soul' series for
I welcome experiences.
Here is the format:
It could be on any person / event / incident which made an impact on you. This impact could be a change in the way you thought or lived, or improved performance, or in making you a better person, more more courageous, persistent, optimistic or positive, or it may have broadened your horizons. If you think it is worth speaking about, I am willing to listen.
The instances could be specific or general.
Some broad topics:
Love - It could be love between you and your spouse, parents, children, friends, strangers you met and connected with. Or an episode of love you have witnessed.
Understanding love
Learning to love yourself
Parenting
Overcoming obstacles - stories on how you persisted with something
Someone who made you believe in yourself - how, what specific things did s/he say or not say.
Giving without expectations
Forgiveness
These are just starters. The subject could be anything; as long as the story puts a smile in the readers heart.
Note: The story should be in first person, with the contributor's name at the end.
Contributions can be between 500 and 1500 words.
Deadline: 15th September
Submit to: bharadiarakshaATSIGNhotmail.com with a cc to rakshabharadiaATSIGNgmail.com
Submitted by Raksha Bharadia, author of Me - A handbook for Life (Rupa & Co) and Roots and Wings - A handbook for parents (Rupa & Co).
3. Reminders
1. IFC-FT Essay Competition 2007 deadline September 30th.
2. Every Tuesday is still open to story ideas.
3. The Scian SciFi short story contest deadline is September 30th.
Annie Zaidi, Manisha Lakhe, Peter Griffin
1. IFC-FT Essay Competition 2007
The International Finance Corporation and the Financial Times invite entries to their annual essay contest about the role of the private sector in international development. The top prize is a US$20,000 cash award, and winning essays will be published on the IFC and FT web sites.
Entries will be accepted until September 30, 2007.
Application details; prize essays from previous year: http://www.ifc.org/competition
Information courtesy Mayank Rungta.
--
2. Junior and mid-level correspondents
Reproduced from an email:
I am looking to recruit junior and mid-level correspondents (on a full time basis) at Magna's
If you know of anyone looking for a change, please have them write me at anubijurATSIGNyahoo.com.
My contact details are below.
Anupama Bijur
Bureau Chief,
Magna Publishing Co Ltd,
1107, Barton Centre,
Ph; +91 80 25599646 /7/8, 25594604
Mob: + 91 98441 24290
Info forwarded by Manoj Vijayan of Marketing Edge Designs<http://www.marketingedgedesigns.com/>
--
And this one's from Menka Shivdasani:
3. Looking for writers for a new arts and culture weekly
If writing about arts and culture is your forte, here's an interesting opportunity. Ace Publications is launching a weekly called Every Tuesday in mid-August, focusing on art, cinema, theatre, dance, literature and everything related to Indian culture. Mr Shashi Vyas, director of Pancham Nishad Creatives Pvt Ltd, one of the largest organizers of classical music concerts in the country, is the publisher, and the entire content has been outsourced to my company, The Source <http://www.editsource.com/>.If you are interested in doing in-depth interviews and features, write to Menka Shivdasani at everytuesday ATSIGNeditsource.com with your ideas.
Annie Zaidi, Manisha Lakhe, Peter Griffin
Saturday, July 28, 2007
Welcome 2007!
A warm (if somewhat belated) welcome to our new members, some of whom got sent invites to WIP today. WIP classes are in full swing, and we have learned numerous interesting things about each other. At least two of us for instance, are several thousand years old, and one is the sole possessor of the key to an ancient language, while another is a Tibetan princess, incognito.
Character sketches have been done, and one collective effort went like this.
A girl, let's call her Buchki, is the child of Jatra-playing parents and travels with them all over Bengal, hidning backstage to watch the performances when she's supposed to be in bed. Buchki's hero is a young boy who plays female roles, (since women do not act in the Jatra; Buchki's mother cooks, makes costumes and plays the dhol): she wants to grow up to be just like him. But he doesn't want to grow up, beause when he does, he won't be able to play women any more. So Buchki thinks up a plot to save him: she secretly takes his place.
ALSO:
Regarding WIPLash, do not despair. I am having to revert to original plan and shell out, provided the editors buck up and give me the disk (Hello? Wiz?). A thousand apologies that it has taken so long: we will do our utmost to make sure it reaches you when it gets out, so 2006 batch please mail me your addresses if you are now out of town.
Character sketches have been done, and one collective effort went like this.
A girl, let's call her Buchki, is the child of Jatra-playing parents and travels with them all over Bengal, hidning backstage to watch the performances when she's supposed to be in bed. Buchki's hero is a young boy who plays female roles, (since women do not act in the Jatra; Buchki's mother cooks, makes costumes and plays the dhol): she wants to grow up to be just like him. But he doesn't want to grow up, beause when he does, he won't be able to play women any more. So Buchki thinks up a plot to save him: she secretly takes his place.
ALSO:
Regarding WIPLash, do not despair. I am having to revert to original plan and shell out, provided the editors buck up and give me the disk (Hello? Wiz?). A thousand apologies that it has taken so long: we will do our utmost to make sure it reaches you when it gets out, so 2006 batch please mail me your addresses if you are now out of town.
Tuesday, May 29, 2007
Telegraph on ASU visit
Here is Romila's article on Melissa Pritchard and the ASU students who visited JU a few months back.
Saturday, May 19, 2007
Next crop ready to be planted
I hear that 20 of you from UG3 signed up for this course. Have you read the guidelines on this blog? I mean, do you realise your writing hand is going to shrivel up and fall off at the end of it? ask the people who've done it all ready. Seriously, there will be a lot of writing (and not so much reading) in this course, and people who think it'll be an easy ride often can't keep up. Consider your options carefully.
Havign said that, the PG2s are welcome to sign up. I know their courses haven't been advertised yet, but that's coz we currently don't have a PG1, and we want them to have a bite at the apple as well. Here, however, PG1 doesn't come into the equation, so if they like PG2 can sign up for WIP now, or at the beginning of the next sem with the rest of the courses.
Havign said that, the PG2s are welcome to sign up. I know their courses haven't been advertised yet, but that's coz we currently don't have a PG1, and we want them to have a bite at the apple as well. Here, however, PG1 doesn't come into the equation, so if they like PG2 can sign up for WIP now, or at the beginning of the next sem with the rest of the courses.
Wednesday, May 02, 2007
Beleaguered WIP Book: SOS!
Firstly, my apoplogies for the delay in publishing the WIP book. May I assure you this is not due to lack of diligence on the part of the editors. We have in fact finished editing it and are doing the layout. However, we are stumped for lack of money. As I mentioned a while ago, we had been given a grant by the UPE fund for students. However, this was withdrawn without explanation. We are now looking for sponsors. Eight and a half thousand rupees will produce a very basic book, but we would like to make it a little nicer than last time, with illustrations and better lamination. so we will need something like 15 thousand. With the CAS grant to the department ending, there's no hope of money from that quarter. It looks like all avenues are closed except for private sponsorship. Any ideas?
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